EMPowered- America Re-Energized

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Stepping into the open doorway, Abby said, “That’s a damn good question.”

  48

  District Eight, Colorado

  COLONEL WU BOWED AS the video conference began, acknowledging General Zhensheng Sun. Typically, he thrived on these meetings, a chance to tout his accomplishments and ingratiate himself with a high-ranking member of China’s Communist Party. Today, praiseworthy news was sparse, and he opted to commence with his only trump card.

  “General Sun, I am pleased to report that I have achieved a one-hundred-percent inoculation rate within District Eight.”

  “Agreed; however, your overall incompetence has drifted like seeds in the wind, planting woes in the yards of your neighbors,” Sun said, his tone ominously calm. “The bombing of Moffat Tunnel killed a thousand troops destined for District Seven and destroyed ten thousand doses of the Alameda fever vaccine slated for District Six.”

  “May I make a suggestion, sir?” Wu asked tentatively; and after a vexing pause, Sun nodded for him to proceed. “I believe these problems stem from a faulty assumption. The number of Americans flocking to the districts is well below our projections. Nearly seventy percent are living independently, beyond our sphere of influence, which is why I am recommending a census, sir. This would enable us to increase manpower, and it would provide our forces with a mandate to travel house to house, vaccinating the vast population beyond our districts.”

  Sun’s displeasure melted into contemplation. “This could appeal to President Quenten if couched properly with regard to taxation and voter registration. I will present this proposal to the party.”

  Perfectly played, Wu told himself. The General will take credit for the census, and my upcoming performance review will be tempered by his appreciation.

  “Has the Terror Fox been dealt with?” Sun asked, his tone notably lighter.

  “No, sir, but I have effectively framed the cell for the detonation at the horse farm by employing the same explosives used at Moffat Tunnel.”

  “You have dispatched the fugitive Sniper?”

  “Not yet, sir—”

  “Colonel, this is unacceptable! If she makes contact with her commanders, our well-crafted plan could crumble. Need I remind you that only eight of the twenty TEradS teams have been eliminated?”

  “I am prepared to intercept and quash any communications; and since the Americans believe Webber has been stoned to death by the Terror Fox, they are no longer searching for her. Our plans are not in jeopardy.”

  Sun’s frustration resurfaced in the form of a grunt. “After recovering her butchered remains, the Americans will be highly motivated to eradicate this particular cell. You’ve only managed to postpone a potential disaster. How is it that one woman can slaughter a platoon of your men and evade an entire company?”

  “I am implementing every resource at my disposal—night vision, thermal scans, satellite imagery. I will get her.”

  “It pleases me to hear you state this with such confidence. Because your future depends on it!”

  The General abruptly ended the video conference without the benefit of a good-bye, and Wu slumped back against his chair, mentally drained. How could Webber elude thermal scans of the mountains? How could she evade his men, who were monitoring all water sources within a thirty-mile radius?

  Could she already be dead? Could the Terror Fox have killed her?

  Could I be that lucky?

  Zealous knocking drummed against his door, disrupting his fantasy. “Enter.”

  Captain Feng Wang treaded into the office. “Sir, I’ve detected an anomaly a mile from the horse farm. The GPS tracking signal for an American citizen has disappeared. Taking initiative, I determined that those coordinates marked the entrance to an abandoned coal mine ...”

  Wu rocked forward in his chair. This could be the break he desperately needed.

  “... I found this very curious, sir. So I tapped into the NSA database and investigated friends, family, and associates.” Wang was trying to combat a smile and losing. “That’s when I stumbled across the name, Frances Marion. She’s a retired Army Major and a Sapper, sir, well acquainted with explosives and demolition ...”

  Another female? Wu thought. American women have to be the most treacherous on the planet.

  “... Prior to the EMP, Marion worked locally at Tygren Mining, giving her access to sophisticated explosives. Shall I prepare for an assault on the mine, sir?”

  “No,” Wu told him, wishing this revelation had come prior to his meeting with General Sun. “I will personally handle the arrangements. Tell me, who is this American citizen you tracked to the mine?”

  “A woman named Gwen Ling, sir.”

  Betrayal and fury became a vortex whirling within him, violent and destructive. All those rebukes of the Terror Fox, all the condemnations of American culture, and she was spying for them!

  “Make it known, Captain. My orders are to shoot Ling on sight!”

  Tidbit # 3: Nancy Hart

  Nancy Morgan Hart was a six-foot-tall masculine woman with flaming red hair. She often masqueraded as a dim-witted man and wandered into British camps to gather information for the Patriots. Nancy is also known for an encounter with a British spy on her own property. When the man attempted to peer through a crack in the cabin wall, she filled a ladle with boiling, soapy water and hurled it through the opening. While the shrieking man writhed in pain, Nancy bound him and later handed him over to the American militia. She had distinguished herself as “a honey of a Patriot.”

  Source: American Patriots by Rick Santorum.

  The weaponization of boiling oil is intended to mimic the heroic spirit of Nancy Hart. The ensuing death of the shrieking man is strictly a product of the author’s imagination. All other sentiments expressed and actions taken by this character are purely fictional.

  Chapter 5

  —— DAY 445 ——

  Thursday, May 5th

  49

  District Six, Texas

  GRIPPED BY INSOMNIA, Bradley tiptoed through the hallway past the Murphys’ master bedroom, beyond Nikki’s room where Major Rodriguez was staying. A pang of guilt rumbled through his gut as he crept by Billy’s room where Ryan was sleeping. He had looked his best friend in the eye and lied.

  Abby is in that flag-draped casket, sir.

  Bradley wasn’t certain what bothered him more. The act of lying? Or the ease with which it had rolled off his tongue?

  Lying, assaulting people, the incident with Mia, who the hell am I becoming? he asked himself as he padded barefoot down the stairs.

  Electric lighting filled the kitchen with a soft glow, accentuating large holes formerly populated by state-of-the-art appliances. Post-EMP, a luxurious kitchen consisted of a dormitory-sized refrigerator, a small Chinese-made microwave oven with a rotary dial, a toaster oven, and a single hot plate.

  Kyle was sitting at the kitchen table, staring vacantly at a laptop, a fringe benefit of being governor.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Eyes swollen and bloodshot, Kyle’s head bobbed toward a chair issuing a sullen invitation. He opened a digital folder labeled pictures. “Before Abby started TEradS training, Ryan hooked her up with a vehicle, and we got to spend two days with her.”

  Bradley sat down and pitched forward in his chair to watch a video clip. Abby was flaunting her hog’s tooth, which symbolized her status as a Marine Corps Sniper.

  “She is so beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was.” Kyle’s voice was a hoarse whisper. His grief and anguish pulsated like a physical presence. “Seventeen-year-old draftees weren’t combat eligible. Abby begged me to sign that parental release ... I ... I could’ve kept her safe for another year.” He wiped away tears with the heel of his hand. “I signed her death warrant.”

  No, you didn’t. Because Abby’s alive!

  Bradley wanted to blurt it out, to alleviate Kyle’s misery, to persuade him to grab his rifle and take off for Colorado—right now.

  “Brad
ley, I need to know ... How did Abby die?”

  He had no idea what Rodriguez had divulged, but was fairly certain it wasn’t the truth—at least not the whole truth.

  “Damn it, Bradley, I have a right to know how my little girl spent her last moments.” Kyle’s voice wavered, and he sucked in two rapid drafts of air. “I know it wasn’t an ordinary shooting, not when there’s a closed casket.”

  Bradley massaged his temples and threw a worried glance toward the stairway, considering the repercussions the truth would bring.

  Kyle’s open palm slapped against the tabletop. “Can you at least tell me if my daughter suffered?”

  “I don’t believe she did,” he answered, truthfully yet evasively.

  “You liar!” Kyle’s voice boomed, sorrow and agony mutating into a white-hot fury.

  Bradley listened for footsteps, fearful the outburst had awakened his commanding officers. “We are not having this conversation here.” He shoved back his chair, grabbed Kyle by the elbow, and steered him toward the front door.

  The chilly, predawn air settled around Bradley like a melancholy blanket, numbing his bare feet. He surveyed Kyle’s four-bedroom, brick Colonial home, grateful that no lights had clicked on.

  A half moon was drooping toward the horizon, casting mournful shadows, and they walked for blocks before Kyle said, “Okay, let’s try this again ... Did. My daughter. Suffer?”

  Bradley reiterated his answer, and before the final syllable faded, his father-in-law’s fist smashed against his jaw.

  50

  District Three, Virginia

  MASTER SERGEANT HUTCHINSON was reluctant to issue the go ahead. His team had been reconnoitering this terrorist base for almost an hour and had verified the identities of all five men. The idiots were holed up inside a shipping container with only one means of egress.

  This should be the easiest mission ever, Hutchinson thought, and that was precisely what concerned him. It seemed too easy.

  He scrutinized the junkyard, a man-made mountain range of appliances and vehicles rendered useless by the electromagnetic pulse. Riddled with cubbyholes and niches, it was a sniper’s paradise.

  All the more reason to get this done and get out of here, he told himself.

  Hutchinson gave the order, then a shoulder-launched rocket flew through the open door of the cargo container and erupted. A metallic peal hung in the air, echoing against steel peaks of trash before tapering into an ominous silence.

  Then the bombardment began.

  Explosions seemed to originate from every direction.

  Shredded appliances and blast waves created a blizzard of shrapnel, clanging, scraping, pulverizing everything in its path.

  Jagged metal sliced through Hutchinson’s left shoulder, a pencillike sliver pierced his right thigh, and he struggled to wedge himself behind an industrial-sized refrigerator.

  Via his tactical headset, he demanded a situation report from his team, but was unable to hear his own voice, let alone a reply.

  The blasts accelerated in frequency.

  Larger.

  Closer.

  More deafening.

  Then the industrial refrigerator detonated.

  51

  District Six, Texas

  BRADLEY STEPPED BACK, rubbing his chin, stunned by the unexpected uppercut. “Damn it, Kyle! What the hell was that?”

  “You ... are a ... LIAR!” Kyle’s fist unclenched, and he pointed toward the sheriff’s station where the coffin had been quartered for the night. “I went in there and opened that casket. I saw what those animals—”

  His voice broke into a low, tortured moan, slipping seamlessly between rage and grief, then he inhaled an uneven breath. “And you have the balls to stand here and tell me she didn’t suffer!”

  “Because that ... is not ... Abby,” Bradley said, mimicking his father-in-law’s inflection. “That woman had her scalp and eyes ripped out; that woman was buried up to her neck and stoned to death; that woman suffered horribly; but that woman is not Abby!”

  Kyle slumped onto the terra-cotta steps of the sheriff’s station. Moonlight reflected off the tears that dampened his cheeks, and Bradley squatted beside him, planting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “Kyle, listen to me. Abby is alive. And come hell or high water, I’m gonna find her. And I could use your help.”

  His father-in-law’s expression sagged like icing melting from a cake, then he quietly said, “Ryan’s right. You are losing it.”

  “I’m not mentally unstable. And Abby is alive.”

  “Stop saying that!” Kyle snapped. “Ryan told me how you barricaded yourself inside the morgue.”

  “I needed to see her, just like you did. And by the way, how did you get past the Airman standing watch?”

  “I left the window unlocked and let myself in,” Kyle said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He never knew I was there.”

  “Would you have let him stop you from seeing her?”

  His father-in-law looked away. “I didn’t come out of there screaming, ‘That’s not Abby!’ Please, Bradley ... Jessie and I have already lost our daughter. We don’t want to lose you too ...”

  Perplexed by Kyle’s reaction, he took a deep breath.

  Why doesn’t he believe me? How can I make him understand?

  “... Can’t you see you’re making this harder on me? On Jessie? On yourself? Ryan hasn’t told Rodriguez yet; he’s trying to save your career—”

  “To hell with my career! I’m trying to save your daughter’s life! Don’t you get it? The same people who did that,” he said, gesturing toward the sheriff’s station, “are after Abby!”

  Kyle pushed himself back onto his feet. “I don’t want to hear another word. And don’t you repeat this nonsense to Jessie. She’s devastated enough.”

  Bradley watched him plod toward home, knowing he would have to make the trip to Colorado alone.

  Should I leave now? Or wait until after the funeral?

  52

  Blue Creek Reservoir, Utah

  SYBIL AWOKE, BUT DIDN’T open her eyes. She lay there, listening to the serenade of insects and the growl of her empty stomach. She and Izzy had spent the night near Blue Creek Reservoir, and this afternoon, they would arrive at Uncle Kevin’s house in Tremonton, north of Salt Lake City; and thank God for that.

  Out of food, with one bottle of water, Sybil had reached the limits of her endurance, physically and mentally. The strain of navigating barren landscapes and ferreting out water for Star, the perpetual fear of peacekeepers—it was an unnerving tribulation; and this afternoon, it would finally be over. Tonight she would sleep soundly in a real bed, knowing her uncle was there to protect her.

  The thought coaxed her to open her eyes and begin the final sixteen-mile leg of their journey; then it occurred to Sybil that it wouldn’t be over for Izzy. Barclay Air Force Base was still six hundred miles away.

  He’ll never make it by himself, she thought. I have to convince him to stay with Uncle Kevin.

  Yawning, she gazed toward the reservoir then drew in a shallow, quick gasp. She wrestled free of the sleeping bag and stumbled forward several feet on hands and knees, before breaking into a wobbling run.

  “Oh my God, Star!”

  The Arabian horse was pawing at the ground, stomach glaringly distended. Saliva drooled from her mouth, a foul-smelling liquid poured from her nostrils, and fine muscle tremors made her sweaty coat shimmer in the morning light.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Izzy asked.

  “Grass sickness,” she said, her voice choked with sadness. Sybil rested her forehead against Star and stroked the horse’s cheek. She could feel the muscles trembling. “I’m so sorry, girl. I know you’re in pain.”

  She closed her eyes, crying harder.

  Just this once, let me be strong like my dad.

  It took several minutes for Sybil to regain her composure, then she turned toward Izzy and said, “I need to borrow your rifle.”

&n
bsp; 53

  District Six, Texas

  RYAN ANDREWS TROTTED down the stairs of Kyle Murphy’s house, his perfectly polished shoes rapping against the treads. He hated wearing his dress uniform, especially for funerals. Regret and angst were tying his stomach into knots, and his inability to control the situation was setting it ablaze.

  Major Rodriguez stood in the corner of the family room, solemnly rotating his beret between thumbs and index fingers. Kyle and Jessie were sitting on the couch, desperately trying to remain strong for Nikki and Billy. Both children had lost their parents, and Abby’s death seemed to dredge up their fear, their loneliness, their anger. Ryan’s jaw clenched, knowing more children would be mourning in the near future.

  After being released from attention with a nod, he approached Rodriguez, leaned in, and whispered, “I need to speak with you, sir.”

  Both men excused themselves and retreated into the privacy of a Humvee, Rodriguez behind the wheel, Ryan in the passenger’s seat.

  “Sir, I’ve lost a fourth team to ambush. Team 7B in Missouri.”

  Rodriguez’s left hand contracted into a fist and lodged against his lips.

  “I sent in a robot,” Ryan told him, his voice boiling with frustration. “This time the house wasn’t booby-trapped. The buildings surrounding it were. Hot water heaters packed with explosives. I had those guys spread out; none of them made it, sir.”

  Rodriguez’s fist slammed against the armored door of the Humvee. “Hutchinson and company were hit a few hours ago. No survivors.”

  Ryan lowered his face into his hands.

  Bradley is barely coping with Abby’s death, he thought. Will he completely lose it when he learns that his entire team was killed in action?

  “Dozens of bombs were hidden throughout a junkyard,” Rodriguez said, anger and disbelief burning in his dark eyes. “Turned the site into the world’s largest fucking meat grinder.”