Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “We’ve only heard a few broadcasts,” Gramps told him. “Most were dangerous propaganda. But let’s not get off topic. This camp in Tavares needs to be checked out.”

  “Well, my daughter isn’t leaving Sugar Lake,” Kyle said.

  Bradley agreed wholeheartedly. He wanted Abby out of harm’s way.

  “Then it’s settled,” Gramps said. “Dave, you’ll stay here with me and the girls. The rest of you will leave tomorrow at first light—”

  “Kyle and Will don’t need to go,” Bradley said. A twenty-six-mile roundtrip walk would be a long time to endure the silent treatment or worse, an interrogation. “I can handle this myself.”

  “No,” Gramps told him. “You can’t afford to march in there and get caught with your pants down.”

  Dave threw back his head and howled with laughter.

  141D

  RYAN ANDREWS SCOURED the crash site of the American C-130. The intensity of burning jet fuel had destroyed sensitive technological equipment inside the cockpit; and blackened, branchless trees stood like spikes, puncturing the heavy odor of damp soot.

  He poked his head inside a ten-foot section of the fuselage, wondering if the drop crew knew a traitorous Pilot had hijacked their plane. Did they warn their commanding officer about suspicious behavior only to be rebuked?

  A gunshot rang out.

  Ryan dove behind the wreckage, unsure where it had originated. Juan and Victor reported in, followed by a somber quiet.

  “DJ, what’s your status?” Ryan asked over his tactical headset.

  A faint, wheezing reply came back. “I’m hit.”

  Poetic justice, Ryan thought. DJ shot by one of his own.

  “I can get to him,” Victor said.

  A long, eerie silence set like cement around Ryan.

  Why only one shot? Jihadists usually wielded AK-47s like fire hoses, dousing targets. He had barely finished the thought when another shot resonated through the fuselage. This one sounded like an M4.

  “Anybody see where that shot came from?”

  As if in response to the question, AK-47s unleashed a bombardment centered on Juan’s position. Ryan returned fire, killing two gunmen then a sharp, piercing pain made him gasp.

  It morphed into a blunt ache then a fiery burning sensation. The back of his right thigh felt like it had exploded.

  Ryan became light-headed. Did the bullet hit an artery? Was he losing blood? It was getting harder to concentrate. Control over his body was slipping away. His arms and legs ignored commands.

  “Juan? Victor?”

  “They’re dead, Andrews.”

  Ryan squinted at a blurry shadow hovering above him. The last thing he heard was a garbled, hollow voice, saying, “Allahu Akbar! Asshole!”

  ( ( ( 71% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 20D ) ) )

  Wednesday, March 5th

  142D

  SUFFERING FROM INSOMNIA, Dave gingerly climbed out of bed, wary of waking Laura. He lifted a flashlight from his nightstand and tiptoed into the bathroom to relieve himself. After marveling at the functional toilet, he continued into the walk-in closet that was part of the Murphys’ guest suite.

  Kyle had apologized three times for meager food rations and the absence of pillowcases, which were now serving as sandbags. He couldn’t seem to comprehend that Dave and Laura had been resting their heads on dirt and grass each night while mosquitoes and chiggers feasted on them.

  He doesn’t know how lucky he is, Dave thought.

  Inside the closet, he switched on the flashlight. The shelving was empty except for two tuxedos, six formal gowns, and an arrangement of dress shoes, overflow from the master bedroom closet. The sight of Jessie’s clothes rumbled through him like a shock wave, and he blinked back his emotions. His heart was breaking for Abby, who would have to make the journey into womanhood without the guidance of her mother, the same way Jessie had three decades earlier.

  Dave began sorting through a suitcase of clothes Bradley had scavenged from a nearby neighborhood. Anything that looked like it might fit went into the laundry pile, mostly bulky sweat suits, T-shirts, and gym shorts.

  If someone had told me a month ago that we’d be homeless, scrounging through old clothes, unsure where our next meal was coming from, I would’ve laughed in their face, Dave thought. How could this happen to us?

  He gazed upward as if demanding a divine answer and noticed two overstuffed white bags on the top shelf. Brown cardboard boxes jutted from the top, and a few corners poked through the plastic.

  Dave reached for one then mumbled, “Meals ready to eat?”

  The box was heavier than expected, packed with laminated pouches.

  Ratatouille? Man, I hope that’s not what the name implies. Although, it can’t be much worse than squirrel.

  The smaller pouches contained crackers, powdered drink mix, peanut butter, and a small chocolate bar. Just reading the labels was enough to make him salivate.

  I should put this back, he thought, fingers tearing open the chocolate. He inhaled the sweet scent of cocoa, and the seductive aroma seemed to inject thoughts directly into his mind.

  There are so many boxes, who would miss one candy bar? And I deserve it, given everything I’ve had to endure ... But it doesn’t belong to me, he told himself. Am I really going to steal from the people who are saving my ass?

  The internal debate abruptly ended when melting chocolate began oozing over his taste buds.

  143D

  HAVING COMPLETED HER midnight-to-sunrise overwatch shift, Abby flopped onto a chair in the lanai. A rechargeable lantern filled the room with a somber light, illuminating a void where the chaise lounge had stood.

  Did he throw it into the lake? she wondered.

  Abby knew her father was mad as hell. So why was he acting so calm? No lecture. No rant. It was unnerving.

  I wish Mom was here, Abby thought. She would get him to understand.

  Toting a rifle and backpack, her father entered the lanai. His eyes skirted past her as if she were invisible.

  “Dad, will you please just yell at me already?”

  Frowning, he stared into the layer of fog obscuring the lake. “Abby, what do you want me to say?”

  “How about one of your usual lectures? Responsibility? Trust?”

  “You’ve heard them all. Evidently they haven’t done a damned bit of good.”

  “Come on, Dad. It’s not my fault that you came home early.”

  His lips pursed, his eyes briefly shut, and he mumbled something indistinguishable. Abby couldn’t decipher the emotion. Was that anger or disappointment?

  “Abigail, I shouldn’t have to knock before entering my own house because my daughter—” He stopped, unwilling or unable to complete the sentence, then walked away.

  Arms folded across her body, she followed him outside. The sun had yet to breach the hills, but it was illuminating a band of high-altitude clouds, making them glow like neon tears against the morning sky. She watched her father’s gaze sweep the yard and cross Sugar Lake Road, toward overwatch where her Aunt Laura stood guard.

  “Abby, have you seen Uncle Dave?”

  “Not since last night.”

  He stormed back into the house, passing Bradley with a terse good-morning.

  “Your dad’s still pissed?”

  “That’s an understatement,” Abby said, a huffy sigh blending into the swish of the breeze. “Why does he have to make such a big deal out of everything?”

  “It is a big deal. Imagine if you had walked in on your aunt and uncle—”

  “E-e-w-w—Oh my God!” Abby shuddered. She would sooner take a cheese grater to her eyeballs than see that. “Don’t even say that—”

  “Good. Now you understand how your dad must feel.”

  She bowed her head, remorse supplanting teenaged selfishness.

  Bradley whispered, “I have to go,” and kissed her forehead.

  Abby draped her arms around his neck, already dreading their next good-bye. �
�I should be going with you.”

  “Not on that ankle—”

  “My ankle’s fine!”

  “I need you here. I’m counting on you to keep everybody safe.”

  144D

  WALKING BESIDE KYLE, Bradley glanced back at Abby as he entered the woods, wishing he could stay at Sugar Lake today. How much tragedy could a sixteen-year-old bear? She had lost her mother to an addict’s bullet, baby Suzanne to a preschool suicide bomber, and now Uncle Dave to a tainted chocolate bar in an MRE.

  Kyle had found his lifeless body an hour earlier inside the guest room closet, a chocolate bar still in his hand. Although Bradley’s suspicions had been proven right, he felt trepidation rather than vindication. Was there any tenet of human decency this enemy wasn’t willing to violate?

  Dave’s death made today’s hike to Tavares even more urgent.

  I have to get everyone to safety, so I can get out there and help end the carnage.

  His mind drifted to the security implications of the unexpected tragedy. Abby would surely be distracted. Will had stayed behind, but he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything besides his own culpability; and then there was the widow. Would she buoy the others? Or drag them into her misery?

  “So how did Laura take the news?”

  “I think she’s in shock,” Kyle said. “She told me they spent weeks living from minute to minute. And that last night was the first time she went to sleep confident that she and Dave would both be alive come morning.”

  Bradley shook his head at the irony. “Will feels awful.” His best friend was reeling over Dave’s death because he had collected the air-dropped food and hidden it in that closet—to make sure Heather and Billy couldn’t get to it.

  “It’s not Will’s fault,” Kyle said. “We all knew the MREs were in there, and none of us thought to mention it to Dave.”

  An awkward silence lingered. Bradley could feel the undercurrent of tension pulsing like a ticking bomb, and the only way to neutralize it was to detonate it himself. Peeling his parched tongue from the roof of his mouth, he said, “In addition to offering my condolences, I want to apologize for ... For yesterday in the lanai.”

  “Definitely not the discretion you promised.”

  “I’m not going to make excuses or try to justify it. I exercised lousy judgment, and I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stand to look at that chaise lounge. I can’t even walk into my own lanai without thinking about it.”

  Bradley met his damning stare. “I’ve apologized. At this point, what more can I do?”

  Kyle’s cheeks puffed, and a slow, hissing sound escaped. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  The uneasy quiet resumed, and as they moved north of Astatula, the forest floor became a swamp. Leafy vines blanketed bushes like rolling green waves and stymied their progress.

  “We need to find a better route,” Bradley muttered.

  Although County Route 561 would have been more efficient, concealment trumped convenience, and he headed east until the terrain became passable.

  Thirty yards south of a two-lane rural road, Bradley halted and signaled for Kyle to listen.

  Someone was approaching from the east.

  Civilians headed to the refugee camp?

  Bradley counted seven armed men, carelessly walking down the middle of the road. Three wore military battle dress uniforms and carried American-made M4s. The other four, dressed in jeans and equipped with AK-47s, were hauling a miniature utility pole, the ends resting atop their shoulders, the center bowing toward the ground like a deranged smile.

  Bradley let out a groan.

  Dangling from the wooden beam was a man—gagged and hog-tied.

  145D

  RYAN ANDREWS’ HEAD FELT like it had ruptured, spinning off whirlpools of pain throughout his body. I’m alive, he decided, wondering if that was a good thing.

  With dogged concentration, he managed to lift his heavy eyelids. Sunlight rampaged through his skull, and immediately, he let them fall shut. Images darted through his mind, tumbling like leaves in the wind, a mangled Patriot battery, dead paratroopers, the downed C-130. Allahu Akbar chanted in a taunting refrain.

  DJ shot me, Ryan thought. But where am I?

  He parted his eyelids a fraction, minimizing the light, and realized he was sitting upright, arms bound behind the trunk of a huge tree, legs spread-eagle along the ground. Yellow ropes restrained his ankles, and Ryan’s gaze traveled along his camouflage pants toward his thigh, looking for a bloodstain that didn’t exist.

  If I wasn’t shot, what happened?

  Curious, he opened his eyes wider, teeth grinding against the biting ache. He was in a clearing with weeds rippling in the breeze, surrounded by a distant wall of green. A few fuzzy shapes flanked him, their boxy, light-colored outlines contrasted against a dark expanse of trees, too large to be cars, too small to be houses. Trailers? A campground?

  Ryan called out to Juan and Victor.

  “Morning, Andrews.” The voice was jovial and friendly, like a face full of battery acid.

  “DJ, you fucking traitor!” Ryan struggled against his restraints. “Where are Juan and Victor?”

  “Victor came crawling toward me. Plinked him in that ugly mug of his,” DJ said. “Then I killed Juan and put your ass down with a tranquilizer dart.”

  Through gnashed teeth, Ryan said, “I should’ve fucking shot you!”

  “But you didn’t have the balls, and now I’m in control. We both know this ends with you dead. The question is, how do we get there? A quick, painless bullet to the head? Or prolonged torture that’ll make waterboarding seem like a bubble bath?”

  “DJ, you are not gonna break me.” With bungling fingers, Ryan tugged at the binding on his wrists and discovered the nylon knot had been melted into a solid lump that could not be untied.

  “Oh, I know, Staff Sergeant. I’m just offering a professional courtesy. Answer my questions, and I’ll put a merciful bullet through your temple. Otherwise, I leave you with the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Those Shiites take torture to a new level.”

  DJ was probably lying, but Ryan couldn’t dismiss the possibility.

  “The black ops team that hit Astatula and Haywood Field,” DJ said, sounding like a prosecuting attorney. “Where are they based?”

  When Ryan refused to answer, the Corporal’s fist cracked against his jaw, the taste of blood moistened his mouth.

  “How did they find out about Haywood Field?”

  Ryan’s silence provoked a tantrum of punches that tenderized his chest and drove air from his lungs.

  “What do you know about Operation Sunburn?”

  Ryan had never heard of it. “Everything,” he said with a cocky grin. “So go fuck yourself!”

  Nostrils in spasm, jaw convulsing, DJ’s leg reared back as if to kick a soccer ball.

  Knowing the intended target, Ryan twisted like a contortionist, attempting to shield his groin. DJ’s boot clipped him. His strength evaporated, a drenching sweat coated his body, and he coughed, gagging on saliva.

  “Damn, that felt good,” DJ said as he walked away. “Been wanting to do that since the day I met you.”

  “DJ, I swear,” Ryan grunted. “I’m gonna snap your fucking neck!”

  146D

  A NAGGING FEELING WAS plaguing Abby. Initially, she’d assumed it was a medley of emotions, anger at the savages, sorrow for Uncle Dave’s death, and contrition for the incident in the lanai; but even after consoling Aunt Laura and resolving to apologize to her father, the carping sensation lingered.

  What else could it be?

  Abby paced through the house, around the yard, lap after lap as if she might find the answer behind an armoire or a hibiscus bush. Bradley’s words drubbed through her mind. I’m counting on you to keep everybody safe.

  She shivered, realizing she had experienced this before, minutes prior to being captured at Haywood Field. A tremor burrowed into her stomach
, an unwelcome confirmation. Was her intuition shifting into overdrive or just her fear?

  I need to do something constructive, she thought, but what?

  Memories played like a three-dimensional movie: the exploding stuffed animal, bullets pinning down Bradley at overwatch.

  We need an alternate location, she decided.

  Abby walked the ridgeline behind the Levins’ property searching for an optimal vantage point. None felt right. She crossed the street and bypassed the large green electrical box where she had duped the savages with her fake grenade. An unconscious smile curled her lips, and she patted the pocket of her cargo pants. Now, she was armed with the real thing.

  Scouting the crest of the northern ridge, she paused near a cluster of flowering bushes. Behind her, a mature oak would prevent her silhouette from sky lining. Abby squatted gauging the view. She could see all of Sugar Lake Road, the southern and eastern ridges, the lake, and a hundred yards behind her. Mentally, she began computing distances and elevations.

  From here, the guy who almost shot Bradley would’ve been an easy target, she thought. This is it.

  Abby walked down the hill and into the house, fabricating a plan and a checklist of tools and supplies. Lost in thought, she opened the garage door then stopped as though she had smacked into a wall. There, in the middle of the floor, was the infamous chaise lounge.

  147D

  BRADLEY SHADOWED THE strange convoy to a small campground, a maze of abandoned trailers surrounding Lake Halona. Two were ripe with the fragrance of death, most likely snowbirds from the North on ill-fated vacations.

  He crept between a telescoping camper and an RV, jettisoned his backpack, then shimmied beneath a Heartland fifth-wheel trailer.

  Along the lakefront, foot-high tufts of grass and weeds were freckled with sagging wooden picnic tables; and in the center of the clearing, a majestic oak dripped great beards of air moss.

  The seven savages were securing their listless prisoner to the tree’s twenty-inch trunk.

  “He must be alive,” Bradley whispered to Kyle, “or they wouldn’t bother restraining him.” He focused his binoculars on the man who appeared to be in charge. Military-grade night-vision gear was attached to his helmet. The name Al-Zahrani was visible on his U.S. Army uniform, adjacent to a Corporal’s rank insignia; and a yellow and black Ranger patch graced his shoulder.