Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  TIDBIT # 1

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  TIDBIT # 2

  TIDBIT # 3

  TIDBIT # 4

  Epilogue

  Table of Contents

  Power Play:

  America’s Fate

  By Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Copyright 2016

  Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Kindle Edition

  Chapter 1

  ><>< DAY 457 ><><

  Tuesday, May 17th

  i

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS stood beside his best friend inside Memorial Chapel, both decked out in their formal dress uniforms. Ryan’s world had changed drastically since the last time he and Bradley had been here. He had found Abby alive, fallen in love with Franny, bonded with Sybil and Izzy, discovered the stealth Chinese invasion, uncovered a biological attack, mourned Rodriguez’s death, saved the President of the United States, conducted black ops assassinations, and jumped a level in rank.

  If someone had told me that a month ago, he thought, I never would’ve believed a word of it.

  Ryan smiled at the blushing maid of honor as she glided past, taking her place to the left of the chaplain.

  The piano bellowed louder. All in attendance stood and turned with expectant smiles, awaiting the grand entrance of the bride. She was a stunning sight, draped in a curve-hugging, 1980s-style wedding gown salvaged from a nearby neighborhood. Escorted arm in arm by Izzy, Franny seemed to float down the aisle.

  My very own trash-talking, badass angel, Ryan thought. Twice before, he had assumed the role of bridegroom, but this time felt different. It felt right.

  Franny handed off her bouquet of white Chinese tallow blooms to Sybil; then Izzy placed her hand in Ryan’s, symbolically giving her away.

  Sunlight spilled through the circular, leaded-glass window above the entryway like a heavenly spotlight that made Franny’s merlot-colored hair more vivid, the twinkle in her eyes almost magical.

  “... By the power vested in me by God and the state of Texas, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

  Wary of his adopted youngsters and Kyle’s young family, Ryan pressed his lips to Franny’s in a sweet, gentlemanly kiss.

  “I present to you for the first time ... Major and Mrs. Ryan Andrews.”

  TEradS Teams 6A and 6B were on their feet, cheering and whistling, along with the Murphy family.

  Bradley gave Ryan a hearty slap on the back, leaned closer and whispered, “So much for born single, gonna die single.”

  The leaded-glass window plinked; dainty glass particles swirled through the sunlight; and by the time the crack of the gunshot was heard, it was too late.

  ii

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  SERGEANT ABIGAIL WEBBER felt a whoosh of air, the shock wave of a bullet whizzing past her ear.

  Everything slowed down. Seconds felt like minutes.

  Her arms and legs felt heavy; her body, unresponsive.

  She lunged toward her father, intent on knocking him onto the floor.

  Midfall, her gaze jerked toward Bradley. His hazel eyes flitted from the circular window to Abby, a second of eye contact confirming that neither of them had been hit.

  The bullet burrowed into Izzy’s chest.

  The ten-year-old caromed backward and bounded onto the steps of the sanctuary, then the muffled boom of a rifle eclipsed the thrum of Abby’s heartbeat.

  She shoved her mother into Billy and Nikki—toppling them like bowling pins—and belly flopped onto her father, her knee landing in an unfortunate position. He let out a guttural groan which joined her mother’s panicked refrain of, “Oh God.” Tears were streaming down Billy’s cheeks. Nikki was shrieking. Abby’s family was terrified, but seemingly unhurt.

  Feverish footsteps were moving closer. Sirens began to wail as Langden’s perimeter guards returned fire.

  Major Andrews had tackled Franny and Sybil, and was now making a crouched dash across the aisle toward Izzy. A second bullet punched through the leaded-glass window and plowed into the marble altar a foot ahead of him, just inches behind Bradley.

  Kneeling beside Izzy, hands soaked with blood, Bradley was frantically trying to stop the bleeding. He shouted for a medic, and the anguish in his eyes sent a chill through Abby. The boy’s life was in grave danger.

  The chaplain was holding the child’s hand and stroking his forehead, lips moving in silent prayer.

  “Iz-z ... z-zy!” Sybil’s despondent cry rose above the irritated murmurs of the TEradS.

  The Soldiers scrambled toward Major Andrews, frustration evident in their faces, a sentiment Abby shared. Thanks to a Department of Defense directive that prohibited possession of firearms on base, two counterterrorism teams had been reduced to mere targets, unable to defend themselves against an enemy sniper.

  Major Andrews scooped Izzy into his arms. “Hang in there, Buddy,” he said as though issuing an order. Then he sprinted toward a windowless room behind the sanctuary, which housed the chaplain’s office and a rear exit.

  Bradley and the TEradS trailed behind him, hunched over to avoid the shooter’s line of fire, and Abby ushered her family away from the bloody scene.

  “It’s my fault,” her father mumbled. “Izzy’s just a child, damn it! It should’ve been me!”

  Was my dad the intended target? Abby wondered.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the scarred circular window. The leaded-glass design was sandwiched between panes of ordinary glass, multiple layers likely to have deflected the bullet’s trajectory.

  Did the sniper’s first shot sail wide left? Or wide right?

  And what about the second shot that zipped between Major Andrews and Bradley?

  Leftward misses implied the shooter had targeted her father and Bradley; rightward indicated the bullets were meant for Abby and Major Andrews.

  Who was the sniper really aiming for?

  iii

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  INSIDE THE ANTISEPTIC-SMELLING emergency room at Langden’s medical center, Ryan Andrews tried to comfort his wife. The enemy had turned their wedding day into a tragedy, adding a layer of anger to the conflict roiling inside him.

  Ryan wanted to reassure his new family that he would protect them; but the truth was now evident: he had failed. Izzy had been critically wounded while Ryan stood by, unable to prevent it.

  That realization shattered his core perception of who he was—as a man and as a warrior. Emotions were building into a dangerous wave, churning with self-condemnation and vengeance. He needed to redirect all that energy fast before it could erupt into a dazzling display of rage.

  Focus on hunting the sniper, he told himself. Make that bastard pay ... But how can I walk away from my wife at a time like this?

  An unwelcome feeling of déjà vu settled over him, the specter that had haunted—and fractured—his first marriage. Which commitment took priority? His marriage vow? Or his military oath?

  A somber-faced Major Pavlick emerged from the surgical wing. “I’m sorry.” His head bowed, and he drew an audible breath. “The bullet ruptured Izzy’s aorta. He died instantly.”

  Ryan felt like he was drowning. No air reached his lungs.

  Shock and grief shuddered through Franny, and he pulled her tight
against him. Memories of Sierra, the eight-year-old daughter she had lost, were undoubtedly being dredged to the surface, intensifying already raw feelings.

  With his left arm, he reached for Sybil.

  Powder-blue eyes brimming with tears, she smacked his outstretched hand. Her oval face glowed with animosity, even redder than her strawberry-blonde hair. “You promised you wouldn’t let the peacekeepers hurt us!” she shouted, hurling the words at him, each razor sharp with bitterness. “We trusted you and now Izzy’s dead!”

  Kyle moved toward her, lips pursed with guilt. “It’s not Ryan’s fault,” he said. “The peacekeepers were trying to assassinate me. I’m the one you should be mad at.”

  “He’s the one who lied!” Sybil shot back in a venomous tone that matched her glare. “He’s the one who didn’t keep his promise!”

  The truth in her accusation was emotional shrapnel. Ryan recalled the moment he’d made that declaration with brutal clarity. Izzy had just learned that his father, one of Ryan’s TEradS warriors, had been killed in action. Since then, he had tried to keep that promise, caring for both children and adopting them as his own—an expedited process given the overwhelming number of orphans post-EMP.

  His gaze jockeyed from Sybil’s wrath to his wife’s grief to his shell-shocked wedding guests gathered inside the waiting room. Abby, Bradley, and Jessie were trying to console Billy and Nikki. Teams 6A and 6B stood in a cluster, their steely expressions fixed on the floor, refusing to acknowledge that their commanding officer had been reamed out by a fifteen-year-old.

  “Sybil, I’m sorry,” Ryan said softly. “I ... I thought I could keep you safe ... I was wrong.”

  Franny planted a sympathetic kiss on his cheek and whispered, “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

  Intellectually, he knew she was trying to comfort him; but emotionally, his new wife had just slapped an exclamation point onto his deepest fear: Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep her safe.

  Franny’s eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks damp with tears—a heartbroken bride. The image seared into his mind, redoubling his thirst for retribution, which brought his ordeal full circle. He couldn’t be in two places at the same time, consoling his wife and tracking down the sniper. He had to make a decision.

  Addressing the TEradS in a cold, authoritative tone, Ryan said, “Gear up and meet at the ops center.”

  Both teams scurried from the waiting room along with Abby and Bradley, determination and urgency in each stride. A few of them had known and respected Izzy’s father, which made this attack personal.

  “So that’s it?” Sybil shouted. “You’re not gonna mourn for Izzy? You’re just gonna run off? And leave Franny and me to fend for ourselves against the peacekeepers?”

  “I have to find the shooter,” Ryan told her, “in order to get justice for Izzy and to protect my wife and daughter.”

  Franny’s hand clasped his chin and tilted his face toward her. “Ryan, it’s our wedding day—”

  “I’m sorry, Franny,” he said, cutting her off before she could stoke the guilt smoldering in his gut.

  iv

  West of Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  CAPTAIN DOMINICK DEFINA wasn’t sure how many days had elapsed since he’d been captured. He was still annoyed with himself for falling victim to such a simple ruse. Furious with Aaron Burr for bowing to the enemy, he had eagerly accepted an anonymous invitation slipped beneath his door.

  Some of us do NOT intend to surrender. 101 Mission Street. 0200 hours. No phones.

  Dominick had walked two miles from Ansley Air Force Base to the address, which turned out to be an abandoned body shop packed with three dozen peacekeepers. At gunpoint, they had stripped him of his weapons and TEradS uniform, bound and gagged him, and given him some type of injection. At first, he thought it would be Alameda fever or smallpox, but after a few groggy minutes, he realized it was a sedative.

  He awoke inside a wooden crate with narrow streaks of sunlight seeping through the seams. An undulating motion and rhythmic clacking noise suggested he was being transported via rail, and once the train came to a stop, the torture had begun. Floggings, beatings, electric shocks—he had endured that first round, refusing to order his teams into ambushes.

  The next day, he was back inside the coffinlike wooden crate, traveling in the back of a pickup truck. Judging by the direction of the meager sunlight, he deduced that he was moving west; and the nonstop movement filled him with hope. A TEradS team was surely in pursuit, defying the surrender.

  That night the vehicle had stopped at a machine shop, and Captain Gui’s men had wrapped his balled right hand in layers of duct tape. Then they inserted his fist into a vise, knuckles spanning the void, and tightened it until bones began to snap. Hand throbbing, intense pain barreling up his arm, he had provided them with false information, a reprieve for which he had paid dearly.

  His captors had taken turns with a sledgehammer—pummeling both his arms from wrist to elbow. Dominick had begged to be killed. Instead, they had deposited him into this dank hellhole, a residential garage strewn with trash. The smell of mildew hung thick, mingling with the odor of urine emanating from his boxers. Dominick was lying on a cot, ankles chained to a steel garage door rail, and he glanced toward a partially boarded window, dreading the encroaching darkness and the next round of torture it would bring.

  Peacekeepers rushed down three wooden steps bearing a lantern, and the thunder of their footsteps sent a few rats scurrying behind a defunct water heater.

  “Captain Defina!” The voice belonged to Captain Gui, his chief interrogator. The sadistic man extended a Chi-Phone toward him.

  Dominick gasped.

  They had located his wife, Alice.

  “You son of a bitch!” he shouted through gnashed teeth. “Leave her alone!”

  “No cooperate, wife die!”

  The beating began with openhanded slaps to Alice’s face and savage yanks of her hair. “Dominick, please,” she sobbed. “Make them stop.”

  He was checkmated, forced to choose between betraying his men or his wife of fifteen years. Slaps evolved into punches, punches into kicks, each blow more painful to him than the sledgehammer; then the peacekeepers began tearing off her clothing.

  “Dominick ... ple-e-e-ease.” The despair in her voice sliced through him.

  Unable to bear it, he shouted, “Stop. I’ll–I’ll do whatever you want, I swear. Just let her go!”

  Gui said something in Mandarin then terminated the call. Did he order them to free Alice? Or kill her?

  A flash bang exploded in a room adjacent to the garage.

  Captain Gui and his henchmen raced back into the house, weapons drawn. Dominick could hear gunfire and frenetic voices, but couldn’t decipher the words. Doors were being kicked open. Heavy footsteps were approaching.

  A TEradS team is raiding the building, he concluded. These pricks are going to pay.

  Soldiers charged down the wooden steps, flashlights swept the garage, and dark figures swarmed around him. Someone cut the chain binding him to the steel rail, then an accented voice asked, “Can you walk?”

  Dominick stared into the dark eyes peeking from behind the balaclava and said, “Who the fuck are you?”

  v

  West of Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  MASTER SERGEANT BRADLEY Webber said, “Are you sure you want to do this, sir?”

  As commander of the TEradS, Ryan Andrews’ job was to plan and manage ops, not participate as a foot soldier.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Ryan demanded. “I mean, as a Sniper you’re usually hundreds of yards from the action, not kicking in doors.”

  “Touché.” Bradley had offered to join the breaching team, a role he had trained for, but hadn’t executed in recent memory. His heart rate was already elevated; his senses, alert, searching for threat indicators.

  “And you’re supposed to be on leave right now,” Ryan said. “Banging your wife.”

  �
��The night’s still young. Nothing like a little after-action action.” Bradley glanced toward Abby’s hide and let out a muted sigh. He had volunteered for this operation out of respect for his best friend and was less than pleased when she’d followed suit.

  “Stop thinking with your dick,” Ryan told him, “and focus on the task at hand.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who steered the conversation away from the mission.”

  Satellite footage had caught the assassin exiting a three-story apartment building just beyond Langden’s perimeter, and the TEradS had tracked him to this deserted middle-class neighborhood. A drone had been hovering above the house for two hours, leaving a three-hour void in their surveillance because the satellite had moved out of range before the drone arrived on station.

  Infrared scans indicated a dozen targets lying prone throughout the house, presumably sleeping.

  Is the assassin still here? Bradley wondered. The shooter was of average height and weight, with a weasellike nose and a birthmark on his left cheek. Ryan had made it clear that he wanted the man taken alive; he wanted to know who the intended target was and who had issued the order.

  Bradley concurred. He was keenly aware that the chest-level strike which killed Izzy would have been eye level for Abby or Kyle, both seated at the time.

  Was this another failed Chinese attempt on the governor’s life? Or did they discover Abby’s role in Aaron Burr’s assassination?

  The front door of the house was open, and there were no visible sentries, facts that set off alarms in Bradley’s mind.

  Why no security? Is this a risky attempt to make the house appear vacant? Or a trap?

  Opting for the element of surprise over robotic insertion, Ryan raised his rifle and gave the order to breach the house.