Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  The Captain’s words accelerated as if fearful of being interrupted before he could provide a complete explanation, a sentiment Ryan knew all too well.

  “... Under the circumstances, I thought it would be best to keep them busy. So I sent 9A and 9B to assist the National Guard. After weeks of rain, most California valleys are flooded. Scores of civilians are stranded on rooftops and in need of rescue ... And I mandated that all personnel wear helmet cameras, sir.”

  A thin smile tweaked Ryan’s lips, admiring Fitzgerald’s ability to wage a public relations battle in the midst of war. “A solid decision, Captain. Keep me posted on the investigation.”

  After Fitzgerald had gone, Ryan rubbed his hands over his face.

  Should I take Abby off the defensive and send her after Sun? Would killing him end the threat against her? Discourage enemy combatants? Undermine the “sanctuary zones?”

  He glanced at Grace’s instructions, and as he reached for the screwdriver, his phone rang. Again.

  Did Fitzgerald forget something? he thought, lifting the handset.

  “Master Sergeant Webber is ... uh ... he’s calling, sir,” the Private said apologetically. “Regarding an issue of ... uh ... general urgency.”

  He heard about the bomb at Edgar, Ryan thought. “Put the call through, Private.”

  “Tell me it isn’t true!” Bradley barked, panic wavering in his voice.

  “I’m sorry to say that the rumors about Edgar are accurate.”

  The Marine’s ragged breaths dissolved into a smothered sob. “Volkov did this—”

  “I doubt that—”

  “Damn it, Ryan. Volkov sent me a message at 0700 this morning. An obituary detailing how Abby was killed in an explosion ...” Bradley’s voice shattered.

  “The Russians never would’ve used such a sloppy trigger mechanism. Volkov must’ve found out about Sun’s plans and used the attempt to taunt you.”

  “Attempt?” The Marine repeated. “Are you saying the bomb never went off? Abby’s alive?”

  “If something happened to Abby, I would’ve called you,” Ryan told him, indignation giving way to empathy. That obituary was a devastatingly cruel stroke of genuis, effective regardless of the outcome. If the bomb had detonated, his best friend would’ve learned of Abby’s death in the worst manner possible. Even though the device had failed, Volkov had succeeded in tormenting Bradley, who—just a few weeks earlier—had mourned his wife’s death, wrongfully believing she’d been stoned to death by jihadists.

  “Did Volkov send the message electronically?” Ryan asked, hoping that Cyber Command could trace it back to the general’s location.

  “No. Some guy walked up to me in the chow hall. Told me he just came from Edgar and that Abby asked him to deliver a letter.”

  Ryan let out a choked sneer. Yet another enemy combatant had penetrated base security. “Volkov was just capitalizing on Sun’s bomb plot, weaponizing information to scare you.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t. Abby got lucky this time and there can’t be a next time. We need to go after Volkov and Sun. Turn the tables and put them on the defensive. Make them worry about their own lives.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Ryan snapped. “The problem is, I don’t have a fucking clue where they are!”

  33

  North of Edgar Air Force Base

  District Nine, California

  ABBY WEBBER WAS stationed on a hundred foot ridge, an M4 dangling from a single-point harness in front of her. Rain thrummed against her helmet and dripped from her chin, making her saturated uniform feel uncomfortably heavy.

  Given Abby’s unpleasant bathroom experience, Captain Fitzgerald had suggested that she sit out today’s mission, an offer she had roundly declined. “Not necessary, sir,” she’d told him. “In all honesty, I’d feel safer standing on Tracho Ridge.”

  Out here, she was armed and on alert, along with nine other TEradS and two dozen National Guardsmen. Back at the base, she would be alone, trapped inside that tiny apartment, a stationary target with no way to defend herself.

  Abby hadn’t told anyone about that voice.

  Cut yourself.

  Those two words were haunting her.

  It was almost as if someone had been watching and knew that she had a knife in her hand. Did Lahey hear that voice before he’d slashed open his wrists? Could that explain the epidemic of suicides at Edgar?

  That’s crazy, she chided herself. There’s got to be a rational explanation.

  Abby peered down at an affluent neighborhood in a bowl-shaped valley, cut off from civilization since its sole access road was buried by a landslide. Mansion rooftops jutted like islands from a brown lake, a consequence of California’s San Joaquin soils. Beneath the surface, a hardpan layer of clay restricted the growth of roots and retarded water percolation, essentially turning the area into a giant bathtub; and runoff from the surrounding mountains acted like a spigot, channeling rainwater into the valley.

  Two rigid-hulled inflatable boats glided toward the last group of flood victims, who were gathered on a rooftop. The residents were ordered to kneel and interlock their hands behind their heads, a standard procedure meant to safeguard the TEradS while they searched for weapons and explosives.

  Abby’s nose crinkled in displeasure.

  They found something, she decided, watching her teammates restrain the group with flex-cuffs and load them into the boats.

  Surveying the surrounding ridges for threats, her mind reverted back to the mysterious voice.

  Why would anyone waste their time trying to goad me into suicide if they’d already planted a bomb in my toilet? It doesn’t make sense ... Unless there are multiple factions targeting me ... And how the hell are they generating that voice?

  The boats beached on a muddy tract of land below her; then one by one, handcuffed civilians plodded up the embankment. Through blowing sheets of rain, she noticed that this group was drastically different, exclusively male and of Chinese descent.

  “A trail of switchbacks will lead you down the hillside,” Abby said, gesturing like a flight attendant and reciting the same instructions on a mindless loop. “National Guardsmen will transport you to Edgar Air Force Base where food, shelter, and medical care will be available.”

  The men marched past with military discipline in their stride and deadpan expressions that seemed to radiate resentment. Despite the civilian clothing, Abby was certain they were former peacekeepers.

  Is one of these guys responsible for that bomb?

  The attempt on her life was unsettling, but in her mind, death was not the worst of outcomes. As a Sniper, it was her job to watch over and protect her teammates; and what frightened her most was the prospect of endangering them. How could she live with herself if someone else was injured or killed in an attack that was meant for her?

  She watched the prisoners slither down the hillside like a single entity, keeping perfect intervals between them, yet more evidence that they were soldiers hiding behind civilian clothing. After the last Chinaman ventured onto the switchback, Abby fell into step behind him. Above her, a swarm of blackbirds was circling, cutting through the downpour, and she wondered if it was the same annoying flock that had invaded the base.

  My own personal dark cloud hovering overhead, she thought mordantly.

  Nearing the end of the first switchback, Abby heard an unnerving sucking sound, the kind of noise you’ve never heard before, but instantly recognize as catastrophic. She felt the hillside give way. Patches of clay fragmented into jagged rafts, floating above a cascade of mud that had the consistency of a milk shake.

  Abby wobbled and flailed her arms like a first-time surfer, desperately trying to maintain balance atop a plunging hunk of clay. The entire mountainside was moving to the east, a soupy brown avalanche swallowing bushes, rocks, and prisoners.

  Oh shit, Abby thought. They don’t stand a chance with their hands bound behind their backs.

 
; She made eye contact with the Chinaman in front of her before slamming to a stop. The butt stock of her rifle smashed into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs, and a torrent of pain raced up her legs. Mud enveloped her face.

  This is it. I’m gonna die ... Please God, not yet ... Not this way ...

  The stuttering fall resumed, halting and advancing at random intervals as if she were bounding down a waterfall, hitting rock after rock, and when she finally stopped, Abby began to sink into a gooey pool of mud. She gasped in a breath, tasting the heavy dank earth, and kicked her legs to keep from being engulfed. It was like treading water in quicksand; then the natural dam fractured, and the reservoir of mud plummeted toward the roadway below.

  The drop wasn’t as severe this time, but the impact was still jarring. As she wiped her face, she saw a hand protruding from the muck, thrashing wildly.

  Oh God, he’s buried alive, she thought.

  Abby crawled toward the man and began to dig. Soggy soil and the unrelenting downpour were refilling the hole almost as fast as she could empty it. She rolled a boulder-sized chunk of clay off the man’s neck.

  “Hang in there,” she mumbled, voice trailing into a grunt as she stood upright.

  Hands locked around his midsection, she lunged backward, leveraging her body weight to extricate him.

  Abby fell onto her back. The man landed on top of her, driving the M4’s magazine into her thigh. Then they both slid downward, to the edge of the mudflow.

  Blinking against the heavy rain, she gawked at the 200-yard scar in the hillside, a cliff incapable of restraining the floodwaters behind it.

  Two Guardsmen hoisted the prisoner off her; another helped Abby to her feet; and with a trembling muddy hand, she activated her tactical headset. “A landslide’s created an unstable cliff on the eastern flank. Evacuate. The rest of the mountain is coming down.”

  “Roger that.”

  The Guardsmen relayed the warning over their radios and ushered Abby into the nearest deuce and a half, an open-topped truck capable of fording standing water. Medics were working to revive the man she’d rescued, one of five prisoners pulled from the mudslide, and the only one still alive.

  As the truck drove away, she opened her mouth, alternately catching the rain and spitting to expel the foul-tasting grit that coated her tongue.

  Abby cast a wary gaze toward the cliff. A hundred feet below the crest, a stream of watery muck was spouting from a concave depression.

  Another wet slapping sound reverberated.

  The land fell away, and trapped floodwaters burst through, gushing like a raging waterfall.

  One of the rigged-hulled inflatable boats tumbled end over end, and Abby squinted into the blur of the downpour, praying that the warning she’d provided had been sufficient.

  34

  District Six, Texas

  PETER FRANCISCO WAS the youngest member of the District Six security force, a position he had earned by single-handedly routing a company of peacekeepers. During that encounter, he had acquired his two most prized possessions, a Type 56 rifle and an all-terrain vehicle, tangible reminders of his accomplishment.

  Peter maneuvered the ATV past two-foot dunes that had swamped the gates of Sageview Ranch. He waved to Mr. Upshaw and accelerated along the dusty driveway. His mission was to disseminate factual information and quell a rash of counterproductive rumors.

  After enduring a dust storm that had killed thousands of birds and shredded crops, a new problem was emerging, one that would have more dire consequences for the district.

  “Have any trouble with your cattle?” Peter asked, nodding toward a pasture studded with stumbling cows. Dozens more had been sequestered inside a temporary corral, and were lying motionless on the ground.

  “That swarm of bugs did a number on ‘em.” Upshaw’s smile was friendly, but his blue eyes held a gleam of warning.

  He was in his early forties, a bald widower with two daughters who had been drafted into the Navy—against his will. According to locals, Upshaw was known for his hard-core distrust of government and authority figures, a sentiment that had only deepened following the electromagnetic pulse. That was why Peter had been tasked with confronting the rebel rancher, rather than the sheriff or one of his deputies.

  No sense in trying to sugarcoat it, Peter thought. “Mr. Upshaw, mad cow disease isn’t spread by insects.”

  “It ain’t mad cow!” the rancher snapped. “It’s babesia bovis, spread by ticks. Makes ‘em uncoordinated. That’s why they’re falling down, exhausted.”

  “But the cattle were accosted by a swarm of horseflies, not ticks.”

  “Listen up, boy! Mad cow has an incubation period rangin’ from months to years. There is no way in hell those bugs infected my herd with it.”

  Inwardly, Peter groaned. Despite the local veterinarian’s assurances that no cause-and-effect relationship existed, people were in denial, speculating and spreading dangerous rumors. They wanted someone or something to blame.

  “Babesia bovis has an incubation period of two to three weeks,” Peter said, regurgitating the information as it had been given to him. “Your herd didn’t contract anything from that swarm. They were already infected with mad cow when you bought them, and they’ll need to be euthanized to contain the spread of the disease.”

  Upshaw’s jaw was pulsing. “I am not putting down my herd on the say so of some snot-nosed kid.”

  Peter gazed toward the afflicted cows, knowing that this news was more than an economic blow to the rancher’s livelihood. Post-EMP, each animal euthanized would decrease this year’s food supply and next year’s population of calves. “Mad cow causes degenerative damage to the cow’s nervous system. That’s why your animals are losing control over their limbs. They can’t stand or walk. And they won’t recover.”

  “Boy, I forgot more about this disease than you know. And if it is mad cow—which it ain’t—the only way humans can contract it is by eating diseased tissue from the cow’s nervous system, like the brain and spinal column. So you go on back and tell Governor Murphy that I am not wasting perfectly good meat. And once I slaughter one of my cows, I’m gonna cut open the brain and prove that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”

  Peter sighed, frustrated that there was no definitive test to diagnose the ailment. And despite Upshaw’s obstinate personality, he was right. The only way to confirm mad cow disease was through a postmortem examination of the cow’s brain. Infected tissue would be riddled with holes that resembled a sponge, hence its official name: bovine spongiform encephalopathy.

  “And if you’re wrong?” Peter asked.

  Upshaw scowled at him, right hand nonchalantly drifting toward his sidearm. “Boy, I think it’s time you got the hell off my land.”

  Sounds like good advice, Peter thought, turning the ATV around.

  On his way back to the district’s center, he replayed the argument through his head.

  What else could I have said? Will the governor be able to stop Upshaw from selling that meat? And stop hungry residents from eating it?

  He slowed the ATV as he passed by the cemetery. Lydia Dorset was sitting with her back planted against one of the brick columns that supported the iron gate.

  Responding to the sound of the engine, her head swiveled toward him. Tears streaked her heart-shaped face, and the wet trails made her flawless bronze skin glisten. Long black hair hung in soft waves and stretched halfway down her back; and Peter couldn’t help staring. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, climbing off the ATV.

  She looked away and wiped her face with both hands. “I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she said, voice quivering.

  Peter knew she was referring to her father, Deputy Dorset, who had been killed a week earlier during a siege that gutted the original sheriff’s station; and he struggled for something to say. “I—uh ... I’m sorry for your loss ... I can’t fix that, but I can give you a ri
de home.”

  She remained silent. Lost in grief? Or spurning his clumsy social skills?

  “I heard that you saved the governor’s life. Is that true?” she demanded.

  “I was at the right place at the right time,” he said, trying to sound humble and subdue his burgeoning pride. That battle, along with his other escapades, had earned him the legendary title of “One-Man Army.”

  “It’s Murphy’s fault, you know! He got my dad killed and he’ll get you killed too!”

  Peter stood frozen, speechless. His first inclination was to argue, to tell her that it was the peacekeepers’ fault and that her father had died heroically, protecting everyone in District Six from tyranny. Instead, an innocuous string of words tumbled from his mouth, a change of subject that took even him by surprise. “You ever drive an ATV before?”

  Lydia’s head jerked toward him. Her stunning hazel eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that thing anyway?”

  “I stole it from a peacekeeper.” Peter left out the part about impaling the driver with his bayonet; and in spite of the fluttering in his chest, he managed a smile and extended his hand to her.

  “You’ll really let me drive it?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Lydia grasped his hand. Her touch made his heart quicken, and a pleasant tingle rippled through him.

  After a brief lesson on acceleration and proper braking, he helped her get situated and climbed onto the seat behind her. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Giggling, she gunned the throttle, and the vehicle lurched forward, thrusting her body into his. Peter’s arms tightened around her slender waist, and a strange energy jolted through his veins. The feel of her silky hair against his cheek, the cadence of her beating heart—it was intoxicating, magnetic, and magical.

  And at that moment, Peter understood what it meant to fall in love.