Tim Washburn - Powerless

“Why are you riding Grandpa’s horses?” Emma says as she moves from Murphy to Ruby.

“Had to, baby girl. I didn’t have enough gas to make it down here and get you back to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s.” He unties the saddlebag on Ruby’s back and hands it to Ruth. “From Mom. You guys eat all you want. I’m going to put the mares in the backyard.”

He unclips the lead attached to Murphy and leads the two mares to the side gate while Ruth and the kids return inside, the saddlebags containing the food grasped firmly in his sister’s thin hand. After he removes the packs, he pours each horse a good portion of oats and takes another healthy portion around to Murphy, still tied up in the front yard. He’s going to need to find them some water in a bit. While Murphy crunches on the oats, Zeke retreats indoors and finds his sister, niece, and nephew around the kitchen table with the bounty from the saddlebags spilled out in front of them. Noah has a mouthful of peanut butter and crackers while Emma munches a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Eat, Ruth,” he says, stepping closer.

“I will, but let them eat first.”

“There’s plenty, I promise. I have a big portion of deer jerky, too.”

Ruth hesitates before picking up one of the sandwiches. She delicately unwraps it and takes a bite.

Zeke waits for her to swallow. “Where’s the closest creek?”

“There’s a creek across the next street that runs through the country club,” she says, struggling with all her willpower not to inhale the food.

“I’m going to lead the horses down for a drink.” He turns toward the door.

“Zeke.” He turns to face her and she mouths a silent “thank you.”

Zeke nods and disappears back into the darkness.

The White House Situation Room

Due to the divergence of time zones, the President and all of his advisors are arranged around the large conference table in the Sit Room deep into the night. Admiral Hickerson and Defense Secretary Martin Wilson are shuttling between the Pentagon and the White House via helicopter. When at the Pentagon both are in nearly constant contact with the President and other advisors through the use of videoconferencing. The Sit Room has a direct line to the offices in the Pentagon.

“Admiral, what is the Iranian response?” President Harris says to the picture projected on the front screen.

“Sir, we aren’t able to accurately determine their response. According to reports from the field we decimated their command structure, knocked out a majority of their air defense systems, and obliterated their feeble air force. Their troops are no longer pressing forward, but they also are not retreating.”

“Any battlefield intelligence suggesting what they might do?”

“We’ve intercepted some of their radio chatter with the help of AWACS aircraft on station, but nothing which gives us an insight into their thinking.”

“What’s the next phase, Admiral?”

“Israel is about to launch another air sortie, and we will follow close behind with our own aircraft. We’re also continually pounding them with both ship- and sub-launched Tomahawk cruise missiles. Israel is also massing its troops along their eastern border, but they, like we, are hoping to avoid any type of ground war.”

“How are we on supplies?” President Harris asks.

“So far, so good, sir. We have transferred a number of missiles to Strike Group One from the Israeli’s stockpile of weapons. The rest of the fleet is well supplied, at least for another twenty-four hours, sir.”

The President leans forward in his chair. “Is this going to be over in twenty-four hours?”

“Unknown, sir, but I hope so. I wish we had some intel out of Tehran that would provide an insight into their thinking.”

“We’re working on it, Admiral. Director Green will be in touch to update the situation shortly. Keep me posted, Admiral.”

“I will, sir,” Admiral Hickerson says before the screen at the front of the room transitions to black.

The President turns his attention to CIA Director Isaac Green. “Isaac, we need intel and we need it yesterday. Do we have any assets in Iran?”

“No, but the Israelis do. Unfortunately, the only source of contact is via satellite phone. Maybe”—the CIA director pauses for a moment, racking his brain—“we could assemble a joint team of agents to send into Iran through Afghanistan. There are a few CIA agents still in country. Let me talk to the Israeli ambassador, sir. We’ll come up with something, hopefully within the next few hours.”

“Good, Isaac. Allison, any luck contacting Iranian leadership?”

The secretary of state shakes her head as she replies, “Nothing, sir. Not a hello, thank-you, or kiss my ass, sir.” Her reply elicits a few chuckles from the exhausted group around the table.

An ashen-faced national security aide rushes into the room, stops at the President’s elbow, and leans in to whisper something in his ear. President Harris holds up his hand to stop him. “Tell everyone here—we’re all in this together.”

The aide, who looks like he’s only a couple of years removed from graduate school, clears his throat before speaking. “Mr. President, one of the AWACS planes reported a massive launch of some type of missile on the outskirts of Tehran.”

Gasps from those around the table.

“Heading?” the President barks.

“Unknown, sir.”

He turns his anger upon his advisors. “All of you assured me Iran was incapable of launching a nuclear warhead. What the hell just blasted off? I want to know, and I want to know right goddamn now.”

Advisors grab for phones as the President orders a reconnection with Admiral Hickerson and SECDEF Martin.

“Yes, Mr. President?” Admiral Hickerson says when the camera in front of him kicks on.

“Admiral, a large missile or some large something was launched from the outskirts of Tehran.”

Admiral Hickerson’s face transitions from astonishment to concern in the blink of an eye. “I’m on it, Mr. President.”

“Wait!” President Harris shouts. “We have anything in our arsenal that can shoot the damn thing down?”

“Yes, we do, sir, but it comes down to a matter of trajectory. We need time for our systems to acquire the target, time we may not have.” Admiral Hickerson pushes out of his chair and disappears from the frame.

“Goddammit, I want answers, people.”

Chief of Staff Scott Alexander, who had taken a seat at the back of the room, carries his chair to the table and sits. He leans sideways and whispers in the President’s ear. “Take a deep breath, Paul. We’ll figure it out.”

President Harris takes a long look at Alexander, then nods.

“Mr. President, we don’t know exactly what launched. It may not be a nuclear warhead,” one of the military aides says.

“Well, it’s sure as hell wasn’t a giant pop-bottle rocket,” the President snaps. “I need concrete answers, son. Do we have any way to track the whatever-the-hell-it-is?”

“Only what we can pick up through ship radar on site or possibly from the AWACS aircraft. But their radars are configured more for a look-down scenario, not for tracing atmospheric flight,” the director of the CIA answers.

President Harris throws his hands up in the air. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Alexander reaches out to put a hand on the arm of the President.

The CIA director says, “We need more info, sir.”

“There isn’t any more info, Isaac. What’s the flight time to Israel?”

One of the aides at the back of the room clears his throat and says, “Minutes, sir—at best.”