EMPowered- America Re-Energized

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  FLUSTERED, BRADLEY Webber logged off the computer and stalked from the room en route to the TEradS Ops Center.

  Captain Ryan Andrews stood stooped over a desk, hands balled into fists, arms buttressing his upper body. His attention was fused to the wall of LCD screens, half of which were dancing with snowy patterns as if signals had been lost.

  “Keep at it, Corporal.” A tinge of wariness rustled in Ryan’s voice, then he caught sight of Bradley. “Welcome back, Sergeant Webber.”

  Standing at attention, Bradley said, “Thank you. Permission to speak with you privately, sir?”

  His CO hesitated. “There’s a letter from Abby on my desk. Go on in and read it. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  Bradley entered Ryan’s office, and as he tore open the envelope, an electrical charge zipped through his body, quickening his heartbeat. Long dormant impulses began to thrum through his veins, memories of holding Abby, kissing her, making love to her.

  “Hey, Bradley, I hope your day was better than mine. First, I had a run-in with Mia Candelori ...”

  He cringed, concerned about what the promiscuous Private had said to Abby.

  Did she fabricate a pack of lies about me, like the ones she’d made up about Abby?

  “... Then, while jogging along a trail near Leona Creek, I tripped, bumped my head, and cut a three-inch gash into my right shin—a la Haywood Field ...”

  Knowing her Haywood Field reference was code for “this explanation is bullshit,” his mind sifted through possibilities.

  A physical altercation with Mia? No, the prissy Private never would’ve landed a punch. Could it have been another insider attack? Hazing? If any of those guys laid a hand on her, they’re dead men.

  “... And for the grand finale, Captain Andrews informed me that you wouldn’t make it back to Langden before I deployed. I know you’re being transferred to TEradS East, Team 3B in Virginia—thanks to some stupid fraternization rule that precludes us from being under the same chain of command. Ironic, isn’t it? The ‘marriage’ meant to tether us together is now driving us apart, in time and distance. There are so many things I want to tell you, but they need to be said in person, so I guess I’ll just say Semper Fi. I miss you and I love you. Abby.”

  Bradley flinched to attention as Captain Andrews strode into the office.

  “At ease,” Ryan said, settling behind his desk. “I’ve skimmed the after action review. Highly unusual for your team to come up empty.”

  “Yes, sir. But I may have an explanation, something Master Sergeant Hutchinson omitted from his written report. He suggested that I brief you about it in an unofficial capacity.”

  Ryan’s mouth tightened, then he gave a cautionary nod, a silent admonition that this had better be worth his time.

  “Tucked beneath the remains of the Pilot, I found a note,” Bradley said, removing a folded sheet of paper and a photograph from his pocket. “It reads, ‘Dear TEradS, I saw this helicopter get shot down. Three men survived the crash, and they were crawling out of the burning wreckage when UW peacekeepers opened fire on them. They killed them! Just like my dad. They barged into our house at 342 Longs Lane and shot my dad in the head. For no reason! Then they lied about it. My father was a war hero, not a criminal. I know you think the UW troops are good guys, but they’re as bad as the terrorists. Please help us, Sybil Ludington.’ ”

  Ryan bounded back against his chair, gnawing his lower lip.

  “The bodies had sustained multiple gunshot wounds, and we checked out the house prior to our extraction. Blood-spattered front door, a fresh grave in the yard marked by a cutlass, and this.” Bradley presented a three-by-five color photograph. “Meet retired Marine Corps Colonel Henry Ludington, sir.”

  Concern widened Ryan’s brown eyes, and just as quickly, anger contracted them into slivers. “Are you telling me we’ve got terrorists impersonating peacekeepers?”

  “No, sir. I think it’s much worse.”

  22

  District Eight, Colorado

  FOR ABBY, THE REALIZATION was shocking, traumatic, like being immersed in a glacial lake. Those gunmen were not peacekeepers.

  She flung the beacon westward, skipping it like a stone over water, and skulked east.

  Three men leapt from the pickup’s bed, then the truck rumbled forward to flank her position.

  The foot soldiers ascended the northern hillside. Tracers defined a cone of suppressive fire, spreading like the beam of a flashlight, centered on the infrared beacon.

  Confident their prey was pinned down, the men were easy targets. Abby tagged them in quick succession and peeked over the crest. The truck had parked outside the main fence, a hundred yards from the house which had been completely leveled by the explosion. Flames clawed the night sky; burbling clouds of smoke floated northward; and Abby cringed, simultaneously ascertaining and repressing the knowledge that her entire team was dead.

  The three remaining terrorists positioned themselves behind the engine of the pickup.

  Aiming at the man in the middle, she fired. His head pitched backward. Stunned men on either side swiveled toward him, horrified gapes overtaking their faces.

  Abby dispatched the terrorist on the left then began taking withering fire. She ducked behind the hillside and backtracked thirty yards west, to her original position.

  Her sole target had wormed beneath the truck’s engine, rifle peeping out from behind the front tire.

  With painstaking, imperceptible movements, Abby slinked downward into the shallow gully that girded the hillside. She edged farther east, patiently tweaking angles while his rifle remained aligned to her former position near the crest of the hill.

  She squeezed the trigger, and a round drilled into his head.

  That was too easy. These guys can’t be part of the Terror Fox cell, she decided, reaching into her backpack for her satellite phone.

  Abby dialed the TEradS Ops Center, Barclay Air Force Base, then Captain Andrews’ private number. None of the calls would go through.

  Convinced there was a jamming device in the pickup truck, she debated the best course of approach, still wary of those two ghostly green shapes.

  Is someone else out there ready to pounce?

  She waited, listening, perusing the larger mountain to the west before leaving the gully. Abby crawled toward the vehicle, her body tight to the perimeter fence, hoping it would disguise the telltale path she was plowing through overgrown weeds. For the final ten yards, she made a crouched run across an open field.

  The dead men were of Asian descent. North Koreans?

  A raspy noise amplified.

  Another vehicle was charging toward her, fishtailing as it rounded the hillside, rear tires spitting gravel, its payload of soldiers spitting bullets.

  23

  District Eight, Colorado

  THE AFTERSHOCKS OF THE bombing were still reverberating through Gwen eighteen hours later. Eleven UW peacekeepers had been killed, another seventeen injured, including Colonel Wu.

  Gwen had cleansed and dressed the half-inch gash in his muscular chest while he apologized for postponing their dinner date, explaining that he could not enjoy a leisurely evening until the Terror Fox cell had been captured.

  Disappointment still wrangled inside Gwen as she donned a layer of protective clothing and ventured into the quarantined Archmont Wing, where an influx of Alameda fever patients were being treated. They were segregated into three zones—yellow for those with preliminary symptoms, red for those expelling blood, and black for patients convulsing at the edge of death.

  The victims appeared to be predominantly male, ages forty to sixty, a curious demographic since the very young and very old tended to be most vulnerable during epidemics. Did middle-aged men forgo inoculation out of macho pride? Or did the youngest and oldest hold the secret to a potential cure?

  “Oh no.” Gwen hurried to his bedside and sandwiched his hand between latex gloves.

  Sam’s head bobbed toward her, a morose smil
e pinching his lips. “So much for that vaccine you gave me, huh?”

  Guilt and self-reproach billowed through Gwen. She had sensed the red serum wasn’t right for Sam.

  I should have questioned his prescription and demanded access to his medical records, she thought. And ordinarily, she would have, but the hospital had been so busy that day; and he had distracted her with those offensive Chi-com remarks.

  “Sam, I’m so sorry. I—” Gwen didn’t know what else to say. Her negligence had become his death sentence.

  “Do me a favor?” he asked, palming his damp, sallow forehead with a jittering hand. “If you see Franny, tell her I did the math and figured it out ... about Sierra.”

  Confused, Gwen said, “You mean about how her daughter died?”

  Sam shook his head slightly then closed his eyes. “Just tell her. She’ll understand.”

  Dispirited, Gwen resumed her rounds, her mind still fixated on the red serum. Was it ineffective? Was that why so many had contracted Alameda fever?

  A combination of curiosity and contrition goaded her into conducting an informal survey of patients within the yellow zone, consisting of two questions. Were you immunized? And if so, with which serum?

  Each subsequent reply seemed to magnify the force of gravity and the weight of responsibility. Twenty-three unanimous responses. They had all received the red serum.

  24

  District Eight, Colorado

  A SECOND PICKUP TRUCK filled with gunmen was barreling toward Abby. Keenly aware her position was indefensible, she bolted for the hillside, stooped and zigzagging, unloading a long surge of suppressive fire.

  Bullets zinged past, some within inches of her head.

  She kept moving and switched out her magazine, heart thumping, eyes fixed on the safety of the tree line twenty yards away.

  Muzzle flashes flared at the crest of the hill.

  Damn it! I’m surrounded!

  Abby directed a three-round burst at the hilltop and veered west along the gully.

  Gunfire raged.

  She darted between a metal water trough and the northeast corner of a corrugated steel stable. In one fluid motion, she initiated a baseball slide, rolled into a prone position, and returned fire. There had to be a dozen gunmen, not including the two on the hill.

  With each successful shot, Abby counted them down.

  Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten more.

  A hail of lead peppered the stable, some zipping into the darkness, most punching through with a tinny thud. She scurried to the southwest corner. Three men were on the move, headed west along the fence, attempting to sneak in behind her.

  Nine. Eight. Seven more.

  A soldier was reaching into the bed of the pickup.

  Oh shit! A rocket-propelled grenade launcher!

  Abby fired. Three bullets passed through the truck’s windshield, cab, and back window before striking her target; then she retreated to the northeast corner.

  Six more.

  Two peacekeepers were advancing toward the gully.

  Five. Four more.

  The southwest corner of the structure exploded; the ground shook; shrapnel carved through corrugated steel.

  Abby dispatched the man with the RPG.

  Three more.

  Then a blistering silence pressed against her, more unnerving than the roar of gunfire, which at least gave away the enemy’s position. She peered around the northeast corner then checked the southwest. Nothing. She switched out her magazine and dropped to a kneeling position. Abby scanned the hillside for those two extraneous targets.

  Gotcha, she thought, zeroing in on a man partially hidden behind a tree trunk.

  As Abby squeezed the trigger, a bullet struck the middle of her back. A brutal scorching pain burrowed through her chest.

  Air vacated her lungs.

  The kinetic energy propelled her toward the ground.

  Her head snapped forward; and for an instant, she could feel the force of another bullet smashing into her skull; then the pain ceased, obliterated by an all-consuming darkness.

  25

  District Six, Texas

  AFTER WALKING NIKKI and Billy to school, Jessie Murphy entered the sheriff’s station. She greeted Ron Turner, a deputy who wore the same somber expression as everyone else in District Six, grief laden with profound fear.

  Jessie ascended the sweeping staircase, knocked twice, then opened the door to Kyle’s office. Elbows propped on the desk, her husband looked weary. He sat hunched over a voluminous book, so absorbed that he hadn’t noticed her presence. In recent months, Kyle had become almost obsessed with General George Washington and the Revolutionary War, as if history held some lost wisdom, some magic solution for modern dilemmas.

  She maneuvered behind him and began massaging his tense shoulders. Neither spoke for several minutes, then Jessie leaned over him, pressed her cheek to his, and whispered, “Kyle, there’s nothing you could’ve done.”

  “It was the freaking Boston Massacre—two point oh,” he said, tilting his head into her. “Five dead Americans, one of them just a kid. Six others seriously wounded ... And two dead peacekeepers.”

  “Rumors are flying,” she said. “People think you’re going to release the seven UW troops.”

  “Problem is—six of them never discharged their weapons.” His interlocked hands toppled, banging against the desktop. “I have to release them. I have no legal justification for holding them.”

  “And you’re concerned about the backlash?”

  Kyle toggled his neck side to side. “People are pissed off and rightly so. For months, these peacekeepers have been slaughtering livestock. Torching barns and backyard gardens. Americans have had enough. Releasing these guys will be perceived as a miscarriage of justice. And if I can’t deliver justice, vigilantes will.”

  “Then let the UW soldiers make the decision. Offer protection until emotions moderate, so you’re not violating the law. And if they choose to leave, their safety isn’t your responsibility.”

  “Legally or morally?”

  “Neither.” Jessie planted a forceful kiss on his cheek. “This, too, shall pass. In a day or two things will calm down.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” Kyle removed his Chi-phone, scrolled through the menus then passed it to Jessie. “Read this e-mail.”

  Due to the escalation of violence within your jurisdiction, which culminated in yesterday’s massacre, I have no choice but to order the confiscation of firearms. Spare me the constitutional objections. Legal precedent for the temporary abolishment of rights was established during the Civil War when habeas corpus was suspended.

  A contingent of UW troops will arrive at 1700 hours, at which time you will release all Chinese nationals into their custody. Then you will deliver the speech I have attached, which will be broadcast over all Chi-phones in District Six. You will instruct residents to surrender their weapons peacefully. Anyone in noncompliance will be designated a terrorist. Should it become necessary, I am prepared to deploy the Terrorist Eradication Squad to conduct house-to-house searches.

  Major Carlos Rodriguez, TEradS Commander

  Jessie couldn’t breathe. Dismay, indignation, and fear filled her lungs with a fierce burning sensation, like drowning in boiling water. Increasingly horrific visions played through her mind—Abby and Bradley kicking in doors, forced to fire on fellow Americans, prying weapons out of cold, dead hands.

  She exhaled raggedly and slumped against the desk. “Can’t you talk Carlos out of this?”

  “I couldn’t get through by phone, so I sent an e-mail. Two hours ago. No response.”

  “This makes no sense,” Jessie told him. “Rodriguez advocated for shipping those weapons to Texas. He supported their redistribution—”

  “And he’s probably taking tremendous heat for that decision.”

  “So a kid throws a rock, a peacekeeper overreacts, and that’s it?” she asked in a rickety voice. “The Second Amendment evaporates?”

  Ky
le pushed himself to a standing position, the strain evident on his face. Worry pleated his brow, dark canyons underscored bloodshot eyes, and his colorless lips had shriveled into a grim line.

  Jessie watched him lumber toward the window. Crowds had reconvened around the sheriff’s station, dozens of bodies poised to relay Kyle’s decision and rally the masses.

  Conjuring her most empathetic, nonjudgmental tone, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Declare war,” he stated bluntly. “Who would you prefer to fight? The American people? Or Major Rodriguez and the TEradS?”

  26

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  SOMBERLY, BRADLEY CONTINUED, “If terrorists were merely dressing like peacekeepers, they wouldn’t have known when and where Team 10A was inserting. I suspect they’ve infiltrated the UW, the same way they insinuated themselves into our armed forces, sir.”

  Ryan rubbed a hand over his mouth as if coaxing words to emerge. “But we’ve been working off UW intel for almost a year. It’s always been reliable.”

  “Maybe it took the terrorists that long to penetrate, sir.”

  “So you’re telling me I can no longer trust UW intel? And I’ve got a fucking rules-of-engagement nightmare?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Responding to a knock at the door, Ryan grumbled, “Enter.”

  Corporal Schaeffer strode into the room. “Sir, uh, evidently, a laser blinded our satellites concurrent with our communications being jammed. But we have reestablished a real-time video feed at the horse farm and ... And you better have a look, sir.”

  Ryan launched himself from the chair, and Bradley followed after him. On the largest of the monitors, the smoldering remains of a house appeared like a bull’s-eye, ringed by charred wood fragments and shredded roof tiles.