EMPowered- America Re-Energized

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Maybe it’s overexertion, Sybil thought. Maybe she’s dehydrated or didn’t eat enough.

  Stoicism and sorrow vacillated in Izzy’s expression as if caught somewhere between childhood and manhood. Sybil could see it in his eyes. The same devastating thought had occurred to him: Alameda fever.

  16

  District Six, Texas

  KYLE HAD BEEN ANTICIPATING the call from Major Carlos Rodriguez, commander of the TEradS and liaison between the military and district-level civilian leadership.

  After an exchange of customary greetings, Rodriguez said, “I’m hearing rumors that you’re illegally holding a Chinese national.”

  Kyle shut the door to his office, located on the second floor above the sheriff’s station, and tightened his grip on the military-issued phone. “Did your source inform you that the suspect was caught sabotaging AF-2?”

  Rodriguez prefaced his response with an audible huff, venting empathy and regret. “Regardless, under the Chong Sheng Plan you can’t hold him, Kyle.”

  “Since he was not in uniform and not carrying any identification, he can’t be exempt under Chong Sheng. He’s an enemy combatant. And he will stand trial under Texas law.”

  “And when the Chinese balk?” Rodriguez asked.

  “Unlikely, given the awkward questions it would raise,” Kyle told him. “They can explain why a Chinese peacekeeper—dressed in civilian clothing—attempted to sabotage a U.S. munitions plant. Or they can let him rot in jail as a North Korean terrorist. Which option do you think they’ll choose?”

  Rodriguez remained silent for a beat then said, “I’ll relay it up the chain, and see if that shit floats. And by the way, congratulations, Governor. I hear nobody bothered to run against you. I knew you were the guy.”

  Thirteen months ago, Major Rodriguez had appointed Kyle as conservator, and the people of District Six had affirmed that choice, electing him to a two-year governorship.

  “Thanks, Carlos, I appreciate your confidence, but I’d appreciate news about my daughter even more.”

  “Abby is deploying to TEradS Team 8A in Colorado.”

  Kyle had been hoping for Team 6A or 6B, based at Langden Air Force Base, here in Texas. Even though he had only seen Abby once during her six-week TEradS Course, he liked knowing she was close by.

  “She’s all done training,” Kyle said, pride and dread battling in his voice. Underage draftees were not eligible for combat duty without parental consent.

  Why did I let her talk me into signing that release?

  “So now is the time to start worrying?”

  “If she wasn’t up to it, I wouldn’t have recruited her into the TEradS,” Rodriguez told him.

  As they traded good-byes, Kyle strolled toward the window, drawn by a burgeoning chorus of voices. Peering down, he saw dozens of civilians blockading the building’s main entrance, denying access to an armed peacekeeper, most likely sent to rescue the saboteur from the sheriff’s custody.

  A verbal melee broke out, and eight additional UW troops rushed to the scene.

  A teenaged boy hurled a rock.

  It slammed into a blue helmet, knocking the peacekeeper to the ground, and the agitated soldier drew his sidearm.

  Kyle gasped in a breath of utter astonishment as the man leveled the weapon at the child.

  A gunshot thwacked.

  The boy collapsed, and a stunned, deathly silence descended, each side pausing to process the gravity of the incident.

  Then the volley of bullets began.

  17

  District Eight, Colorado

  SENSING THAT SOMEONE was watching her, Gwen Ling looked up from her computer. Across the nurses’ station, Colonel Wu beckoned her with a two-finger wave. He had a strong, square jaw, commanding dark eyes, and a receding hairline reminiscent of Chairman Mao; and Gwen felt drawn to the power and confidence he exuded.

  “Can I help you, Colonel?” she asked with a demure smile.

  He replied in Mandarin, saying, “I have frequently admired your pleasant temperament and competence.”

  She thanked him in kind, enjoying the subtlety of Chinese flirting, a mere whisper compared to pushy, loudmouthed American men.

  “And I greatly admire your humanitarian efforts.”

  “My inquiries revealed that you have refrained from dating Western men since your emigration.”

  Gwen nodded rigidly, understanding that in many parts of China, women who dated Western men were branded whores and became pariahs within their communities.

  “I was repulsed by American college culture,” she told him. “It was nonstop binge drinking, illicit drug use, and sexual promiscuity. Therefore, I socialized exclusively within the Asian community.” Gwen chose to omit the one exception, her freshman roommate and good friend, Franny Marion.

  “You will join me for dinner?” Wu asked.

  “It would be an honor,” Gwen told him, noting the wary glances of co-workers, uneasy with them conversing in Mandarin.

  “When your work is through, join me in the Brighton Wing,” he told her, referring to the older section of the hospital, annexed to serve as UW Headquarters. Wu hesitated as if deep in thought then added, “We have the destiny to meet across seven thousand miles.”

  Debating whether the line was romantic or trite, Gwen watched him retreat through the corridor, his stride fluid and purposeful.

  The double doors to the Brighton Wing hurtled open like a rabid mouth, growling, thundering, unleashing a violent blast of dusty air replete with twisted metal and hunks of cement.

  Gwen dove behind a Formica-topped counter.

  The entire building trembled.

  Lights flickered, but remained functional.

  The public address system blared above the moans and screams. “A terrorist bomb has exploded at UW Headquarters. Prepare for large numbers of casualties.”

  Gwen raced into the corridor, a catalog of potential injuries spilling through her mind—penetration and blunt trauma, fractures and amputations, and the most insidious of wounds, concussions and lung injuries that might remain asymptomatic for hours.

  Colonel Wu was lying on his back, coughing.

  “You are going to be fine,” she told him in Mandarin.

  Tilting his head, he gazed up at her, confusion and shock evident on his dust-coated face. Then the colonel began muttering the same phrase incessantly.

  “Curse the Terror Fox!”

  18

  District Ten, Idaho

  SYBIL STAYED WITH Mrs. Bissel, dabbing her forehead with a wet cloth until she fell asleep, then she went outside to check on Izzy. Fifteen feet above the ground, inside his platform tree house, she could hear him softly sobbing.

  “Izzy? Are you all right?”

  Sniffles and hiccupping breaths mingled with the swish of air ruffling the tree, a dual-trunk evergreen laden with pine cones and red tree squirrels. Sybil climbed the lopsided ladder of sap-soaked boards, squeezed through the square opening, and pulled herself onto the platform. “What are you doing?”

  “Hunting squirrels.”

  “You know they’re a protected species.”

  “Don’t really give a damn.”

  Sybil watched him load sixteen tiny brass bullets into the feed tube of a lever-action rifle. Smudges dulled his freckles where his dirty hands had smeared away tears.

  “Is that gun really yours?” she asked, trying to cheer him up.

  “It belonged to my dad when he was a kid,” he told her, a proud lilt returning to his voice. “He gave it to me last year. Made his guys hike ten extra miles so that he could give it to me for my birthday.”

  A stab of fear cut through her. “I thought your dad was stationed in Colorado.”

  “That was before they transferred him to Barclay. He used to be at Mountain Crest, here in Idaho.”

  Sybil exhaled with relief, only then realizing she had been holding her breath.

  “Why?” Izzy asked. “You look like you saw a ghost or something.”


  “No, I ... It’s just that—” She forced herself to speak the words. “I think a TEradS helicopter got shot down last night.”

  “That explosion?”

  “Yeah, and that’s not even the worst part—”

  Sybil halted, her attention sidetracked by two white pickup trucks rolling toward Izzy’s house. “It’s the peacekeepers. Come on. We have to tell your mom.”

  She started down the ladder. “And leave your rifle here. Don’t give them an excuse to shoot you.”

  They darted in the back door and through the kitchen.

  Blue-helmeted soldiers were pouring through the foyer, weapons drawn, spreading out like a noxious stain.

  One of the peacekeepers shattered the glass door of the gun cabinet and began removing long guns and ammunition.

  “You can’t just barge into my house and steal stuff!” Izzy shouted. “Those belong to my dad. Put ‘em back!”

  “Human rights vio-ration.” The peacekeeper paused, struggling with the translation. “Unsupervise minor ... house with firearm.”

  “We’re not unsupervised,” Sybil argued. “Mrs. Bissel is ... Oh no!”

  Two soldiers had wrenched her from her sickbed, their gruff hands dragging her by the armpits.

  “Why are you taking her?” Sybil winced at the shrillness in her own voice, the timbre of panic.

  Izzy scampered ahead of them and slammed the front door, courageously barricading it with his seventy-pound body.

  A peacekeeper tossed him aside like a throw pillow. “Quarantine. Protect pub-ric.”

  Sybil could feel the velvet glove of safety slowly suffocating her. The front door creaked open, a craggy, mournful sound, and the peacekeepers transported Mrs. Bissel to a pickup truck, allowing her knees to scrape along the gravel driveway.

  Sybil turned back toward Izzy.

  He was gone.

  As she dashed through the kitchen, Izzy made a running leap onto the tree-house ladder.

  Oh no! He’s going for his rifle.

  “Izzy, don’t!” she screamed, sprinting toward the massive pine tree. “They’ll kill you! They’ll kill us both!”

  Then a terrifying question stopped Sybil in her tracks.

  How did the peacekeepers know Mrs. Bissel was sick?

  Tidbit # 1: Sybil Ludington & Israel Bissel

  Like Paul Revere, sixteen-year-old Sybil Ludington rode her horse—Star—more than forty miles in a six-hour time period, rousing the minutemen as the “redcoats” advanced on Danbury, Connecticut.

  Israel Bissel was a twenty-five-year-old mail carrier who rode four hundred miles over the course of five days to warn local militias that the British were marching on Lexington and Concord.

  Source: That’s Not In My American History Book by Thomas Ayres.

  Sybil and Izzy’s quest to “spread the word” is intended to mimic those heroic rides and acknowledge their unsung contributions to our freedom. All other sentiments expressed and actions taken by these characters are purely fictional.

  Chapter 3

  —— DAY 443 ——

  Tuesday, May 3rd

  19

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  BRADLEY WEBBER AND Team 10B landed at Langden Air Force Base at 0700 hours. Since then, he had been sequestered inside a small room adjacent to the TEradS Operations Center, reading Master Sergeant Hutchinson’s after action review. Sleep deprivation and disappointment over the missed reunion with Abby made concentration difficult. He was rereading the same sentence for the third time when the door jutted open.

  “Bradley, welcome back.” Private Mia Candelori sashayed into the room. Clerk to Captain Andrews, she projected the confidence and sex appeal of a model. She had sensuous lips, compelling greenish-brown eyes able to seduce with a glance, and sexy feminine curves. She was every man’s dream. And Bradley’s nightmare.

  Mia circled the desk and hugged him, deliberately thrusting her breasts into his face.

  “Don’t!” Bradley nudged her shoulders backward to increase the distance between them. “For the hundredth time—I’m married!”

  “So what?” Mia leaned against the desk, posed like a swimsuit model atop a Ferrari. “It’s not like Abby’s been faithful to you.”

  The barb registered, but Bradley refused to acknowledge it. Mia was a manipulative liar who didn’t know the meaning of the word faithful.

  “You do realize,” she said with a cloying sweetness, “that throughout TEradS training, Abby never mentioned she was married? Never wore her wedding ring?”

  The words stung. He had proposed to Abby and given her his sole memento of his mother, deceased now for ten years, a simple gold wedding band spray-painted black to negate its reflectivity.

  “And two days ago—”

  “Mia ... ! There are a thousand guys on this base who would love your company. Go find one.”

  “I don’t want them. I want you—”

  “And I want you to leave. In fact, consider that an order, Private.”

  20

  District Eight, Colorado

  FOR ABBY WEBBER, yesterday’s leave had been a cruel and unusual punishment, nine hours with nothing to do but think, hours that had been earmarked for Bradley. Memories cycled through her mind, an endless loop of loving snapshots, each now framed by gnawing doubts.

  Banishing Bradley from her mind was impossible. Every time someone addressed her as Webber, menacing emotions surged to the forefront. One minute, she was leaning forward, convinced the feelings between them were real and would triumph over time and distance. The next minute, she would fall back, concluding their “marriage” was just a silly whim, motivated by fear. Swells of emotion swept through her, peaks of animosity directed at Bradley, troughs of frustration with herself for doubting him. Forward, backward, up, down—a mental motion sickness was making her physically queasy.

  Focusing on the TEradS had proven equally perilous.

  If Villano and Zielinski honestly expected me to cave, why did they ask for the countersign? Did they want me court-martialed? Facing the death penalty? Or are they just idiots who didn’t bother to contemplate the consequences?

  At 1400 hours, Captain Andrews had recalled her to his office, asking if the effectiveness of Team 8A had been compromised; and prominently placed on his desk, sat Abby’s ceramic knife. Although he had never acknowledged it, his message was clear: Be careful. Villano and Zielinski gave you up.

  That disturbing realization had persisted throughout the flight to Colorado and made last night’s mission briefing painfully awkward. According to intelligence provided by UW peacekeepers, their target was a cell comprised of four or five especially competent and elusive terrorists. Sniper attacks had evolved into sophisticated bombings. The first destroyed Moffat Tunnel, a crucial supply route; the second, UW Headquarters. Captain Andrews had warned that the level of stealth, precision, and destruction could be indicative of U.S. military training—a band of highly skilled traitors led by a ruthless man, dubbed the Terror Fox.

  And now, an hour before daybreak, that mission was finally underway. Abby was peering through night-vision goggles, lying prone at the crest of a wooded hill. An obsolete horse farm sprawled below her, a geometric maze of dilapidated fencing that corralled waist-high weeds, a timeworn house, and two stables with rusty metal roofs. A U-shaped lane of gravel looped around her position and led to the house, which was so isolated that Abby wondered why the UW had vetoed a drone strike.

  At 0600 hours mountain time, Master Sergeant Bissel set the operation into motion. Team 8A cleared both stables within minutes and advanced on the house. Villano and Zielinski moved into position, on either side of the rear door. Bissel and Hopkins stood ready to breach the front.

  Abby continued to scrutinize the perimeter, prepared to neutralize threats and provide suppressive fire. Six hundred yards west, on a steep rocky slope, Abby glimpsed two ghostly green shapes. They drifted for a fraction of a second then d
isappeared, one after the other, winking into the darkness. Was it an anomaly? A couple of deer? Or was her imagination in overdrive after staring at the same scenery for hours?

  Taking no chances, Abby reported it to her team leader. The hiss of static was her only reply. She tried again, but couldn’t raise Bissel.

  I’m on the high ground, she thought, barely four hundred yards away. What the hell could be interfering with the signal?

  A pair of flash bangs rent the stillness, and all four of her teammates swooped into the building.

  Behind her, she heard a vehicle crunching along the gravel driveway. A pickup truck doused its headlights and rolled to a stop. The letters UW were emblazoned on its door.

  We hike in for miles to maintain operational security and those morons drive up to the gate, she thought, attention reverting to the house.

  The team had been inside for ten seconds with no shots fired. Did the terrorists surrender? Or escape prior to—

  A flash saturated Abby’s night-vision goggles, temporarily blinding her, but she could hear the enormous explosion, could feel the rush of air and the ground quaking beneath her.

  Ambush!

  The word thrashed through her mind.

  Then bullets began swarming around her, whizzing like flies. They thudded into trees, pinged off rocks, and Abby scrambled beyond the crest for cover. Assuming the UW troops had mistaken her for the enemy, she snatched her infrared beacon—a blinking signal visible only to those with night vision—and tossed it above her head to identify herself as a U.S. Soldier.

  Instead of quelling the barrage, it zeroed in on her position.

  21

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas