EMPowered- America Re-Energized

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Ryan moved through the aisle, floorboards moaning softly beneath his feet, then he edged sideways into the pew and sank onto the wooden bench beside Bradley. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  The Marine sat up, eyes noticeably bloodshot even in the dim light, his expressionless face splotchy with partially dried tears. “Well-ll-ya found me.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Yee-ee—yup.”

  “Mia’s grain alcohol?” Ryan asked, thinking aloud.

  Bradley’s lips rolled into a tight line. Ripples formed over his chin like waves of pain dredged up to the surface.

  “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “You don’t understand!” The Marine turned away, his vacant gaze fixed on a braided lock of blonde hair lying atop a bible. Abby had given it to him back at Camp Sunshine, their last good-bye.

  “Images keep runnin’ through my mind,” Bradley said, inflection exaggerated by inebriation. “Fistfuls-sof hair bein’ ripped-dout. Rocks smashin’ her beautiful face.”

  Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose as another should have buffeted his conscience.

  I should have kept Bradley outside the ops center. I never should have allowed him to see that; those images are going to torment his waking hours and haunt his dreams.

  “I ... I couldn’t shud-dit-out ... I juss wanted it ta stop ... An’ then Mia showed-dup with a Mason jar.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Ryan told him. “I would get rip-roaring drunk, too. In fact, it’s still on my agenda.”

  Bradley’s head shook slightly. “Oh-wit’s wa-a-ay worse than that.”

  33

  District Eight, Colorado

  AFTER GRIEVING WITH her colleagues, Gwen proceeded to the hospital pharmacy. Her nervous glance ping-ponged, scouting both ends of the hallway; then she waved her Chi-phone against a sensor to unlock the door and slinked inside unnoticed.

  Electronically, she signed out a dose of quinapril, one of the few plentiful blood pressure medications, and paid Mr. Winters a gratuitous visit.

  “I have your meds,” she said, extending a tiny pleated paper cup as she entered the room.

  The sixtysomething Casanova proffered a flirtatious smile that roamed dangerously close to a leer. “Viagra?”

  “Quinapril,” she told him, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

  His womanizing expression sagged into confusion. “There must be some mistake. I’ve already taken my blood pressure meds.”

  Gwen made a show of checking his chart, apologized for the blunder, and returned to the pharmacy. With numb fingers, she completed the necessary error forms and disposed of the pills in accordance with hospital policy. Her alibi intact, she stuffed her pockets with the obligatory drugs, then used medical tape to secure a handful of plastic-wrapped syringes to her right calf beneath her pant leg.

  A damp layer of humiliation coated her face. Fatigue saturated every muscle until even breathing seemed to require conscious effort. She could hear the sirens, feel the handcuffs, smell the rank odor of the jail cell.

  I can’t do this ... but I have to.

  Gwen pulled open the door and strode into the hallway, trying to appear casual. She rounded the corner. The nurses’ station was ten yards away, still humming with somber conversations, the exit just beyond it.

  “Gwen Ling, halt!”

  The voice emanated from behind her. Authoritative and intimidating, it seemed to pulsate through her veins. She turned, coming face-to-face with two UW soldiers.

  “Come with us.”

  Both men grasped her by an elbow and whisked her through the hallway.

  There must be a hidden camera inside the pharmacy, Gwen thought. How else could they have caught me so quickly?

  The soldiers brought her to Colonel Wu’s office. Her thoughts spun into tangled webs, clumps of lame excuses, each less credible than the last.

  She greeted him in Mandarin then said, “Did Doctor Flannigan brief you about the red serum before he died?”

  His icy stare was a silent cross-examination. “I have brought you here to declare your loyalties. Will you join your Motherland, China? Or will you join Doctor Flannigan?”

  Wu’s expression left no doubt. The doctor had been silenced to protect a dirty little secret: the Chinese red serum was worthless.

  “Without question, my loyalties lie with my Motherland,” she told him.

  “And your Chi-phone records bear that out. You have been an allegiant comrade, staunchly defending China against the backlash of American ingratitude and resentment.”

  “My phone records?” she repeated.

  “Conversations are recorded and monitored even when the phone is not in use. That is how I determined that you advised Doctor Flannigan about the red serum, though he was quite eager to claim the credit.”

  A current of panic sped through Gwen. Did the microwave really deaden the signal? Or did Wu overhear the ultimatum, the impetus behind her crime?

  “This information is dangerous and must not be shared,” Wu told her. “Now, sit down. We have much to discuss.”

  34

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  MIA, RYAN THOUGHT. That opportunistic little bitch!

  Fraternization and adultery could get Bradley court-martialed.

  “Okay ... But you were drinking ... And emotionally compromised ... And according to a former Commander in Chief ... that ... does not actually constitute sexual relations.”

  “Bullshit! Semper Fidelis is spozed-da mean something to me.”

  He’s a mess, Ryan thought, weighing the career-damaging fallout against the likelihood of Bradley harming himself. “Maybe the folks at Med Center South can take the edge off.”

  The Marine’s head jerked toward him. “I don’t need drugs-sor-a suicide watch. Not so long-gazz those savages are still breathin’.”

  Ryan nodded, relieved that vengeance was overpowering despair.

  “Rodriguez is flying in to tell Kyle.” Another dose of regret wafted through him like a blast of arctic air. Kyle and Bradley had saved his life; Ryan owed these guys; and he had failed them both.

  The chapel door swung open and four members of TEradS Team 10B filed into the pew behind Bradley. Each man briefly rested a hand on his shoulder then sat down, symbolically covering his back.

  Bradley offered no acknowledgement, sitting rigidly, jaw grinding as if to imprison the emotions roiling inside.

  Ryan considered the Webbers’ missed rendezvous; a last chance to hold her, to kiss her—would that have made this easier or more painful?

  I’m amazed that he can even sit here, in this chapel, Ryan thought. Bradley was always saying that the good Lord always provides. Well, He sure as hell didn’t today. A bullet would have been horrendous enough, but stoned to death? Where was the mercy in that? What kind of God allowed that to happen? Allowed Abby to die so inhumanely? And a good man like Bradley to suffer so cruelly?

  The door squeaked open, and TEradS support staff joined the vigil, leading a procession of Pilots, MPs, Mechanics, and a slew of off-duty Airmen. They gushed through the door like a biblical flood of camouflage, overflowing the pews, inundating the walkways. This was a spontaneous outpouring of support and compassion for Bradley.

  Maybe the good Lord was providing—after all.

  Tidbit # 2: The Boston Massacre

  The Boston Massacre began with a mob of civilians taunting a British sentry. After eight more “redcoats” arrived at the scene, a thrown object knocked a Private to the ground. The irate soldier, acting without orders, fired into the crowd and triggered a ragged burst of shots. Five American men died; six more were injured. Six British soldiers were tried and acquitted. Two others were convicted of manslaughter and punished via branding on the hand.

  The Boston Massacre two point oh is intended to mimic the escalating tensions between the colonists and the British. The deaths of the peacekeepers are not historical, and the us
e of a child to instigate the massacre is an invention of the author’s imagination.

  Chapter 4

  —— DAY 444 ——

  Wednesday, May 4th

  35

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  BRADLEY WEBBER STOOD at attention, dry-eyed, composed, and stalwart—the consummate Marine. No one could see the barely controlled anger seething inside him or the desolation that was dicing his mind and pureeing his gut.

  A white-gloved honor guard emerged from the C-130 carrying Abby’s flag-draped transfer case. Bradley’s right hand traced out a slow-motion arc, fingers extended, taut as a blade, cutting the air in a sharp salute.

  Despite Abby’s 0400 arrival, dozens of Airmen and TEradS personnel had amassed behind him to honor her sacrifice. Their prayers and support meant a lot to Bradley, though he couldn’t manage the words to thank them. Not yet.

  The silver box bearing her remains was respectfully loaded into a deuce and a half, a cargo truck modified to serve as a hearse. Then the honor guard fell in behind the vehicle, and the procession to the morgue began.

  Bradley trailed behind them, squeezing the lock of Abby’s braided hair as if wringing strength from it. That last day at Camp Sunshine, he had been so confident that they would be reunited; that they would spend their lives together. How could he have been so stupid, so gullible, believing in a fairy-tale happily ever after?

  He drew in a ragged gulp of cool night air that seemed to coagulate into a leaden clot of emptiness; heavier than when his best friend died; larger than when Gramps died; more painful than when cancer took his mother.

  Would Abby be alive today if he had heeded his selfish inclinations? Bradley had hated the prospect of her enlisting, not because he doubted her competence or harbored sexist beliefs. He had no problem with women becoming SEALs, Rangers, Snipers, or joining the TEradS—just not the woman he loved. It was an emotional double tap, Abby in harm’s way while he was unable to protect her. The powerlessness was maddening.

  In a weak moment, he had even contemplated pregnancy as a means to keep her safe; but he had decided that he loved her too much to sabotage her dreams. Staring at the deuce and a half, Bradley knew he had made the wrong decision.

  Left thumb caressing the lock of her hair, he felt compelled to gather her shattered body into his arms, to hold her one last time, to confess about Mia, to beg forgiveness, to make her understand how much she had meant to him. To say good-bye.

  Bradley willed back emotion as six somber-faced Airmen removed the transfer case from the truck. Another ardent salute. The doors to the morgue opened like the damnable gates of hell; and as she crossed the threshold, the finality enveloped him.

  He started toward the building, and Ryan grabbed onto his arm. “Don’t ... You’ve already seen too much.”

  Bradley attempted to liberate himself.

  Ryan’s grip tightened. “Abby wouldn’t want you to remember her that way.”

  Anger surged, sending off tremors like magma about to erupt. “You don’t speak for her.”

  Taken aback, Ryan said, “Let’s take a walk, Sergeant.”

  Ignoring the subtle warning regarding military decorum and rank, Bradley recklessly forged ahead. “That is my wife. And it’s none of your damn business!”

  “That wasn’t a request, Sergeant. It was an order.”

  “Fuck you ... ! Sir!”

  Ryan’s withering stare was an alloy of indignation and guilt, tinged with compassion. “I know this is traumatic, but you are treading dangerously close to insubordination.”

  “Do I look like I give a flying—”

  A hand padlocked Bradley’s mouth. Four more immobilized his arms, and his team hauled him away from Captain Andrews.

  “We’ll keep him out of trouble, sir,” Hutchinson said.

  Appreciating that his friends were trying to spare him from court-martial and recognizing that he couldn’t prevail over four highly trained Soldiers, Bradley relented. “Okay, I get it. Let go of me.”

  Grudgingly, they released him, advancing in a tight formation, front, back, left, and right—a roving human cage.

  Back inside the barracks, he collapsed onto his bed and feigned sleep. He eavesdropped as his team divvied up the remainder of the day into babysitting shifts and concocted a strategy for handling him. Then having acquired the necessary information, Bradley began masterminding a plan.

  36

  Holbrook, Idaho

  SYBIL LUDINGTON AWOKE to the chirp of birds, momentarily disoriented. Then reality rushed back: burying her dad; waiting at the hospital for a visit with Mrs. Bissel that never happened; the UW peacekeeper, stingy with words and compassion, announcing, “Your mother dead ... Go home.”

  “It’s that stupid vaccine!” Izzy had shouted. “She was fine up until then! You bastards! You killed her!” Then angry and unhinged with grief, he had run off, darting through the tiled hallway.

  Sybil had hesitated long enough to find out that Mrs. Bissel’s body would be cremated along with other infected corpses; then she’d sprinted from the hospital.

  After a fruitless search, she finally gave up and headed home. Izzy had returned an hour later, eyes bloodshot and swollen.

  “Where were you?” Sybil had asked. “I was looking all over.”

  “There was something I had to do.”

  She had opted not to press him, assuming that he’d wanted to bawl in seclusion.

  By six that evening, they had packed Star’s saddlebags with bottled water and a few cans of beef stew Mrs. Bissel had squirreled away; then they set off, following the route Sybil’s dad had drawn on an old map. They shadowed Route 37 south for hours and spent their first night in Rockland, a deserted town whose residents had been forcibly relocated to District Ten. Shelter was plentiful, and a stream cloaked within wild grasses provided nourishment for Star.

  The second leg of their expedition had progressed smoothly until their arrival in Roy. Uninhabited and too insignificant to qualify as a town, all its mountain-fed rivulets had been reduced to muddy scars. With no water for Star, they soldiered on to the next waypoint. Six hours later, they had found a weed-choked creek south of Holbrook and hunkered down for the night.

  Sybil crawled from her sleeping bag, stiff and achy. A deep violet band was brightening the eastern sky, silhouetting the distant craggy outline of Bannock Peak to the north.

  Izzy was already awake, his sleeping bag stowed, his lever-action rifle resting across his lap. “You ready to hit the trail?”

  Still rubbing the drowsiness from her eyes, she said, “Geez, you mind if I go to the bathroom first?”

  A sparse cluster of wild bushes afforded minimal privacy, and she mumbled under her breath, griping that urination in the wilderness was so much easier for men.

  By the time shades of pink and orange warmed the sky, they had reached a man-made irrigation canal that paralleled the stream. A mile farther south, the natural creek bed widened, supporting a jungle of water-loving weeds and bushes.

  “Hey, what’s with that rope?” Sybil pointed to a dingy white line. One end was anchored to a wooden stake; the other plunged into the water.

  Izzy was already swinging himself out of the saddle. “Let’s check it out.”

  He pulled with both hands, huffing and grunting. The wet, slimy rope began to coil at his feet, and a strange contraption broke the surface, part plastic laundry basket, part garden fence, stitched together with white electrical cord; and flailing inside it, there were two plump, golden fish.

  “Jackpot!” Izzy’s hand weaved through the funnellike opening and grabbed one of the fish by the tail.

  Then a blistering voice bellowed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  37

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  BRADLEY LET AN HOUR pass. Mentally, he rehearsed his escape and bolstered it with contingency plans before taking action. He roc
ked his head violently side to side, groaning and gasping as if in the midst of a nightmare.

  “Webber, wake up!”

  From the sound of Hutchinson’s voice, Bradley surmised he was across the room, near the desk. He thrashed against the mattress. “No ... God, no ...”

  His team leader took the bait and approached the bed. “Webber, you’re dreaming. Wake up.” He gave Bradley’s shoulder a firm shake. A second later, Hutchinson was out cold on the floor.

  After securing his wrists, ankles, and mouth with duct tape, Bradley skulked from the room, feeling only a modicum of guilt. No one seemed to understand that he had to see Abby; he needed to hold her hand, to gaze into those dazzling blue eyes one last time and say good-bye.

  On some level, Bradley realized an irrational urge was driving him, but he didn’t care. Rules didn’t matter, and neither did consequences. He knew Hutchinson would be pissed; hell, his whole team would be furious, not to mention Ryan—who would probably court-martial his ass. Regardless, Bradley had to spend a few minutes with her. Why couldn’t anyone understand that?

  With the stealth and patience of a Sniper, he stole across the base. Since the main door of the morgue was locked, he broke a ground-floor window and entered an office, vacant since it was still before 0700 hours.

  The hallway was clear, yet Bradley stood frozen, listening, and the depth of the silence chilled his sweat-soaked body. Only one room had light filtering through frosted glass panels, and he soundlessly opened the door a sliver. A massive refrigeration unit with three-foot square doors dominated the room, surrounded by stark white walls and a dreary gray tiled floor that sloped toward a central drain.