EMPowered- America Re-Energized

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Did they sedate me?

  His watch confirmed more than an hour had passed.

  Rodriguez plodded toward the door, suspecting this was a CIA safe house. He twisted the knob, surprised to find it unlocked. Two men in dark suits flanked the doorway, each with short-cropped hair and wires coiling between their ears and shirt collars.

  “Good-evening, Major,” the older man said. Both stepped forward into the hallway, one to the left, the other to the right, like human barricades. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

  “I’d like to know who kidnapped me,” Rodriguez stated bluntly. “And why.”

  “Follow me, sir.”

  Rodriguez moved through the hallway, sandwiched between the agents then entered an elevator that descended three or four levels. The doors retracted like stage curtains revealing a maze of deserted cubicles; and at the end of another passageway, he saw a massive door, steel and impenetrable like a bank vault. Was this one of the underground bunkers outside Washington, D.C.?

  The senior agent dismissed his subordinate, and the steel portal swung outward, emitting a hydraulic hiss.

  Rodriguez’s eyes grew large then he straightened to attention.

  “Reports of my impending death have been overstated,” said President Quenten. Flashing his trademark plasticized smile, he rose from behind a glass-topped desk and introduced Doctor Clive Immendorf, his personal physician; General Jonathan Quenten, his brother and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and Rear Admiral Grace Murray, commander of Cyber Command.

  “And you’ve already met Nolan Stevens, director of Secret Service,” the President said, pointing to his escort.

  Rodriguez nodded, trying to make sense of this.

  “For the time being, it is imperative for everyone beyond these walls to believe I will succumb to Alameda fever.” Quenten sank back into his chair, self-preservation glinting in his silvery eyes. “There is no need for a second attempt if the assassins believe their first effort succeeded ... And it might have, if not for your diligence, Major.”

  “Actually, sir, the plot was uncovered by Captain Ryan Andrews—”

  “I am aware of the raid on Mount Wheatly. And I assure you; all the TEradS personnel involved will receive appropriate commendations—eventually. Right now, there are more pressing concerns.”

  A shift of the President’s eyes yielded the floor to Nolan Stevens. The Secret Service director began with a monotone cadence. “Infused inside the filtered tips of the President’s cigarettes, we detected an aerosolized strain of Alameda fever. Few are privy to his tobacco indulgence. Fewer still have access to his personal effects. We are investigating staffers, along with janitorial, housekeeping, and kitchen workers ... at this point no one is above suspicion.”

  “Not even his duly appointed cabinet,” General Quenten added.

  Rodriguez observed a silent exchange of brotherly animosity then said, “With all due respect, Mr. President, why am I here? And why the excessive use of force?”

  Massaging the dimple at the center of his chin, Quenten gave a politician’s nod of acquiescence. “I couldn’t risk a communications intercept while the co-conspirators remain anonymous. You, Major, are here because I wanted to personally thank you for saving my life ... and to solicit your assistance in dispensing justice ...”

  Rodriguez suspected the phrase dispensing justice had nothing to do with trials and courts of law; and a knot of apprehension tightened in his chest.

  “... These cabinet members must be dealt with quietly and off the record—”

  “What makes you think they are cabinet members?” General Quenten demanded. “Do you have some insight into the identities of these traitors?”

  The President swallowed hard, and a split second of raw fear preceded his outrage. “Of course not ...! And ... As I was saying, this country has endured enough traumas. Americans understand that enemies have penetrated our society, even our military; the reality that they have infiltrated my administration could be a fatal blow. As a military man, you understand the importance of morale.”

  Certain that the Commander in Chief knew far more than he was willing to admit, Rodriguez said, “I don’t intend any disrespect, sir, but isn’t the CIA better equipped for clandestine missions?”

  “Ordinarily, I would agree. However, since Aldrich Ames is currently director of the Agency—”

  “One of your political appointees,” the general interrupted.

  “Spare me your twenty-twenty hindsight. You know how politics works.” Quenten’s tone was the verbal equivalent of a fist crashing against the desk. He hesitated to regain composure before turning his attention to Rodriguez. “The TEradS are under my direct control without any Posse Comitatus Act complications. You are already aware of the laptop and the assassination plot. And you have proven your loyalty, Major. That makes you the logical choice for this mission. And ‘Amazing Grace,’ here, is standing by to support you in any manner necessary, data acquisition, signals jamming, disinformation.”

  Rodriguez let out a muted sigh, still trying to process the fact that the CIA had attempted to kill the President. “And if I decline to involve the TEradS in a black ops assassination?”

  Quenten’s perpetual smile screwed into a puckered frown. “You know better than to speak so carelessly!”

  Rodriguez looked away. You require others to break the law on your behalf, he thought, and you can’t even say the word.

  “Major, I am ordering you to render all four traitors harmless.”

  112

  Fifty Miles North of Amarillo, Texas

  CAL BAKER WAS A FOURTH generation rancher, born and raised on a patch of soil purchased by his great-grandfather. His family had experienced triumphs and weathered the Great Depression, but had never fallen upon times as trying as the past fifteen months. Immediately following the electromagnetic pulse, terrorists had ruthlessly slaughtered a majority of his Texas longhorns and set fire to his home before he and his family managed to drive them off their land.

  Weeks later, rustlers became a threat, not malicious people by nature, just hungry parents desperate to feed their children, which made the chore of defending his herd even more onerous. Although Cal empathized with the plight of others, his first obligation was to his wife, his two sons, and his parents who were well into their sixties.

  Since losing the house, his family had been living in a steel shed, freezing, sweating, fighting to keep themselves and three dozen cattle alive. Each night, Cal corralled the steer close to the shed and slept with his ears open and his shotgun loaded. His days were spent on horseback, combing the property for threats, an exhausting and mundane circuit that had led him to the children.

  There was a despondent honesty in Sybil’s eyes, a candid determination in Izzy’s tone, a sincerity he couldn’t disregard. He felt an inexplicable compassion for the children, a compelling urge to help tempered by a healthy dose of skepticism. Cal simply would not allow armed strangers near his family.

  After a dinner of beef jerky and water, Sybil had read from her journal, citing crazy tales of peacekeeper brutality and the heroic actions of average Americans. Cal wasn’t sure whether the journal was a bleak proclamation or a hopeful testimony. Should he be depressed or inspired? And more importantly, was it fact or fiction?

  As darkness fell, he set out to round up the cattle. The evening was clear with a stiff, chilly wind out of the north, and Cal hitched the zipper of his jacket higher as he mounted his mare.

  Halfway through his routine, he happened upon a breach in his split-rail fence.

  Instantly, he knew another steer had been poached.

  His thoughts boomeranged back to the kids. Were they a diversion? Part of a setup? Parents had been coercing their children into committing crimes long before the specter of starvation, before the pulse. Is that why the journal stories were so outlandish? Were they constructed to elicit sympathy?

  Cal dismounted the mare, tied the lead rope to a fence post,
and examined the damage. Barely visible through the fading twilight, several sets of prints, hooves as well as boots, stretched through the gap. Cal readied his shotgun and tracked the rustlers to the south.

  After a half mile, he glimpsed a fluttering light where his dirt driveway met Route 287. He crept forward, sniffing for smoke. The prevailing winds were carrying any evidence away from him.

  Faint voices grew stronger; the words remained unintelligible. A dozen men, speaking in a foreign tongue, were huddled around a fire and Cal grimaced. Another section of his fence was fueling the blaze.

  Along the driveway to the east, the carcass of a steer lay butchered, its entrails scattered, blood staining the soil. To the west, parked between parallel bands of fence that lined his driveway, there were two white pickup trucks. Through the glow of firelight, he read the inscribed lettering: UW.

  A sonic boom of emotion—shock, fury, and fear—coursed through him.

  Sybil and Izzy were not lying.

  The stories were true.

  And enemy troops were less than a mile from his family.

  113

  District Eight, Colorado

  ABBY WEBBER WAS LYING prone, scanning the mountainside. Darkness was swallowing the eastern horizon, bringing with it a bitter breeze, unusual for the middle of May even at this altitude. Her battle dress uniform provided minimal protection against a windchill dipping into the thirties. The ground was leeching away body heat, the cold was seeping into her limbs, and the operation was likely to drag on through the night.

  After inserting and hiking fifteen miles, the team of six volunteers set up surveillance on a log cabin. The unsanctioned mission was to provide overwatch for Franny while she rigged the structure with explosives she had squirreled away, courtesy of Tygren Mining.

  Lying beside Abby, Sergeant Richards huffed into his hands trying to warm them. “I can’t even feel my feet,” he muttered, seemingly oblivious to his open microphone. “Damn, Webber, aren’t you cold?”

  Abby considered enlightening him, then decided that if she had to listen to him whine, why shouldn’t everyone else? In defiance of numb toes and aching fingers, she said, “No, I’m good.”

  Breath materializing and dissipating, Richards said, “I can’t believe I’m freezing my balls off on this bullshit mission.”

  Indignant, Abby replied, “One: You had a chance to opt out. Two: Getting the bastards who killed my team is not a bullshit mission. And three: It’s damn fitting to take them out in a building booby-trapped with explosives.”

  For a long beat, Richards looked away then his head jerked toward her. Lips curdling into a smirk, eyes leering, he said, “Maybe I can thaw my frozen fingers on that hot little body of yours.”

  His words were like spiders crawling over bare skin. “Bad idea,” she said flatly. “Then your fingers will be frozen and broken.”

  “You know what would warm us both?” Richards’ eyebrows arched provocatively. His hands rubbed together, a gesture that created heat and also conveyed a risqué enthusiasm. “A nice, friction-inducing, heat-generating, passion-arousing, torridly erotic blow job!”

  Abby rolled her eyes, refusing to dignify the remark with a response; then realizing Bradley had overheard it, her eyes darted toward his position.

  Is his scope zeroed on Richards?

  “Seriously,” he continued, “what better way to even the score for Bradley’s romp with Mia? And we can’t be court-martialed over something that happened on a nonexistent op.”

  Abby activated the microphone on her tactical headset. “In that case, Sergeant, go fuck yourself! And by the way, your mic is hot.”

  114

  Fifty Miles North of Amarillo, Texas

  WITH A BELLY FULL OF barbecued beef, Captain Jin Hai nestled into his sleeping bag, content despite the blustery night air and technological difficulties. A good meal was an indisputable boon to a soldier’s morale, especially after losing the GPS signal of his prey.

  Jin had been sent to neutralize two elusive fugitives—a teenaged girl and a ten-year-old boy—responsible for a string of capital offenses, including murder. He groaned, knowing he was within striking distance, yet unable to complete his mission.

  He drifted into a recurring daydream, a world where China had reclaimed all the territory that legitimately belonged to the Motherland—the Xisha, Nansha, and Diaoyu Islands (better known as the Paracel, Spratly, and Senkaku Islands); the South China Sea and Taiwan; and most notably, the resource-rich gem formerly known as the United States.

  Christopher Columbus had stumbled upon the continent centuries after Jin’s ancestors had rightfully discovered America. The so-called explorer then bestowed credit on the white race and seized the land, property to which the Chinese were entitled.

  Pride swelled within him; he was helping to redress that travesty. Not only was he making history, he was building a future for himself. The Communist Party had promised rewards for the warriors of the Chinese Century, and Jin had already filed the paperwork to claim his share of the spoils.

  Eyes closed, his mind produced a virtual tour of the southern California home with four bedrooms and an inground swimming pool. President Xuiping had stipulated that the jihadist proxies conduct their executions outside the dwellings, allowing future Chinese tenants immediate occupancy. The odor of decay, the feasting insects—they would all be gone, leaving Jin and his comrades to dispose of sun-bleached skeletons on front lawns.

  Jin envisioned himself lounging by the pool, sleeping in a bedroom larger than his entire apartment back in Beijing.

  A rumbling sound rent his daydream.

  Jin’s eyes opened.

  His gaze lifted skyward, certain it was thunder.

  The ground began to vibrate.

  A few soldiers shouted, “Earthquake!”

  The noise and tremors intensified like a building wave, and by the time he understood what was happening, the charging Texas longhorns were upon him, heads lowered, horns closing like spears. Their feet pummeled the ground and a distinct sound pierced the drone—the panicked howls of those being impaled.

  Jin slithered from his sleeping bag.

  A spasm of fear detonated in his chest.

  The stampede was being funneled between the fences, and as he clumsily dodged a longhorn, gunshots erupted. Jin hadn’t thought about using his rifle to stop the rampaging beasts. He just wanted to get out of the way.

  As he hoisted a foot onto a fence rail he noticed muzzle flashes—dead ahead.

  A bullet tore through his shoulder and hurled him backward into the raging current of steer.

  A horn gored his lower back, skewering him like a piece of fruit.

  He plummeted to the ground.

  Then dozens of hooves trampled the remaining life from his body.

  115

  District Eight, Colorado

  FOR FOUR HOURS, BRADLEY Webber had fought doggedly to keep his mind from backsliding to the exchange between Abby and Richards. He had resisted the urge to respond over open airwaves, opting to confront Richards in person, without witnesses, when he wasn’t in the middle of an operation. Failure to focus on the mission could cost lives, he knew; still, the temptation was ever present, resurfacing each time he glimpsed Abby’s position.

  His eyes made another circuit, senses vigilant for the subtlest of changes. Would the UW show up? Captain Andrews had baited the trap three hours ago. With the Chinese cellphone from Mount Wheatly sitting on his desk, he had alluded to a fictitious mission in which the TEradS would storm this cabin at 0500 hours. An involuntary shiver rippled through him, and he cursed the cold, yet another taunting reminder.

  On the southern horizon, two faint lights twinkled. Headlights?

  The glimmer grew in size and intensity, winking through the trees and underbrush. Aided by his night-vision goggles, he noted two vehicles.

  It has to be the UW, he decided. No one else has running vehicles.

  Two pickup trucks parked a hundred yards from the
cabin, and eight Chinese soldiers raided the structure.

  I hope Franny concealed the explosives, he thought. Recognition would not only compromise their mission, it would alert the enemy to their presence, triggering a firefight Captain Andrews wanted desperately to avoid.

  After clearing the small cabin, the pickups rumbled closer. Four peacekeepers took up defensive positions at the corners of the building while the others rifled through the truck beds. Bradley watched the men ferry battery-operated floodlights, toolboxes, and spools of—what he presumed to be—detonation cord into the cabin. Not the conclusive proof Captain Andrews needed.

  The peacekeepers reemerged, dropped the tailgate, and slid a wooden crate from the bed. They transported it into the cabin like pallbearers toting a coffin, and Bradley honed his scope on the image stamped on the side of the crate.

  It matched the symbol Gwen had provided: the Mandarin word for explosives.

  As the UW troops waddled through the doorway, Bradley hailed Captain Andrews via his tactical headset and confirmed that explosives were present.

  Ryan replied, “Tango Foxtrot, go,” giving the Terror Fox permission to proceed. Bradley ditched his night-vision gear just as Franny hit the detonator.

  A blast wave jostled both pickup trucks. Tongues of fire streaked upward, smoke mushroomed, and the roar resounded against the mountains in a prolonged moan. Fragments of the cabin hurtled outward, reducing the entire site to a pile of rubble, shredding the enemy sappers who had ambushed Team 8A at the horse farm. Mission accomplished.

  The TEradS teams immediately set out for their extraction point, and once Bradley boarded the Blackhawk helicopter, his restraint ruptured. Glaring at Richards, he silently enumerated no fewer than forty-one ways he could wring the life from him.

  The Sergeant’s behavior was despicable on multiple levels. Beyond the disrespect and sexual harassment, he had betrayed Bradley, using his ill-advised indiscretion with Mia to manipulate Abby. Soldiers were supposed to guard each other’s backs. How the hell could anyone trust this guy in battle?