There never should have been a firefight. The drone’s Hellfire missile should have simultaneously initiated and terminated the conflict. The Ranger team’s role was to round up any survivors and verify that the Stinger missiles had been destroyed; but with just a flashlight, DJ had managed to screw up the entire operation. Did Juan or Victor see him signal the enemy? Would Captain Rodriguez deem that conclusive proof?
Focus, Ryan told himself, sifting through rubble, slinging wood fragments and chunks of appliances into a pile. In Mike’s absence, he was the ranking team member and had a job to do. Mourning Mike—and nailing DJ—would have to wait.
“We finished searching the other cabins,” Victor told him. “Nothing.”
“Shit!”
They had only recovered two of the twelve Stingers that had gone missing. In retrospect, this whole mission felt like a setup, a grand diversion. Were the other ten Stingers already scattered across Florida? Across the nation?
Disturbing images flitted through his mind like a portal into the future, a prophesy of hijacked convoys, downed planes, and ambushed military bases—American weapons killing American Soldiers.
118E
BRADLEY STARED DOWN at her through the ambient glow of a ceiling-directed flashlight, skin blazing, heart still galloping from making love. A silly little smile curled her lips; and resting his forehead against hers, he said, “If you say, ‘Miss. Re-engage,’ I swear, I’ll throw you into the lake.”
“Definitely a hit. But you should still re-engage.”
“Oh, you can count on it.” Bradley rolled onto his side and snuggled beside her. He closed his eyes, listening to rain slap against the window, and a frightening realization spread through him. Abby was the one, the woman he wanted to spend his life with.
A flash lit the room followed by a deafening crack that shook the house, and he held her tighter.
Abby’s fingers were fiddling with his hog’s tooth pendant, an intrusive reminder that he had to leave—soon. Bradley wanted to remain lost in the moment, just the two of them; he wanted to let the entire world melt away.
“So when are you leaving?” she asked.
Determined to avoid this conversation, at least for tonight, he said, “I haven’t decided.”
“Promise you won’t just spring it on me? Give me a twenty-four-hour warning?”
“I will.” He kissed her forehead then burrowed his chin into her silky hair. “And when this is all over, I’m coming back for you.”
“I doubt I’ll be here.”
His eyes snapped open. Tension began seeping back into his neck, his shoulders. He didn’t have to ask. Would Abby be safer in the Marine Corps? She wouldn’t starve or be overrun by savages, but what if she was injured on the battlefield? Or killed? Or worse?
Successful Snipers often had bounties placed on their heads, and Bradley understood the horrific consequences of being captured. For him, it was an occupational hazard, a calculated risk; for Abby, that risk was unacceptable. His lungs felt like they were being compressed to the size of a marble.
Another flash brightened the room, followed by a deep rumbling groan that echoed his emotions. Bradley had no problem with women becoming SEALs, Rangers, or Snipers—just not the woman he loved.
As the thunder faded, footsteps resounded through the house.
Shit! Gramps is back from overwatch due to the lightning. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
“Bradley, you asleep?” Gramps asked, knocking on his bedroom door.
“Not exactly.”
“We are really getting lucky tonight, huh?”
Abby pressed her face into his chest, trying to stifle her giggles.
“What?” Bradley demanded.
“The rain. We’re lucky the pool’s filling up. Kyle did a great job rerouting the downspouts.”
Bradley dragged a hand over his face. Kyle was the last name he wanted to hear right now. “That’s great news. Good-night.”
A clap of thunder disrupted the conversation, a reprieve that ended too soon.
“So how was the big dinner?” Gramps asked. “Everything go off with a bang?”
“It was awesome,” Bradley said, unable to curb the laughter in his voice. “Thanks for asking. Good-night.”
“Did you tell her?”
Bradley met Abby’s questioning glance and said, “Tell her what, Gramps?”
“That you’re hopelessly in love with her, Knucklehead!”
An embarrassed smile warped the corners of his mouth. His face rolled toward the ceiling, and he tried to suppress thoughts of strangling his grandfather. “I’m pretty sure she already knows.”
“Okay then. I guess I’ll go straighten up the kitchen.”
The kitchen!
Bradley winced, realizing he had left the lantern on—a glowing beacon drawing attention to the heap of clothing on the floor.
“No, no, no. I’ll do it.” He stumbled into his boxer shorts, grabbed the flashlight, and bolted out the door. If he made it to the kitchen before his slow-moving grandfather, he could stow the clothes in a cabinet, out of sight.
Bradley darted past him.
Then he heard Gramps call out, “Good-night, Abby.”
119E
IT WAS AFTER 2100 HOURS when Ryan’s attention returned to his fallen friend. DJ and his jihadists had taken away everyone Ryan trusted. Anger and grief took turns assailing him, grinding, hardening, honing his resolve into a deadly blade.
Fucking DJ, he thought, right hand drifting to his Beretta 9mm. I should just shoot him.
Ryan could end the traitorous sabotage, but it was too late for Mike. He glanced at his friend’s ravaged face, knowing he would not approve.
“You okay?” Victor asked. He and Juan were preparing a sling to transport Mike’s body to the extraction point.
Ryan muttered, “Fucking fabulous,” and busied himself gathering Mike’s gear. His friend’s rifle had been hurled six feet, and as Ryan grabbed the barrel, an acidic bubble rose into his throat, burning it raw.
A grenade hadn’t killed Mike.
The upper receiver of his rifle had exploded.
Thoughts raging, Ryan pried the magazine from the mangled gun and inspected each round with a flashlight.
Nothing unusual.
Carrying the rifle, Ryan returned to Mike’s lifeless body and ripped the spare magazines from his shredded vest.
“Ry, what’re you doing?” Victor asked.
He shined his flashlight on the damaged rifle.
“Oh fuck!”
Systematically, Ryan examined each round. He set aside three bullets because the weight seemed off. Rummaging through his gear, he said, “Victor, can I borrow your multi-tool? I need a second pair of pliers.”
DJ approached, his infamous flashlight now trained on Ryan. “Can we stop dickin’ around and get out of here?”
Ryan considered plunging the pliers into DJ’s eyeball, and as if sensing the danger, the Corporal quickly backed away.
Victor held the casing as Ryan rotated the pliers, wiggling the bullet with a circular motion, stretching the brass until finally, the hunk of lead pulled free. Victor tapped the shell casing against Ryan’s open palm. Black gritty powder flowed out.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
He started on the second cartridge.
“Come on, Staff Sergeant. You’re wasting time,” DJ said, “and wasting ammunition.”
I’d like to waste you, Ryan thought. He twisted and tugged until the chunk of lead slipped free. Again, Victor dumped the shell’s contents onto Ryan’s palm; and this time, the flashlight illuminated sparkling white crystals.
“Fucking hot ammo!” Victor said, incensed.
Trust was a military staple eroding before Ryan’s eyes. He wondered every time he took a bite of Army-issued food; every time a drone flew overhead; every time DJ grasped his rifle. And now, he would have to wonder every time he squeezed the trigger: are there explosives inside my ammunition?
&nbs
p; ( ( ( 60% Complete ) ) )
* * Change of Heart(3E)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 3A
NO ... Page forward to continue
( ( ( DAY 18E ) ) )
Monday, March 3rd
120E
YAWNING, BRADLEY MADE his way into the dimly lit kitchen. Gramps’ fingers were bleating out a nervous cadence that mingled with the hiss of a radio broadcast.
“With the arrival of a high-capacity transformer from Europe, the U.S. military has successfully restored power to three critical refineries in Texas. Distribution of electric and diesel will be prioritized in accordance with national security concerns.
“By week’s end, a civilian assistance center is slated to open in Central Florida. This joint effort by FEMA and the U.S. Army will house, feed, and provide medical care for displaced citizens. Additional details will be forthcoming.”
Relief surged through Bradley. If that were true, he could escort everyone to the FEMA camp then report for duty, knowing they would be safe; and Army personnel could help him reunite with his Marine Corps unit. Finally, a workable solution to his family-versus-country dilemma.
As the message repeated, Gramps switched off the radio. “So, I trust you had a good night?”
“Yes. And thanks for being such a dick.”
“Son, indiscretion has its price.”
And it was definitely worth it, he thought. After his grandfather’s stunt, Bradley had made love to Abby two more times and awakened with her beside him. She had returned home just before her father’s overwatch shift ended at sunrise. Hoping to re-engage again tonight, a decadent smile sprawled over his lips.
“Look at you,” Gramps said, “grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary. Let’s hope you don’t regret it.”
Bradley responded with a critical stare. “I was careful. There won’t be any surprises.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Gramps let out a beleaguered sigh. “You crossed a threshold that changes everything.”
“How so?”
“You still taking her on patrol up to Haywood Field today?”
With Kyle going right to sleep following his midnight-to-sunrise overwatch shift, Bradley didn’t have another option. “Yee-yup. But Abby understands the danger out there. She doesn’t flirt or complain. She pays attention and follows orders.”
Gramps chuckled, and his weary, bloodshot eyes rolled skyward. “Who says I’m worried about Abby?”
121E
ABDULLAH JAWAD “AJ” AL-ZAHRANI was lost in thought, relying on the computerized autopilot to keep his C-130 on course.
He had grown up in suburban New Jersey, along with his brother and cousins, four of whom had already achieved the most supreme success: dying in jihad, the only way any Muslim could be assured of entering paradise.
AJ checked the time, disengaged the autopilot, and decreased speed. The critical rendezvous over the Gulf of Mexico was just minutes away. His eyes skimmed the instruments then passed over John, his dead copilot strapped into the seat beside him. He had foolishly accepted a stick of gum laced with tanghin.
The idiot actually thanked me for killing him, AJ thought, snickering.
In the rear of the aircraft, the Crew Chief and Loadmaster suspected nothing; and once he activated the drop light, they would expel the cargo without question. Six pallets would be delivered into the hands of jihadists, one loaded with weapons bound for Camp Sunshine, the remaining five with supplies destined for the new FEMA camp. Then AJ would crash the aircraft into the barracks at the temporary Army base, become a shahid, and join his noble cousins—the special forces of jihad—in paradise.
On the southern horizon, an aircraft was growing larger, a knockoff of a U.S. C-130, detailed with American flags and Air Force logos, identical except for its crew and cargo.
The two aircraft maneuvered together like a bizarre, aerial mating ritual until the imposter was flying close enough to make it appear that only one aircraft was approaching the Gulf Coast of Florida. Operation Sunburn was underway.
122E
HAYWOOD FIELD, WITH its one-kilometer grassy runway, looked more like a farmer’s field than an airstrip. Knee-high stalks of green jiggled in the breeze, dancing against the backdrop of four gray metal hangars arranged like a dashed line. Abby saw no indication of activity. Maybe the map Bradley swiped from Astatula was a red herring meant to misdirect U.S. forces.
She was lying prone beneath the wraparound porch of a deserted farmhouse, Bradley at her side. She sighed, recalling this morning’s awkward lecture where he had defined the boundaries of their personal relationship.
“Out here, I’m your commanding officer,” he had told her. “No flirting. No hugs. No kisses. You just follow orders.”
Disguising her indignation, she had made a joke of it, saying, “I’ll obey out here, but at home you are shit-out-of-luck. Sir!”
A grumbling din caught her attention.
Bradley whispered, “Don’t move.”
Realizing it was a combustion engine, adrenaline jolted through Abby’s body.
Two large trucks were passing a hundred yards to her right—U.S. military trucks.
“Is that a freaking Patriot missile battery?” she asked, her voice hushed yet thrumming with alarm.
“Yes. And those are not American Soldiers.”
The missile truck crossed the grassy runway and rolled to a stop, its cab poking between the easternmost hangars. The radar truck, towing an enclosed landscaper’s trailer, parked behind it; and six men with AK-47s began leveling the missile truck to prepare it for action.
Fifty mind-numbing minutes later, a speck appeared on the western horizon and swelled into a gray blob. Abby presumed it was a cargo plane. She glanced toward the missile truck, anticipating a launch. The savages appeared only moderately interested. Why weren’t they attempting to shoot down the plane?
The blob expanded then divided into two distinct aircraft, one above the other. Air Force bombers sent to destroy the missile battery? Or enemy planes disseminating poisoned food like Jacksonville?
Bradley was surveilling them with binoculars.
“Are they ours?” she asked.
“They look like C-130s.”
As the aircraft approached, parachutes began falling toward the runway.
Paratroopers over Florida?
The savages looked on, their level of interest holding steady as pallets and soldiers drifted toward the ground.
Two eastbound streaks cut the sky, white missile contrails speeding toward the cargo planes. The savages began shouting and gesturing wildly. The Patriot battery came alive, its missile canisters rising and rotating.
A few miles northeast of the airfield, a brilliant ball of fire inflated with a menacing boom. The first C-130’s fuselage cleaved into flaming chunks like man-made comets blazing through the atmosphere, leaving a ghostly tail of smoke.
Mesmerized by the spectacle, Abby watched the second cargo plane explode; then hearing a jet engine, she glanced west. Events were unfolding so rapidly, she wasn’t sure where to look.
A fighter jet streaked past in a steep climb, banking to the north. Abby’s eyes widened. “Was that an F-4 Phantom?”
“Yee-yup. Last I heard, we were using them for target practice.”
The Patriot battery whooshed to life, emitting a massive white cloud that engulfed the truck. A missile sped toward the Phantom, its contrail drifting slowly with the wind. The fighter jet ignited into a miniature sun with flaming tendrils tracing out an arc like the spines of an umbrella.
Abby searched the smoke for a parachute; the Pilot had not ejected. Thinking of her cousin Chase, worry coiled inside her.
A second Patriot missile hissed to life, launched at an unknown target to the south.
Why aren’t the paratroopers firing on the savages? Better still, why aren’t the savages firing on the airborne troops? “None of this makes sense—”
“Yes, it does,” Bradley told her. “Shoot
the paratroopers!”
123E
GEORGE WAS CLEANING HIS fishpond when he heard three distinct explosions from the north—the same direction as Haywood Field. Eyes rising skyward in prayer, he noticed a fighter jet, banking, diving, and spitting flares, desperately trying to evade a missile.
The Pilot ejected seconds before the jet dissolved into a fiery cloud. The wreckage seemed to defy gravity, stretching to the south before beginning its descent.
George rubbed a hand over his mouth. How are American jets being shot down in U.S. airspace?
Jessie’s wavering voice sounded over the walkie-talkie. “George, intruder at nine o’clock.”
“Armed?”
“He has a long gun. An AK-47, I think.”
Piss-poor timing with both sharpshooters away, George thought.
He shuffled toward the Murphys’ lanai as fast as his arthritic legs would permit; and after checking his handgun, a .40 caliber Ruger, he roused Kyle from sleep. “I need you to grab the M4 and cover me.”
George stationed him on the front porch then paused to observe the intruder. The man appeared to be a senior citizen with an unkempt, graying beard. The bill of a baseball cap obscured his eyes, and his rifle barrel drooped toward the asphalt. The man’s lethargic gait suggested he was exhausted, hardly prepared to instigate an attack, but after the kid with the stuffed animal, George was not taking chances.
He approached, handgun drawn. “Put your rifle and backpack on the ground. Then take twenty steps to your right.”
The man followed instructions, raised both hands in surrender, then said, “I’m just—”
“Shut up! Hands on your head. I’ve got riflemen trained on you, so don’t do anything that might make ‘em nervous.”
George holstered his weapon and frisked the man, seizing a folding knife from his pocket, then quickly retreated, driven back by the stench of body odor.
“Now, who the hell are you?”
124E
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 106