Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  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. Tainted food belonging to the truck’s owner resulted in the deaths of five additional jihadists.”

  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.

  “Andrews, your suspicions about Al-Zahrani were well founded. A satellite 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?”

  197J

  Saturday, March 15th

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

  Two days had passed since he’d said good-bye to Abby, and the ache was not subsiding. It struck like a sucker punch every time he glanced at Jessie, mother and daughter looked so much alike.

  At least his wife had forgiven him for withholding the news about the draft. This time he had managed to bypass her notorious stubborn streak by asking the proper question: What would you have done if I had needed surgery?

  The line slinked forward, and a worker ladled a translucent soup into a bowl. Kyle settled at a picnic table and silently said grace, grateful for the meal and for Jessie’s recovery. She would be released from the clinic tomorrow; and on Wednesday, they would board a bus bound for Texas, where they would build a completely new life. The thought was exhilarating and terrifying. How would he support himself and Jessie? Baseball skills were useless, and although he had owned the car dealership, his managers had run the business. He stared into his soup, stirring it as if divining the future.

  Three tables to his left, Kyle heard a man griping about the food. He had hornlike patches of gray hair at the temple, a dark bushy mustache, and drooping jowls; features that created the aura of a senile bulldog.

  “You think they’re eating this slop on that side of the fence?” the man shouted, thrusting an accusing finger toward the military base. “And what if I don’t want to go to Texas?”

  Murmurs swirled underscoring the tension. A Military Policeman nervously scanned the room, speaking into his radio.

  “I say no!” The Bulldog hurled his bowl of soup against the canvas wall of the tent then leapt onto the tabletop. “No to eating slop! No to slaving in some Texas factory!” He paced, arms swooping upward like a crazed musical conductor. “Just say no!”

  Kyle’s restraint splintered. Climbing onto his own table, he shouted, “If my sixteen-year-old daughter can grab a rifle to defend this nation, you can work to make sure she has bullets!”

  “I say no to the draft!”

  “And yes to the terrorists? Mister, you’d better get clear on who the enemy is ... because it is not the Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marines!”

  People began to clap and cheer.

  A half doz
en MPs were encircling the Bulldog. He kicked and spat at them, screaming, “What happened to free speech?” He attempted to instigate a chant, unsuccessfully, and once he had been handcuffed, two MPs started toward Kyle.

  “If you want your life back,” Kyle shouted at the crowd, “you’d better get off your asses and fight for it! Because the military can’t do this alone. Right now, you have the power to make or break this country. Which side are you on?”

  Face flushed, mouth dry as sawdust, Kyle stepped down and swiped his water bottle from the table.

  “Sir, you need to come with us,” a Military Policeman bellowed above boisterous chants of, “U-S-A!”

  Knowing he had done nothing wrong, Kyle followed the MPs along the outer wall of the tent. An officer with a mosaic of ribbons on his uniform waited outside the doorway.

  “Captain Carlos Rodriguez,” he said, offering a hand. His gaze felt like a silent cross-examination, probing and intimidating. “That was quite a speech, Mister ... ?”

  “Murphy. Kyle Murphy.”

  The Soldier’s face spread into a strange smile as if they were old friends. “So you’re the infamous Rambo?”

  Taken aback, Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Captain?”

  “I’ve been looking for a civilian leader,” Rodriguez told him. “Someone who can motivate and organize people to rebuild society. Mr. Murphy, I think you’re the guy.”

  198J

  Monday, March 17th

  BRADLEY WAS AT THE main gate when the draftees emerged, forty-nine glum faces and one glowing like sunshine. Dressed in an Army PT uniform, Abby jogged toward him, her blonde hair sheared off at chin level, bouncing as she moved.

  “They cut your hair?” he asked, fingers combing the loose waves that framed her face. He wanted to remember the silky feel.

  “No, I did.” She presented him with a five-inch braid of hair, fastened with rubber bands at both ends. “I have your ring. I wanted you to have something.”

  Bradley clutched the braid in his left hand and pulled her against him.

  Kissing his cheek, Abby whispered, “How’d it go with Captain Rodriguez?”

  “No charges, no court-martial.”

  “Thank God he wasn’t as bad as Ryan made him out to be.”

  “I think he feels guilty for ignoring Ryan’s warning about Al-Zahrani. He transferred both of us to a new branch of the military called TEradS, so we’ll be hunting down savages here, in the U.S. And Rodriguez said that if you excel in Basic Training, he’ll recommend you for Scout Sniper School.”

  “You told him about me?” Abby stepped back, excitement glimmering in her eyes. “That’s awesome!”

  Bradley didn’t mention that as an underage draftee, she couldn’t be assigned combat duty without parental consent. The government—anticipating that ninety percent of the U.S. population would perish within a year—had begun inducting sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds in an effort to keep them alive and preserve the country’s future Soldiers. Bradley grinned, thinking the situation couldn’t have worked out better. Abby would have all the protection of the military—food, shelter, and security—without the risk. At least for the next two years.

  He could hear the bus approaching. Its tires crunched and popped against the gravel road surface, and he felt like the steel-belted treads were rolling over his chest.

  “Thanks, Bradley ... I know it wasn’t easy for you to subdue those overprotective instincts.”

  Offering an innocent smile, he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A Private with a clipboard exited the bus and began calling out names, an alphabetical countdown that made Bradley ache. Caressing Abby’s cheek, he drew her closer. He wanted to compress everything he felt for her into a single kiss, and sear it into her memory. He wanted the bond between them to strengthen her, to carry her through the difficult days ahead.

  Names zipped past, and he held her tighter, not wanting to let go.

  “Webber?” the Private shouted.

  Not acclimated to her “married name,” Abby didn’t react; and Bradley pulled back, grinning at her.

  “Webber, Abigail?” the Private repeated.

  “Oh, that’s me.” A rosy hue seeped into her cheeks.

  “Saying good-bye sucks even more than I thought it would,” Bradley said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “But this is something I really want to do.”

  Was that supposed to make it easier? It didn’t, but he knew he had to let go.

  Bradley watched her walk toward the bus, feeling as if his heart was being wrenched from his chest, then he shouted, “I love you, Squirt!”

  Abby glanced over her shoulder and flashed that adorable, pissed-off pout, the one that always made him smile. “I love you more, Sexy!”

  Then a bizarre feeling of calm spread through him.

  We will be together again, Bradley decided. Because the good Lord always provides.

  * * Change of Heart(5J)? * *

  YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 5J

  NO ... This is the End of Book One

  WARNING: Paging forward will take you into a different story path.

  The Powerless Series continues:

  EMPowered: America Re-Energized

  Power Play: America’s Fate

  Mind Power: America Awakens

  ( ( ( PATH 172K ) ) )

  172K

  ABBY HEARD WILL SHOUT, “Jessie, RUN!” Then he made a valiant effort to provide suppressing fire. Abby’s mother sprinted toward the house with Billy huddled in her arms. A third gunshot thwacked. Will’s rifle fell silent.

  Focus on the damned target, Abby chided herself.

  Through the daggerlike streaks of light and shadow, the savage had been difficult to detect. His position was slightly elevated, but he wasn’t moving. As a fourth shot resonated over the hillside, Abby increased the tension on the two-stage trigger, and a bullet tunneled through the bastard’s forehead, just above his spotting scope. She didn’t notice the well-camouflaged man beside him until he moved. Like an alligator in a death roll, he spun himself behind the ridge, out of sight and out of range.

  Above the agonized trill of Billy’s shrieks, a voice within Abby shouted, “Move!” The gunman might have seen her muzzle flash. She had to change position. She had to get to her hide.

  Skull dragging up the hill, the realization struck. This time, it was real. The consequences of being spotted would not be embarrassment or going back to start. This time, failure would mean death.

  Abby’s heart felt like it had divided and spread miniature replicas of itself throughout her body, simultaneously hammering her chest, her throat, her hands, her skull. The numbing sensation made it difficult to move. Billy’s cries made it impossible to concentrate.

  She could feel the creeping darkness engulfing her, chilling her. Soon it would be pitch black, and Abby would be fighting blind ... and deaf thanks to Billy. She would never hear an approaching footstep or a snapping twig.

  After reaching her hide, Abby surveyed the damage through her scope. Will had been hit twice, once in the right arm, once in the left shoulder; her mother had been shot in the right thigh; and Gramps wasn’t within her field of view.

  Slowly, she retrieved her walkie-talkie. “Gramps?” she whispered, wondering if he could hear anything over Billy’s bawling.

  She tried a half dozen times with no response. Was he just being smart? Keeping silent? Or had that first shot ... ?

  The question crystallized the air in her lungs.

  “Da-a-a ... ddy!”

  Abby closed her eyes to shut out the despair and pleading in the toddler’s screams. It was maddening.

  There’s nothing I can do, she thought. Not without getting shot. Calm that kid down, Mom, before the gunman shoots you again! Dear God, please make him shut up!

  Her eyes snapped open, reeling from a moment of fearful clarity. That’s why the shooter had left them alive: to lure her into the line of fire.

/>   Then an even more terrifying thought snaked through Abby. In all likelihood, this guy was an IRGC sniper.

  173K SKIPPED

  174K

  BRADLEY FOLLOWED RYAN through the dark hallway, trying to ignore the pained wails of a little girl being abused. Militarily, Bradley understood and respected Ryan’s reasoning—that the lives of the many outweigh the life of one individual; but emotionally, the decision was vexing. In his mind, her shrieks were fusing with the screams from that girl at the swing set, merging into a single haunting memory, a regret-filled duet. Another innocent he’d failed to save.

  They entered a storage room directly beneath death’s doorway. Barren metal shelving lined the windowless room, and the floor crunched beneath each footstep, crackling like a thin layer of ice. Bradley swept his foot over it as if smoothing sand. It was shattered glass from dozens of fluorescent light tubes.

  He eased his backpack off his shoulders then removed twelve bricks of C-4 and a spool of wire with a detonator and shock tube attached at either end.

  “I’m not so sure this will be enough to put the building out of commission,” Ryan said as he stripped the green plastic from each brick. “We need a backup plan.”

  “Have something in mind?”

  “You have a lighter or some matches?”

  Bradley stopped molding the bricks. Unable to shut out the panic and misery in the little girl’s cries, he bit his lower lip until it throbbed then said, “You want to set the building on fire?”

  “No alarm. No sprinklers. No fire department. They won’t be able to continue operations. At least not here.”

  Expressing his objection with a lengthy silence, Bradley resumed molding the explosives. A fire would set the clock ticking, eliminating all flexibility from their timing.

  Ryan sensed his reluctance. “You realize that if they’re able to reopen for business, this is all for naught.”

  Bradley glanced at the shoebox-sized white blob of explosives. Would it be enough? Could he live with the guilt if it wasn’t?