Tim Washburn - Powerless

“Where’s the National Guard?”

“They’re trying to curtail the fighting, but field reports suggest some of the National Guard units have splintered. Especially in the New York–New Jersey area, where home turf is king. When it comes to food and family, priorities change. Might be something you need to address with Admiral Hickerson.”

“Admiral Hickerson’s plate is full at the moment. Every branch of the military is neck-deep in trying to develop a plan to kick the shit out of the Iranians. See if your agents can coordinate with local police and National Guard units to put a stop to the fighting.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll do our best, but we just don’t have the manpower to police the whole country.”

President Harris leans back in his chair. “What about local law enforcement in the smaller communities?”

“Most of them will side with their constituents. They live with those people, and most likely they’re even more adamant about keeping the outsiders away. We can’t count on them to be effective enforcers of the law.”

“Maintain your focus on the urban areas, then. The other situation will need to take care of itself.”

“Do you think we’ll be successful in turning back the Iranians, sir?”

President Harris leans forward in his chair and plants his forearms on the desk. “We’re going to kick their ass. That, you can take to the bank.”

Office of the Supreme Leader, Tehran, Iran

President Mahmoud Rafsanjani’s usual white button-down shirt is damp with perspiration as he and Major General Ahmad Safani make their way down the hall to the supreme leader’s office. It’s sweltering in Iran, but the shirt dampness isn’t due to the weather. The two men walk silently along the long hallway paved with antique Persian rugs. No chitchat or idle chatter fill the void, as each is consumed with his own thoughts. The medals pinned to the chest of General Safani’s crisply pressed uniform tinkle in the silence. Some were earned, but most of the medals are merely window dressing. President Rafsanjani glances over at the noise and smirks.

They slow their pace and turn toward the guarded office. One of the clerics that flock around the offices of the supreme leader opens the door, allowing the two to enter without breaking stride. The office is sparsely furnished with a small desk fronted by two chairs for guests. The white, green, and red flag of the Islamic Republic of Iran hangs limply in the far corner. Staked to the wall over the grand ayatollah’s shoulder is a photograph of his predecessor, the man who grabbed power after the Iranian Revolution in 1979.

The grim-faced ayatollah waves them toward the two chairs that are parked a foot lower than the one the supreme leader sits in. “Why are the troops stopping their advancement?”

“Imam, we are—”

The ayatollah silences President Rafsanjani with a curt wave. “I want to hear the general’s excuse.”

General Safani’s throat jerks with a dry swallow. “We are trying to negotiate safe passage with the Syrians and the Jordanians, Dear Leader.”

The supreme leader jumps up from his chair. “Negotiate? Why would we negotiate with those swine? I want the troops advancing this minute!”

“But, Dear Leader, that will leave our flanks exposed—”

“No excuses! I don’t care!” A spray of spittle shoots across the desk, spotting the faces of his two guests. “They will not stop our progress. Is that understood?”

President Rafsanjani pulls his hands from beneath his legs and waves one in the air. “Dear Leader, I believe the general is making a good point. We may not be able to reach our objective if we spend our resources fighting the Syrians or Jordanians.”

The ayatollah leans forward and slams the desk with fisted hands. “I do not care what the Syrians or Jordanians do. They are merely a nuisance. A nuisance we will crush. I’m ordering you to advance toward Israel.”

General Safani studies a spot on the floor. “But what about the Americans?”

“The Americans are weak. The great Satan can no longer care for its own country. I don’t want to hear another word about the Americans!” He’s back to shouting now. “I want Israel taken by the end of the week or I will find someone else to run the army.”

Both the president and the general offer nods of submission.

“Dismissed.”

The two stand and turn without looking at the supreme leader. Like two frightened dogs, they slink out of the office.

Near West 155th Street and Riverside Drive

New York City

Greg and Lara Connor are dead on their feet. It’s deep into the night and what was a trickle of walkers is now down to only a pair here and there.

“Start looking for a place to bed down,” Greg says. His voice is raspy and his mouth is full of cotton.

As they round the curve where Riverside Drive splits, a little less than a mile from the George Washington Bridge, they spot a number of tents staked out in the trees. Numerous campfires dot the landscape, most reduced now to glowing embers. A little farther along, they find campsites set up on both sides of the road, with the tents growing denser with every passing block. The scene is reminiscent of an old Civil War photo, but with newfangled equipment. The fighting on the bridge is now reduced to brief bouts of gunfire.

“Where the hell did a bunch of New Yorkers get tents?” Greg says in a whisper.

“I don’t know. But more importantly, I don’t care. I’m cold and I’m exhausted, Greg.”

“Do you want to find some vacant ground where we can lie down?”

Lara’s teeth are chattering when she answers. “What about somewhere inside?”

“I’m not opposed to finding an inside space. But where?”

Lara stares through the darkness. “There’s a taller building just up the street. Let’s try there.”

Another two blocks brings them to the front of a multistory building. It’s too dark to read the full name on the sign but Greg can see the words MEDICAL BUILDING along the bottom. They trudge along the front façade searching for a door. They find one near the midpoint of the building, but it’s protected by a metal roll-down door. They walk to the edge of the building and turn into a small alcove, where they find a blue metal door already pried open.

“What do you think?” Greg whispers.

Lara brushes past and he follows behind. The darkness is complete. Greg fumbles through his pocket for the flashlight and covers the lens with his hand before flicking it on. They’re in some type of mechanical room with most of the space taken up by large machinery. They walk forward with Greg sporadically switching the flashlight on and off. On the far side of the room they discover a stairwell and begin to climb, their weary footsteps echoing in the darkness.

On the third level they ease open the door. Greg leans in and sweeps the flashlight beam back and forth. He sees a cluster of closed doors arranged in a staggered pattern down a long corridor.

Greg leans back and whispers to his wife, “Looks like a lot of small offices. What d’ya think?”

She nudges him forward. “I think I’m exhausted,” she whispers. “Just find us someplace where we can lie down and stretch out.”

With most of the flashlight beam obscured by his hand, Greg and Lara tiptoe down the hallway. The first room they open is empty but Lara wants to be farther away from the stairwell. Near the middle of the hall they turn the knob on the door to their right and peek in. Two large lumps are lying in the floor, with two smaller lumps lying next to them. Lara quietly closes the door while Greg opens the one on the left. Empty. They shuffle into the room and ease the heavy backpacks from their shoulders.