“Yes, sir. The TEradS only participated in an overwatch capacity. UW command will have to conclude their people screwed up.”
“What about the Pilots out of Barclay? Do they know?”
“No, sir. The all-volunteer team was inserted and extracted miles from the cabin; and the after action review indicates a fruitless search for the Terror Fox.”
“And Marion’s presence?”
“Civilian translator.”
Arms folding across his chest, Rodriguez said, “You should have come to me with this.”
“I wanted to keep you insulated, in case it went sideways, sir.”
“Captain, if you ever pull a stunt like this again without my knowledge, I will crucify you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
A squelched smile touched the corners of the Major’s mouth. “That said, I’m glad you got those fuckers ... Let’s take a walk. And grab that contraband you’ve got stashed beneath your desk.”
Stunned, Ryan retrieved the .40 caliber M&P handgun—smuggled onto base as an insurance policy against the unending flow of traitors. He presented it to his CO. “Sir, I can ex—”
“No need to explain.” Rodriguez inspected the weapon, concealed it beneath his jacket, then opened the office door.
Mia Candelori was scrambling toward them, a phone pressed against her ear. “Captain Andrews, two children just crashed a pickup truck into the western gate. And four armed peacekeepers are on scene, demanding to take them into custody.”
“Transfer the call to Colonel Gardner. He’s in charge of base security.”
“The children are claiming a familial connection to the TEradS; they’re begging to speak with the commander, sir.”
“Their names?” Ryan asked, impatiently.
Mia relayed the question into the phone then said, “Sybil Ludington and Izzy Bissel.”
Feeling like the floor had given way beneath him, Ryan thought, You’ve got to be kidding me.
121
District Six, Texas
GOVERNOR KYLE MURPHY stood in dazed silence. After three unsuccessful attempts on his life, the Chinese had turned him into a weapon aimed squarely against the people of District Six. Tension settled around him, pressing and heavy, like being buried alive.
Gary waited for Jessie to remove the Chi-phone from the office then said, “I know what you’re thinking, Kyle, and you can’t surrender.”
“I don’t have a choice. Thousands will suffer—”
“The peacekeepers will kill you!”
Reentering the room, Jessie said, “He’s right, Kyle. You just have to get word to Ryan or Rodriguez.”
The angst and fear in his wife’s blue eyes amplified the turmoil inside him, and he looked away. “My phone is being jammed, and the district is blockaded.”
Kyle plodded toward the six-foot-wide Texas flag on the far wall and collapsed onto the leather couch beneath it. Eyes closed, his face dropped into his hands. Fatalistic thoughts seeped into his consciousness. How would they end his life? A firing squad? A garrote? An injection of Alameda fever?
As Jessie’s arms enveloped him, a more dire thought occurred. Would they kill her too? And the kids?
“My surrender will have to be conditional,” he told Gary. “I want a guarantee that my family won’t be harmed.”
The sheriff’s head shook disapprovingly; his dark eyes met Kyle’s. “UW assurances are worthless, and you know it.”
Hearing a commotion, Kyle rose from the couch and strode toward the window. Citizens were gushing toward the sheriff’s station from all directions and gathering in clusters. “What is this about?”
Peering around Kyle, Gary said, “Not a clue.”
The crowd began chanting, and although he couldn’t understand the words, their body language was unmistakably angry. After a minute, the out-of-sync chorus melded into a single refrain: Screw the UW!
Jessie whispered, “Thank God, they’re supporting you.”
“And time is of the essence, Governor.” Gary’s voice took on a new urgency; his eyes burned with conviction. “This support won’t last forever. We need to act—hit the peacekeepers hard—before people start growing hungry and desperate.”
“What do you have in mind?” Kyle asked.
Gary pointed to the east. “They didn’t cut the power to the factories and refineries. Why?”
“If the ammunition and fuel stop flowing,” Jessie said, her voice rising with hope. “The U.S. military will take notice.”
“Exactly, so we implement a labor strike—”
“No!” Kyle shouted. “Fuel is the lifeblood of our armed forces. We would be sabotaging our own country. That’s treason.”
“And what’s going to happen after the peacekeepers kill you, me, and all the deputies? You think they won’t shut down the refineries to cripple our military? Hell, they already tried to blow up AF-2.”
Except for the chant wafting through the window, the room fell quiet.
How did the situation change so quickly? Why didn’t I see it coming?
“I know you don’t like it, and neither do I,” Gary continued. “But think of it as a prescribed burn. We set a small fire to prevent a catastrophic inferno.”
Jessie’s hands rested atop his shoulders and began kneading his stress-knotted muscles. “If we do nothing, the country dies right along with you,” she said. “We might as well try.”
Kyle’s fingers raked his graying hair. “It’s only a matter of time before they kill me. Without water and power, crops and livestock will die. Is it really worth letting people starve just to delay the inevitable?”
“Governor, no one is going to starve,” Gary said, his tone castigating. “The vaccination will kill them long before hunger.”
“Kyle, I know you think surrendering is a noble sacrifice for the district,” Jessie told him, “but it’s a fucking selfish thing to do!”
He winced, caught off guard by her use of profanity.
“This is bigger than you, bigger than District Six. This is about the future of our country.” She wiped away her tears and sniffled in a breath, her resolve hardening before his eyes. “Are you going to be a coward who gives up? Or a patriot who fights?”
122
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS FELT LIKE an over-pressurized tire on the verge of rupturing. He had ordered the children from the gate to his office, leaving Mia Candelori to baby-sit for the duration of his meeting with Rodriguez.
Unwilling to discuss the matter in Ryan’s office, his commanding officer insisted that phones and radios be left behind. Then he informed Private Candelori they would be at the mess hall.
Instead, he led Ryan through a wooded area off base, to a small park, vacant since the EMP and overgrown with waist-high weeds. Rodriguez stopped beneath a square pavilion packed with splintered picnic tables. The roof sagged as if supporting excessive weight, and he scanned the structure twice before taking a seat atop the centermost table.
Is he worried about listening devices? Ryan wondered. Or the damn roof caving in?
“What I’m about to tell you ... It’s top secret.”
Bracing himself, Ryan said, “Understood, sir.”
“Our warning got through in time. Quenten did not contract Alameda fever.” Rodriguez’s eyes continued to sweep for movement, driven by an almost paranoid compulsion.
“Then why did Aaron Burr assume power?” Ryan asked, adding, “Sir,” as an afterthought.
“Quenten doesn’t want the would-be assassins to try again. Our orders are to identify the additional traitors and launch an off-the-books operation to render them harmless. Along with Aldrich Ames.”
“The CIA director?” Ryan asked, his voice climbing. “Why us? Why not call in Delta? Or SEAL Team Six?”
Rodriguez completed another surveillance circuit. “They’re all deployed overseas and Quenten’s not sure who he can trust outside of the TEradS. Hell of a tha
nk-you for saving his ass, huh?”
“He’s ordering the execution of U.S. citizens on U.S. soil without due process ... and if it goes sideways, my guys take the fall so he can keep his hands clean?”
“I understand your reluctance; but can you—in good conscience—leave four traitors in the highest levels of government?”
Ryan’s gaze fell to his feet. “Can participation be voluntary?”
“Negative. You need to start training our eight remaining Snipers immediately. One-mile shots, urban environment, with Chinese-made fifties.”
“Nowhere near as accurate as the Barrett fifty—”
“I’m aware, but the plan is to spin this thing into a noose and hang it on the enemy.”
Thinking of Abby and Bradley, Ryan felt a lump form in his throat. He looked away, staring into a tract of scrub pine, his mind jetting through scenarios, none of them pleasant.
“I know what you’re thinking, Andrews. If you fall on your sword, you’ll be replaced. Someone else will issue the order. And believe me; the TEradS will be better off if you and I are in control of this thing.”
Ryan turned to face him. “Do we have any guarantees that—after the fact—Quenten won’t declare my guys criminals and put them on trial?”
Rodriguez gave a somber shrug. “Nothing beyond his word.”
That did not assuage Ryan’s reservations. “Let me get this straight. You want me to train my guys to go into four unknown cities and illegally dispatch unknown targets, using inferior weapons, while risking prosecution, prison, and/or lethal injection?”
“That, Captain, is why you must train them exceptionally well.”
123
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
FRANNY MARION TOOK A long, cold shower, reminiscing about that dripping-wet encounter with Ryan. Things had progressed beyond physical attraction. He had invaded her heart, like a radioactive particle able to penetrate walls and breach heavily guarded areas of her psyche. She was smitten with his quick wit, amused by his colorful vocabulary, and enamored with his courage. Ryan possessed an innate ability to reject the easy thing in favor of the right thing, even when it brought a truckload of shit down on him.
Like now, she thought, toweling off.
Clearly, her presence aboard that C-130 had irked Major Rodriguez.
Did I inadvertently expose the unsanctioned mission?
Pulling on one of Ryan’s sweat suits, the question weighed on her; and after weaving her wet hair into a French braid, Franny set out for his office.
“Captain Andrews isn’t here,” Mia told her. “Why don’t you take the rug rats over to the mess hall? I’m sure they’re hungry.”
Her attention gravitated to the children, painful reminders of her own personal tragedy.
Setting aside her emotions, Franny smiled at the young lady with the unkempt strawberry-blonde hair. Her pale-blue eyes shone with a melancholy maturity—the haunted eyes of a child who had witnessed atrocities.
The boy was younger, maybe nine or ten, and barely four feet tall. Dirty-blond, jagged bangs partially obscured his coppery eyes, and cheek-to-cheek freckles diminished the toughness he was trying to project.
After a round of introductions, Franny escorted Sybil and Izzy to the mess hall; and while the children dined on spaghetti, she skimmed Sybil’s journal.
“It’s all true, you know,” Sybil said meekly as though expecting a rebuke.
An empathic bond sprouted inside Franny, awakening dormant maternal instincts. “Oh, I know. And I admire your bravery. You inspired ordinary Americans to stand up and fight with any means at their disposal.”
Unable to grasp the domino-like impact his actions had set into motion, Izzy gave an indifferent shrug. “We were just trying to find my dad. He’s a member of the TEradS. Do you know him?”
“I don’t, but I bet Captain Andrews does. He’s the commander of TEradS West.”
“Is he the one they called from the gate?” Sybil asked. “The one who saved us from the UW?”
“You bet! Captain Andrews is a very good man.” Franny unclipped Sybil’s pen from the back of the journal; and as she began recording her own entry, her eyes glazed with tears for Sierra, her beautiful daughter.
Little arms closed around her. “It’ll be okay,” Izzy consoled her. “My dad and the TEradS will kick those assholes—uh ...” His head bowed apologetically. His cheeks flushed. “I mean, jerks ... My dad will kick those jerks right out of the country!”
You had it right the first time, Franny thought, a choked laugh escaping along with her tears.
After the children finished eating, she walked them back to TEradS Headquarters.
Eyes rolling, Mia said, “Captain Andrews is waiting on you.”
Despite Ryan’s ever-calm demeanor, Franny sensed his uneasiness.
It didn’t go well with Rodriguez, she thought.
“You must be Sybil Ludington,” Ryan said, offering his hand. “Thank you for the letter you left at the helicopter.”
“You actually got it?” Her face lit up. Pride twinkled in her light blue eyes.
“Yes, ma’am. And your information saved lives.”
Izzy was sidestepping along the wall of fallen Soldiers. “There he is!” he shouted excitedly. “That’s my dad, right there!”
Franny cringed.
The color drained from Ryan’s complexion. The torment in his eyes made her ache.
“Can you call him? Can I talk to him?” Izzy asked. “He’s going to be so pissed when I tell him how the UW killed my mom.”
Ryan took three slow, dread-filled steps and knelt beside him. “That wall is reserved for the bravest Soldiers.” There was a gentleness, a quiet grief in his voice that the boy immediately recognized.
Izzy’s bottom lip began to tremble. “He’s dead ... Isn’t he?”
Ryan’s arms engulfed the child, holding him tight as whimpers erupted into sobs. The tough, former Ranger’s face clenched, holding back his own emotions, and Franny knew he was blaming himself for the death of Master Sergeant Bissel.
“Wha-wha-what happens to us now?” Sybil stammered. “If-if you send us away, the peacekeepers will kill us!”
“Listen to me, both of you,” Ryan said authoritatively. “I will not let the peacekeepers hurt you. I promise.”
Franny felt something strange rising inside her. It dwarfed any sense of obligation to the military orphans, exceeded the intense feelings she had for Ryan, and even eclipsed the pain of losing her daughter. She was certain that God had brought them together—four weary, uniquely damaged souls—for a divine purpose.
Chapter 12
—— DAY 452 ——
Thursday, May 12th
124
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
EVAN RICHARDS OPENED his eyes, unable to discern where he was. It was too dark to see, and he felt groggy, unsure if he was really awake or trapped within a dream.
He attempted to yawn, stretching a band of tape plastered across his mouth, then lifted his head from the ground. A stark panic set in. He was hog-tied. Was the base under attack? How did someone get past him?
Smothered beneath the layer of tape, he let loose a string of expletives.
Bradley Webber!
In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t such a smart move, getting caught hitting on the guy’s wife.
Evan viewed the incident as a harmless flirtation, one that Bradley should have taken as a compliment. After all, he wouldn’t waste his time propositioning an ugly chick. In fact, he had done Webber a favor, conducted a live-fire drill that tested Abby’s fidelity.
Determined to free himself before one of the Air Force punks came to relieve him, Evan managed to roll from his stomach onto to his side, then his predicament deteriorated.
I’m freaking naked!
Evan was not afraid of physical pain; the Army had trained that out of him; the prospect of humiliati
on was another matter. If word got around that he had been knocked out, stripped, and hog-tied while on watch—without even landing a punch—he would become the laughingstock of the TEradS. Worse yet, Captain Andrews would be up his ass. How could he possibly explain this away?
“Man, you are lucky there’s no more YouTube!” An Airman reached down and yanked the tape from his face.
“Just shut the fuck up and cut me loose.”
“Soon as I call it in,” the cocky little shit replied.
“No! Don’t! I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You don’t remember me, do you, Sergeant Richards?”
His mind raced. He had made a sport of harassing grunts, too many to remember.
“Private Russo. And I am thrilled to see that you’ve finally pissed off the wrong guy.”
The full force of Bradley’s message struck like a butt stock to the face. The Sniper was saying: I can get to you anytime. Anywhere. And you’ll never see me coming.
125
District Six, Texas
PETER FRANCISCO HAD inherited an old Soviet SKS-45, a precursor to the AK-47; and the timeworn weapon had become like an extension of his body. The fifteen-year-old had matured, virtually overnight, and transformed himself into an adept hunter and a cunning warrior, which made Governor Murphy’s rejection all the more painful.
Peter had volunteered for the District Six security force and been dismissed based on his age. The governor refused to believe that a year’s maturity post-EMP was exponentially greater than a decade during the good old days. The carefree, spoiled Peter had been smelted by the fires of hell and recast. He no longer worried about whether his sneakers matched his shirt or whether the brand-name label on his jeans would impress his peers. His only concern was survival, for himself, his district, and his country; and in his mind, that meant waging war against the peacekeepers.
Convinced that valuable intelligence would earn him a place within the security forces, Peter set out with pen and paper to note troop numbers, movements, locations, and weapons.
EMPowered- America Re-Energized Page 26