EMPowered- America Re-Energized

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “No smoking gun.”

  “All right. Call it a night. Let’s go—”

  “Where?”

  “Abby’s quarters. You two can bunk there while she’s away. If there’s no tangible proof by Monday, I’ll drop you in District Six when I pick her up.”

  “Damn,” Franny said with a snap of her fingers. “Same roommate as last night.”

  The words pulsed through Ryan’s veins. “You’d better be careful what you ask for, because you might just get it!”

  “Oh no-o-o!” Gwen shoved a stack of papers away from her and buried her face in her hands.

  Franny said, “Gwen, what’s wrong?”

  “Sam Klein. Mr. Cipco. Mr. Garrett ... I-I-I killed them!” she stammered, skidding into hysteria. “I thought the red serum was just ineffective. It’s really a biological weapon ... I-I killed hundreds of people!”

  Headache intensifying, Ryan kneaded his neck. “Gwen, how did you determine who got the red serum?”

  “I didn’t,” she sniffled. “Facial recognition software identified the patient, and the computer prescribed red or blue.”

  From the desk, Ryan lifted the legal pad containing Franny’s handwritten English translations. “Damn, your penmanship sucks.”

  “Then give me a computer.” Those glacial-teal eyes were daring him. “Oh, right. I forgot. You don’t trust me.”

  “It’s against regulations to let civilians—”

  “You ... ? Are invoking regulation?” Franny asked with a derisive laugh. “That’s like an atheist citing The Ten Commandments. Besides, I’m not a civilian; I’m an unpaid private contractor. Remember? And is that within your regulations?”

  “Will you both shut up?” Gwen shouted. “It says here that China’s Cyber Warfare Division hacked into U.S. government databases. Four specific demographics were targeted for the red serum: political leadership, active and retired law enforcement, Veterans, and registered gun owners.”

  92

  District Six, Texas

  AT 0900 HOURS, ABBY was sitting alone, watching puffy white clouds reflect across the glassy still waters of Brazos Reservoir. A layer of fist-sized, gray rock outlined its trapezoidal shape like a bathtub ring; and behind her, birds and cicadas chattered.

  She picked up a sun-warmed rock and pitched it into the reservoir. It made a blooping splash and kicked out perfectly circular, concentric waves over the surface. Within a minute, the waters reverted to their serene state as if the disturbance had never occurred.

  Could the same happen with Bradley?

  Abby selected another rock and carved a two-foot-tall T into the dirt. On the top left, she drew a Y for yea; on the right, an N for nay in an attempt to organize the turmoil of questions and emotions raging inside her.

  Do I love Bradley? she asked herself. And does he love me?

  Without hesitation, she placed the rock in the yea column and picked up another.

  Can I trust him?

  He didn’t try to lie about it.

  Abby deposited the second rock in the yea column.

  But I had to hear about it from Mia. That’s a lie by omission.

  She switched the second rock to nay.

  Is that fair? Should Bradley have told me in the mine? Before the cell tower operation? In the middle of my meltdown?

  Abby picked up the rock, lobbing it into the air and catching it as she deliberated.

  Was Bradley only unfaithful once? Would he be unfaithful again?

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled to herself, placing the “trust rock” on the vertical dividing line between yea and nay.

  Can I forgive him?

  She couldn’t disregard the extenuating circumstances. The video of the stoning was sickening; Bradley had undoubtedly been emotionally compromised. She set a third rock in the yea column then immediately removed it.

  If the situation were reversed, could I have been enticed by a shoulder to cry on? Yes. Could it have led to sex? Absolutely not. She asked the question again: Can I forgive him?

  Another rock joined the murky realm of “I don’t know.”

  Do we have a future?

  If not, why haven’t I told my parents?

  Her hand started toward the yea column and retracted.

  Then why did I give back his ring?

  She sighed, frustrated with unruly, conflicting emotions that couldn’t seem to be corralled by logic.

  Can it ever be the same between us?

  The final rock straddled the line, a graphic representation of angst, doubt, and indecisiveness.

  “You look deep in thought.”

  Recognizing her father’s voice, she said, “You know me. Always strategizing.” She rose to her feet, smirking at the M4 barrel protruding above her father’s shoulder. “Walking around with a loaded weapon these days?”

  “Hell yeah! Smartass.” He flashed a chagrined smile and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You ready for church? I’ve got a lot to be thankful for.”

  They strolled back toward the house. Abby’s mother was waiting beneath the shade of a maple tree, smiling at Nikki and Billy, who were hopping up and down the porch steps pretending to be kangaroos.

  With an arm still firmly planted around Abby, her father drew her mother into a one-armed hug. “Billy! Nikki! Let’s go! We don’t want to be late.”

  The district’s four churches had burned to the ground during the lawless days after the EMP, when hordes of terrorists had turned neighborhoods into war zones. Although rebuilding efforts were underway, Sunday services were still being held at the local high school, inside the auditorium during inclement weather and at the football field on beautiful days like today.

  People massed around the Murphy family as if they were celebrities, thanking Abby for her service, congratulating her parents; and it became evident how sincerely the residents of District Six respected and admired their governor.

  “Good-morning.” Reverend Clark took his place behind a charred pulpit stationed on the sun-faded synthetic track. Crowds clambered up the bleachers, making them buzz with energy. “We have a special guest today, a testimony to God’s mercy, Abigail Murphy Webber.”

  Applause and whistles swirled until Abby waved in acknowledgement.

  “As we raise our voices in thanks,” the reverend told the congregation, “let us also continue to pray for the unknown deceased woman and her loved ones ...”

  An icy chill of responsibility clawed Abby’s stomach. The video replayed through her mind, and her imagination embellished it, adding sound effects and terrifying emotions.

  I’m the one the peacekeepers wanted dead. They stoned that poor woman because of me.

  Her father leaned into her. “Abby, it’s not your fault.”

  She glimpsed a flicker of light.

  Then she heard him cry out, a raw primal scream of pain punctuated by the crack of a rifle round.

  93

  Cimarron River, Oklahoma

  SYBIL HAD AWAKENED early and gone straight to the small barn where Pastor Muhlenberg stabled Moses. The eight-year-old American quarter horse had a golden coat with a white mane and tail, all in need of grooming.

  Brush stroking vigorously over the horse’s shoulder, Sybil thought about yesterday’s strange turn of events. After the peacekeepers began attacking one another, fed-up residents had commandeered weapons from the fallen soldiers and driven the surviving troops out of town.

  “There she is,” Pastor Muhlenberg said as he and Izzy entered the barn. “Nice work. You’ve done this before.”

  “I used to have an Arabian horse named Star, but she got grass sickness and ...” Her voice faltered and she began brushing faster. “And I figured it was the least I could do since you fed and housed Izzy and me.”

  “Well, y’all are welcome to stay on,” the pastor told them.

  “Thanks,” Izzy said. “But I really need to find my dad.”

  “And we need to warn people about the peacekeepers.” Sybil paused, trying
to detangle a particularly matted section of the horse’s mane. “Besides, the UW will be coming back to Cimarron—”

  “And we’ll be ready. No welcoming them as heroes next time.” Muhlenberg adjusted his cowboy hat and cleared his throat. “Well, if I can’t persuade y’all to stay, maybe I can convince ya to head south. That UW contingent came from the north and retreated that way. It’ll be extremely dangerous and y’all can’t warn people already under occupation.”

  Sybil and Izzy swapped wary glances.

  “But I really need to find my dad,” Izzy protested.

  “I know, Son. There’s a big Air Force Base down in Texas, called Langden. If y’all go there, I bet they’ll put-cha in touch with your father. And y’all can take Moses, here, to speed your journey.”

  “Oh no, we couldn’t,” Sybil said.

  “You need Moses to hunt and trade for food,” Izzy added.

  “Son, the Lord just gave this town a tanker full of diesel fuel and a UW truck with hundreds of horsepower. Surely, I can spare one horsepower,” the pastor said with a wink.

  “Okay, then. We’ll go south,” Izzy said, sounding resigned.

  “After Sunday services?” he asked. “I’ve been workin’ on a sermon I’d like y’all to hear.”

  By the time Sybil finished grooming Moses, people were already wandering into the one-room church. She and Izzy were ushered into the first row of pews, and she fidgeted, unable to get comfortable on the austere wooden seat.

  Pastor Muhlenberg approached the pulpit, cloaked in a black robe. “We have had a trying week, by any measure. Our town was invaded, but God did not let this injustice stand. The so-called peacekeepers seized our food, yet our larder has swelled by a truck full. They confiscated our guns and ammunition, yet our arsenal has doubled. They brought Alameda fever to Cimarron River, claiming the lives of family, friends, and neighbors, yet our resolve has deepened. The Bible states there is a time for all things. A time to preach. A time to pray. A time for peace ... Those times have passed away. Now is the time to fight!”

  The pastor shed his robe, revealing a camouflage-printed T-shirt and a pair of jeans; then he hoisted a rifle from behind the pulpit. “Many of y’all may be unable to fight with guns, but that doesn’t mean ya have no part in this. Despite hardships, Sybil and Izzy found ways to resist this enemy: sabotaging vehicles; derailing trains filled with vaccines; spreading the word that peacekeepers are, in reality, vicious predators. Surely, if these children can make a difference, so can I. Who among y’all is with me?”

  94

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  PRIVATE MIA CANDELORI waltzed into Memorial Chapel and scanned the topography of crew cuts, her greenish-brown eyes zeroing on her target. Bradley Webber was six-foot-three, handsome with broad shoulders, friendly hazel eyes, and a shockingly boyish smile.

  Hannibal the military commander meets Peter Pan, she thought.

  Mia strutted through the center aisle of the chapel, oblivious of the service, appreciating all the eyes ogling her. She edged into a pew, past three Airmen standing ramrod straight and provocatively brushed against them.

  Detecting her advance, Bradley excused himself, and sidled past Fitzgerald, exiting the opposite end of the pew.

  Fitzgerald blocked Mia’s path. “Leave him alone. He doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Irreverently, she climbed onto the wooden pew and stalked past him, savoring the outlandish scene, knowing rumors and gossip would play to her objective.

  She scurried along the aisle, cutting through leers and judgmental stares, then she wrenched open the chapel’s main door.

  Running as best she could in a skirt and heels, Mia shouted, “Bradley, wait!”

  He didn’t break stride. “Just stay the hell away from me!”

  “Why? Your marriage is over.”

  He stopped abruptly and turned, his hazel eyes slicing through her. “My marriage is none of your business!”

  “I told Abby all about our affair—”

  “There was no affair! And you damn well know it!”

  “You think that matters?”

  Arms barricaded across his chest, Bradley’s complexion flushed with rage. “Why ...? Why are you intent on fucking up my life?”

  “I want out of the military—”

  “Well, I don’t! There are thousands of guys on this base. Why me?”

  “Fraternization alone wasn’t enough to earn me a dishonorable discharge. So I had to up the stakes to adultery. And most of the young guys aren’t married.”

  “You are a psychotic bitch!”

  With a taunting smile, Mia said, “A pregnant psychotic bitch.”

  “That is not my problem.”

  “It will be ... My word against yours. And these days, paternity tests are scarce. You think after you’ve been court-martialed the little wife is going to stand by your side?” Mia paused, chuckling derisively at his facial expression. “And the naїve Boy Scout looks shocked! Almost as horrified as when you opened your sleepy eyes and realized I wasn’t Abby ... Face it. You lost your marriage, your career, and your reputation ... And you didn’t even get off!”

  “Private,” Bradley said, grinding the word between his teeth, “You just declared war on the wrong guy!”

  95

  TEradS West Headquarters

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  WATCHING THE VIDEO feed, Ryan balled his hand and tapped the edge of the desk in the ops center. The TEradS barracks for Teams 7A and 7B had been pummeled by mortar fire—another ambush. Thankfully, this one had only produced minor injuries before a drone terminated the mortar team.

  Ryan was certain the peacekeepers were behind the attack. Fed up with playing defense, he was concocting a plan to take the fight directly to the UW, a feat that would require a delicate manipulation of regulations and the covert deployment of an unpaid private contractor.

  Mentally troubleshooting the unsanctioned mission, Ryan entered the small office adjacent to the ops center.

  Franny’s stunning teal eyes were charged with excitement. “Gwen uncovered a reference to an assassination plot involving Alameda fever. But she hasn’t been able to identify the target.”

  “It’s probably Governor Murphy in District Six. The Chinese just tried—and failed—to inject him with the red serum.”

  “That’s what happened to Governor Taylor in District Eight,” Gwen said, massaging the dark patches beneath her almond-shaped eyes. “The peacekeepers broadcasted a graphic video of her death over Chi-phones and Chi-pads to scare people into getting vaccinated.”

  “Sounds like a pattern,” Ryan said, reaching for his ringing phone. “I’ll check into it and see if any other governors died of Alameda fever.” Then accepting Major Rodriguez’s call, he retreated to the privacy of his office.

  “I want an explanation,” Rodriguez said, his tone double-edged with sarcasm and resentment, “as to why I just got my ass chewed over some Chinese laptop that I don’t know a fucking thing about!”

  Ryan closed the door behind him. “We acquired it during the raid on Mount Wheatly, sir.”

  Rodriguez muttered a string of expletives. “Why am I just hearing about this now?”

  “Politics would have forced you to surrender the laptop before we could glean any answers from it—”

  “That was not your call, Captain.”

  “I know. I was just hoping a slight delay could put an end to the ambushes.” Ryan updated him about the barracks mortar attack, the biological weapon known as Alameda fever, and the attempt to inoculate Kyle Murphy with it.

  “Andrews, do you realize how insane this sounds?”

  “More insane than DJ being a traitor, sir?”

  “Low blow—”

  “Unintended. My point is, just because something sounds crazy doesn’t mean it’s not true. And this time I have proof. I have thirty-five syringes, sir.”
<
br />   “My orders are to personally assume custody of that laptop. I’m due to land at 2200 hours.” Rodriguez let out a conflicted grunt. “If—for some unforeseen reason—I should miss that flight, it would take an extra twenty-four hours to get to Langden.”

  “Understood, sir,” Ryan said, impressed by his CO’s gutsiness; then a question exploded in his mind. Were those orders issued by a politician kowtowing to the Chinese? Or another traitor?

  “Can I ask who requested the laptop, sir?”

  “Aldrich Ames by order of the President,” Rodriguez told him.

  “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “He was a virtual unknown until receiving that electromagnetic promotion. He moved up three levels when President Quenten appointed him interim director of the CIA.”

  96

  District Six, Texas

  A LOCAL ANESTHETIC numbed the pain just as the doctor finished tending to Kyle’s wound. A sniper’s bullet had grazed the side of his head, sheared away the upper lobe of cartilage on his left ear, then burrowed into the heart of Max Owen, the unfortunate man sitting behind him on the bleachers. Owen had died instantly.

  Before Kyle realized what was happening, Abby had tackled him, knocking him onto the aluminum plank walkway as a second shot whizzed past them, narrowly missing Nikki.

  Through the chaos, Abby had spotted the muzzle flash and shouted, “Shooter. Eleven o’clock!”

  Civilian rifles bombarded the gunman’s position, pinning him down, ultimately riddling his body with bullet holes. Although the Asian shooter had been dressed in civilian clothes and carried no identification, Kyle knew he was a UW peacekeeper. For the second time in two days, the Chinese had tried to assassinate him, fomenting a strange fusion of regret and defiance.

  Emotionally, Kyle felt responsible for Max Owen, an innocent felled by a bullet intended for him; intellectually, the close call only hardened his resolve. Instead of fear and capitulation, there was an obstinate refusal to back down. He felt strangely validated. All previous thoughts of resigning his governorship vaporized, putting him at odds with his wife.