Tim Washburn - Powerless

Dallas

Zeke waters the horses in a creek bordered by multimillion-dollar homes that look out over the rolling fairways of the Dallas Country Club two blocks away. He can’t actually see the fairways or the houses, because of the dark, but he has seen them before. Upon his return, he parks all three horses in the backyard. He strips the saddle and blanket from Murphy’s back, his ass protesting too much about another round in the saddle. He’ll walk on his search for Carl. He pulls the Kimber rifle from its scabbard and lugs it, along with the saddlebag of ammunition, into the house.

The first item of business is to replace the two missing bullets from the magazine out of the Glock. Task completed, he stuffs the reloaded mag, along with extra rifle ammunition, into his jacket pocket. He glances up to see Ruth watching him work with the weapons. It’s their only real bone of contention. Ruth would prefer a world without deadly weapons. Zeke ignores her look of annoyance. “Which way did he go?”

She steps closer so the conversation can’t be overheard by the children in the next room. “He was going to try and get in the high school, thinking the vending machines would have some water.”

“The school right around the corner?”

“Yes. Highland Park High School.”

“Was he going to try anywhere else?”

“I don’t know, Zeke. He mentioned something about stores all along Lovers Lane, but nothing specifically.” She glances back over her shoulder at the children sitting around the table. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, Ruth, but I’m going to find him.” He triple-checks one jacket pocket for the extra ammunition, then the other to make sure the small flashlight he brought is still there. At the last minute he decides to leave the rifle behind. If there’s gunplay it will be in close quarters.

“Be careful, Zeke.”

“I will. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

His sister follows him to the front door.

“What if he’s injured? He took the gun he bought off you.”

Zeke doesn’t know if that was an accusation. “I’ll find him, sis.” He slips out into the now colder, and if possible, darker night, the Glock riding comfortably on his hip.

He makes his way down the block and hangs a left, crossing over Lovers Lane for the second time in the last fifteen minutes. On the other side he pauses for a few moments, listening to the silence. Nothing. No cars rumbling along the road, no humans out in the dark—dead quiet. He works his way toward the tall, dark structures silhouetted against the starry sky. The high school is large, and he sneaks between two of the buildings and comes face-to-face with what appears to be a baseball field. He scours the area for movement before continuing on.

The next building he approaches is big, and being close to the athletic fields, he assumes this must be the gym. He creeps up to the doors and discovers all the security glass punched out. He snakes his hand through the broken window and pushes on the bar that opens the door.

Slowly, he pulls the door open and steps inside. He halts for a moment to listen again. Silence. He moves farther into the building, enveloped in total darkness. He fishes the flashlight from his pocket and covers the lens with his hand before turning it on. He was right. It is the gym. The wide counter of the concession stand is covered by some type of roll-down metal door. He flashes the light to the side and spots the entryway to the concession area kicked open. He advances for a closer look, his hand hovering just above the pistol’s handle. He takes a quick peek around the doorjamb and pans the flashlight around the interior. Empty.

He flicks the beam down the hall to get his bearings before switching it off. The doors to the gym’s interior are about ten steps away. He clicks off the light and moves forward. Not having heard even a wisp of noise, he’s fairly certain no one is hiding inside but he needs to clear the room before moving on.

He steps inside the door, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. He shoves aside his caution and flicks on the flashlight. “Hell, Carl could be bleeding out somewhere while I’m dicking around in here,” he mutters. Zeke increases his pace and clears the two locker rooms. He shines the flashlight around the bleachers before exiting the gym. He kills the flashlight before stepping outside.

He eases along the exterior of the gym and comes to a long, rectangular, open area, the ghostly imprint of a goalpost silhouetted against the night sky. He glances around the field but sees nothing and hears even less.

The next building has glass starting about midway up the wall and he can tell at first glance it’s a classroom. He walks to the back of the building, searching for a door. He finds it completely off its hinges, lying haphazardly across the lower portion of the doorway. He stretches one long leg over to clear the hazard, then the other. He pauses to listen. Silence. His head on a swivel, Zeke creeps down the long hallway.

The White House Situation Room

The same NSA aide who had delivered the news of the missile launch rushes into the room and takes the same position next to the President. He starts to lean in but stops when remembering the earlier rebuff. He stands stiffly. “Mr. President, the missile exploded while still in Iranian airspace.”

Audible sighs drift across the room.

“Was it a nuke?” President Harris asks.

“Unknown at this time, sir. From the size of the blast, if it was a nuclear device it did not detonate, sir.”

The President slumps in his chair. “Thank you.”

The aide takes his cue and disappears into the background.

“Thoughts, people?” the President says.

Everyone begins talking at once and Chief of Staff Alexander waves his hand to silence the excited voices.

CIA Director Isaac Green is the first to speak. “Does it matter, Mr. President, whether that was a nuke or not?”

“Go on, Isaac.”

All eyes in the room are now focused on Isaac Green. “Well, sir, they have launched what appeared to be a ballistic missile with hostile intent. What I mean to say, sir, is that they at least have the capability to launch. And although this launch was a failure, their capability to launch will be used again.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Secretary of State Allison Moore says.

“What I’m suggesting, Allison, is to remove the head of the beast. Target the supreme leader and the president of Iran.”

“Are you nuts, Isaac? Did you not listen to my earlier comments about igniting a worldwide Muslim uprising?”

Alexander leans forward and props his elbows on the table. “Are they not already causing havoc all over the Middle East and Northern Africa? How much more damage can they do? Hell, right now might be the best time ever to strike.”

SECSTATE tosses her pen on the table and sits back in her chair. “You’re both off your rocker.”

“I think they have a valid point, Allison,” the President says. “The Israelis are highly motivated to put an end to the constant threat that Iran presents for them.”

“But, sir, what if the next group of leaders is even worse?” She grabs up the discarded pen. “Isn’t it better to know your enemies well enough to judge their thinking?”

“You may be right, Allison. But this opportunity may not present itself again.” The President turns to Director Green. “Isaac, get with the Israelis and develop a plan, then we’ll decide the issue. Right now we need to be focused on getting them the hell out of Iraq, Syria, and Jordan.”

“Sir, you don’t think taking out their leaders will eliminate their will to fight? Those troops are fighting because the ayatollah ordered them to fight.”