132H
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, then 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 19H ) ) )
Tuesday, March 4th
133H
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?
134H
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.
He’s making a crutch, she thought. For the walk home.
Anxiety churned through her, uncomfortable with lying about her injury and scared of her father learning the truth.
With slow, deliberate steps, she walked back to the master bathroom. Though her T-shirt and cargo pants were still damp, she changed out of the borrowed clothes, which felt even creepier since seeing the family photographs.
Bracing herself for the worst, Abby yanked open the vanity drawer; but her “souvenir” from Haywood Field was still there, exactly where she’d hidden it. While Bradley had been distracted with rigging the C-4, she had helped herself to a real grenade.
I can’t believe he didn’t notice it when he was carrying me, she thought, tucking it into the pocket of her cargo pants. I won’t have that problem today, thanks to that crutch.
Abby peered into the mirror. The downpour had washed the blood from her hair, and she inspected her wound. How did such a tiny cut bleed so much?
Using her fingers, she gently combed her hair, smoothing it to hide her injury, and secured it loosely with an elastic band.
“Don’t put weight on that ankle,” Bradley said, scolding her. He had the tree trunk in one hand, the KA-BAR knife and a roll of duct tape in the other. “Give it time to heal.”
Abby lifted her foot, balancing like a flamingo.
Bradley grabbed a towel from the linen closet, draped it over the V-shaped end of the branch to cushion it, and began wrapping it with tape. “How do you feel? Any dizziness or blurred vision?”
“I’m fine. Quit fussing over me.”
He handed her the crutch. “Here, give this a try.”
Abby placed it beneath her arm, surprised by the near perfect fit. “How did you know what height to make it?”
Smirking, he tapped his temple and said, “I’ve got all your measurements stored in memory.”
“There’s a phrase a woman never wants to hear from her commanding officer.”
The crutch worked well for the first hour, then part of the “V” snapped from the constant pressure.
Bradley said, “Back to plan B. Rifle up.”
“I don’t want to be carried—”
“And I don’t want to hear it. We need to get home. Your father’s probably freaking out.”
An unwelcome feeling of dread wormed through Abby. “When we get home, let’s not mention my, uh, ... my close call. Please, Bradley, will you do this for me?”
135H
KYLE HAD BEEN AWAKE all night. The thunderstorm had been the most severe he’d ever experienced, and when it ended around one a.m., he reported to overwatch. Alone with his thoughts, a battle raged inside him, fear versus courage, doubt versus faith, loss versus reunion.
He oscillated between worry over Abby and intense guilt over Laura’s death. Bradley’s admonition was now painfully clear. You’re gonna have blood on your hands no matter what you do. Your only choice is whose blood. The cannibals? Or all their future victims?
Kyle wanted to confess that it was his fault, that he had looked the other way, allowing those cannibals to kill again. Would Dave forgive him? Would Abby?
He glanced toward Jessie’s grave, feeling as though he’d let her down again.
At sunrise George relieved him from overwatch. The General’s hand clamped onto Kyle’s shoulder, authoritative and reassuring. “My grandson is keeping her safe. Probably just hunkered down for the night because of the storm.”
Abby and Bradley spending the night together? Maybe this was an excuse for them to be alone. Kyle was surprised to find himself clinging to the possibility.
Twenty minutes later, he and Dave headed north through the earthy, damp smell of the woods to search for Abby and Bradley.
“So my niece is obsessed with the Marine Corps and Snipers,” Dave said, chuckling. “And this Bradley guy is a Marine Corps Sniper. How’s that working for you, Murph?”
“Not well at the moment, but I still have two years to change her mind about enlisting.”
“Hey, you thought it was great when my daughter joined the Navy. What did you say to me? Something about letting Chase live her own life?”
“She wasn’t sixteen,” Kyle said. “And speaking of Chase, do you know where she was when the pulse hit?”
“Stationed aboard the U.S.S. Stellate. So she still has all those modern conveniences. Like food and water.” Dave stared straight ahead, his profile sad but resolute. “I hope to God she’s doling out a serious ass-kicking right now.”
Kyle nodded, contemplating whether the Marine Corps might actually be safer for Abby. “Any word on David Junior?”
The question seemed to deflate Dave. “He, uh, was away at college—NYU. How about you? Heard from your folks? Or Megan?”
Kyle hadn’t allowed himself to think about his sister or his parents much. “I’ve got my hands full with Abby. Everyone else is in God’s hands.”
“You’re doing a better job than I did with Laura.”
Kyle felt the crushing weight of responsibility bearing down again, heavier, more smothering than an hour
earlier. “Listen, Dave, there’s something I need—”
He halted abruptly and settled onto the ground. Dave flopped beside him, a man-made earthquake telegraphing their position.
“Quiet,” Kyle whispered. He scanned the forest, sure they were being watched.
Bradley emerged from behind a bush with Abby slumped over his shoulder. Unable to see her face, the warmth drained from Kyle’s body.
As if sensing his anxiety, Bradley returned Abby to her feet. Kyle ran to her and scooped his daughter into a hug, mumbling, “Thank God,” over and over before finally releasing her.
“Uncle Dave?” Abby asked, her voice rising with delight.
Kyle watched uncle and niece embrace; and after making formal introductions, he said, “Bradley, why were you carrying her? You scared the hell out of me.”
The Marine’s evasive hazel eyes deflected the question to Abby.
“Dad, I wasn’t paying attention and ended up hurting my ankle. I fell and got a pretty good knock on the head too. Check it out.” Abby parted her hair, displaying a small cut heavily coated with antibiotic ointment.
“And Superman, here, couldn’t save you?” Dave asked jokingly.
The color receded from Bradley’s face. “I didn’t see it happen, sir,” he said, eyes still locked with Abby’s in an unspoken conversation.
Though Kyle knew there was more to the story, he didn’t press them. His daughter was safe—nothing else mattered. Handing Dave his rifle, he said, “Come on, Abby. I’ll give you a piggyback ride home. Just like when you were little.”
136H
SNIPERS OMID GHORBANI and Hamid Khadem had covered fifty miles on foot, just over half the distance to Haywood Field.
“You’ll have to commandeer resources along the way,” his Captain had said. That advice was proving unrealistic. Americans had little food to pilfer, and functioning vehicles and fuel were virtually nonexistent.
Omid’s feet, blistered and raw from slogging through heavy downpours, protested each step. Wet socks were abrasive sandpaper, burning, chafing, biting at his flesh. His hunger was a leaden anchor that slowed his stride, dulled his reflexes, and numbed his thinking.
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