Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  If I hadn’t intervened that night, would Zaakir have died? Would Gramps be alive? If we hadn’t shared our food, would they have moved on, away from Sugar Lake?

  Without answers to so many crucial questions, how was he supposed to make the right decision?

  Detecting movement, Bradley’s head bobbed upward. A puffy-eyed woman exited the glass sliding door and scanned the hillside, calling Zaakir’s name. The sight of her personalized his dilemma.

  Invite her to accompany us to Camp Sunshine? Or leave her and the children to fend for themselves?

  In his mind, he could hear Gramps asking, “Would you want to be punished for the sins of your father?”

  Bradley frowned. He didn’t feel like doing the Christian thing. He was in no mood to turn the other cheek. He wanted to hold someone accountable; and to his thinking, merely walking away was a hell of a lot more charitable than sending mercenaries to their doorstep.

  He turned for home, then speaking aloud as if to justify his actions to the world, Bradley said, “Zaakir got Gramps killed. He almost got Will and Abby killed. Screw his family! I already went out of my way twice to help them, and look where it’s gotten me.”

  192H

  Saturday, March 8th

  ABBY TOSSED AND TURNED in a fitful sleep. The battle reenacted through her subconscious on a marathon loop; and with each round, her dreaming mind tried a different course of action. The outcome never changed. After running through every option, she said, “I’m sorry, Gramps. I couldn’t save you.”

  She was startled to hear him reply, “It was my time.” Gramps’ deep, warbling voice sounded at peace; and Abby sensed his presence engulfing her like warm bathwater. Then a hand began gently rocking her shoulder. “Abby, wake up.”

  Prying open heavy eyelids, she squinted at Bradley, who was squatting beside her. Her visual range widened, and she took stock of the unfamiliar room, dimly lit by a flashlight.

  Where am I? she wondered. Then it all rushed back: burying Gramps and Uncle Dave; leaving Sugar Lake, transporting Will on a makeshift stretcher; hunkering down for the night in an abandoned house north of Fruitland Park. She bolted upright, muscles stiffening. “Is it time for my shift already?”

  “No, I—” Bradley averted his eyes. His mouth hung open. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Is this my twenty-four-hour warning?”

  “Sort of.” He paused, reaching into his pocket. “This is for you.”

  Abby’s eyes zeroed on the copper-jacketed bullet, dangling from a length of black parachute cord. “You can’t give me your hog’s tooth. I want to earn my own.”

  “You did. And in some ways, yours is more real than mine. According to superstition, only one round is destined to kill you—the one with your name on it. When you dispatch an enemy sniper, you take that round from his magazine and wear it around your neck so it can never be fired, ergo you become invincible.”

  After draping it over her head, his fingers skimmed slowly downward, past her elbows and along her forearms; then he clasped her hands. “As for us, I was thinking that ... If the military thought we were married, we could get status notifications. We could find each other again.”

  Caught off guard, it took Abby a moment to recover. “You want to lie to the U.S. military?”

  “Not exactly. The way I see it, two people can be committed to each other with or without some piece of paper from the government.” There was an uncharacteristic flicker of vulnerability in his hazel eyes. “I already talked to your dad. He says it’s your decision.”

  Dumbstruck, Abby wasn’t sure if she was awake or still dreaming.

  “Before you say anything, you need to understand that my future isn’t exactly rosy. There’s a laundry list of reasons why I could be court-martialed. Besides being AWOL for two weeks, I could be facing murder charges.”

  The anguish in Bradley’s expression sent her heart into free fall.

  “Will rigged those IEDs. Not you.” Abby’s fingers glided along his stubbly jaw, beneath his chin. “It doesn’t matter. I love you, Bradley. Nothing can change that.”

  He released her right hand, reached into his pocket again, and pulled out a tiny dark object. “This was my mother’s wedding band. I spray-painted it black, so it won’t reflect light.”

  His gaze floated from the ring back to Abby, and he dropped onto a knee, still holding her left hand. “I love you, Abby. Will you be my wife?”

  193H

  Wednesday, March 12th

  SURRENDERING HIS WEAPON, Bradley glanced upward at the imposing twenty-foot watchtowers surrounding Camp Sunshine. Triangular with cross-member supports, they looked like oil rigs connected by chain-link fencing topped with spiral razor wire.

  The damned death camp looked more welcoming, he thought. Did the facility feel prisonlike to everyone else? Or was his perception distorted by circumstance?

  His return to base was bittersweet. Bradley was thrilled that the civilians had made it to safety, yet disheartened that Gramps hadn’t; gung ho to reunite with his unit, yet hesitant to say good-bye to Abby; eager to end his AWOL status, yet reluctant to face the consequences of his actions.

  Cherub-faced teens clad with blue latex gloves were confiscating personal items while more seasoned Army personnel performed airport-style pat downs. A bomb-sniffing dog checked each pair of shoes and alerted on Bradley’s combat boots. Despite his uniform and military identification, his shoes were seized.

  Walking along the gravel path in socks, he swore under his breath. Ahead, a Soldier with a ruggedized laptop was processing civilians, gathering names, birth dates, and social security numbers; scanning fingerprints and logging specialized skills.

  After providing as much information as he could for Will, Bradley said, “Look, my friend’s been shot and needs immediate medical attention. He’ll have to fill in the blanks later.” Will’s fever had spiked, and he was fading in and out of consciousness.

  “I’ll call for a stretcher,” Private Wilson said, not looking up from his computer screen.

  Kyle helped Nikki and Billy check in, at a loss to answer most of the questions.

  “Mr. Murphy, are you assuming the role of guardian for these children?”

  “Yes, for Nikki. But just temporarily for the boy,” Kyle told him. “Until his father recovers.”

  “Right hands, please?”

  The Private affixed a blue plasticized band on each of their wrists. “These identify you all as civilians.”

  Bradley stepped aside to allow Eliza, Raeleah, and Zak to check in; and he forced a polite smile. He was still grappling with resentment, alternately blaming Zaakir and himself for his grandfather’s death.

  Ryan whispered, “Given the circumstances, I would’ve left their asses behind.”

  “I tried,” Bradley told him. In fact, he had made it a quarter of the way home before relenting, a decision that proved beneficial since Eliza had watched over Nikki and carried Billy the entire way.

  “Well, you’re a better man than I am.”

  “I didn’t do it for them ... or for Zaakir. I did it because it’s what my grandfather would’ve wanted ... Hardest damned thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Ryan met his eye. “The right thing usually is.”

  As medics loaded Will onto a stretcher, Bradley assured him he would be fine, and Kyle promised to look after Billy while he was hospitalized.

  “Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews?” Private Wilson’s eyes widened like a spreading stain. His attention seesawed between Ryan and the computer screen, employing old-school facial recognition, then he began typing at a feverish rate.

  Ryan strode toward Kyle and offered his hand. “Thanks again for saving my ass, Rambo. I owe you one.”

  “You should thank Bradley. He’s the one who got shot,” Kyle said, simultaneously deflecting the credit and ambushing Bradley with a backslapping hug. “We wouldn’t have survived without you.”

  “Who’s next?” Private Wilson demanded, seemingly an
noyed by the heartfelt good-byes.

  Abby approached the table, and after answering all his questions, she inserted her finger into the scanner.

  “You’ve just been drafted,” Wilson told her. “Report to the enlistment center.”

  Bradley could see the worry etched in Kyle’s face, a sentiment he understood—too well. He checked in, attention divided between Private Wilson and the father-daughter farewell.

  Eyes clenched, lips pursed, they embraced, neither speaking for minutes.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad, I promise ... I love you. Remember that every time you start to worry.”

  “You think I’ll ever stop?” Kyle’s voice was a choked sob. “I love you too ... I miss you already.”

  Abby withdrew from her father’s hug, eyes dewy with tears, and walked toward Bradley. His arms enveloped her, and as if on cue, a bullhorn-amplified voice blared down from a watchtower. “You folks need to move along!”

  “Come on,” Ryan said, nudging Bradley’s shoulder. “This isn’t good-bye. You’ll see her before she ships out.”

  Will I? Bradley wondered, kissing her lightly. Or will I be in the brig?

  “I hope Ryan’s right,” Abby whispered, “because I can’t handle another good-bye right now.” She marched toward the draftee checkpoint, then Bradley heard Kyle shout, “Hey, Abby ... ? Semper Fi!”

  Her face lit up into a brilliant smile, energy sparkled in her blue eyes, and Bradley memorized every subtle nuance. It was an image he would cling to—every time he started to worry.

  Once she moved beyond view, he followed Ryan through the gates of the military base, gaping like a tourist, shocked by the condition of Camp Sunshine. Containerized buildings and tents bore the scars of mortars, missiles, and suicide bombers. Sooty black streaks, pockmarks, and a severed flagpole provided the backdrop for the strangest sight of all: a half dozen Military Police, each with a hand resting on their sidearm.

  Ryan broke into a sprint, feet thundering against the ground, fists pumping at his sides. “DJ, you fucking traitor!”

  * Moral Dilemma 5H *

  Path H: YES, try to snap DJ’s neck.

  Path H1: NO, trust the justice system.

  I don’t want to decide.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  ( ( ( PATH 194H ) ) )

  194H

  “RYAN, DON’T!”

  He charged toward DJ, ignoring Bradley’s advice. He knew the Marine was hell-bent on stopping him and barely three paces behind, despite his lack of footwear.

  Al-Zahrani’s hand dove into his pocket.

  He heard Bradley shout, “Knife!”

  Everything slowed down.

  “I told you I’d snap your fucking neck!”

  The crack of bone punctuated his statement, and he angrily flung DJ’s lifeless body to the ground. Then panting, face flushed with rage, Ryan surveyed the closing net of Military Police and sunk onto his knees, arms raised in surrender.

  195H SKIPPED

  196H

  Friday, March 14th

  CAPTAIN RODRIGUEZ’ FINGER hovered over the mouse, hesitant to e-mail his findings to his commanding officer. He had spent sleepless hours contemplating the situation. Was he making the right decision?

  A tentative knock disrupted his thoughts. “Enter.”

  “Lance Corporal Bradley Webber reporting as ordered, sir.” He closed the door and stood at attention, his expression stoic and serene, not the demeanor of a man facing court-martial.

  “One incident detailed in your report is not an obvious case of self-defense. The airbag IEDs—that could result in murder charges. Do you have anything to say, Lance Corporal?”

  Webber’s facial reaction remained neutral. His pallid complexion glistened with a skim coat of sweat. “I did what I believed was right, sir.”

  Rodriguez didn’t doubt that. Why else would the kid have divulged every time he’d discharged a weapon? He had volunteered damning evidence that, frankly, never would have been uncovered.

  Rodriguez shuffled through a printed copy of his report, stalling, deliberately letting the Lance Corporal consider the charges until another knock resounded.

  He barked, “Enter,” and two MPs escorted a prisoner into the room.

  “Uncuff him then leave us.”

  Andrews and Webber stood at attention, facing forward, but their eyes darted sideways, surprised by the other’s presence.

  Rodriguez read a list of charges that included the murders of Juan Rivera, Victor Olenti, and Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. “Do you have anything to say, Staff Sergeant?”

  “I did not kill Rivera and Olenti, sir.”

  Rodriquez cleared his throat. “Both of your written reports referenced a Rambo and a Squirt. Who are these people?”

  “They aren’t responsible,” Andrews said. “We are, sir.”

  Rodriguez shot forward in his chair. “These are my official findings. Approximately ten days after the EMP, Lance Corporal Bradley Webber commandeered a pickup truck for the purpose of returning to base. On the twenty-seventh of February, he was fired upon by enemy combatants near an Astatula warehouse, and he dispatched six members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Five additional jihadists were killed when an IED fashioned from vehicle airbags detonated prematurely.”

  Webber’s face pinched in confusion, and Rodriguez continued, “On the third of March at Haywood Field, with the assistance of a civilian, code-named Squirt, Webber dispatched eighteen enemy combatants and neutralized a Patriot missile battery along with other stolen U.S. weaponry. On the fifth of March, still en route to base, he observed Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews being held captive. With the assistance of a civilian, code-named Rambo, he conducted a successful rescue and sustained a gunshot wound during the firefight.”

  Rodriguez stole a glance at the Lance Corporal as he turned the page. A hint of color had returned to his puzzled face. “Continuing toward Camp Sunshine, Webber discovered an extermination camp in Tavares. Acting in concert with Andrews and Rambo, he neutralized the facility, saving countless American lives.”

  Rodriguez lifted a bottle of water from his desk, guzzled half, then reached for his report on Andrews.

  Stunned, Webber said, “That’s it, sir?”

  “You were fortunate to have a compelling character witness.” Rodriguez rifled through his papers for a letter written on a napkin then read aloud, “To the Commander of Camp Sunshine: At a time when Islamic terrorists were executing Americans on their front lawns, Bradley Webber went out of his way to help my Muslim family. He has been our guardian angel, defending us when we couldn’t protect ourselves, feeding us when we were starving. Even when it became evident that my husband betrayed his kindness, he still escorted my children and me to the safety of Camp Sunshine. He is a man of integrity, and I want his commanding officer to know that. Sincerely, Mrs. Zaakir Abbas.”

  Webber’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.

  “Lance Corporal, your report was unacceptable, rife with unnecessary detail. Rewrite it and have it on my desk by 1400 hours.”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

  Rodriguez traded the letter for his report on Andrews. “On the fourth of March, in the midst of a firefight, Sergeants Victor Olenti and Juan Rivera were murdered by Corporal Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews was shot with a tranquilizer dart and taken prisoner. On the fifth of March, Andrews was rescued by Lance Corporal Bradley Webber with the assistance of a civilian, code-named Rambo. I’ll skip the paragraph regarding Tavares since it’s the same,” Rodriguez told him. “Upon returning to Camp Sunshine, Andrews was arrested for killing Al-Zahrani, who—at the time of death—was attempting to detonate an improvised explosive device hidden inside the base medical center. Andrews acted in self-defense, saving an untold number of Soldiers ... Got lucky on that one, didn’t you, Andrews?”

  “Evidently, sir,” he replied, unable to contain his astonishment.

  “Your suspicions about Al-Zahrani were well founded. A sa
tellite phone in his possession has implicated him in multiple traitorous acts, including the deaths of Olenti and Rivera.” Rodriguez hesitated, haunted by a revolting question.

  Would those men be alive if I had launched an investigation?

  “The phone also connected Al-Zahrani to a group of IRGC operatives and a sleeper cell of cousins who referred to themselves as the special forces of jihad. Effective immediately, I am restoring your rank as Master Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Both of you will be discharged from your current assignments and sent to Texas for TEradS training. This new Terrorist Eradication Squad has been sanctioned by a presidential executive order to operate on U.S. soil, rooting out terrorists from the civilian population—a skill you both have demonstrated.”

  Rodriguez let the printed copy of the report drop onto his desk. “Now, back to Rambo and Squirt.”

  “Rambo is beyond draft age, sir,” Andrews said.

  “Retired military?”

  “Retired baseball player, Kyle Murphy, sir.”

  Rodriguez did not bother hiding his disappointment. “What about this Squirt who dispatched a sniper team? Is he of draft age?”

  Webber was battling a grin and losing. “Yes, she is. Abigail Webber, my wife, sir.”

  Rodriguez’ head bobbed forward. “She’s here? At Camp Sunshine?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Andrews added, “Mrs. Webber is committed to becoming a Marine Corps Sniper, sir.”

  Rodriguez paused to send the e-mail then said, “Lance Corporal, you’ve been through Scout Sniper School. You think she’s got what it takes?”

  197H

  Saturday, March 15th

  KYLE GRABBED A CAFETERIA tray and ushered Nikki and Billy into the queue of civilians awaiting tonight’s dinner entrée, vegetable-beef soup with rice.

  Three days had passed since he’d said good-bye to Abby, and the ache was not subsiding. He didn’t feel like eating or socializing. He was going through the motions for two children who were sullen, irritable, and frightened—just like him.