Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Complaints crashed down like an avalanche.

  “Two hours? Are you serious?”

  “We’re starving.”

  “What about the people in front of us?” an angry voice shouted. “You let them through.”

  “They’re being diverted up ahead,” Kyle lied.

  “If you’re military, why are you alone?”

  Ryan had prepared Kyle for that question. “We’re short-staffed because exposed Soldiers had to be quarantined.”

  Blustering gripes traveled backward through the column of refugees. As Kyle fielded questions, two men approached, each with arms thick as paint cans and assault rifles slung over broad muscular shoulders.

  Shit! Are they going to confront me? Push past me?

  “Sir, I asked you to wait here,” Kyle said, alternating eye contact with each man, attempting to read their intent.

  “I’m Lieutenant Dunn, retired Army. This is my friend, Trey Green. We think you’re full of shit, Staff Sergeant.”

  166H

  FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR, Abby scavenged the hillside near her trip wire, selecting twigs, fresh leaves, and pine needles to modify her ghillie suit. Lime green patches of infant leaves had appeared since the rains, claiming territory previously dominated by brown hues. Her camouflage would have to reflect that change in order to slip past Gramps’ watchful eye.

  Convinced that she had heard a footstep, Abby raised her rifle. She turned in a slow pirouette, listening intently, eyes scanning for abnormal colors, shapes, or movements. Despite spotting nothing suspicious, the restless, anxious feeling worsened.

  Irrational fear began to drive her thoughts. Where is Bradley? And my dad?

  What if they were ambushed? Or injured? What if they didn’t make it back?

  Abby took a deep breath as if oxygen was the antidote for fear.

  Snipers can’t lose control of their emotions, she told herself, or their imaginations.

  She spread her ghillie suit like a picnic blanket and bunched it to mimic a human form. After dozens of minute adjustments, she pulled on the suit and began skull dragging.

  Fifty yards from her hide, within sight of overwatch, she eyed Gramps as he surveyed the hillside. Although their game would not begin until Will relieved him, he was already scrutinizing the landscape using a random, unpredictable pattern. Abby held her breath as if his gaze were a breaking wave, then she released it with a smug sigh. His eyes had passed right over her!

  She watched the sun sink, a cosmic ticking clock working against her. She had to make it to her hide—undetected—before the sun dipped below Sugar Lake Road.

  I only have a half hour of daylight at best, she thought, but that constraint also provided an advantage. The low angle of sunlight was bathing the hillside with blindingly bright patches and long, deep shadows. Gramps’ eyes would strain to adjust between the extremes, a circumstance she intended to exploit.

  Will emerged from the screened room en route to overwatch, the M1A with the nightscope in one arm, Billy in the other; and Abby grimaced. The toddler could cost her precious daylight.

  No matter what, I can’t rush, she told herself, vowing that halfway undetected was better than getting nailed.

  Abby eyed Will. She estimated holdover and lead, adjusted for wind, temperature, and humidity; then chided herself. He wouldn’t appreciate that. Then again, he would never know.

  Abby sensed a flash.

  Her eyes jerked toward its origin, and she heard the unmistakable roar of a gunshot.

  167H

  LIEUTENANT DUNN’S DARK eyes glinted like the tip of a scalpel, slicing through Kyle with surgical precision. The retired Soldier had debunked the quarantine story, so for the second time in fifteen minutes, Kyle had disobeyed orders. He had told Dunn the truth.

  “An extermination camp? With a mass grave? That’s even more farfetched than your original line of bullshit,” Dunn told him.

  “What kind of scam are you running?” Trey Green asked, thrusting an index finger into Kyle’s face. “Are you trying to steal from these people?”

  “I’m outgunned thirty-to-one, and you think I’m here to rob them?” Kyle’s eyes tracked from Green back to Dunn. “I’m trying to save their lives. And yours.”

  The Lieutenant rubbed a bear paw of a hand over his beard. “If you’re legitimate, why lie about the influenza quarantine?”

  “People have their hopes set on hot meals and showers,” Kyle said, exasperated. “How will they react when I tell them there’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? The cover story was designed to keep the messenger from getting shot.”

  The two men traded dubious glances, then Dunn took an ominous step closer. “If people are being executed a half mile from here, why don’t we hear gunshots?”

  “They’re using knives, so new arrivals aren’t scared away.”

  Dunn’s cheeks expanded like a puffer fish, and he expelled an audible breath. Was that a hairline crack in his skepticism? Or was Kyle just seeing what he wanted to see? Again?

  Arms barricaded across his chest, Green said, “And how—exactly—is all that changing in two hours?”

  “They’re trying to shut it down—”

  “They?” the Lieutenant demanded.

  “An Army Ranger and a Marine Corps Sniper.”

  Dunn jammed a thumb and index finger into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Six men broke their conversational huddle, approaching like a wall of linebackers eager for a sack.

  Were they going to pummel him? Or push past, hell-bent on completing their death march?

  The men formed a semicircle around him. Kyle felt every muscle clench as if his entire body were cringing.

  “Gentlemen, there’s a situation at the refugee camp,” Dunn told them, “and we need to assist the U.S. military by manning a roadblock for the next two hours.”

  “Lieutenant, thank you,” Kyle said, offering his hand. “But I have to go. I have to stop the eastbound traffic.”

  “Do what you gotta do, Andrews—or whatever your name is. We got this.”

  168H

  OMID GHORBANI WAS LYING prone amidst oaks, pine trees, and wild brush, surveilling the houses bordering Sugar Lake.

  To his right, Hamid Khadem peered through his spotting scope and whispered, “Someone exited the yellow house.”

  A pale man with fiery-red hair was marching across the street, carrying a rifle and a child. He was tall and muscular, in his early twenties, but lacked the disciplined gait of a military man. Omid’s eyes swept ahead to his projected destination.

  An old man with white cropped hair rose from a well-concealed position. Gripping a rifle, he was keeping watch over the landscape across the street, focused and thorough, with the intensity of a wolf on the hunt.

  “That hide is well constructed,” Hamid whispered. “But these people are not Soldiers.”

  “Friends and family can be useful nonetheless.” He planned his assault like a billiard player, each shot setting up the next. Armed and alert, White Wolf posed the greatest threat, so Omid took aim and split the silence with a single gunshot.

  “Through the heart,” Hamid said, his voice trailing into a disappointed hiss. “A slow death would better serve our purpose.”

  Fiery Hair stood frozen. Seemingly unsure what had happened, his head swiveled away from Omid toward the wooded hillside across the street. He was looking in the wrong direction, the same direction White Wolf had been intently watching.

  Omid acquired his second target and applied a slow, steady pressure to the trigger. Another blast rumbled over the hillside.

  “Through the left shoulder,” Hamid reported, gleefully.

  The force of the bullet had rotated Fiery Hair 180 degrees and knocked him onto the ground. He glanced at the bleeding hole in his shoulder then crawled atop the screaming child to shield him from bullets that could easily pass through both bodies.

  Then an unseen gunman returned fire.

  A red haze drifted past Omid’s
scope and settled onto his arms like an aerosol mist.

  He didn’t have to look.

  He knew Hamid had been fatally shot.

  And he would be next. I need to move. Fast.

  Hugging his rifle tightly against him, Omid rolled laterally and pivoted until his body was parallel with the ridgeline. He rose no more than a shoulder’s width above the ground in his dizzying retreat, making himself a smaller, more challenging target.

  Two rotations. Three.

  He kept rolling beyond the safety of the hill’s crest.

  There really is a Sniper at Sugar Lake, he decided, and thanks to Fiery Hair, I know where to find him.

  169H

  CROUCHED BEHIND AN overgrown hedge surrounding the strip mall’s dumpster, Bradley used night vision to watch Ryan approach the massive drainage ditch behind the hospital. Darkness rendered the Ranger invisible to the guards inside the well-lit building, now a twenty-four-hour death camp thanks to the stolen Army generator and diesel tankers.

  Ryan waded into the water until only his head jutted above its inky surface. Night vision protruding like a snout, he looked like an alligator on the prowl.

  Hopefully the construction scared away any resident gators, Bradley thought, questioning the wisdom of this operation.

  He monitored the guards stationed on the perimeter, ready to create a diversion if Ryan was spotted. Three men spanned the property at hundred-yard intervals, statuesque and unblinking. Bradley’s attention returned to the rear sentry, posted where the fence met the drainage ditch.

  Ryan emerged from behind him. His hand closed over the guard’s mouth, and he plunged his knife into the base of his skull, silently severing brain stem from spinal column.

  Bradley checked the nearest guard, stationed even with the hospital. He was still staring straight ahead, though without night vision, he probably couldn’t see more than ten yards into the darkness.

  The Ranger gently lowered the body to the ground and exchanged Kyle’s wet clothes for the guard’s dry U.S. Army uniform. The jacket buttons puckered, the pants reached to midcalf, and he didn’t even bother with the boots.

  Ryan rolled the body into the water then stepped behind the chain-link privacy fence and began shaking it. The metallic clamor shuddered along its length, piquing the interest of the closest guard. The man raised his rifle, switching on the attached flashlight, and started toward the drainage ditch to investigate the sentry’s absence.

  Bradley moved with weasellike strides, stealthily closing the distance, his wounded arm throbbing in sync with his pulse. His right hand grasped the man’s chin, his left gripped the back of his head. Simultaneously pushing and pulling with a swift jerking motion, he broke the guard’s neck. He heard the snap, felt the bone fracture, and resisted the urge to yank away his hands. This was more personal, more intimate than taking a life with a bullet from yards away, and a jolt of squeamishness radiated through him.

  “You okay?” Ryan asked, sensing his discomfort.

  “Yeah. Let’s dump him into the water and get the last guard.”

  The third sentry post was outside the plywood gates enclosing the shipping container and dumpster, but that guard had strayed thirty yards from his previous position and was now overseeing westbound refugees on Route 441.

  Weary civilians seemed rejuvenated by the sight of the hospital, joy and hope spreading like a contagion. They saluted the guard and broke into a horribly off-key rendition of God Bless America, which rose above the growling generator.

  “We’re screwed,” Ryan snarled. “All those armed Americans think he’s a U.S. Soldier. If we take him out, they’ll assume we’re terrorists and open fire.”

  Bradley took a deep breath. They hadn’t even breached the fence, and there was already a major glitch. “The guard’s away from the fence,” he said. “Maybe we should leave him alone and just move on.”

  Ryan’s head rocked side to side, like a windshield wiper sweeping away the suggestion. “Better to deal with him now.”

  They banged their rifle butt stocks against the fence, but the sound faded into the background noise of the humming generator and celebrating Americans.

  We can’t lure him away from the crowd, Bradley thought. What the hell are we gonna do now?

  170H

  FIGHTER PILOTS ABOARD the U.S.S. Stellate had been flying nonstop missions since the failed attack by the cruise ship.

  Failed attack, Chase Kinderman thought. What a misnomer. Although the Navy had promptly sunk the floating dirty bomb and the carrier group had maneuvered out of harm’s way, the jet stream was still driving radioactive plumes of air eastward, and ocean currents were spreading contaminated seawater over the Pacific. Hawaii had been beyond range of the electromagnetic pulse, so people there might receive warning, but what about Californians? Washingtonians? Oregonians?

  In a microsecond, Chase’s thoughts skipped across the country. Are my parents safe? My little brother?

  She was certain the Navy’s official mantra, “Order is being restored, and the situation stateside is improving,” was a whitewashed version of events just like the “failed attack.” She was equally certain the hellish rumors—tales of execution squads, poisoned food, and nuclear meltdowns—were gross exaggerations. The truth, she figured, had to be somewhere in between.

  The catapult engaged, hurling her Raptor forward, and g-forces threw Chase back against her seat. She loved this feeling, the acceleration, the sense of raw power. As her wheels cleared the deck, dozens of stark white missile contrails streaked upward on either side of her like an oceanic dancing fountain.

  A thunderous detonation jostled the aircraft, then metal fragments began clanking off the Raptor. Ahead, she could see missiles striking targets, flashes of light with pockets of smoke smudging the sky.

  She climbed, cutting through a tunnel of contrails. Cruisers and Destroyers continued to belch fire and smoke, launching missile after missile.

  Flying past the Stellate, its flight deck looked as choppy as the ocean, twisted chunks of metal accumulating like snowflakes. Why the hell didn’t Aegis detect the threat sooner? The computerized ballistic missile defense system was designed to intercept threats miles away, not thousands of feet overhead.

  Chase’s thoughts were zipping, keeping pace with her jet. Above her, she noted the absence of incoming missile contrails.

  They must be conventional bombs, she decided. Did the enemy have a stealth bomber capable of defeating our best radar?

  After several brutally tense minutes, the fireworks dwindled, and the Cruisers and Destroyers fell silent. Receiving new orders, Chase banked the Raptor toward the coast of China.

  Now, it made sense; how the bombs had slipped past our defenses; why they had been neutralized in such close proximity. The Strike Group had been attacked by one of our own B-2 Stealth Bombers, recognized as friendly until the first bomb dropped.

  Chase’s orders were to shoot down the billion-dollar American aircraft before it could seek refuge in Chinese airspace.

  171H

  AGAINST HIS BETTER judgment, Ryan left the guard alive. This was crazy, attempting an operation like this with no intelligence, minimal weaponry, and no quick reaction force on standby. Head shaking, he watched as Bradley worked on the fence. Wire strips secured the chain-link mesh to each fence post, and although multi-tool wire cutters were not ideal, they bit through the galvanized steel fasteners.

  The Marine left the top three strips intact to prevent the mesh from sagging, stowed the cutters in his pocket, and lifted the bottom of the fence. Ryan wriggled under it, pulling the backpacks and rifles along with him. Bradley joined him then eased the fence back into position. If there were any unanticipated roaming guards, they would never notice the penetration.

  Advancing low to the ground, they approached the noisy generator. Under the glare of floodlights, handcuffed civilians were being driven into the hospital like cattle into a slaughterhouse.

  Ryan moved toward the rear of
the property, his back pressed against the building’s rough-textured stucco. He ducked beneath a window and peered around the hospital’s northeast corner. Yellowish incandescent light was streaming down from death’s doorway, and the executioners cast shadows that danced like evil specters.

  A tiny body toppled end over end, its head nearly decapitated, and landed with a sickening thump at the far end of the pit. Cheers spilled from above as though a favorite team had scored a goal.

  Disgust fusing into determination, Ryan smashed the window with the butt stock of his rifle. Fragments of glass rained down, the noise overpowered by the generator and the ghoulish competition above them. He and Bradley flanked the window, listening, waiting.

  Silence assured him of nothing. A disciplined soldier would wait with rifle sights trained on that window. Having no remote-controlled robotic camera, Ryan removed his helmet, balanced it on the barrel of his inherited rifle, and pushed it inside.

  Nothing.

  He peeked into the small office using night vision, and after visually clearing the room, he and Bradley infiltrated the building. They stole toward the doorway, passing a large desk cluttered with invoices and two rusty filing cabinets that smelled of old, dank papers.

  Ryan grabbed the doorknob, turning it slowly, and opened the steel door in one-inch increments, unsure what awaited them. Seeing a dark empty hallway he exhaled, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.

  Then he heard something.

  Faint at first, but growing louder.

  Footsteps were coming down the stairwell. Two sets, one softer, one heavier. Did someone hear the glass break? Did they see us enter the building?

  Ryan clutched his tactical knife, cursing under his breath. Without suppressors, the rifles would be a homing signal, drawing a swarm of enemy fighters.

  A little girl raced past with a guard at her heels. She slammed headlong into a door across the hall, opened it, and darted inside. She tried to lock it behind her, but the man forced his way into the room.