Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  This is my fault. I brought her here. I gave the order to engage.

  Distraught, he grabbed the dead savage slumped atop Abby and hurled him against the metal hangar. Bradley’s knees buckled. He dropped onto the ground beside her, then her right arm swung wildly, wielding a knife.

  He lunged backward.

  The blade glinted an inch from his face. “Abby, it’s me!”

  Pulling herself upright, she said, “Could’ve used that intel a minute ago.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against his chest.

  “Um, Bradley—isn’t hugging on the battlefield against protocol?”

  “I thought I lost you. God, I love you.”

  “Not tonight, honey,” she said, fingers probing her bleeding wound. “I’ve got a headache.”

  Bradley zipped past the joke, focusing on the half-inch, swollen gash running parallel to her hairline. “What the hell happened?”

  “A butt stock must’ve knocked me out.” She glanced toward the savage crumpled against the hangar. “And you saved my life—again.”

  No, Bradley thought, rifling through his backpack for his first aid kit. I’m the one who put you in harm’s way.

  He cleansed the wound with an antiseptic wipe; and once he’d stemmed the bleeding, he applied a glob of antibiotic ointment.

  “Do you feel dizzy? Any blurred vision?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “Just sit down and take it easy.”

  “Don’t start treating me like some fragile glass doll,” she said, flashing that pissed-off pout.

  He looked away to avoid falling under its spell. “Abby, you almost got killed—”

  “So did you. The other day at overwatch.”

  “Listen, this isn’t a debate. You follow orders. Period!”

  “Would you coddle your Marine buddies like this?”

  She tagged a caustic “sir” onto the question that sent his temper soaring.

  “Damn it, Abby, you are not a Soldier. You are sixteen.”

  Tapping the heel of her hand to her forehead in mock revelation, she said, “You’re right. Instead of shooting Mr. IRGC, I should’ve been in my room, playing with my freaking coloring books!”

  The underlying truth in her sarcasm only incensed him more; and through gritted teeth, he growled, “Abby, sit down, now! And that’s a freaking order!”

  She settled onto the ground, arms barricading her chest, and leaned back against the radar truck’s front tire.

  Bradley stomped toward the pallet of military supplies and began sorting its contents into piles: claymore mines and C-4, blasting tubes and detonators, grenades and ammunition.

  Gramps was right, he thought. I never should’ve brought Abby here today.

  He rehashed the argument as he worked, annoyed that she was twisting his concern for her safety into some kind of chauvinistic conspiracy. Of course he would treat the guys in his unit differently, and it had nothing to do with gender. They were adults; Abby wasn’t.

  The thought was an electrical shock to his nervous system, and it spawned a damning question: If she’s not an adult, why the hell are you sleeping with her?

  “These are so-o-o cool.”

  His puzzled gaze seesawed from Abby’s last known position by the radar truck to the origin of her voice, behind him. Wonder twinkled in her eyes; her cheeks glowed with excitement. Bradley had seen that expression on a woman’s face before—in response to designer shoes and jewelry—but never grenades.

  With equal parts exasperation and amusement, he said, “Didn’t I just order you to sit down?”

  “Yes, but you never specified whether I should sit for one minute or one hour. So I used my own judgment.”

  “FYI: you follow an existing order until you’re given a new one.”

  Countering his scowl with an insolent smirk, she said, “According to Sun Tsu’s The Art of War, if orders are not explicit, it’s the commander’s fault.” Then she marched off and began collecting weapons from the dead paratroopers.

  Muttering under his breath, Bradley dumped the contents of his backpack onto the grass, slid a roll of duct tape along his forearm, then put two claymore mines into his bag. He packed the remaining space with C-4 bricks and a wire spool with a blasting cap and detonator already attached.

  He watched Abby drop rifles, handguns, and ammunition into a pile beside the missile battery, noting that she was walking with a slow, bumbling gait.

  “Abby, why are you limping?”

  She hesitated as if formulating a credible excuse, then said, “I, uh, tried to adapt one of those defensive moves you taught me to an AK-47, and a kick to the ankle knocked me on my ass.”

  Aggravated that a butt stock to the head was not the full story and amazed that she hadn’t panicked, Bradley said, “Damn it, Abby, why didn’t you scream? I would’ve gotten there sooner—”

  “Because the savage wanted me to bait you. But if I was going to die, I wasn’t about to take you with me.”

  He gazed past her while his emotions and thoughts tangled into a knot of nausea.

  Staring down the barrel of an AK-47, knowing damned well what these men were capable of—and she was trying to protect me?

  It was the same courage that compelled a man to throw himself onto a grenade to save his squad—selfless and heroic for a Soldier.

  Not for his girlfriend.

  Seeing her bloodied on the ground, believing that he had gotten her killed—that moment had changed everything for Bradley. Suddenly, he hated the prospect of Abby engaging in firefights; and he felt a compelling and irrational urge to quash her Sniper aspirations.

  131E

  SNIPER OMID GHORBANI and his partner, Hamid Khadem, snapped to attention as the Captain entered the warden’s office inside the Jacksonville Women’s Correctional Facility, a makeshift base for the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.

  Prior to the EMP, they had infiltrated the porous U.S. border, secreted away by a network of radical safe houses patterned after the American Underground Railroad of the 1860s. Shia and Sunni jihadists, mortal enemies for more than a millennium, had pledged to suspend their hostilities and band together in order to purge the United States and Israel from the earth. Only then would Shia and Sunni square off against each other in the battle for the caliphate.

  The IRGC’s mission—to act as advisors and facilitate the demise of America—had been hindered by undisciplined Sunni jihadists and well-armed infidels, making an infusion of additional troops necessary.

  “Despite assurances of security,” the Captain began, “we encountered serious resistance at Haywood Field.”

  “The embedded spy failed to provide warning?” Omid asked.

  “Dajjal may have been compromised,” the Captain said, contempt for the Saudi Arabian Sunni evident in his tone. The Arabic word Dajjal meant deceiver, a fitting code name for a jihadist masquerading as a member of the Great Satan’s military.

  “Our aircraft has been shot down,” the Captain continued. “Radio transmissions indicate that our airborne troops, who jumped prior to missile impact, came under fire. Although the U.S. fighter jets involved have been eliminated, the ground forces remain at large. Because our spies had no knowledge of the ground assault, we believe it could have been an off-the-books black ops team or a highly skilled group of military Veterans. They pose a grave threat to Operation Sunburn. Your mission is to hunt down these forces. And eliminate that threat.”

  132E

  BRADLEY PEELED AWAY the green casing on a dozen bricks of C-4 and molded the plastic explosives into a large block. He jabbed a blasting tube into the center, bent the wire, and taped it in position to be sure it would not pull loose; then he repeated the process.

  After loading enemy handguns, rifles, and magazines into an empty missile canister on the Patriot battery, Bradley inserted a wired block of C-4. He let the spool drop, unwinding as it plummeted to the ground, the
n he jumped down from the truck.

  He wedged the second block inside the landscape trailer, amidst ten stolen Stinger missile launchers, then piled cases of air-dropped grenades and claymore mines on top.

  The late afternoon sun had vanished behind a wall of ominous clouds, and the breeze was carrying intermittent peals of thunder.

  We need to get moving, he thought, slinging his backpack and Abby’s onto his shoulder.

  “I can carry my own bag,” she said, irritated by the gesture.

  “I crammed all my stuff into your backpack, so it’s heavier than usual. And you don’t need extra weight on that ankle.”

  She glanced at the layer of duct tape Bradley had applied, an improvised ace bandage, and nodded grudgingly. Then they crossed the runway heading southwest, unraveling two thousand feet of wire, stepping around dead paratroopers.

  From each plastic spool, Bradley detached the detonator, a small T-shaped plunger that needed to be pulled outward. “You want to set one off?”

  Abby chewed her fingernails feigning fear. “Sounds dangerous. The blast wave could mess up my hair.”

  He tilted his head side to side as if evaluating her locks. “Trust me. It could only help.”

  Smirking, she snatched the plunger from his hand.

  An enormous shock wave raced through ground and air. Bradley could feel the destructive power buzzing against his skin, and he couldn’t stop grinning. Columns of smoke rose against the sky, roiling and twisting with a morbid gracefulness. Blinding white flares shot skyward and sliced through the churning blobs, which seemed to spit them out like streaks of lightning.

  Abby was laughing hysterically, even more thrilled than Bradley. “Un—be—lievable. Can I have some C-4?”

  Looking askance at her, Bradley said, “Hell no. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Did you ever think you’d see the IRGC airborne over Florida?” Abby asked.

  “What makes you think they’re Iranian troops?”

  From the cargo pocket of her pants, Abby produced a handful of black headbands, the same type he’d removed from two of the dead savages at Sugar Lake. “They weren’t wearing them. I found them stuffed in pockets.”

  Eyeing her suspiciously, Bradley said, “Are you withholding any other information I should know about?”

  “Their uniforms were U.S. Army, complete with common surnames—Smith, Johnson, Williams, Jones. Rank insignias ranged from Corporal to Sergeant. Rifles were M4s with six extra mags; handguns, Beretta 9mm with one extra mag. Seven of your shots hit center mass, one to the throat, one to the head. Three guys were hit twice; left shoulder, right elbow, and left thigh.”

  “And what did they eat for breakfast?”

  “Unclear,” she told him. “But seven were sporting boxers and two were going commando.”

  Bradley felt his jaw drop.

  Abby broke into a wide grin. “Smart-ass questions will be met with smart-ass answers, sir!”

  Ping-ponging between respect for Abby’s observational skills and the urge to throw her and her rifle into the lake, Bradley noted that her stride had slowed noticeably. Worse still, the wind was picking up; the storm front was closing; he needed to find shelter.

  “Abby, hold your rifle up over your head.”

  With a quizzical squint, she followed his order. He squatted slightly, wrapped his left arm around Abby’s thighs, and lifted her onto his shoulder.

  “You can’t carry me all the way back.”

  “The hell I can’t.” This would be a cakewalk compared to the nine-hour, twenty-three-mile trek during Sniper training. Would Abby survive those grueling demands? Mentally, she was tough, able to think and act in high-stress situations, but could she physically lug an injured Soldier? The question magnified his internal battle, his conscience rooting for her, his heart rooting against her—in the name of safety.

  “Come on, Bradley. Let me walk. I hate being carried.”

  “You didn’t complain last night,” he said, memories skidding dangerously into the present.

  “And I wasn’t following orders.”

  The moist, earthy smell of rain was saturating the air when he spotted an abandoned, one-story house, a place to weather the storm and rest Abby’s ankle. Bradley would have to clear it room by room, and he debated which posed the greater threat. Lightning? Or a hiding gunman?

  He set her down beside a skeletal-looking crepe myrtle tree and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  The house had been looted—albeit politely. Kitchen cabinets hung open, the food long gone. Bathroom vanities had been stripped of medications and supplies, but the furnishings were intact; and more importantly, there were no deceased residents.

  As he pushed deeper into the house, rain began pounding against the roof. Off the master bedroom he discovered a windowless, walk-in closet with an island and an upholstered bench in the center.

  Perfect for light security, he thought, dropping the backpacks onto the floor.

  By the time Bradley made it back to Abby, she was drenched. He could feel her shivering as he carried her into the house.

  After easing her onto her feet, he browsed the closet with his flashlight, pulled a tracksuit from a hanger, and lobbed it to her. “You need to change out of those wet clothes.”

  She grasped the bottom of her T-shirt and raised it half way, baring her midriff. “Turn around.”

  “Are you kidding me?” He had already surveyed and memorized every curve of her gorgeous body.

  “Commanding officers don’t have clearance.” Abby turned her back to him and peeled off her wet clothing.

  Even through the dim light, the sight of her bare skin was wreaking havoc. Bradley’s body was reacting, diverting control away from his brain. They were alone with a king-sized bed fifteen feet away. He would have to report for duty soon. Hell, she had almost died today. What if this was his last chance to make love to her?

  She slipped her arms into the jacket, and Bradley grabbed onto the collar, preventing her from lifting it onto her bare shoulders.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” he whispered, fingers sensually grazing her back.

  Trembling slightly at his touch, she said, “You’re the one who set the ground rules.”

  He let go of the jacket and watched her yank it upward. Heat blazed from his cheeks as Gramps’ words rushed back. Who says I’m worried about Abby?

  ( ( ( 66% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 19E ) ) )

  Tuesday, March 4th

  133E

  JUST AFTER 0700 HOURS, Ryan Andrews’ Ranger team quick-roped from the Blackhawk helicopter, keenly aware that ten Stinger missile launchers remained in enemy hands.

  The chilly morning air carried the sweet scent of orange blossoms, and the sky glowed with shades of red and lavender, bathing Haywood Field with a surreal cast.

  The Patriot missile battery had been reduced to a grotesque modern sculpture, its missile canisters peeled back like the petals of a jagged metal flower. A shredded landscape trailer stood amidst a carpet of razor-sharp metal; fragments from claymore mines, Stinger missiles, and other weapons.

  Someone has already completed our mission, Ryan thought. Shockingly well.

  Two dead terrorists had sustained gunshots to the chest, and the absence of blood around the shrapnel wounds suggested the men had died prior to the explosion.

  The Rangers ventured into the first hangar. Ancient-looking crop duster planes had been vandalized, tires slashed, fuel and oil lines severed. Eyes burning, Ryan tracked the acrid odor to a mound of U.S. Army ammunition, melted and misshapen by fire. “Hey, DJ, how far are we from Astatula?”

  “Four, maybe five klicks. Why? You think it’s the same guys?”

  “Probably.” Ryan’s thoughts boomeranged back to DJ’s outrageous accusation. “And just so we’re clear, you’re not hallucinating and seeing desecrated Korans, again, are you?”

  The Corporal’s lips tightened into a smug grin. His conniving eyes glistened
with too much confidence. “Once the investigation’s complete, we’ll see who’s hallucinating.”

  A dire realization rocked Ryan. DJ had been the last man inside that warehouse; and that, combined with his cocksure attitude, left little doubt.

  The traitor defiled the Koran himself to implicate and discredit me. Ryan let out a morose chuckle. After all the rules and regulations I’ve broken over the years, I’m gonna end up court-martialed for something I didn’t do.

  After clearing the other hangars, the Rangers approached the dead paratroopers who littered the runway.

  “U.S. Army BDUs,” Victor mumbled. “They must’ve stolen the uniforms along with the Patriot battery and Stingers.”

  “No weapons on them,” Juan added. “Sidearm holsters are empty and Web Gear’s been stripped of mags.”

  “I’m betting it all went boom along with the Patriot battery,” Ryan told them.

  “Who’s behind this?” DJ demanded.

  Ryan traded a knowing glance with Juan and Victor. Feeding DJ disinformation had become their greatest form of entertainment. “We’ve got a black ops team in the area—our own fucking sleeper cell!”

  “No, shit. Based out of Camp Sunshine?”

  Ryan fought back a deceitful grin. Not only had the idiot fallen for the lie, he was begging for more. “Sorry, DJ. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  The Corporal brushed past him, and they exchanged hate-filled glares, a silent duel, each pining for the other’s demise.

  Ryan knew he was mired in an unwinnable situation.

  Do I shoot the fucker and spend the rest of my life in jail? Or wait for him to shoot me?

  The choice was gut-wrenching and unfair.

  A life sentence?

  Or a death sentence?

  134E

  ABBY AWOKE IN AN unfamiliar room, disoriented. Four strangers stared down at her, framed family photographs, people who—in all likelihood—were dead. She shivered, feeling trapped in a twisted version of Goldilocks. Who’s been sleeping in my bed? And wearing my clothes?

  Yawning, she sat upright and ran a hand over her ankle. Although the swelling had decreased, it was still shades of purple and red, variegated and angry. Abby eased her foot to the cold tile floor, gingerly applying pressure, and hobbled toward the bay window. Bradley was in the yard sawing a crepe myrtle tree with his KA-BAR knife. The trunk was two inches thick with a V-shaped split at the top.