Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

Between the fourth and sixth floors, the enemy halted for what felt like an eternity, most likely to assess the fate of their comrades. When their journey recommenced, they were moving decidedly slower in search of trip wires that did not exist.

  Abby gently untied the forty-foot length of rope. When beams of light began bobbing across the landing four stories below, she ducked behind a girder to avoid being spotted. She counted off thirty seconds, a scientific wild-ass guess, then jerked the rope upward and maneuvered herself face-first into the corner.

  The explosion was much louder this time, due to its proximity.

  The sound waves rattled through Abby and she slumped down onto the floor.

  Her head was aching, and for a moment, she feared the meatloaf from that MRE would be making an encore appearance.

  Did the grenade kill all the peacekeepers? she wondered.

  Abby strained to listen above the residual whum-whum-whumming sound that was echoing in her ears, then she scooted over to the wire-mesh fence. All the lights had been extinguished.

  Damaged by the shock wave? Or did the enemy wise up and turn them off? Are some of them still advancing on me?

  Motivated by that dire prospect, she grabbed onto the railing, pulled herself upright, and began climbing as quickly as her ankle would allow.

  By the time she reached the fortieth floor, an acrid odor was wafting from below.

  Shit!

  It was the unmistakable smell of burning rubber.

  They harvested tires from Sun’s truck and set them ablaze to smoke me out.

  Does that mean no one else is pursuing me?

  Defying the piercing pain in her ankle, Abby quickened her stride.

  As she crested the forty-fifth floor, the smoke was stinging her eyes. Its bitter stench was dense enough to taste, and she yanked the collar of her damp T-shirt up over her nose.

  At the forty-eighth floor she began to cough uncontrollably, overcome by exertion and the noxious fumes. Tears spilled over her cheeks, and when she finally made it to the pyramidion, she could see the black particles swirling like an evil entity. Abby fired three rounds into a north-facing window then hammered at the stubborn Plexiglas with the butt stock of her rifle, making a hole the size of a bowling ball. She repeated the process on the opposite side to create a cross breeze. Clean air flowed in, driving out the smoke, and she gulped in deep breaths, gagging and gasping.

  The storm had moved off, leaving behind overcast skies and a faint drizzle.

  Abby rummaged through her backpack for her satellite phone.

  Damn it!

  The eighteen-inch-thick marble walls were retarding the signal.

  She unleashed her frustration on the north window, enlarging the hole.

  Abby gripped the satellite phone and dialed TEradS Headquarters. Cautioning herself not to look down, she poked her head through the opening, and a multitude of bullets plinked against the marble, halfway up the monument. Her gaze drifted along Constitution Avenue to the fresh crop of peacekeepers charging toward her position, and she whispered, “Answer the damn phone ...”

  131

  North of Scoville Air Force Base

  District Five, Illinois

  CAPTAIN CJ LOVE scowled at the blackbird circling Volkov’s invisible lair.

  A stepped-up security procedure because of the false alarm? he wondered. Or an indication that Bradley’s attempting to exfiltrate?

  Dread tingled through CJ’s nervous system.

  If the Russians detect my heat signature ... Or the engine block of the Humvee ...

  Jostling the joystick, CJ roused the drone Grace had reprogrammed and sent it into a steep climb. Within seconds, he successfully locked onto his target’s electromagnetic signature.

  Without weapons, there’s only one way.

  CJ pushed the blackbird to an altitude of one thousand feet then steered it into a nosedive. G-forces battered the lightweight craft, and its mechanical wings flapped furiously to maintain its trajectory.

  Over his tactical headset, TEradS command responded to the kamikaze video stream. “Did the enemy reestablish control over the stolen drone?”

  He ignored the transmission. It was too late to pull the bird out of the dive anyway.

  He watched the drone slam into its target.

  Both birds ricocheted like billiard balls, tumbling downward, then crashed onto the asphalt parking lot, spewing a fountain of circuitry and feathers.

  Mission accomplished.

  Slowly, he picked his way back to the fire road, and just as he reached the camouflaged Humvee, a sequence of explosions reverberated through the woods. Smoke billowed above the treetops, blotting out the afternoon sunlight.

  Bradley was supposed to confirm the absence of civilian hostages before the A-10 delivered its smorgasbord of misery.

  How could I have missed his transmission?

  Gazing skyward at the flames and smoke, CJ thought, What’s the destruction du jour? LAU rockets? Maverick missiles? Incendiary bombs?

  His heart slammed to a stop.

  The aircraft that had just pulverized the base wasn’t an A-10.

  Then Captain Fitzgerald gave voice to the words screaming through CJ’s head. “Where the fuck did that Predator drone come from?”

  132

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  “WHERE THE HELL IS THAT Black Hawk?” Abby muttered, firing on a cluster of peacekeepers. She’d managed to kill five and drive the remainder into The Ellipse, an expanse of green once home to the Washington Senators baseball team.

  Twenty minutes had slipped away since Captain Fitzgerald arranged for her rescue.

  Ansley Air Force Base is ten miles from here, she thought. What’s taking so long?

  The steady cadence of bullets thonking against the marble obelisk abruptly ceased when a dark splotch appeared on the horizon. The intimidating thump of helicopter rotors was enough to disperse the PLA soldiers, and Abby fired several bursts into the panicked herd. As she switched out her magazine, the Black Hawk unleashed its minigun, a six-barrel machine gun capable of delivering six thousand rounds per minute.

  Surviving peacekeepers scurried like vermin, taking cover inside a red-roofed building that stretched for a city block. Three Hellfire missiles turned the southern end of the structure into a cloud of stone particles.

  Seemingly satisfied that the enemy had been cowed, the Black Hawk Pilot circled the Washington Monument twice and gained altitude, hovering beyond her sight.

  Where the hell’s he going? Abby thought.

  Then she cringed.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  She jabbed her rifle through the broken window, used the bipod legs to corral the dangling SPIE rope, and pulled the harness inside. She had trained with the Special Personnel Insertion/Extraction system, specifically designed for situations when helicopters could not land, but none of those drills had been conducted from an elevation five hundred feet above the ground.

  Ah, what the hell … Falling five hundred feet will be less painful than being captured and tortured.

  Abby crammed herself into the harness, tightening it and triple-checking each connection before attaching the carabiner to a D-ring inserted into the SPIE rope. She engaged the safety on her sniper rifle, clipped it to a single-point bungee sling, and maneuvered it behind her.

  Each of the monument’s eight windows was situated within an alcove wrapped in Plexiglas to deter vandalism. A two-step riser made it easy to shove her head through the opening, and the eighteen-inch sill was wide enough for her to lie prone.

  Then she made the mistake of looking straight down. Suddenly, she was gasping in dizzying drafts of air. Her lungs felt overinflated; her heart was a jackhammer battering her from the inside out; and every cell in her body was shrieking for her to backtrack.

  Despite knowing that the rigging was capable of supporting twelve fully equipped soldiers, visions of a hundred-mile-per-hour collision with the concrete flashed through her mind, p
aralyzing her with fear … until she thought of Bradley.

  If I want to see him again, I need to move forward.

  Abby gripped the rope with both hands.

  Her boots clamped around the lower portion using a foot-locking technique—an unnecessary insurance policy that gave her something to focus on.

  Then she closed her eyes and thrust herself out the window.

  TIDBIT # 2

  During the War of 1812, a twenty-six-hour occupation of Washington culminated with the British setting the White House ablaze, a spiteful deed thwarted by an act of God—an unexpected hurricane. Its heavy rains doused the flames sparing the American icon, and its raging winds spawned a tornado in the center of the city, which savaged the British troops on Capitol Hill.

  TIDBIT # 3

  While writing Powerless: America Unplugged in 2013, we wanted to put a real face to Bradley Webber’s character so we Googled “handsome Marine” and selected an anonymous photograph. That picture hung on our office wall for nearly a year before we learned that it was Clay Hunt, a Sniper who took his own life in 2011. In 2015, the Clay Hunt Suicide Prevention for American Veterans Act became law. The U.S.S. Clay Hunt in this novel is intended to honor his life, his service, and his lifesaving legacy.

  TIDBIT # 4

  John Anthony Walker was a U.S. Navy Communications Officer who sold secrets to the Soviets: the settings for the KL-47 cipher machine; the locations of ALL American nuclear submarines as well as their launch procedures; the positions of underwater submarine tracking microphones; ALL American troop movements to Vietnam from 1971 to 1973; and the times and targets for airstrikes against North Vietnam.

  Source: Listverse, Xilebat, July 4, 2010. Top 10 Traitors in US History.

  Epilogue

  DAY 471

  Tuesday, May 31st

  133

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS’ bloodshot eyes jockeyed between incoming video feeds on the ops center monitors. A drone strike had set the industrial complex in District Five ablaze; and twenty-four hours later, dense, ghostly smoke continued to billow upward, an indication that fires were still smoldering below.

  Teams had been standing by all night, unable to implement search and rescue procedures due to intense heat. Would they recover the body of the infamous Vladislav Volkov? Would they find Bradley?

  Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose to hold back a glut of emotion.

  Guilt and grief.

  Anger and anguish.

  I won’t give up on Bradley, he thought. He’s not dead until we find his body.

  Logic whispered gentle objections.

  No one could’ve survived the ferocity of that fire.

  You won’t find his body because it was cremated.

  Bradley could’ve escaped prior to the missile strike.

  “Major Andrews ...”

  It was his clerk, peeking in the ops center doorway.

  “... Governor Murphy is here to see you, sir.”

  Kyle ...? What’s he doing here?

  Ryan plodded toward the door and cast a fleeting glance at the monitors.

  There’s no upside to disclosing Bradley’s MIA status. If we find him alive, the news will upset the family needlessly. And if he was killed, it’ll only elongate their mourning.

  “Hey, Governor, what brings you to Langden?” he asked, extending his hand.

  Kyle obliged the gesture, an eyebrow rising in confusion. “Uh, you e-mailed me yesterday, asking me to be here at eleven o’clock.”

  “No I didn’t.” Between Grace Murray’s abduction, the East Coast evacuation, Sybil’s injury, and the Webbers’ clandestine operations, he’d been too busy to take a piss yesterday.

  “I’ve got it right here,” Kyle said, extracting a cellphone from his pocket.

  “You’re using a Chi-phone? Seriously?”

  “The tech brain trust got together and created an app to disable the malware. Linkbook, Chatter, Instapix, ReedIt—they’re all back online. Gaggle search engine is back too. It’s amazing; Chi-phones deemed worthless a week ago have become the new status symbol.” Kyle paused while his thumb skimmed the glass screen.

  He looks older, Ryan thought, noting the gray hair encroaching at his temples. Deep furrows fanned out from his green eyes, padding his forty-nine years of age, and his athletic build was fading into middle age.

  “Here it is,” Kyle said.

  Can you be at Langden tomorrow at 1100 hours? I need your help.

  The e-mail had originated from Ryan’s TEradS account and even featured his digital signature.

  Is this a setup? A prelude to assassination? Like the ploy we wielded against Aldrich Ames?

  “Kyle, I didn’t send that e-mail.”

  An authoritative voice bellowed, “I did.”

  Ryan’s eyes darted toward a stocky man striding into the reception area. Air Force fatigues identified him as Airman First Class Woods, a rank belied by his fiftyish appearance, and Ryan scanned his midsection for a suicide belt.

  “I’ll explain inside your office. Governor Murphy, please leave your Chi-phone with the clerk.” Woods ambled toward the door, fiddled with the combination lock, and gained entry.

  How the hell does this guy have my combination?

  Memories of Rodriguez’s murder resurged. Just a few weeks earlier, a rogue CIA agent, posing as a Military Policeman, had shot Ryan’s predecessor inside this very office.

  Oblivious of the danger, Kyle ditched his phone, followed Woods inside, and sank onto a chair. Ryan lingered beside the door, positioning himself for a quick exit.

  “I’m Admiral Rone, director of the NSA. I apologize for the charade, but the secrecy of this meeting is vital to national security.”

  Rone produced his photo ID. The former Navy SEAL was distinguished-looking in his dress uniform, silver-haired with dark eyebrows. He had a square jaw that was softening with age and brown eyes that burned with intelligence and purpose.

  Ryan returned the documents and snapped to attention.

  “As you were, Major.” Rone propped his backside against the desk, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded across his chest. “President Quenten has been battered in the press over a wide range of issues. The EMP, the Chinese invasion, the vaccines—this laundry list of calamities has alienated the President’s supporters. Therefore, he will be withdrawing from this year’s election, leaving American voters with little choice. Vice President Carter Sidney and her uranium scandal? Or Senator Conn and his unseemly ties to The Consortium?”

  Prior to the pulse, The Consortium was a global cabal of drug cartels, billionaire bankers, and organized crime syndicates—the most powerful and vicious mafia in U.S. history.

  Ryan mumbled, “That’s like choosing between a .223 round to the eye and a .308 to the ear.”

  “Exactly!” Rone’s hands swung upward with a ta-da fanfare. “That’s why we need Governor Murphy to run.”

  Kyle’s green eyes widened, abject horror swept over his features, and his gaping mouth twitched as if trying to speak. “M-m-me?” he finally managed. “Run for President? That’s crazy!”

  “As a former All-Star shortstop, you have national name recognition. And your reputation as governor of District Six has been trending since social media came back online. The entire country is hearing testimonies regarding your leadership: defied gun confiscation, ditched the United World electronic currency, fostered independent food production, and thwarted the Alameda fever vaccines. Do you realize that your district is the only one not infected with smallpox capsules?”

  Enjoying Kyle’s dazed disbelief, Ryan said, “Oooh! I can upload a video about how you saved my life at Lake Halona. Wait until the country hears how you rescued an Army Ranger from the enemy!”

  “I DON’T WANT to be President.”

  Kyle glared at Ryan, issuing a nonverbal cease and desist, a warning he brazenly ignored. “George Washington didn’t want to be President either, and that’s exactly wh
y I’ll be voting for you.”

  “This is insane,” Kyle griped. “I have no military experience. No knowledge of foreign policy. I’m not qualified.”

  “You have the most important qualifications,” Rone argued. “You’re a patriot who believes in the Constitution and you’re not corrupt. And you’ll have plenty of advisers to help with policy issues.”

  “Admiral, I’m flattered, really,” Kyle said, the slight shake of his head foreshadowing the remainder of his sentence. “But I’m not up for this—”

  “The hell you aren’t,” Ryan blurted. “Damn it, Murphy, your country needs you! Do it for Abby and Nikki and Billy! And every other child in America!”

  Admiral Rone pushed against the desk, returning himself to a standing position. “Kyle, please suspend judgment until you have all the facts. General Quenten will arrive at Langden this afternoon. We’re prepared to conduct a classified briefing regarding the state of our nation. Once you understand what’s really happening, neither you nor your running mate will be able to walk away and allow the country to burn.”

  “Running mate,” Kyle repeated. “Who’s that?”

  Rone’s head cocked to the side, and a mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “We’ll discuss that during the briefing.”

  134

  District Five, Illinois

  MASTER SERGEANT Bradley Webber pried open his heavy eyelids.

  Gramps ...? Abby?

  Slowly, he realized that this wasn’t Sugar Lake and that the reunion had merely been a dream.

  Directly overhead, the grid of a suspended ceiling drooped. Its cross-T beams were jutting at odd angles; its acoustic tiles were gone; both displaced by the New Madrid earthquake.