Tim Washburn - Powerless

“No, sir, you’re correct. There will be some issues, but I believe we can make it work.”

President Harris turns from Admiral Hickerson and addresses the secretary of state. “Allison, any of our overtures to Iran had any effect?”

“No, sir. We tried to reach out to them, but they haven’t even acknowledged our requests.”

“Fuck ’em, then,” the President mutters, but loud enough to be heard by the entire room. “Pardon my French. Frankly, I’m tired of the constant stream of horseshit that spews out of Tehran.” President Harris glances up to see nods from most of his advisors. “What about the Jordanians?”

“They’ve been receptive, sir. They’re not happy about the Iranians massing at the border. We can rely on them to inflict some damage, but how much is an unknown.”

President Harris turns his focus to Secretary of Defense Martin Wilson. “Martin, how much damage can the Jordanians cause?”

“Skirmishes along the flanks of the Iranian troops. More of a pestering presence than anything else, but enough to force the Iranians to direct some attention their way.”

President Harris offers a nod and inhales a deep breath. “So are we a go?” He turns to each advisor around the table and receives nods of acceptance. The mood is somber, but tense.

“Thank you for your support.” The President turns back to Admiral Hickerson. “How is the operation going to unfold?”

“It’s a fluid situation, Mr. President, but the Israelis are going to start the show by launching an aerial attack. That will allow our ships to pinpoint the Iranian radar sites along with their antiaircraft batteries. Our first salvo will be Tomahawk cruise missiles to eliminate those threats and then we launch our own aerial attack.”

The President takes a moment to digest the information before turning to CIA Director Isaac Green. “Isaac, what will the Iranian response be?”

“Well, sir, hopefully we’ll hit so fast and so hard they’ll have no choice but to haul ass back home.” His comment elicits a few chuckles. “In all honesty, sir, we don’t know how committed they are to this path. We don’t have any reliable assets in Tehran. We don’t know if they’re simply taking advantage of an opportunity, or if they are committed to the destruction of Israel, as they have asserted many times.”

The President steeples his hands beneath his chin. “Should we direct some of our assets toward Tehran?”

No one jumps to answer.

Eventually, Secretary of State Allison Moore takes the plunge. “Sir, I think we should focus our forces on the advancing troops for the moment and see what type of reaction we receive from the Iranian leaders. The situation with Islamists all across the Middle East and Northern Africa is on the precipice of exploding. The last thing we want to do is incite them further by a direct attack on Tehran.”

“All right, we’ll hold off on attacking Tehran.” He raises one finger in the air. “But I want to make damn certain you all know that option is still on the table.” President Harris folds his arms across his chest and exhales a sigh. “Admiral, we are a go. Hit them with everything we’ve got.”

The Sanders home

The earlier discovery of Sarah Chlouber’s body has shaken Ruth and Carl to their cores. The children are no longer allowed outdoors and the family is barricaded in their no-electricity, no-running-water home. With strict rationing, they’ve made three days’ worth of food stretch much longer.

Ruth steps inside from the garage, pours three fingers of water into four coffee cups, and hands one to her husband.

Carl drains his and places the cup back on the counter. “How much is left?”

Ruth shoves a stray strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “Six bottles.” She sags against the kitchen counter.

Carl steps over and wraps his arms around his wife. “The water wouldn’t have lasted this long if you hadn’t stocked up for Noah’s soccer season.”

Ruth wipes away a tear. “Why didn’t I buy more?”

“So you’re a fortune-teller? No one could have predicted what happened. Who thinks about buying a hundred cases of water? Nobody. You buy one and when that’s empty you run to the corner store and buy another.”

Ruth shrugs out of his embrace. “Kids, come get your water,” she shouts down the hall as she shuffles out of the kitchen.

The kids wander in for their cup of water.

Carl leans against the breakfast bar. “Anybody want to work the puzzle again?” The family has worked and reworked the thousand-piece puzzle so many times the edges are frayed.

Noah and Emma groan and shake their heads. “I think some of the pieces got lost,” Emma says.

“That’ll make it more of a challenge.”

Noah sets his cup in the sink. “No, Dad, that makes it impossible. Who wants to work on a puzzle where half the pieces are missing? Besides, I’m reading.”

“Whatcha reading?”

“Hunger Games.”

“ Again? How many times have you read the series?”

“I dunno. But it’s not like I can run to the library and grab something new.”

Carl ruffles his son’s hair. “I guess you’ve got a point there, kiddo.”

All four are reading to pass the time. Books that had once been banished to the attic are now being recycled downstairs, but there is only so much sitting and reading a family of four can do. The bicycles parked in the closed garage are begging to be ridden.

Emma grabs her father’s hand. “Dad, can I go over to Grace’s house?”

The mangled face of Ruth Chlouber flashes in Carl’s mind. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

She tugs on her father’s arm. “Please? She’s just down the street. Pleeeassse?”

“I don’t think so.”

Emma lowers her head and stares at the tiled floor. Another piece of Carl’s heart flakes away. “You know what, let me talk to Mom for a minute.” How do you explain to a five-year-old that a killer may be prowling the neighborhood without scaring the hell out of her?

Carl finds Ruth sitting in the window seat, staring out the bay window. It’s a frequent hangout for her since learning of Sarah Chlouber’s death. Carl walks over and sits next to her.

“Emma wants to go down to Grace’s house.”

Ruth turns toward her husband. “How do we know her parents weren’t involved in Sarah’s death? Absolutely not.”

Carl’s anger and frustration bubble to the surface. “We’re all going a little stir-crazy, but sitting in front of the window on constant lookout for a killer isn’t normal, Ruth. We’ve known Grace’s parents since the girls were born. Do you actually think they could be involved in Mrs. Chlouber’s murder?”

“Desperate times mean desperate people, Carl.”

“We can’t stay cooped up in this house suspecting our neighbors of murder. Especially people we’ve known for years.”

“How do you know there aren’t other dead bodies? We’re safer with all of us together.”

“I don’t. And you don’t, either.” Carl slumps against the wall. “Honey, we’ll drive ourselves batshit crazy thinking about this.” Carl reaches over and kneads Ruth’s shoulder. “I think it will do Emma some good to spend some time with Grace.”

Ruth closes her eyes in resignation. “Will you at least walk her down there and back?”

“Of course. I’ll be back shortly.”

Ruth stands from her vigil at the window and moves over to the sofa. The interior is dim even in the middle of the day because the front of the home faces north. The sun’s rays, low in the autumn sky, don’t penetrate much beyond the windows. She picks up the book she was reading, riffles through the pages, and puts it back down. Ruth pushes out of the sofa and returns to the window seat.