Tim Washburn - Powerless

“I need to use the bathroom,” Lara whispers.

“Why didn’t you go outside?”

“Because I didn’t need to go then.”

Pointing his flashlight at the floor, he clicks it on. The carpeted office is small, with a desk and an uncomfortable-looking chair. Nothing they can use for a makeshift toilet.

“I guess you’re going to have to go in the corner.”

“Greg, I can’t defecate in someone’s office.”

“Whoever occupied the office is no longer here. They could care less whether you take a shit in the corner.”

Lara shoots him an angry glare. “There has to be a bathroom down the hall somewhere.”

“A bathroom which no longer functions,” Greg snaps.

“I don’t care. There’ll still be a toilet.” Lara digs through her backpack and pulls out a roll of toilet paper.

Greg hands over the flashlight. “Knock yourself out.”

Lara plants her fisted hands on her hips. “You have to come with me.”

Greg sighs, then waves his arm forward. “After you, dear.”

They creep down the lightless hallway toward the other end of the corridor. Greg doesn’t need to switch on his light to know where the restrooms are located. They clap their hands over their mouths to keep from gagging at the stench leaking from two opposing doors near the elevator vestibule.

“You want to go in there?” Greg says in an incredulous whisper.

Lara shakes her head. “Let’s just run outside real quick. Maybe there’s another set of stairs we can use on this end.”

They walk to the end of the hallway and find, as Lara predicted, another set of stairs.

“What about our backpacks?”

“They’ll be fine. It won’t take but just a minute.”

Greg, feeling a sudden increase of bladder pressure, agrees. He eases the door to the stairs open and the putrid stench of human waste overwhelms them.

“I’m not walking through three stories of shit just to take a piss outside. This looks like a good spot to me.”

Lara sighs and moves hesitantly toward a corner of the stairwell. Greg places the flashlight between door and jamb and unzips his jeans. Once finished, Greg retrieves the flashlight and they creep back toward their temporary quarters. As they near the door to the small office, Lara grabs his arm and yanks.

She leans forward to whisper in his ear, “There’s someone in there.”

Greg turns to his wife. “You sure that’s where we left our stuff?”

Lara nods emphatically. “I remember. I swear I saw a flash of light just now.” Both turn to stare at the window next to the door. “What are we going to do, Greg?”

He stares at the door, struggling to formulate a plan. He lowers his head and whispers in Lara’s ear, “I’m going to get our stuff, that’s what I’m going to do. You stay here.” He creeps forward but Lara yanks him back.

“Where’s our knife?” Her breath is hot, urgent.

Greg frowns and points toward the abandoned office.

“Let’s just leave, Greg,” she says in a pleading whisper. “Let them have our stuff.”

“No. What’s left of our food and water is in there, not to mention the money.”

“We’ll find more food and water. And the money’s not worth having.”

“Where are you going to find more food?”

Lara shrugs.

Greg snicks off the flashlight and they stand in the darkness. After a brief moment, he says, “Stay here.”

A light moan escapes Lara’s lips.

Greg eases up to the doorway, weighing his options. He opts for surprise. He clicks on the flashlight and hurls the door open.

“What the hell do—”

A gunshot obliterates the silence.

Lara flinches, then screams. She races forward screaming Greg’s name. She rounds the doorway at a run and catches a brief glance of her husband on the floor before the gun barks again. A hot poker hits her in the chest. She spins and falls, searching the hazy darkness for her husband.

A moment later, a beam of light drills her in the eyes as someone kneels down beside her.

Greg?

“I’m really sorry but my kids are near starvin’.”

Lara tries to talk but her mouth won’t work. She rasps out, “We share,” before a final searing pain turns her world dark.

The White House Situation Room

President Harris walks into the Situation Room before his hour deadline has expired. Though it’s very late in the evening, everyone is present with the exception of Admiral Hickerson.

“Where’s the boss?” The President directs his question to a group of military aides hugging the far walls.

One snaps to attention. “He should be here momentarily, sir.”

“At ease, soldier. We’ve got more important things to worry about than protocol.” The man slumps against the wall as the President pulls out the chair at the head of the table and sits. Scott Alexander slips in and takes a seat next to his boss.

The President takes a moment to survey the weary faces around the table. What he sees is similar to how he himself feels—weary, strained, and wishing for somewhere other than here. But, he reflects, they are some of the best and brightest minds in the world and he’s glad they are on his team.

“How’s everyone holding up?” the President asks.

A few “goods” and “just fines”—the standard answers.

“I know that’s not true,” President Harris says. “I want to thank you for your service. We all have family that we’re concerned about, but the only option is to work hard at improving the conditions. You don’t hear it enough, but again, thank you, and please feel free to take whatever you need for your families. I have asked the kitchen staff to provide you a generous food basket to take home. I need everyone at their best, and I know some comfort provided to your loved ones will ease the burden.”

The small speech lifts the mood of the room, and several people are nodding in support of the President. But the good mood evaporates when Admiral Hickerson arrives, bringing with him a reminder of why they’re there.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President, I was on a call with CINC-PAC trying to iron out some issues.”

“Understandable, Admiral. Would you bring us up to date on the planning?”

“Would SECDEF like to begin?” the admiral says, looking across the table at Secretary of Defense Martin Wilson.

“Why don’t you explain what’s happening in theater, Admiral, then we’ll expand the conversation,” President Harris says.

“Well, sir, we have good news and bad. We will be able to strike Iranian troops quickly and with devastating firepower. But the main issue is the length of engagement. If it persists longer than forty-eight hours, then armament resupply is our main concern. My staff is putting together a list of supplies at bases in Europe and Japan, but it will take us some time to move those weapons to the battlefield. Support ships have a good supply of armaments, but they’ll be depleted quickly during the opening hours of battle. We can only hope that the Israelis are sitting on a large stockpile that we can tap into.”

President Harris turns to Ambassador Har-Even. “You guys have a large stockpile of weapons?”

“We will be able to offer some weapons, sir, but I’m not sure how well they’ll integrate with the sophisticated weaponry your ships use. We do have a good number of Tomahawk cruise missiles, and some of these could be transferred to American naval vessels,” Ambassador Har-Even says. “I’ve been instructed by the prime minister to offer you use of anything we have.”

“Good, thank you, Ambassador. I’ll leave the specifics to your country on how best to resupply our ships.”

President Harris turns back to Admiral Hickerson. “Can we move some supplies from here?”