Tim Washburn - Powerless

Zeke explains the situation.

Dr. Lewis brushes his hands across the razor stubble on his cheeks. “It’ll depend on his tolerance for pain. But I would allow him at least a week to recuperate before even attempting.”

Zeke’s disappointed with the answer. “Thanks, Doc. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“No need,” he says, turning for the steps down to the sidewalk. He pauses and turns back. “Are you the Zeke Marshall who builds those fabulous tables?”

Zeke’s turn for a surprise. “Yeah, that’s me. Or at least was when we still had electricity. How did you know I made tables?”

“Because we own one, or did. One of the most beautiful tables I had ever seen, but I was none too pleased with the wife when I found out how much it had cost. Unfortunately, we had to chop the table up for firewood.”

Zeke’s face sags with regret, but an inspiration strikes him. “Tell you what, Doc, when the power comes back on, I’m building you and your wife another table free of charge. I’ve been saving this beautiful, figured walnut for a special purpose, and I think I just found a use for it.”

“Terrific. I would like that very much. Once I recuperated from the sticker shock, I came to appreciate your craftsmanship.”

“We have a deal, Doc. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome, and I look forward to having another one of your tables grace our dining room.” He turns down the sidewalk and disappears into the darkness.

The White House Situation Room

Everyone is reassembled in the Sit Room after a four-hour break. President Harris used his time to have breakfast with his wife. No tryst was involved, but it was pleasant nonetheless, even with the ongoing mission weighing heavy on his mind. He glances over at the SECSTATE and can tell from her demeanor that she is still bristling with resentment. President Harris leans forward and drums his fingers on the table. “Can we get the admiral and Secretary Wilson on-screen?”

It takes a moment for the two to appear on-screen. “Admiral, were we successful?”

“I believe we were, sir. Video from the Israeli gun cameras shows massive damage to both areas where the ayatollah and the president of Iran were believed to be. We’re intercepting radio chatter out of Tehran, hoping for confirmation. It may be a while, sir, before we know for certain.”

Someone steps into the frame and hands the secretary of defense a piece of paper.

“Sir, if I may interrupt,” the SECDEF says.

“Go ahead, Martin.”

“I’ve just received a cable from the commander aboard Strike Group One. They report the Iranian troops are now in full retreat.”

Those in the Situation Room cheer.

“Hopefully, that answers our question, Admiral,” the President says over the din.

“It’s a good sign we were successful. How would you like to handle the retreat, sir?”

“Allow them an unfettered retreat. Let them go home to their families,” President Harris says, “but maintain position of the three strike groups.”

“Will do, sir. Congratulations.”

“The congratulations go to you and our troops along with the Israelis, Admiral.”

The large screen fades to black. “Allison, what can we expect out of Iran? Who do you think is going to try to fill the void?”

Allison shuffles through the mass of paper in front of her. “My bet is General Safani, sir, at least on an interim basis until they can sort out who the next supreme leader is going to be.”

“You don’t think the progressives in Iran have enough power to shoot down the possibility of another religious zealot ruling with an iron fist?” President Harris says.

“Unknown, sir. That was my point before we assassinated the current leadership.” She takes a deep breath. “Sorry, sir, that was out of line.”

“It’s all right, Allison. Do you see any way the Iranians will move toward a more democratic process?”

“Anything’s possible, Mr. President. I think that should be our thrust going forward.”

“I agree. Isaac, any chance we can take advantage of the confusion to get a look at their nuclear program?”

“Interesting point, sir,” replies the director of the CIA. “I believe it’s damn well worth a try.”

“I do, too. Work with the Israelis and make it happen.”

“I’m on it, sir,” the director says as he pushes away from the table.

President Harris leans back and inhales a deep breath. “Let’s move on to another matter. I would like an update on the progress to restore electricity. Can we get Donald Carter on-screen?”

From his office in the Federal Emergency Management Agency at 500 C Street, an obviously weary Director Carter appears on the screen.

“Don, how’s the progress on power restoration?” President Harris says.

“Slow, sir. Extremely slow. We aren’t able to find a manufacturer who has the capacity to build new transformers. Our agency has located what few are stockpiled, but transporting them is another issue altogether. Truck transportation is a no go, so we’re exploring rail options. But we still need to get the transformers to the railhead somehow. We’re talking of items that weigh in excess of four hundred thousand pounds and a normal railway car can’t haul them. Frankly, sir, the whole thing is a logistical nightmare of epic proportions.”

The President’s face glimmers with faint hope. “How many spare transformers did you discover?”

“We found five, sir. But they will only interface with the grids along the West Coast, which leaves a large majority of the country still in the dark.”

The look of hope on the President’s face transitions to anger. “Is no one in the United States capable of making these damn things?”

“Maybe two or three companies, sir. A majority of our transformers have been imported from overseas, mainly from South Korea.”

“Can’t the U.S. manufacturers ramp up production?”

“It’s a catch-22, sir. They need electrical power to run the plants and that doesn’t exist. The three main plants are located in the southeastern United States where there are no available spare transformers.”

“Can we not supply them with military-grade generators to get their plants up and running?”

“Most of the military’s largest generators are deployed to Afghanistan, Mr. President. We did find several in the states and we’re working hard to get them on location, but even then, they’ll only be able to supply enough electricity to operate a small portion of those plants.”

“Is there nothing else we can do?”

“We’re working every angle we can, sir. It’s just going to take time,” Director Carter says.

“How much time, Don?”

“Two or three years is the most likely scenario.”

The President sighs. “This is priority one, Don. I want every available asset our country has devoted to building or acquiring new transformers.”

“We’re doing everything we can, sir.”

Silence fills the room as the image of the director of FEMA fades from the screen.

“Allison, what’s the status of the South Koreans?” President Harris says to the secretary of state.

“About the same as ours, sir. They upgraded their electrical grid over the last two decades, using our system as a model. Most likely any transformers they are able to build will be for their own use.”

“So every man for himself?” His question doesn’t elicit an answer.

The home of Dr. Samuel Blake

Drs. Samuel Blake and Kaylee Connor have exhausted most of the food supply in Sam’s home. Now they’re hungry, but not a desperate hunger—yet. Kaylee, unaware her parents lie murdered in an abandoned medical building in New York City, is in an unusually good mood, considering the circumstances. She’s sitting on the sofa thumbing through an old copy of Astronomy when Sam returns to the living room carrying a rifle. He’s dressed in camouflage coveralls and a camouflage hat.