Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “Sorry. What?”

  “I said, I bet this is the same gunman who tagged that Airman you were carrying.”

  “Could be.” The possibility of exacting retribution on Carrie’s killer recharged Bradley’s waning motivation. Dispatching one of Volkov’s acolytes would send a powerful message: if you screw with me, it will cost you.

  “Yesterday’s shots were subsonic rounds,” Gutierrez said. “Fucker knew exactly how to evade the Boomerang sniper detection system. But we’ll get him today with the BOSS on station,” he said, referring to the Battlefield Optical Surveillance System. It used lasers, sensors, optics, and FLIR to detect minute reflections from a sniper’s scope before he could even fire a shot. Gutierrez paused to scrutinize something then dismissed it. “You think Major Andrews is going to cooperate with that UW war crimes investigation?”

  “How should I know? I was at the same briefing you were.”

  “Come on, Webber. Everybody knows you two are tight.”

  “Well, I can’t read his mind.”

  “Yeah? How about his e-mail?”

  “Negative,” Bradley said, delivering a half-truth. He knew Ryan’s password, having witnessed his friend log into the system dozens of times during the past month, but had never surreptitiously accessed it.

  His scope was drifting over a U-shaped cluster of six-story dormitories when he noticed a curious movement in the background. “What’s our latest wind speed reading?”

  “Uh ... barely three miles per hour. Why?”

  “See that isolated stretch of overpass at one o’clock?” It was riddled with crashed vehicles, rusting and abandoned long before the earthquake collapsed the rest of the span; and in the middle, a brown motor home had flipped onto its side and poked through the cement guardrail.

  “What about it?” Gutierrez asked.

  “The RV just moved.”

  “You sure ... ? Infrared’s picking up nada. Probably just aftershocks from the quake.”

  “Then we would have felt the tremor.” Bradley pushed himself to a standing position and lifted his rifle. “I need to get a better look.”

  He descended three floors, set up a hide forty yards east of Gutierrez, and angled his scope toward the busted-out windshield of the motor home. Kitchen cabinet doors, swollen with humidity, hung open; their contents looted long ago. The television and microwave had been smashed; the refrigerator door, torn from its hinges.

  “Anybody home?” Gutierrez asked via tactical headset.

  “Negative.”

  Suddenly, all the cabinet doors fluttered as if displaced by a shock wave of moving air.

  But there was no muzzle flash, no visible shooter.

  How is that possible?

  Then the muffled crack of a suppressed rifle round instigated a flurry of screams below. Terrified prisoners ran away from a man with a bleeding chest wound while medics rushed against the tide, trying to get to the victim.

  “Webber, you get a bead on that?”

  “RV on the overpass. But I don’t have a shot.”

  63

  Edgar Air Force Base

  District Nine, California

  ABBY WEBBER UNLOCKED the door to her apartment and slammed it behind her, irritated and angry for reasons that she couldn’t fathom. The negative emotions seemed to descend on her as soon as she returned to base.

  It’s not the op, she decided. Today’s mission had unfolded according to plan—for once—and resulted in the capture of seven Chinese men who purported to be workers. The prisoners had surrendered peacefully, mouthing off about their rights, but they’d carried themselves with the unmistakable bearing of PLA soldiers.

  Central processing will have to sort that out, she thought.

  After locking the door, Abby climbed the flight of stairs and settled onto the living room couch to unlace her boots. Another blackbird was perched on the sill, and she felt her muscles tense. An irrational sense of outrage coursed through her veins. Emotionally, she felt like a car careening down a mountain road without brakes, on the verge of losing control.

  Why do those damn birds annoy me so much?

  She grabbed a small pillow from the couch and tossed it at the little voyeur.

  The bird stared at her, unblinking; then she heard a raspy voice whisper, “Die!”

  An icy tingle slithered along her spine.

  It was the same voice that had ordered Abby to cut herself.

  Enraged, she fired her helmet at the window. A loud crash echoed through the room, and a spidery web of cracks spread outward from the point of impact, now a jagged fist-sized hole.

  Still, the bird did not fly away.

  The raspy voice responded, “Rest in pieces.”

  Abby stomped toward the blackbird, fantasizing about turning it into a splatter of ground meat with a .308 caliber round; about stabbing it repeatedly with her tactical knife; about grabbing the animal by the neck and twisting its head off.

  As she closed within three feet, the bird must have sensed her hostility because the avian nuisance flapped its wings and flew off.

  Good riddance, she thought, watching it alight atop the electrical wires that crisscrossed the base. Then Abby spotted a puff of smoke that bloomed into a milky trail.

  Her feet were in motion even before her mind could formulate the thought.

  Rocket-propelled grenade!

  She bolted for the stairway and lunged headfirst as if diving into a pool. Time seemed to decelerate. Abby’s outstretched body was in free fall.

  It’s gonna hurt when I land, she thought, but not as much as shrapnel.

  She heard the window fracture.

  The grenade thumped against the living room wall.

  Then Abby’s hands slapped a wooden stair tread, sparing her face from impact, and the initial sting gave way to a fierce burning sensation. Knees bent, she hurled her legs forward, attempting to execute an ill-conceived front handspring. The heels of her boots caught the bottom step, and the balls of her feet continued to rotate, propelling her upper body forward.

  The grenade exploded with a roar so violent that the sound waves instantly induced nausea. Her joints felt like brittle glass, shattering under pressure, and Abby flung her arms forward. Open palms smashed against the door, a futile attempt at slowing her momentum. A split second later, her forehead struck with an ominous thunk, a brain-scrambling blow that left her disoriented.

  Dizziness enveloped her.

  A warm liquid was trickling into Abby’s eyes, and a loud painful hum was howling in her ears.

  Residual effects of the RPG? Or did the attack trip the base’s incoming mortar alarm?

  Disjointed thoughts tumbled through her mind; and with a numb, trembling hand, she reached for her tactical knife. The enemy had already demonstrated a knack for infiltrating the base; hell, they’d even gained access to her former apartment.

  She attempted to stand on wobbling legs, and a thick rim of darkness began encroaching on her field of vision, as if she were peering through the lens of an ever-shrinking scope.

  Wary of losing consciousness, she slumped down onto the steps. Abby wasn’t sure how long she’d lain there before a booming noise startled her. Someone was kicking her front door, trying to force their way inside.

  The assassin?

  She extended the knife, squinting at the dwindling image.

  The door gave way, and a blurry shadow burst into the stairwell.

  A hand seized her wrist, jerked it to the right, and plunged the blade into the drywall.

  The man was shouting at her with garbled, taunting words that ricocheted through her throbbing skull, but imparted no meaning.

  Die!

  Rest in pieces.

  The voice she’d imagined—how did it know what was about to happen?

  Or maybe she hadn’t imagined it at all.

  Abby’s vision dimmed to a narrow point, then she lost the battle for consciousness.

  64

  District Five, Illinois
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  ERICH FINSTER FIRED into the POW camp unabated. Frightened prisoners darted into the canvas dining tent, taking cover, unaware that cutting-edge technology allowed Erich to see through flimsy barriers.

  I’m the only one who is invisible, he thought, switching out his magazine.

  The National Guardsmen had no clue where the shots were coming from—and neither did the TEradS Snipers.

  Yesterday, a sniper detection system dependent on sonic booms had failed to locate Erich, and the Americans had reacted predictably—bringing in another, more powerful electronic system that was effective against subsonic bullets. They had no idea that one of Erich’s comrades had zapped the BOSS antisniper system with a high-energy radio frequency strong enough to cause a malfunction without entirely disabling the unit. The United States had lost military supremacy without even realizing it.

  He fired into the tent, claiming five more lives, and caused a panicked exodus. Prisoners began scaling the fences, and he looked on, knowing the National Guardsmen had few options. Tear gas and directed-energy weapons were ideal for crowd dispersal—not the objective here.

  Will they open fire and be deemed racist killers? Erich wondered. Or stand by as cowards while a ruthless horde of enemy soldiers escapes?

  He took aim at the men who had managed to traverse the fence. As his finger slowly retracted on the trigger, a flurry of supersonic rounds jetted through the motor home. One sailed harmlessly out the missing rear window; a second whizzed past his left ear; and a third burrowed into his right shoulder.

  A current of pain zipped down his arm and blitzed his fingertips, making them feel as if they’d exploded.

  Stunned, he gaped at the bleeding hole for several seconds before leaping into action. Gripping his rifle with his left hand, he wriggled out of his makeshift tent and exited through the rear of the RV, intending to use the vehicle for cover.

  Two additional three-round bursts pummeled the motor home.

  Suppressing fire, Erich thought. I need to get off this overpass before they surround me.

  He tried to clench his right fist. His fingers moved clumsily, and he had no strength in his arm.

  The climb down is going to be arduous.

  Hearing a whooshing sound, he glanced west, shielding his eyes from the sun; and by the time he understood what was happening, it was too late. A Hellfire missile slammed into the motor home and erupted into a ball of fire and airborne metal.

  65

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  A TWISTED SMILE CURLED Franny Andrews’ lips, watching the drone-launched missile level the pink house and pulverize her captors. A convulsing cloud of smoke materialized, spitting chunks of wood and shingles in every direction, and the powerful explosion blew out windows in surrounding houses.

  Kyle had verified that the adjacent properties were uninhabited, which was why Alex Ivans and his cronies had set up camp there—to conduct their activities beyond the prying eyes of American patriots. The governor had yet to identify the teenaged girl who had lured Franny into the trap. Long dark hair, average height, with a pretty face described most of the female teens in the district.

  Did the girl know she was setting me up? Franny wondered. Or was she a good Samaritan, duped into believing that Alex was having a heart attack?

  Ryan clasped onto her elbow and gently guided her toward a pair of Military Policemen entering the ops center. “Gentlemen, please see that my wife gets home safely.” Then he pulled her into an embrace, kissed her cheek, and whispered, “I love you. And there’s a surprise under the dresser.”

  Responding with a seductive smile and a salacious wink, she silently mouthed, “I’ve got a surprise for you too.”

  Ryan’s eyes widened. His mouth twitched, battling a grin. “I promise, I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  Franny left the TEradS ops center sandwiched between the MPs, and a surge of worry dampened her mood. The image of that bombed-out house in a middle-class neighborhood would be fodder for WLIB’s successor—GNN, the Global News Network.

  At least this time, Ryan will be taking heat for something that the TEradS actually did, Franny thought. Instead of defending against bogus accusations.

  She knew the people of District Six weren’t going to complain. They understood that Alex Ivans and his cohorts were pernicious vermin.

  Did the drone strike eliminate all the rats? Or did some survive to continue their mission, infesting the community with lies, hatred, and discontent?

  Franny thanked the MPs for clearing the apartment then locked the door behind them. She trudged through the hallway, into the bedroom, and reached beneath the skirting on the wooden dresser, right hand groping for the surprise hidden beneath it. Her fingers closed around the cold barrel of a long gun. Sliding the lever-action .22 caliber rifle across the carpet, tears welled and spilled over her lashes. Her fingertips traced the carved lettering in the butt stock, and a choked sob escaped.

  Izzy’s rifle, she thought. Her shoulders heaved, and she breathed in hiccupping pants, an emotional nose dive that she couldn’t pull out of. Franny had always been able to override her feelings with logic, a trait that enabled her to work with explosives and react under fire.

  When did I lose control?

  Sniffling, she carted the rifle into the bathroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower. The tepid water beating against her skin provoked a drastic mood swing from sorrowful to amorous. This was where the passion between her and Ryan had ignited into a steamy encounter, one that changed her life forever. She wanted to relive that union, to recapture that impetuous, intoxicating sense of exhilaration.

  I hope he won’t be too tired when he gets home.

  After brushing her teeth and donning a T-shirt, Franny crawled into bed, the rifle right beside her. She had every intention of waiting up for her husband, but exhaustion settled over her like a weighty blanket. Her heavy eyelids drooped, and she couldn’t stop yawning.

  I feel like someone flipped a switch and cut off my energy, she thought.

  Hours later, she awakened with a start when the front door clacked shut. She sprung upright, clutching Izzy’s rifle, straining to hear above the clamor of her heartbeat.

  “Franny, it’s me.” Smirking, Ryan pitched his tie onto the dresser. “You can lower that ... Or have I pissed you off that much?”

  Franny propped the weapon against the nightstand. “How did you get Izzy’s rifle out of the armory?”

  His gaze dropped to his shoes as he wiggled his feet free. “I told them that he was going to be buried with it.” Ryan unbuttoned his charcoal-gray shirt then unfastened his belt, a shadow of grief invading his expression. “Someday, we’ll pass it along to Sybil. I think Izzy would want her to have it.”

  Franny’s eyes were welling again, touched by his thoughtfulness, awed by his ballsy disregard for rules. “That will mean a lot to her,” she said, voice breaking.

  Ryan’s head bobbed up. His eyes scanned like an X-ray, probing her thoughts and analyzing her emotions; then he strode forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Sybil is safe ... And so are you.”

  “Was Ivans inside the house when the missile hit?”

  Stroking her hair, Ryan said, “Negative. But I will get him.” His honey-brown eyes met hers, and Franny could see past the façade of confidence to the angst beneath.

  “I know you can’t go into specifics, but can you give me some idea what we’re up against?”

  He let out a long sigh, the creases around his eyes deepening. “Vladislav Volkov is a Russian general, a crazy bastard known for vendettas. During the black op, Bradley ran into some ... complications that resulted in an unexpected asset acquisition and the death of Volkov’s only son.”

  “And you happen to be in possession of said asset?” she asked, a rogue fear rising as her volatile emotions veered off again.

  “Volkov’s men ransacked my office. And when that failed, they kidnapped you for leverage ... Franny, I expected Volkov to come after
me.” He hesitated, eyebrows drawing tight. “I sent you to District Six to protect you. I didn’t want you to be the one to find me with my throat slit.”

  “Then you’re still in danger?”

  “I figure Volkov won’t kill me until he retrieves the asset.” Ryan leaned closer, his nose grazing hers. “I’ve missed you so much.” His hand edged tenderly along her bare thigh and slid beneath the T-shirt, caressing and commanding, leaving behind an arousing trail that made her skin tingle. His mouth closed over hers in an urgent kiss, and Franny lunged backward, dragging him down on top of her.

  Tonight is going to be another VERY GOOD NIGHT.

  Chapter 12

  ><>< DAY 468 ><><

  Saturday, May 28th

  66

  Scoville Air Force Base

  District Five, Illinois

  WHEN BRADLEY WEBBER finally fell asleep, he drifted into a familiar dream. He was back inside Forest Glen Metro Station, 196 feet below the streets of Washington, D.C.

  A muzzle flash winked from the southern end of the tunnel, and a roar engulfed the station.

  Ben Arnold, the director of Homeland Security, drew a hand to his bleeding chest then wilted.

  “Dmitry!” Aldrich Ames shouted. “I wasn’t done with him!”

  Bradley squeezed the trigger.

  Another boom peaked and faded.

  “Mikhail! Why did you shoot Dmi—”

  A rifle round drilled through Ames’ seditious heart, killing him instantly.

  Bradley waited until the residual echoes of the gunshots dissipated, then he plodded cautiously through the odor of cordite toward the southern end of the tunnel. Striding closer, the crumpled body looked much smaller than expected. He knelt down to search for identification, only then noticing the braided blonde hair.