EMPowered- America Re-Energized

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  The emotionally charged silence stretched on, and Ryan removed Sybil Ludington’s letter from his pocket. “This was found at the site of 10A’s helo crash.” He waited for his commanding officer to read it then said, “Terrorist infiltration of the UW peacekeepers could explain the rash of ambushes, sir.”

  “It might also explain this,” Rodriguez said, handing him a folded sheet of paper.

  Ryan skimmed the e-mail, brow arching at the mention of gun confiscation, eyes ballooning at the threat of TEradS enforcement, jaw grinding at the sight of Rodriguez’s digital signature. “We need to set up an ambush for the ambushers, sir.”

  “How would you know who showed up?” Rodriguez asked. “Legitimate UW peacekeepers or terrorists?”

  A valid point, he thought, as his satellite phone began to ring.

  “Captain Andrews,” he answered curtly.

  “Sir, this is Private Candelori. There’s a Mr. Santiago on the line asking to speak to you. He’s a civilian from District Eight, and he says it’s urgent.”

  “Take a message.”

  “I tried, but he’ll only speak with the commander of TEradS West, sir.”

  Ryan wasn’t in the habit of taking calls from civilians. All intel on terrorist activity had been funneled through the UW, a practice that was no longer viable. “Go ahead. Patch him through.”

  “Hello?” a faltering male voice asked.

  “This is Captain Andrews. What can I do for you, Mr. Santiago?”

  “I’m hoping you can eradicate some more terrorists, Captain. I stumbled across the base camp of the cell that stoned your female Soldier.”

  54

  Blue Creek Reservoir, Utah

  “THIS IS ONLY A .22 caliber,” Izzy said apologetically. “I’m not sure the bullet will make it through a horse’s skull.”

  Sybil clamped her lips to imprison a sob, but it spurted out like an uncontrollable sneeze. “Star has to be put down,” she said, sniffling. “I can’t just leave her suffer.”

  Izzy was biting down on his lower lip, forehead crinkled in thought, and several minutes elapsed before he spoke. “Maybe if you shoot her through the eye?”

  Sybil nodded. God, please give me the strength to do this.

  Izzy worked the lever forward and back. “A round is in the chamber now ... so do not point it in my direction,” he said, most likely parroting words his father had spoken.

  Sybil raised the butt stock to her shoulder, took aim, then lowered the barrel to the ground. She gulped hard and blotted away the tears blurring her vision.

  “Why don’t you let me do it?” Izzy said, his voice soft with empathy.

  “No! I have to do this.” Sybil elevated the rifle, aligned the sights to Star’s left eye, and began to shake involuntarily. Memories of last year’s terrorist wave closed around her like a foreboding storm—the unrelenting drone of the firefight, bullets whizzing into trees, punching through cars and houses. She had frozen that night, unable to think or fire a single shot. She had cowered and cried behind a landscape retaining wall while her dad, Mrs. Bissel, and Izzy repelled the terrorists.

  “Damn it!” she shouted through her tears. “I am so tired of being scared!”

  She squeezed the rifle tight, as if the pressure could hold her together, and took aim again, forcing herself to see the pain in the animal’s eyes. Sybil concentrated on the paralysis of the digestive tract, on the ooze leaking from Star’s nostrils.

  Her index finger unfurled and touched the trigger.

  I have to spare her all the pain, she told herself. It’s the humane thing to do.

  A loud pop punctured the quiet morning.

  Star’s legs folded.

  She tumbled onto the ground, and Sybil flinched, not from the noise of the gunshot, but from the realization that she had actually summoned the courage.

  Izzy gently retrieved the rifle. “Wow, I didn’t think you could do it.”

  “Neither did I.”

  55

  Cimarron River, Oklahoma

  PASTOR PETER MUHLENBERG had been traveling by horse-drawn wagon for nearly a week, a dusty, time-consuming uncomfortable trip that could have been completed in three hours prior to the electromagnetic pulse.

  He had made this pilgrimage into Kansas twice before, each time bartering away some of the town’s guns and ammunition at Leroy’s Trading Post for wheat and rye, staples to keep his tiny flock from starvation—and discouragement.

  As the town of Cimarron appeared on the horizon, Muhlenberg sighed, second-guessing his decision. His brother’s .22 long rifle would have equated to an extra hundred pounds of rye for the congregation, but the trade would have precluded him from hunting prairie dogs and jackrabbits, leaving them dependent solely on snares and fish traps. He glanced down at the Remington straddling his lap and reaffirmed his decision.

  Once I’m out of bullets, the gun will be useless; that’ll be the time to trade it away.

  A sense of peace washed over him and was quickly displaced by confusion. People were gathered outside the church; a few were crying. At the far end of town, he spotted four white trucks with UW insignias. Praise the Lord, long-awaited help had finally made its way to Cimarron.

  Muhlenberg pulled on the reins until Moses stopped. The horse snorted, sensing the tension and fear as the crowd swarmed around him.

  “Quick, hide your gun.”

  Hands snatched it from his lap, and the pastor watched Carl, a man he had known all his life, race into the church to hide the weapon.

  “They confiscated our guns.”

  “They seized our food; all our smoked and salted meats.”

  “Whoa, slow down,” Muhlenberg told them, anticipating that another wave of gangs had passed through Cimarron. “One at a time. Who? Who stole our food and guns?”

  “They did.” Derrick motioned toward the truck speeding down Main Street, its bed chock-full of blue-helmeted soldiers. “And they made us get vaccinations.”

  The vehicle screeched to a stop.

  This has to be a misunderstanding, Muhlenberg thought, his gaze skipping between the six rifle barrels leveled on his chest.

  A man introduced himself as Sergeant Xu. Muhlenberg jumped down from the wagon and offered his hand. A second soldier photographed him with a digital tablet; a third produced a syringe.

  “What is that?” Muhlenberg asked.

  “Vaccination Ar-rameda fever,” Xu replied. “Mandatory.”

  The soldiers fidgeted, adjusting their rifles, defining the consequences of noncompliance. Although Muhlenberg had never heard of the malady, he saw no option other than to acquiesce.

  “You open bags,” Xu said, indicating the wagon’s payload.

  Muhlenberg waited for the corporal to withdraw the syringe from his arm, then he stood one of the fifty-pound sacks on end. “It’s just winter rye. For bread.” After loosening the binding, he shoved a hand inside, removed a sample, and groaned.

  Dark purplish-black bodies covered the grain.

  He cast it aside and drew two more handfuls.

  Muhlenberg’s head drooped. I should have inspected the rye, he thought. I never should have trusted Leroy. Good Lord, I squandered the town’s resources on infested grain.

  Six peacekeepers marched toward the wagon, hoisted the heavy sacks onto their shoulders, and hauled them to the pickup truck.

  Offering a pompous grin, Sergeant Xu said, “Thank you.”

  “No, no, no.” Muhlenberg’s hands swung forward like fluttering stop signs. “This rye can’t be consumed. It’s infected with ergot.”

  Xu’s head cocked doubtfully. “What is this ... er—got?”

  “A fungus that attacks grain crops during wet, cool growing conditions. It causes seizures, psychosis, mania, sometimes even gangrene.”

  The Asian shrugged.

  Assuming the foreigner did not grasp the medical terms, he tried again with simpler words. “If you eat that, you will get sick. You could die.”

  A fist burrowed int
o Muhlenberg’s stomach, the fifty-year-old pastor gasped, then the butt stock of a rifle crashed against the side of his head.

  56

  District Six, Texas

  RYAN RAISED THE VOLUME of his satellite phone, motioned for Rodriguez to listen in, and said, “Mr. Santiago, how do you know about the stoning?”

  “A Chi-phone broadcast advised residents to remain within district limits because the Terror Fox wiped out a TEradS team and stoned a female Sniper to death.”

  Ryan stiffened, annoyed that news of the tragedy was circulating. In an effort to spare the Murphys from the horror, Rodriguez hadn’t disclosed the manner of death; and Ryan hated the thought of Kyle learning about the stoning via gossip.

  “What leads you to believe it’s the same cell?” he asked.

  “I saw five guys dressed in blue jeans and sneakers, all with AK-47s. And one had a human hand impaled on the rifle barrel like some kind of sadistic trophy.”

  Ryan exchanged an irritated glance with Rodriguez. “Where did this sighting occur, Mr. Santiago?”

  “Less than a mile from that horse farm—the one where your guys were killed—there’s an abandoned coal mine.”

  Inwardly, Ryan groaned. Virtually no cover, cramped spaces, limited egress, structural dangers, air quality issues, compromised communications—it would be a nightmarish battlefield.

  “I used a Chi-phone app to record the coordinates of the mine’s entrance,” Santiago continued. “So I can forward them to you.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Ryan told him, pondering the merits of a drone strike. He could blow the hell out of the mountain, but he would never know if he’d gotten the cell responsible for ambushing Team 8A. “Have you reported this to the UW district commander?”

  “No way. I don’t trust those peacekeepers. They’re a bunch of assholes.” Santiago paused to clear his throat. “Listen, Captain, I have a wife and daughter. I don’t want those terrorists in my backyard.”

  “Thank you for your candor,” Ryan said. “And I assure you the Terror Fox is a priority.”

  He ended the call and let his head roll back against the seat.

  “I want that cell,” Rodriguez said as Jessie, Kyle, Bradley, and the kids exited the house. “Research that coal mine and formulate a plan. I can call in some favors and get you an Apache escort.”

  The helicopter gunship—equipped with FLIR, forward looking infrared radar, antimissile systems, Hellfire missiles, Hydra 70 rocket pods, and a 30-millimeter chain gun—was a scarce resource. Most offensive assets were overseas, driving entrenched Iranians from Iraqi oil fields.

  Rodriguez pushed open the driver’s door, lumbered forward as if to exit, then rocked back. “Absolutely no UW notification ... And get Webber involved in the op. Nothing helps a grieving warrior more than a little retribution.”

  Ryan wasn’t so sure about that. Should I inform Rodriguez about Bradley’s erratic behavior and jeopardize the career of the man who saved my life? Or gamble my own career on the flimsy prospect that Bradley has gotten his shit together?

  The driver’s door clunked shut, extinguishing Ryan’s opportunity to speak out before the funeral. With a resigned sigh, he climbed from the vehicle, pulled on his beret, and hustled to catch up with Rodriguez.

  Bradley and Kyle flanked Jessie, elbows interlocked, guiding her to the sheriff’s station. Ryan could hear her weeping, an appropriate soundtrack for the medley of should haves replaying through his mind.

  Nikki clung to Bradley, the “superhero” who had saved her from the “monsters.” Billy gripped Kyle’s free hand, wide-eyed, head swiveling as he scanned the crowd of civilians lining the street.

  Children displayed clumsily drawn artwork, American flags, angels, and flowers; adults held signs appreciating Abby’s service and sacrifice. Hundreds of people who had never met her were mourning along with their governor and first lady.

  Ryan and Rodriguez halted at the terra-cotta-tiled stairway of the sheriff’s station and saluted as an Honor Guard from Langden emerged bearing the wooden casket; then the procession resumed.

  For six blocks, all along the route to the cemetery, throngs of civilians clogged sidewalks and cross streets, and somberly fell in step behind them, a grim-faced parade of respect.

  Ryan’s fingers ground into his palms. It galled him to watch Kyle bury his daughter, to watch Bradley lose the love of his life; and he blinked back his emotions, vowing to lead the assault against the Terror Fox ... to expedite justice ... for Abby.

  57

  Tremonton, Utah

  AFTER TEN HOURS, HUNGER and thirst mounting with each blistered step, Sybil had finally made it to Tremonton and a euphoric sense of accomplishment glowed inside her.

  I kept the first part of my promise, she thought, looking skyward, thinking about her father. I escaped District Ten, and now I can sound the warning about the peacekeepers. I’ll set the record straight—the UW murdered my dad, and they’re gonna be held accountable.

  “Izzy, I’ve been thinking,” she said tentatively, still searching for the right words. “Maybe you should hang out here, with Uncle Kevin and me for a while.”

  “I will for a day or two,” he told her, “but then I’ve got to find my dad and tell him what happened to my mom.”

  “But Barclay Air Force Base is still six hundred miles away, Star’s dead, and you can’t possibly walk that far all by yourself. What if more peacekeepers find you?”

  He shrugged matter-of-factly; a sheen of conviction glinted in his coppery eyes. “Depends on how many there are. One, I shoot him; more than that, I run like hell ... Besides, this town is creepy.”

  In her mind, Sybil had imagined Tremonton as her personal promised land, flowing with water, rice, and security; but she had to admit it was unnaturally quiet. Bullet-scarred houses sat back from the street, their lawns reduced to dried up patches of straw; and although not a soul was visible, she could feel eyes peering at her through gaps in boarded-up windows.

  “Folks are probably just leery of strangers,” she told him. “With good reason.”

  Her Uncle’s house was a long, narrow white box with two bulging bow windows and a detached garage. Sybil followed the meandering walkway of sun-bleached pavers to a cracked cement stairway and knocked on the front door.

  Anticipation jangling inside her, she cupped her hands like horse blinders and peeked through the side windows. “Uncle Kevin, it’s me, Sybil.” She knocked again with more authority.

  Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a racking shotgun.

  She whirled around, her gaze traveling along a steel barrel to a bear of a man with wild, grizzled hair, an unkempt beard, and predatory eyes. Sybil exhaled audibly, terrified, yet relieved he wasn’t a peacekeeper.

  “You got five seconds to drop that rifle!”

  Izzy complied, propping it against the front door with a quivering hand.

  “I—I’m just looking for my Uncle,” Sybil stammered. “He lives here. You might even know him. His name is Kevin Ludington.”

  Chapter 6

  —— DAY 446 ——

  Friday, May 6th

  58

  District Eight, Colorado

  ABBY SWALLOWED THE last spoonful of baked beans, tossed the empty can onto the card table, and gripped her aching forehead with both hands.

  Is it the concussion? she asked herself. Or the decision I have to make?

  Franny had claimed responsibility for six sniper attacks, targeting Chinese electrical workers, and the bombings of Moffat Tunnel and UW Headquarters while adamantly denying any involvement in the horse farm ambush that had killed Abby’s team.

  “We heard the explosion,” Franny had told her, “and tried to cover your back. By the way, I killed the peacekeeper who shot you.” She had paused long enough to place Abby’s rifle and gear on the card table. “You’re free to leave whenever you choose. Just keep in mind that they’re searching for you. And they’ll shoot on sight.”

  Was Franny pla
ying a head game? Returning all Abby’s gear except the one item she needed most—her satellite phone? Did she really ditch it at the horse farm along with the tactical headset to avoid being tracked? Did the Chinese cellular tower jam communications prior to the ambush? Was certain death lurking outside the mine? Or was it a psychological ploy to keep Abby off-balance?

  The needle under the fingernail, the dry fire, the threat of pliers—was Ty the bad cop to her good cop?

  It smacked of manipulation, though Franny’s conviction and sincerity weren’t easy to dismiss. She honestly believed every word she’d uttered, but that didn’t guarantee the woman wasn’t insane.

  Sighing, Abby pushed herself onto her feet, donned her battle vest, then winced as the bulletproof plate pressed against her bruised ribs. The backpack magnified the pressure, and a surge of queasiness drained the strength from her body.

  Can I physically make it fifty miles to Barclay? Can I run if I have to? Can I fend off another onslaught of terrorists?

  Yesterday, she had answered no to those questions, prompting Abby to postpone her departure; and after twenty-four hours of rest, the result had improved to a feeble maybe.

  She raised her rifle to ready position, bearing the full weight of her gear. Would twenty-eight rounds be enough? Although Franny had generously offered water, food, and ammunition for the trip, she didn’t have the .308 caliber Abby’s rifle required.

  “Webber!” Franny scurried from the darkened corridor. “We’ve got uninvited company from the north. You remember the drill?”

  Abby lowered her rifle then squeezed her temples, recalling the elaborate set of defensive procedures Franny had devised for the mine.

  Am I dealing with a brilliant tactician? Or a paranoid lunatic?

  Nodding, Abby eased her bullet-dinged helmet onto her head.