Pushing himself to a standing position, Bradley said, “Yee-yup—I trained her.”
With solemn strides, he walked toward overwatch, fixated on Gramps. Still clutching his rifle, the General lay facedown behind the sand-filled bins.
Oh ... Gramps. Bradley removed the walkie-talkie from his grandfather’s belt, pulled it to his face, and then let it drop to his side, unable to find his voice.
Ryan extended his hand, silently requesting the walkie-talkie.
Bradley complied and backpedaled, distancing himself from the truth: the man who had raised him—his only real family—was gone.
“Abby, we’re clear,” Ryan said, speaking into the walkie-talkie.
To Bradley, he sounded muffled, miles away. He felt alone. Empty. He kept stepping backward, wanting desperately to turn back time like Kyle had done with the watch; just a few minutes to thank Gramps, to say good-bye.
His back thudded against a tree, his legs buckled, and he slid slowly to the ground, his strength devoured by grief; then he let the tears come.
188M
RYAN EMPATHIZED WITH Bradley’s loss. He had experienced the guilt, played the what-if game, and discovered firsthand that words, no matter how heartfelt, just didn’t help. So he stood beside Bradley and planted a hand on his shoulder.
Ryan gave an exhausted sigh. Was it really only twelve hours since he had met Bradley? He glanced at the grieving Marine, realizing that there was no one in the U.S. military he trusted more.
Hearing pounding feet, he spotted Abby running up the hill. She had shed the ghillie suit, but still clutched an AR-10.
“Bradley, I’m so sorry!” She fell to her knees beside him, sobbing, and Ryan grappled to reconcile that pretty face with deadly marksman.
Leaving Abby and Bradley to comfort each other, he moved down the hill toward a male body. The man had been shot once in the right arm, and despite a shoelace that appeared to have controlled the bleeding, he wasn’t moving. Ryan leaned down to check for a pulse. A rebel yell undulated through the night air, and a fist sprung upward, hurtling toward him.
189M
ABBY BREATHED IN TINY pants, rivulets of salty tears cascaded over her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop trembling. She felt as if a self-destruct button had been pressed and her body was trying to shake itself apart. “I’m s-s-sorry. I didn’t spot them until it was too late.”
Bradley’s arms closed around her, his damp cheek rested atop her head. “Abby, you weren’t even on watch.”
“You told me to keep everybody safe and now ...” Her voice shattered.
Bradley’s hands forcefully clasped her cheeks, demanding eye contact. “This is not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped that first bullet. And neither could I.”
“What about the second one that killed Uncle Dave? Or the third one that killed Aunt Laura?”
“For God’s sake, Abby, you were ambushed by a sniper team. And you nailed both of them.”
Head shaking, she said, “You shot the sniper.”
Bradley stood, pulled Abby to her feet, and placed his helmet onto her head. “See for yourself.” Grasping her elbow, he guided her down the hill.
Aided by night vision, she saw it right away. There were two bullet wounds, one to the head, a second to the chest.
“He was already dead when I shot him. That was one hell of a ‘shot in the dark.’ ” Bradley’s voice softened, growing huskier with emotion. “I’m proud of you. Gramps would be too—”
A horrific wail resounded through her like a pealing bell.
Bradley took off down the hill, and Abby struggled to keep up on jellied legs.
“It’s okay,” Ryan was saying. “Bradley and Kyle are friends of mine.”
“Uncle Dave ... ?” The suffocating grip of guilt loosened, and Abby wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank God you’re alive!” Eager for another miracle, she gazed toward Aunt Laura. Through the greenish glow of night vision, she confirmed that her Aunt had been fatally wounded.
Bradley asked, “What the hell happened?”
“He cold-cocked me,” Ryan said, rubbing his chin. “I need a drink. Where’s Kyle’s whiskey?”
A flurry of fear replaced the grief in Abby’s heart. “Bradley, where’s my dad?”
“Holy shit! He actually followed an order!” Bradley cupped his hands like a megaphone and shouted, “Kyle, we’re all clear!”
( ( ( 92% Complete ) ) )
* * Change of Heart(4M)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 4B
NO ... Page forward to continue
( ( ( Epilogue M ) ) )
190M
Thursday, March 6th
BRADLEY SUNK DOWN ONTO the Murphys’ front porch and slouched against the house, elbows draped atop his knees. He and Ryan had just finished transporting Gramps and Laura into the garage to protect their remains from predators until they could be buried in the morning.
Numbly, he stared into the blackness. Memories of his grandfather were trickling into his mind, bonding with guilt, forming a toxic emotional haze.
Ryan sat quietly beside him. He made no effort at small talk and offered no obligatory condolences, reminding Bradley of Will’s stubborn presence when his mother died. The memory was an ache in his chest. In just a couple weeks, he had lost so much.
The front door swung open, and Kyle emerged, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Dave fell asleep. Abby’s keeping vigil.” He settled beside Bradley, taking a long gulp of whiskey before passing it on. “We need to leave for Camp Sunshine ASAP—”
“I’m not leaving until I bury my grandfather.” Bradley’s tone came out harsh, edged with anger.
“Of course I-I,” Kyle stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Bradley downed a mouthful of whiskey, and it hit his stomach like a mortar round. “It’s okay. I know you’re just worried about Dave.”
Kyle leaned toward Ryan. “Camp Sunshine has a hospital, right?”
“Affirmative.” The Ranger lifted the whiskey bottle from Bradley’s hand and swilled it. “But they’re gonna confiscate your guns and personal possessions.”
“Like the savages in Tavares?” Kyle demanded.
“You can’t have sleepers waltzing in with assault rifles or bombs hidden in suitcases and stuffed animals.”
Bradley eased his head back against the wall, waiting for the alcohol to dull the ache inside him.
“I don’t like it,” Kyle said, resignation echoing in his voice. “But I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“There’s more.” Ryan paused to down another gulp of whiskey. “Since there’s no post office, e-mail, or telephones, people are being drafted as they walk through the gates.”
Silence thickened in the night air, congealing into a solid mass, pressing against Bradley. Civilians expected a military rescue, not a military induction.
That can’t be going over well, he thought.
“I’ll gladly fight for my country,” Kyle said. “But I can’t just leave Abby on her own.”
“They’re not gonna draft you,” Ryan said softly. “They’re enlisting everyone ages sixteen to forty. Male and female.”
Bradley’s already tense muscles jumped to high alert. He watched Kyle rub his face as if kneading dough. Would he still opt to go?
“Ryan, what if you and Kyle take Dave to Camp Sunshine for treatment, and I stay here with Abby until they return?”
“No go. Once Kyle and Dave are in, they’ll relocate them to Texas—where the power grid’s been partially restored—and assign them jobs based on their skill set and government needs.”
“So it’s a combination draft board and labor camp?” Kyle asked, anger radiating like a blast furnace. “When did this country become a dictatorship?”
“Look, we’re at war on multiple fronts,” Ryan told him. “If the U.S. can’t start producing beans, bullets, and bodies to fight, you’ll find out what it really means to live under a dictatorship.”
Bradley had
mixed emotions. If the government could draft someone and ship them overseas to fight, why not to Texas to work an assembly line? But how long would these extraordinary powers endure?
After lengthy introspection, Kyle said, “Dave’s bleeding is under control, the wound’s been disinfected, and he can still move his fingers. If he babies that arm for—” His head swiveled toward Bradley; a eurekalike expression lifted Kyle’s features into a hopeful question. “Is there any chance Abby’s pregnant?”
Laughing, Ryan said, “You’re banging his sixteen-year-old daughter?”
In unison, Bradley and Kyle shouted, “Shut up!”
Yesterday in the lanai, the thought had tempted Bradley. His overprotective inclinations had wandered dangerously close to controlling and sabotaging. “No, sir. No chance.”
“Well, you still could—”
“I won’t.”
Ryan leaned toward Kyle and said, “How do I apply for that job?”
The flippant remark triggered a firestorm inside Bradley. He grabbed Ryan’s throat and pinned him against the house. “I’m already getting court-martialed, and the Army thinks you’re dead. Do the math!”
“Relax, I was joking. I’m old enough to be her father.”
“Not funny.” Although Bradley released Ryan, his stare continued drilling into him.
“Understood.” The Ranger redirected his attention to Kyle. “Now that you have the facts, what are you gonna do?”
“We’re staying,” Kyle said flatly. “If the wound gets infected, then we’ll go to Camp Sunshine.”
“It will get infected. It’s just a matter of time,” Ryan argued. “And if you wait, Bradley and I won’t be here to help transport him. He might need to be carried part of the way.”
Kyle rolled his head back. “Then we’ll lie about Abby’s age, tell them she’s fourteen. Without a birth certificate or electronic records, how would they know?”
“Won’t work,” Bradley said, his words dripping frustration. “Abby wants to enlist. She would lie to get in. Not to dodge.”
“Hell yeah!” Abby said as she emerged from the house. “Dad, if we don’t go, we’ll be spending every waking moment on overwatch. That’s no way to live.”
She glanced at Bradley, soliciting help that he couldn’t bring himself to offer, then she continued, “And what happens when we run out of food and ammunition?”
“The good Lord always provides.” Angrily, Kyle rose to his feet and wrenched open the front door. “We are staying!”
“Damn it, Dad, you can’t protect me from this,” Abby shouted, stomping after him. “Either way, I’m gonna end up fighting the savages. At least let me get the proper training. Give me a chance to survive!”
The door slammed, and Bradley felt the vibrations rattle the house behind him. He stood, gripping the stucco wall to steady himself. He’d had a few beers with the guys on base, but never whiskey on an empty stomach. Once the light-headedness passed, he shouldered his backpack and rifle then started toward the slain sniper.
Scurrying to catch up, Ryan said, “Why don’t you get some shut-eye? I’ll keep watch.”
Bradley mumbled his thanks and kept moving.
It’s my fault, he thought. I engaged at Astatula and Haywood Field; I left a trail that led them to Sugar Lake.
He knelt beside the man who had murdered his grandfather, ejected a round from the M110 semiautomatic sniper rifle, and slipped it into the outer flap of his backpack.
“I understand Kyle’s reluctance about Abby serving,” Ryan was saying, “but you were training her. Why are you dead set against it?”
Using a red-filtered flashlight to search the dead man, Bradley said, “I hate the thought of savages shooting at her.”
“Give me a break. They were shooting at her here.”
“But here, I knew her status.” Bradley paused to extricate a black IRGC headband and a ring from a cargo pocket. It was a wedding band with some sort of inscription inside. He began flaking away the dried blood with his fingernail. “I just don’t want to wake up every morning wondering if Abby’s dead or alive.”
“Well, if that’s the issue, I might have a solution for you.”
Bradley wasn’t listening. Eyes fixed on the ring, a bitter sense of resentment was surging through him, making his entire body quake with rage.
191M
SINCE READING THE NAMES engraved into that wedding band, combative thoughts had been colliding in Bradley’s mind, anger versus empathy, vengeance versus mercy.
He had been awake all night, restless and inconsolable. By 0800 hours, Bradley had dug Gramps’ grave, laid him to rest in the backyard beside the fishpond, and marked the site with a slab of granite wrested from the kitchen island. Onto it, he had chiseled: Beloved Grandfather, Brigadier General, George Anderson.
After the burial and impromptu memorial for Laura had concluded, he set out on the three-mile hike to Fern Ridge.
From his hillside perch overlooking the concentric-ringed neighborhood, Bradley stared at the house as he had that fateful night, this time with condemnation rather than compassion.
Although Kyle had insisted the dead sniper was not Zaakir, Bradley was certain the bastard had steered death toward Sugar Lake. The only variable was intent.
He knew damned well that we fed his family, that I put myself at risk to protect them. How could he betray us?
Did he disclose the information under duress? Did the Iranians threaten his family? Take them hostage? Was the blood-encrusted ring evidence that Zaakir had been tortured?
Or did he voluntarily trade the information for food?
What if he was one of the savages? Maybe he died fighting alongside his jihadist brethren; maybe the Iranians were planning to return the ring to his widow.
Then why didn’t Zaakir shoot Kyle and Dave yesterday?
Was he disseminating those flyers to herd Americans into that death camp? His family, the suitcases—was it all just part of the ruse?
Bradley’s gaze dropped to the brass casings scattered at his feet.
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 Abby killed. Screw his family! I already went out of my way twice to help them, and look where it’s gotten me.”
192M
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 Aunt Laura; leaving Sugar Lake; 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.
“You gave the savages back their poisoned chocolate. And when you shot those cannibals you were defending Gramps. And me,” she said in a raspy, yet forceful whisper. “And everybody else in the vicinity of Sugar Lake. You saved lives.”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 185