Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Bradley sat beside Abby on the edge of the chaise lounge. “So, on a ten scale, how traumatized are you?”

  Her eyes narrowed in mock indignation. “Would you ask that if I were a guy?”

  “Absolutely, but in guy-speak it sounds more like, ‘You good?' "

  Lips twisting into an accusatory smile, Abby said, “You’re the one who’s traumatized. What are you gonna do when I join the Marine Corps?”

  “That won’t happen for two years—”

  “Unless I lie about my age. Guys did that during World War II.”

  Bradley felt like he had been shoved off a cliff. There had to be some way to keep her safe—and out of the military.

  “You ... are gonna be a bigger basket case than my dad, aren’t you?”

  “I wish I could make you understand.”

  “Oh, I understand,” she said. “Do you think I’ll like not knowing where you are? No phones, no e-mail, not even snail mail? Not knowing if I’ll be able to find you again?” Abby’s lips seductively meandered along his cheek and nibbled his lips. “Gramps is at overwatch,” she whispered. “And Uncle Dave and my dad will be gone for hours.”

  Her argument was brief and persuasive—and Bradley didn’t need much convincing. He helped her wriggle out of her clothes, drinking in every square inch of her sensuous body, then he eased her backward against the chaise lounge. Abby’s hands tugged at his shorts, forcing them lower, until they were gathered around his knees.

  Bodies pressed together with nothing between them, a dangerously selfish thought invaded Bradley’s mind. There was a way to keep Abby out of the Marine Corps; and right now, he could make that happen ... If he was willing to renege on his promise to Kyle.

  138G

  DJ LED THE RANGER TEAM north, from Haywood Field to the wreckage of the American C-130. His brother, AJ, the aircraft’s Pilot, had entered paradise as a shahid, a martyr for Allah; and his success was working to DJ’s detriment. Soon, the Army would discover the familial connection, and the tactics he’d wielded to distance himself from his cousin’s drone attack—allegations of Islamophobia and racism—would not work this time. The clandestine segment of his jihad was nearing its end.

  He could feel Andrews’ incessant stare, scrutinizing every step, noting every time he scratched his balls. Somehow, he had to scrounge a few minutes of privacy.

  He pored over the charred remains of the aircraft, desperate for a solution. Then, like a divine blessing, an idea germinated. Feigning defecation was his best chance at deflecting Andrews’ attention, at least for a minute or two.

  He found a secluded spot, dropped his pants, and squatted. DJ rooted through his gear, removing toilet paper and a Chinese-made satellite phone, a rugged technology that did not store games, take pictures, or play music. It simply sent and received phone calls and e-mail worldwide, its only accessory a credit-card-sized solar panel.

  An encrypted e-mail was waiting.

  “Forward ambush coordinates.”

  He typed their current longitude and latitude and sent the message.

  “DJ!” Andrews shouted. “Quit jerking off!” His angry gaze ricocheted between his M4 and DJ.

  Andrews wants to shoot me, he thought as he pretended to wipe his backside. He was about to stow the satellite phone when a response arrived.

  “No mistakes, Dajjal. Operation Sunburn is in jeopardy. Ambush in thirty minutes.”

  Today marked the end of Al-Tokiya, the strategy of outwardly pretending to be a friend and ally, while secretly making preparations for an attack. Finally, he would openly declare jihad.

  DJ crammed the satellite phone into his bag and smiled at Staff Sergeant Andrews.

  Twenty-nine more minutes, Asshole ...

  139G

  KYLE FELL INTO STEP beside Dave, hoping the propane tanks would still be at the campground. They ascended the southern ridge amidst radiant green pockets of leaves, weeds, and wild vines rejuvenated by recent rains.

  “Are you buying that story about Abby’s injuries?” Dave asked.

  Facts danced through Kyle’s mind: planes shot down, a missile battery blown up with C-4, and enemy paratroopers raining from the sky.

  And they want me to believe she tripped? Grappling to control his emotions, he said, “No.”

  “But if you know it’s bullshit, why not call them out?”

  “Abby is stubborn. I won’t get the full story until she’s ready.”

  “Then wheedle it out of Bradley.”

  Kyle doubted that was possible. “Honestly, I’m not so sure I want to know.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not flipping out.”

  “Abby’s fine. That’s all that matters.”

  “Really? Are you letting her venture beyond Sugar Lake again?”

  “Hell no!” He stopped short of County Road 455 to scan for threats.

  Dave plowed on. “Come on, Murph. There wasn’t anyone between here and—”

  “Hands up!”

  It was a male voice, edged with impatience. “Don’t make me say it again.” The fortyish man appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, lanky with ghoulish rings around his eyes; the left was squeezed shut; the right peered down the barrel of an AK-47.

  “We’re just looking for propane,” Dave said.

  “Are you looters?” the man asked, treading closer, his rifle barrel slowly swinging between Kyle and Dave. “Or are you cannibals? You look pretty well fed.”

  Kyle winced. He still hadn’t told Dave the truth, that Laura’s death was his fault, that his decision to spare the cannibals had ended her life; and as each hour elapsed, the prospect of confessing grew more grievous and less probable.

  “I just walked here from Tampa,” Dave was saying. “I’ve been eating dandelions and squirrels.”

  “And what’s your story?”

  The rifle drifted toward Kyle, and his mind went blank. He couldn’t tell the truth. If the man knew food was nearby, he would surely attack.

  “Don’t have a ready-made lie like your friend here?” the man shouted. “I’ll ask one more time. If you’re not a cannibal, where’s your food coming from?”

  Impaled by his damning stare, Kyle said, “Call it divine intervention. The good Lord always provides.”

  “You?” The man’s eyes widened. “You’re the one who left the rice and beans on my doorstep?”

  Stunned, Kyle blinked. Questions stampeded from his brain to the pit of his stomach, setting off tremors along the route. George was anonymously feeding this man, and Bradley must have delivered the food.

  Why didn’t they mention it?

  “It wasn’t me,” Kyle told him, “but I’ve received rice and beans, just like you.”

  The distrust and fear scrunching the man’s face softened. He shouldered his rifle and called to his family. A teenaged boy with an AK-47 emerged from the woods followed by a woman and a young girl, each loaded down with backpacks and small suitcases.

  “I’m Zaakir Abbas. This is my wife, Eliza; my daughter, Raeleah; and my son, Zak.”

  Kyle and Dave introduced themselves, then Zaakir said, “Do you know who this guardian angel is?”

  Kyle squirmed, unsure how to respond. “At first, I was curious. Then I decided that if he wanted to remain anonymous, I should respect that. It’s the only thing I can do for him.”

  Zaakir nodded, his sunken brown eyes dewy with gratitude. “I wish I could thank him. He saved my family from starvation and kept terrorists from slaughtering us. He is quite the marksman.”

  Dave said, “Thank God for the Sniper of Sugar Lake.”

  Kyle scowled at him. With eight words he had blurted their address and outed Bradley, who was risking court-martial to keep them safe. Deliberately changing the subject, Kyle pointed to the family’s suitcases. “Where are you headed?”

  “Tavares.” Zaakir removed rolled up sheets of paper from his back pocket, unfurled one, and handed it to Kyle.

  “Federal Emergency Management Association opens R
efugee Camp, Tavares Medical Center, Route 441.

  “Three meals a day.

  “Hot showers, housing, and medical teams in standby.

  “Survivor database to locate missing family.

  “Facility is under the prevention of the U.S. Army.”

  His jaw dropped, optimism and skepticism dueling inside him. Kyle wanted to believe this nightmare was a thirteen-mile walk from being over, but the wording troubled him. Medical teams in standby? Under the prevention of the U.S. Army? Taking a deep breath, he said, “Where’d you get this?”

  “Near Lake Apopka. I was hunting yesterday, and they were falling like giant snowflakes from an old biplane. I gathered a few dozen, so I could spread the news along my way.”

  This wasn’t right. Kyle could feel it. “This may sound crazy, but I think you should wait—”

  “What on earth for?” Eliza asked indignantly.

  “To make sure this is legitimate.”

  Zaakir’s brown eyes hardened with a defensive and resentful anger, the expression of a man being stripped of hope. “Why wouldn’t it be legitimate?”

  “I know FEMA has been inept in the past, but I doubt they’d get their own name wrong. It’s Federal Emergency Management Agency. Not Association. And yesterday, foreign paratroopers landed just south of Tavares. There was a wicked firefight, planes blowing up—”

  “That’s what all the explosions were?”

  Kyle nodded. “Please, Zaakir, wait. If it’s legitimate, our families can make the trip together. Just two days.”

  “Agency? Association? Who cares?” Eliza said. “Raeleah has asthma. She needs a new rescue inhaler, and I need real food and a hot shower.”

  “Listen, if I’m wrong, you’ll get to Tavares two days late,” Kyle told her. “But if I’m right, your family could be killed. Is it worth gambling their lives?”

  Zaakir’s gaze tarried over each of his children, bypassed Eliza, and returned to Kyle. “Thursday at sunup. We’ll meet right here.”

  Eliza began ranting at her husband.

  Eager to hear what Bradley and George thought of the flyer, Kyle turned for home. He charged up the hill toward Sugar Lake with Dave huffing and chugging behind him.

  “Murph, did you ever think that maybe the guy who printed those was just an idiot?” Dave asked, frustration bubbling in his tone. “You’re turning a couple of typos into a damned conspiracy theory.”

  “Two more days, Dave. It won’t kill you.”

  “Well, I hope to God you’re wrong.”

  So do I, Kyle thought. He wanted to live without fear; to eat three meals a day; to reunite with his parents and sister.

  He opened the screened-room door. “What the hell?” He averted his eyes, but couldn’t erase the image—his daughter’s legs wrapped around Bradley’s bare ass.

  “Dad? You’re back?”

  Dave started laughing hysterically.

  Livid and embarrassed, Kyle stomped out of the screened room shouting, “Bradley, go home! Now!”

  “Come on, Murph,” Dave said, cackling as he chased after him. “You said, ‘Whatever it takes—duct tape, glue, nails.’ So he nailed her on the chaise lounge.”

  140G

  BRADLEY YANKED UP HIS shorts. Humiliation blazed like a wildfire inside him, its scorching heat radiating from every square inch of skin. “Sorry,” he whispered, kissing Abby’s forehead.

  “Don’t be. I’m the one who talked you into it.”

  And I’m the one who promised your father discretion, Bradley thought, trudging out of the screened room. He was anticipating a verbal ambush, a well-deserved tirade, but the yard was empty. His relief turned to foreboding, realizing this was merely a stay of execution.

  He settled onto Gramps’ deck and gazed at the lake, berating himself, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when libido had overpowered common sense. His grandfather’s warning rustled through his mind. You crossed a threshold that changes everything.

  Fifteen minutes later, he headed to overwatch to relieve Gramps, eager for six hours of solitude.

  Halfway across Sugar Lake Road, he swore under his breath. Dave and Kyle were with Gramps.

  An audience, he thought, wishing he could find a hole and slither into it.

  “Your face is redder than a communist flag,” his grandfather said as he approached. “What in the hell were you up to?”

  Dave snickered, Kyle initiated a death stare, and Bradley fought the urge to bolt from overwatch. Slowly, he forced his gaze upward, prepared for a withering glare or a wrathful outburst. The quiet disappointment in Kyle’s eyes was much worse.

  His grandfather finished reading a sheet of paper then handed it to Bradley.

  “According to Zaakir, these flyers were air-dropped near Lake Apopka,” Kyle said.

  “Who’s Zaakir?” Bradley asked.

  “You left rice and beans on his doorstep, and you don’t know who he is? And where the hell are you getting all this food?”

  The family from Fern Ridge, Bradley thought. He began reading the FEMA flyer, leaving Gramps to furnish the explanation.

  “I bought a bunch of supplies for the annual Easter food drive at church. Didn’t get to drop them off before the EMP—that was God’s favor. And sharing the food was the right thing to do.” Gramps’ attention returned to the flyer. “Sounds like the FEMA camp on that radio broadcast, doesn’t it, Bradley?”

  “Since when do you have a working radio?” Kyle asked, flustered. “Damn it! How many freaking secrets are you two keeping?”

  “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 Abby. Bradley and Kyle will leave tomorrow at first light—”

  “Kyle doesn’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.

  141G

  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 20G ) ) )

  Wednesday, March 5th

  142G SKIPPED

  143G

  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, fighting the urge to cite his lapse in judgment, the one that had cost Aunt Laura her life. Abby watched him dissolve into the shadows of Sugar Lake Road, headed toward overwatch where her Uncle Dave stood guard.

  “Is your dad still pissed?”

  Recognizing Bradley’s voice, Abby spun toward him. “That’s an understatement. Why does he have to make such a big deal out of everything?”