Tim Washburn - Powerless

President Harris takes another sip of coffee. “How long before the attack could begin?”

“The Israelis are ready, and our air support is ready. All we need, sir, is the go from you.”

President Harris leans back in his chair and picks a point on the far wall to focus on. Everyone in the room sits in anticipation. After a few moments, he rocks forward and his gaze returns to the screen on the far wall, “Okay, Admiral. The mission is a go. Martin, will you contact our other allies and inform them of my decision?”

“I will, Mr. President,” the SECDEF answers.

“Admiral, a couple of words before you go.”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Don’t miss.”

Office of the Supreme Leader

Ayatollah Rahameneiei is making preparations for dhuhr salat (the noon prayer) unaware that four Israeli F-15 Silent Eagle aircraft are streaking across the Iranian sky to deliver their payload right into his front room.

He begins his chanting, a mixture of whisper and song, before kneeling on the rug he has owned for most of his life. His old knees pop and grind until they meet the carpet. He leans forward with his forearms touching the ground and continues to chant in his native tongue. As the spiritual leader of his country there is much to pray for.

Before he can finish, a shriek of crashing metal sounds somewhere outside the office door, and he stumbles into a standing position only to be disintegrated when the GBU-28 bunker buster explodes.

Across the way, President Rafsanjani slept through the noon prayer. He was exhausted after his all-nighter in the control center of the Revolutionary Guards watching the progress of the Iranian army under the leadership of a new general. He startles awake when the five-thousand-pound laser-guided bomb crashes through the ceiling outside his bedroom. Hungover with sleep, he can’t comprehend what it is, and before his mind can paint a mental picture, the massive explosion obliterates him and his home, along with the other structures built on his compound. The homes that had windows within a mile of his place no longer do, the concussive wave of the blast radiating out until it diminishes to just the faintest wisp of wind.

General Safani, under house arrest in his home a couple of miles away, knows immediately what the explosions are and who had been targeted. He offers a small prayer for their souls before a smile forms on his face.

The Sanders home

Ruth bursts through the front door with a thin, balding man in his midforties following behind. He’s dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, and has a large black bag in his hand. Not the old-fashioned fold-over doctor’s bag, but something similar to the bag Zeke had seen the paramedics retrieve from their ambulance when his father had his heart attack. The doctor calls the children by name before kneeling next to Carl, who is now lying sideways on the sofa.

Despite Carl’s appearance the doctor remains calm. He asks Carl to lie on his back and the doctor begins gently probing the chest and stomach area, ignoring his broken jaw to search for more serious internal injuries. Carl moans when the doctor discovers a broken rib, then another.

“There doesn’t seem to be any internal bleeding,” Dr. Lewis says. “However, he has at least two broken ribs.”

Ruth stands next to Zeke, wringing her hands. He slips his arm around her frail shoulders. The children have drifted to the other side of the living room, but still within sight of the doctor as he works on their father.

Satisfied no blood is present in the abdomen, or at least as satisfied as possible without the benefit of a CT scan, Dr. Lewis turns his attention to Carl’s jaw. He works his fingers across the left side of Carl’s face, using his touch to determine where the fracture is. He turns to his bag of supplies and withdraws a syringe and a small vial of medicine.

“Carl, I’m going to give you a shot of Demerol, a painkiller, so I can set your jaw. Without having access to an X-ray, I can’t be certain the jaw is not fragmented. But it feels solid.” He glances over his shoulder at Ruth. “How much does he weigh?”

Ruth stutters out her best guess. “Maybe one-ninety? Is that close, Carl?”

Carl moans and nods.

Dr. Lewis draws the liquid into the syringe. “I need to put this in the deep muscles of your butt because I don’t want to risk a subcutaneous injection. Ruth, would you mind unfastening his pants and pulling them down enough to expose his bottom?”

Ruth, relieved to have something to do, walks around the sofa and slips her hands to Carl’s belt. With some light back-and-forth tugging she exposes his butt enough for Dr. Lewis to sink the needle.

“Carl, I’m going to give the medicine a moment or two to take effect. What I’m going to do is called a closed reduction—basically I’m going to reposition the jaw back to its normal, functioning position. A surgeon would perform what’s called a maxillomandibular fixation, where he would surgically place pins into bone and wire your mouth shut. But it’s no longer a normal world, and I don’t have any way of fixating the jaw, so we will need to develop some sort of sling which will immobilize the jaw while it heals.”

At this point Carl’s breathing has slowed considerably. The doctor reaches out and manipulates the broken jaw, repositioning it so that it no longer hangs askew. Holding Carl’s jaw closed, Dr. Lewis glances up at Ruth. “Would you grab a clean T-shirt so we can make a sling?”

Ruth hurries down the hall and quickly returns with the requested item and hands it across.

“Ruth, hold his jaw closed for a moment, please,” Dr. Lewis says.

Ruth complies and the doctor removes a pair of scissors from his bag and quickly cuts through the material, discarding the sleeve and neck portions. He folds the remaining material in half and leans forward to put the sling under Carl’s chin before tying it off on top of his head.

“He needs to wear this sling continuously for the next four to six weeks. He will be restricted to a liquid diet. Normally I would suggest protein shakes, but any type of broth, or water with any type of ground-up protein is fine.”

Doctor Lewis reaches into his bag and retrieves another vial. “Ruth, is he allergic to penicillin?”

“No. Well, at least not that I know of.”

“My supply of antibiotics is limited. All I have is just some old-fashioned penicillin. But it should provide enough coverage to prevent infection.” He pulls on the plunger and the milky white liquid fills the body of the syringe. Choosing a spot on the other side of Carl’s still-exposed butt, he plunges the needle deep and slowly depresses the plunger.

“What about his broken ribs?” Ruth asks.

“Not much can be done for those. You can wrap his chest tightly to reduce the discomfort, but they’ll need to heal on their own time schedule, maybe six weeks before they’re no longer unbearable.”

Carl has passed into dreamland as Dr. Lewis carefully disposes of the used needles and syringes before standing. He slips the heavy bag over his shoulder.

“How can I ever thank you, Gary?” Ruth says.

Dr. Lewis waves his hand. “Don’t worry, Ruth. These are trying times and we need to do these kinds of things for one another if we are to survive.”

Zeke follows the doctor to the door. “Doc, can I have a quick word?” They step out on the porch and Zeke introduces himself.

“How long before he can ride a horse?” You would have thought Zeke had asked how long before Carl can blast off to the moon.

“I’m sorry?” a befuddled Dr. Lewis says.