Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  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.

  147F

  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.

  Three others also donned helmets with night-vision units, two wearing Army camouflage, one in jeans and a polo shirt. Was the gear stolen like the Patriot battery? Did these men ambush and kill the real Corporal Al-Zahrani? And who was the poor schmuck tied to the tree?

  The prisoner’s uniform identified him as Staff Sergeant Andrews, Army Ranger; and when he regained consciousness, Al-Zahrani marched toward him.

  “The black ops team that hit Astatula and Haywood Field? Where are they based?”

  Bradley’s eyes closed for a split second. Had he heard right?

  “Is he being interrogated because of us?” Kyle asked.

  The question settled like burning coal in Bradley’s gut. “Sounds like it.”

  He observed a volley of questions and escalating physical punishments that ended with a vicious kick to the groin; and Bradley winced, feeling both sympathy pains and responsibility.

  “This is our fault,” Kyle whispered. “We have to help him.”

  Bradley examined the trailers sprawled like a miniature aluminum village. Were more savages inside? Did they have weapons beyond rifles?

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

  Al-Zahrani sneered and walked off to the east.

  Kicking violently, Andrews managed to dislodge the metal tent stakes restraining his ankles, and the yellow ropes arched and curved like agitated cobras. The civilian-clothed savages scrambled to anchor them and pulled like a tug-of-war, sadistic puppeteers spreading his legs until he was subdued.

  The prisoner was now sandwiched between the two camouflage-clad captors.

  “Where is the black ops team based?”

  Andrews cocked his head as if trying to recall the information then shrugged.

  “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll castrate you with this,” the savage said, brandishing a knife. “Your own weapon, yes?”

  The puppeteers yanked the ropes, spreading Andrews’ legs well beyond ninety degrees, and a tidal bore of adrenaline swamped Bradley. He wiggled backward beneath the fifth-wheel trailer; and after Kyle emerged, he whispered, “Go left. When you hear me fire, shoot the guys holding the ropes. And stay down.”

  Bradley crept around the end of the trailer.

  Two rapid shots neutralized the interrogators.

  The savages released the ropes, drawing rifles from their shoulders. Bradley took aim, squeezed, and ...

  Nothing.

  His rifle jammed.

  Then four AK-47s opened fire on him.

  148F

  THE IRON SIGHTS ON Kyle’s rifle were on his first target when he heard Bradley fire two quick shots.

  AK-47s erupted in a ballistic drumroll. Bullets bored through the aluminum trailer, adding metallic pings to the deadly symphony.

  Kyle pulled the trigger, and the nearest savage collapsed.

  Peeking above a boxy, compacted pop-up camper, an AK-47 fired blindly, the shooter hidden from view. Kyle had no shot at him.

  He pivoted right, and a stark black fear twisted around his throat like a tourniquet.

  Why did Bradley stop firing?

  Did he get shot?

  The nearest puppeteer was assaulting Bradley’s position, his back angled toward Kyle.

  He aimed, squeezed the trigger, and a round drilled into the man’s back and exited the chest, expelling a mist of blood.

  A rifle swung toward Kyle.

  Time decelerated, elongated, distorted.

  Dozens of thoughts formed between thudding heartbeats.

  Rounds began striking the contoured end of the fifth-wheel trailer directly above his head.

  He’s shooting at me!

  The simple realization jolted him. Shocked him. Kyle felt like he was neck deep in mud.

  If he had bothered to drink water that morning, he would have pissed himself ... or worse.

  149F

  AMIDST A SWARM OF bullets, Bradley dove for cover behind the trailer’s dual axle. Lying on his back, head resting against the tire’s steel rim, he yanked the charging handle of his rifle to eject the wayward shell.

  Bradley hunched his shoulders inward and positioned his rifle atop his chest to make himself a smaller target. Bullets were piercing the trailer, spitting bits of insulation, wood, and plastic into the air. Thorny folds of aluminum protruded like serrated wreaths, indelible records of each strike—to Bradley’s left. To his right. Above his head.

  He had no room to maneuver, even less than when he had been pinned down at overwatch. He thought of Abby, wishing she were here, then grimaced. He couldn’t have it both ways.

  Do I want her in the fight? Or home, safely out of danger?

  Bradley realized the tunnel of supersonic lead whizzing past him was dwindling. A barrage of rounds had been diverted to the front end of the trailer, Kyle’s position.

  He had to move. Bradley planted his left hand on the ground, bent his right knee, and started to lift himself in a twisted pushup when he felt the bullet strike.

  150F

  “IT LOOKS LIKE A SHALLOW grave,” Abby muttered to herself. The thought transformed blood vessels into icy needles that clawed her from the inside. Why couldn’t she shake this horrible feeling?

  She glanced toward Will, who had halted his excavation of Uncle Dave’s grave, his quizzical expression asking: What the hell are you doing?

  Good question, she thought, attention returning to her handiwork.

  With her tactical folding knife, she had cut a seven-foot gash into the ground, in the shape of two football uprights joined at the base. She had sawed through roots, compressed leaves, and pine needles, then rolled back the forest floor in all directions as though it were a carpet. Abby excavated eighteen inches down, packing the sand into black plastic trash bags that now ringed the hole, molded and contoured to deceive the eye and provide bullet-proof protection. Then the natural ground cover was unfurled, camouflaging the plastic.

  Abby had evaluated her new hide from multiple angles and elevations, adding saplings and branches until it blended in seamlessly; still, something was gnawing at her. She sighed and scanned again for potential weaknesses.

  Behind her to the north, she could see a hundred yards to the base of the hill with a peek-a-boo line of sight between the trees. At night, the s
avages could easily sneak in from that direction. Abby needed an early warning system that could function in the dark.

  A trip wire with cans? No, that would become a giant wind chime in the breezy Florida hills.

  There has to be a way, she thought, heading into the house in search of wire and inspiration. A flame? No, that could start a wildfire. A flashlight? But how could a trip wire activate it?

  She shoved open the door to her room and began rooting through a desk drawer for a lipstick-sized flashlight that clamped onto the bill of a baseball cap. With fumbling fingers, she switched it on and frowned at the feeble yellowish light.

  Dead batteries, she thought, tossing it back into the drawer.

  Anxiety was a winepress, slowly wringing away her self-control. For some unfathomable reason, Abby felt more afraid now than she had at Haywood Field.

  She ripped open another drawer. Her eyes glided over papers, pens, CDs, and a few foil-wrapped orange glow sticks, leftovers from a Halloween party. Abby was about to slam the drawer when the idea materialized.

  The glow sticks! She grabbed all four and hurried out to the garage. She used her knife to remove the male and female ends from an outdoor extension cord, and stripped away the orange skin, exposing a copper ground and two plastic-coated wires.

  She could already envision the finished project in her mind. Both ends of the glow stick would be attached to a tree with U-shaped nails, like the ones Bradley had used on the rabbit trap. The hundred-foot electrical wire would be tied around the middle of the glow stick; and a small rock would be wedged behind it, deliberately bending it close to the snapping point, creating a hair trigger.

  151F

  GRUNTING AND SWEARING through gritted teeth, Bradley forced himself to keep moving. He sprung into a crouched run toward the back end of the trailer, breathing rapidly, legs rubbery beneath him. A fierce pressure sensation mauled his left triceps, midway between the elbow and shoulder, then ignited as if a blowtorch had seared his skin. Instinctively, he flexed his fingers and gripped his rifle to test his motor skills. Thankfully, he still had control.

  He peered around the trailer.

  A savage stumbled backward and fell, groping at his neck.

  Bradley turned toward the remaining shooter, who was hiding behind a pop-up camper. Kyle charged past the aluminum box, emptying his magazine, and then the campground fell silent.

  Dumbfounded, Bradley’s gaze skipped between dead bodies as if connecting dots. Somehow, Kyle had dispatched all four savages.

  “Bradley? Oh my God, you’ve been shot!” The alarm in Kyle’s voice was a whisper compared to the panic in his eyes.

  “Just a glancing blow,” he said, walking toward him. “Nice shooting, Rambo.”

  An astonished yet proud grin overspread Kyle’s face; and Bradley shook his hand in a rite of passage, like a dean conferring a diploma on a graduate.

  “You saved my ass ... And his,” Bradley added, thumb hooking toward Andrews. The Ranger had crawled behind the tree for cover, leaving only his arms exposed. His hands were frantically working to stretch the yellow rope binding his wrists.

  Bradley removed the Army-issued knife from the dead interrogator and severed the rope to free Andrews. “This belong to you?” He hurled the knife, driving the blade into the sand, forcing the handle to stand at attention.

  Andrews’ arms eked forward tentatively as though the movement caused pain. He rotated his wrists, inspecting the purple bruises inflicted by the rope, then seized the knife and cut the bindings from his ankles. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Your fucking fairy godmother.” Bradley extended his left hand to help Andrews to his feet, and his AWOL status suddenly felt like a burr caught in his boxers. “Come on, Kyle. Let’s get out of here.”

  152F

  DJ AL-ZAHRANI WAS A mile from Lake Halona when the gunfire began. He reversed course, heading back to the campground, but as the firefight intensified, doubt knotted inside him. Was it a quick reaction force? The black ops team?

  He did an about-face, unwilling to engage them. He had done his job; he had delivered Andrews.

  A cocktail of worry and vengeance sprouted in his mind. What if Andrews survived? He was an elusive, slippery bastard who repeatedly managed to cheat death.

  Within minutes he devised a backup plan. DJ had already established the Staff Sergeant as an Islamophobe, a man whose personal vendetta had cost him two levels of rank.

  I’ll report that Andrews went berserk, shooting at me; and that Juan and Victor had died heroically saving my life.

  If Andrews survived, he would be court-martialed, branded as a murderer and traitor. DJ smiled at the irony.

  He dropped his gear onto the ground. Using his M4 carbine, he fired two rounds into his Kevlar helmet, three into his backpack, deliberately striking the radio to justify why he hadn’t reported the incident. Then DJ gathered the evidence and resumed his trek.

  A mile farther to the north, he noticed small bands of Americans slogging along the roadway, pulling suitcases and loaded wagons toward the Assistance Center in Tavares. Despite staffing problems caused by the debacle at Haywood Field, Operation Sunburn would succeed—Allah willing.

  He skirted the shore of some unknown lake and cut through a neighborhood, a horseshoe-shaped arrangement of single-story houses with stone facades and angular tapered columns better suited to Montana. The smell of death hung like an invisible fog.

  Homeowners fertilizing their front lawns—literally, he thought, pinching his nostrils.

  Overgrown crabgrass gave way to a sea of empty lots, mounds of sand choked with weeds and trash. Floating in the middle, there was a solitary house, green with white shutters. DJ hastened his stride, irritated by the sight of an American flag snapping in the wind.

  He tramped up the driveway past a black Jeep Cherokee, left hand fumbling in the pocket of his jacket. He plucked the flag from its perch and flicked his lighter until a steady orange flame licked at the Stars and Stripes. Mesmerized, he watched the fabric disappear before his eyes, magically erased from existence.

  Just like the United States, he thought.

  As he flung the burning flag onto the driveway, a bullet pinged against the Jeep, six feet to his right.

  DJ ducked and reached for his rifle with sweat-soaked hands. Behind a front-porch column, a man in his thirties extended a snub-nosed .38 special.

  Stupid infidel, DJ thought. Couldn’t hit an elephant with that thing.

  He fired three short bursts. Bullets chewed through the wooden column, and a spray of blood doused the white shutters. He approached the body and removed a wedding band from the dead man’s finger, mumbling words from the Hadith.

  “All income that comes by the point of the sword is a gift from Allah.”

  Understanding the wife to be one of the dead man’s possessions, DJ entered the house, whispering, “Honey, I’m home.”

  Emboldened by the sound of a terrified female voice, he swaggered into the family room. He grabbed the woman by her long brown hair, yanked her toward him, and ripped at her clothing.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, choking on sobs.

  “Because,” he hissed, “you are an infidel.”

  “B-b-but I thought the Koran was about peace and love.”

  “There are a hundred and fourteen verses about peace, love, and forgiveness. But the principle of Naskh erases all that,” DJ told her. “Later revelations override earlier ones. As if they never existed. So, all that peace and love was replaced by the Verse of the Sword. Fight and slay the infidels wherever you find them.”

  She tried to break free of his grasp, and with a closed fist, he knocked her to the floor. “A cheap rug is more valuable in a man’s home than a woman,” he said, spitting the words at her. “Guess who said that?”

  153F

  RYAN ANDREWS INHERITED an M4 assault rifle and six full magazines from his former captors. He retrieved his stolen Kevlar helmet and night-vision gear from a dead savag
e, wrists aching as though he had sprained them both.

  It doesn’t make sense, he thought. Rope rash shouldn’t cause this type of pain.

  He gathered the helmets and night-vision gear that had belonged to Juan and Victor, suddenly struck by the senselessness of their deaths. They would be alive if Captain Rodriguez had listened—if he had launched an investigation—a point Ryan was hell-bent on making emphatically clear, even if it cost him two more levels of rank.

  Sighing, he watched his rescuers pitch the last of the AK-47s into the lake, then they retrieved their backpacks and trudged into the woods. Unanswered questions hammered through Ryan’s mind. The younger one was a wiseass, confident and disciplined under fire, even when his rifle jammed.

  Definitely not his first firefight. He has to be military. Enlisted at eighteen out by twenty-two? Or AWOL?

  The older guy, Kyle, seemed familiar, but Ryan couldn’t place his face. He didn’t carry himself like a hunter, a cop, or a Soldier, yet he had managed to wipe out four well-armed savages.

  Were these the guys who kicked ass in Astatula and Haywood Field?

  Curiosity overwhelmed his urge to track down DJ.

  I can settle that score later—at Camp Sunshine, Ryan decided, breaking into a jog. His leg muscles and groin ached, courtesy of that tug-of-war split and DJ’s boot. He felt light-headed. Was it a side effect from the tranquilizer? Or lack of food? Ryan couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.

  As he closed the distance, Kyle glanced back at him. Neither man broke stride, and Ryan fell into step behind them. Two miles to the north, they hunkered down behind a cluster of cabbage palms.

  Kyle upended his backpack, its contents spilling over the ground. He tossed a bottle of water and a can of food to Ryan, then he grabbed the first aid kit. “Bradley, let’s see that wound.”

  Ryan noted the name, and as he guzzled the water, a plastic spoon bounced off his chest. Mumbling, “Thanks,” he yanked the pull tab from the can of beef ravioli and dug into the best tasting food he’d had in weeks.