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 spewing all the required information, Kyle added, “My friend’s been shot and needs immediate medical attention.” They had been carrying Dave for the last twenty miles because his 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. “But the surgical facility is on base, and you don’t have the clearance to accompany him. Report to the civilian clinic. They’ll keep you informed, and once he stabilizes, they’ll transfer him. Right hand, please?”
The Private affixed a blue plasticized band on his wrist. “This identifies you as a civilian. I’ll need your friend’s hand too.”
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.
“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 Bradley identified himself, medics loaded Dave onto a stretcher. Abby kissed her Uncle’s forehead while Kyle assured him that he was going to be fine.
“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 offered Kyle his hand, and the handshake progressed into a backslapping hug. “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 straightjacket-type hug. “We wouldn’t have survived without you.”
“Who’s next?” Private Wilson demanded, seemingly annoyed 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.
Eyes clenched, lips pursed, father and daughter 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 5N *
Path N: YES, try to snap DJ’s neck.
Path N1: NO, trust the justice system.
I don’t want to decide.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
( ( ( PATH 194N ) ) )
194N
“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.
195N SKIPPED
196N
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 poisoned jihadists—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. 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?”
197N
Saturday, March 15th
KYLE GRABBED A CAFETERIA tray and entered 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, but he couldn’t bear another minute in that labyrinth of bunk beds. He had no patience for sullen, irritable, frightened refugees—people just like him.
The line slinked forward, and a worker ladled a translucent soup into a bowl. Kyle settled at a picnic table and silently said grace, appreciating the meal and praying for Abby’s safety.
Dave 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 depressing and terrifying. How would he support himself? 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 dozen 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.”
198N
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. H
e 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.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 190