Tim Washburn - Powerless

Richie reaches the gun forward and for a moment Zeke thinks he’s going to fire, but the pistol dangles loosely from his finger. “Take it.”

Zeke steps up, his gun never wavering from its arc between Richie and the other boys. He retrieves the gun from Richie’s outstretched hand, turns its grip forward, and delivers a vicious blow to the side of the young man’s face. Not hard enough to break his jaw, but hard enough to make him think twice about beating another human being. Richie slumps down on the hardwood bench, moaning in pain.

Zeke turns to the rest of the group. “If I see any of you out again, it’s shoot first and ask questions later. Got it?”

Nods from everyone but Richie. Zeke reholsters his weapon and tucks Carl’s gun into the back of his pants before disappearing around the side of the dugout. He helps Carl to his feet, and twenty minutes later Zeke lugs him up the steps to his home. Ruth swings the door wide before he can knock. Her face transitions from anticipation to horror.

“Carl! Oh my God, what happened?”

“He had a run-in with a group of delinquents.”

Ruth slides under Carl’s other arm, and together they get him into the house.

“I knew this was going to happen. I told him—”

“Ruth,” Zeke says loudly, “not now. He’s in desperate need of medical attention. Do you know anyone who could help him?”

“The kids’ pediatrician lives down the street.”

“Go get him. And hurry.”

Ruth yanks a jacket from the coat closet and races out of the house.

The children stand and stare at their injured father lying on the sofa.

“Noah, find a washcloth and wet it with a bottle of water from my pack,” Zeke says. “Emma, you help him.”

Once Carl is situated, Zeke follows the children into the kitchen and walks into the bare pantry. All the food is gone, but on the top shelf he finds what remains of Carl’s stash. He reaches for the red-wax-topped bottle and pulls it down. About two fingers of bourbon remains. Zeke grabs two glasses from the cupboard and returns to the living room. He divides the amber liquid between the two glasses and hands one to Carl.

“Drink. It’ll help with the pain.”

Carl’s hand is shaking too much for him to get the glass to his lips, so Zeke leans over and dribbles some of the bourbon into his mouth. Carl works hard to swallow with his broken jaw. Zeke pours a little more, and continues until the glass is empty. Carl collapses against the back of the sofa, his entire body beginning to tremble.

Not good. Zeke knows from his battlefield days that Carl is on the verge of going into shock.

Emma and Noah return with the wet washcloth and Zeke gently wipes the matted blood from Carl’s face.

“Is Daddy hurt bad, Uncle Zeke?” Noah says.

How to answer? “Yeah, he is, Noah, but your mommy went to get a doctor to fix him up.”

The White House Situation Room

President Harris walks into the Sit Room after a short nap and a quick shower. The fresh white button-down and slacks feel good, and they smell much better than the clothing he had been wearing for a full twenty-four hours. He glances around and notices several others had taken the opportunity to freshen up a bit, but everyone, him included, is running on fumes.

“I want an update on what’s happening on the front lines before we discuss the other situation.” He pulls his usual chair from beneath the table and sits. “Someone please get the DOD and the admiral on-screen.”

They had switched off the battlefield radio chatter sometime ago because the thing only created more confusion.

Within moments the two appear, side by side, in one of the many conference rooms within the Pentagon. It’s obvious from their fatigued appearance they didn’t have the luxury of a nap and shower.

“Admiral, what’s the status of the Iranian advance?”

“Sir, the Jordanians stepped up. They launched heavy artillery on the northern flank and peppered the Iranian forces with small-arms fire. That’s about everything in their arsenal but it is having some effect. As of now, the Iranian troops are slowing their advance but they are not making any attempt to halt their progress.

“We along with the Israelis are continuing to pound the front with everything available to us, both aircraft-delivered and ship-based weapons. Frankly, sir, I don’t know how much more punishment they can take. Their entire battlefield command and control units are emasculated.”

“Admiral, you and Secretary Wilson are working with the CIA on a plan to target the Iranian leadership, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” they answer in unison.

“What are your thoughts?” the President says.

Neither speaks for a brief moment, each waiting for the other to begin. President Harris solves the dilemma. “Martin, go ahead.”

Secretary of State Allison Moore leans forward in her chair.

“Sir, the Israelis are demanding they be allowed to take action against the leaders of Iran. I believe, whether we give our blessings or not, they will launch an attack. I have to say, sir, that I tend to agree with them.”

Secretary Moore scoots to the very edge of her chair. “C’mon, Martin. Have you and the admiral really thought this through?”

“Yes, we did, Madam Secretary. I think the positive consequences outweigh the negative by a large margin. This opportunity may not present itself again.”

Secretary Moore exhales a sigh and collapses back into her chair. “I guess I’m going to have little say in this.”

“Allison, there’s a time for diplomacy and there are other times when diplomacy simply won’t work. The Iranians don’t want a political solution. They want to exert their newfound authority in the region. We can’t allow that to happen.”

The secretary of state throws her hands up and sinks deeper into her chair.

President Harris turns back to the screen. “Admiral Hickerson, walk me through the plan.”

“The Israelis will take the lead, sir, using two of our bunker-buster bombs. We will refuel their aircraft over Iraqi airspace, but our main role will be suppressing any antiaircraft fire once they reach the border with Iran. Tehran is well guarded by a variety of antiair capabilities, including the latest version of ground-to-air missiles. But with an overflight of our own aircraft, we’ll knock out their radars and most of the missiles. The Iranian air force is decimated, so we’re not expecting any type of air response.”

“Is there enough intelligence to confirm the whereabouts of the ayatollah and the Iranian president?”

“I’ve been assured by the Israelis they know the precise locations, sir. Somehow, they’ve made contact with their asset in Tehran.”

“Martin, did we learn anything about whether the launched missile contained a nuclear warhead?” President Harris says.

“We don’t know, sir, and may never know. The remains of the rocket fell to earth within the confines of the Iranian borders, so I don’t see any way we’ll be able to get a look at it,” Secretary of Defense Wilson says.

The President leans forward. “What does your gut tell you, Martin?”

“I believe it is highly probable the bird was carrying a nuclear warhead. Otherwise, why would they launch it? We can only hope they shot their wad with the first shot.”

“Thanks, Martin. I agree with you. I don’t see them launching a ballistic missile with just a conventional warhead attached.” President Harris pauses to take a sip of his coffee. “Admiral, why don’t we launch cruise missiles?”

“Tehran is out of our range, sir. We thought for a brief moment about using drones, but that’s dicey, sir, with all their antiaircraft capabilities.”