Blackout (27 page)

Monday, September 14, 3:15 a.m. EDT

New York, New York

As Riley winched his way toward the helicopter, he had a chance to see the city for the first time. The view took his breath away. He saw at least forty fires burning across the city. Some looked small and contained; a few looked like they were consuming whole blocks of buildings.

In stark contrast, in the areas where no fires were burning, the city was black.
What must be going on down there? The waiting, the wondering, the fear of the unknown. How many beatings, rapes, and murders are taking place right now? How many parents are holding tightly to their children, afraid of the sounds they hear out in the hallways? How many storeowners are waiting with their shotguns at the ready, determined to protect what they've worked so hard to create? How long will they hold out? When will they finally realize that the power is not returning and help is not on its way?

A foot tapped lightly on his hip. He looked over to see Skeeter swinging back and pointing over his head. Riley looked up to see the helicopter rapidly approaching.

Soon hands were grabbing his harness, pulling him on board. He was surprised at how good the sharp edge of the helicopter's payload floor felt as it rubbed across his rash. When he finally stood, he saw that the hands that had pulled him up belonged to Scott Ross and Kim Li. Gilly Posada and Carlos Guitiérrez had assisted Skeeter.

“Welcome aboard,” Scott said, clapping him on the back.

Riley, overwhelmed at seeing his friends for the first time since the nightmare began, couldn't speak but just shuffled past Scott to Khadi, who was waiting for him. Khadi wrapped her arms around him and held him until Scott tapped him on the shoulder and twirled his finger to show that they were heading out.

Riley and Khadi sat down and strapped in. Scott and Skeeter sat opposite. The rest of the guys stood by the open door, solemnly watching as the devastation passed by below.

“Was it bad?” Khadi asked after adjusting a pair of headphones to fit her.

“It's bad,” Riley replied. “And probably much worse outside. I mean, honestly, inside the stadium is so much better than what I'm sure is going on out in the city. But no matter how much I tried to explain things, those people have no idea what they should be expecting. I think we're all so used to the government watching over us and providing for us that the whole idea of the authorities being impotent and unable to help just doesn't compute.”

Silence filled the helicopter as Riley built up the courage to voice the question that he was dying to ask but dreading hearing the answer to. Finally, taking a deep breath, he said, “So how bad is it?”

Scott nodded as if he had been expecting the question, but he still paused for a moment before answering. “Sort of a best of times, worst of times. You know—it could have been so much worse, but it's still unimaginably bad.”

“What's the geographic extent?”

“Mr. Ross,” the pilot's voice interrupted, “I have the president on the line.”

“Thanks; patch him through.” A click sounded; then Scott said, “Sir, I'm here with Riley Covington and Skeeter Dawkins, along with my recovery team, Khadi Faroughi, Kim Li, Gilly Posada, and Carlos Guitiérrez.”

“Good morning to you all,” came President Lloyd's voice through the headphones. “Riley, I'm glad we were able to get you and Mr. Dawkins out.”

“Thank you, sir,” Riley replied, trying to keep his voice calm and businesslike. He looked at Khadi with his eyebrows raised. She gave him an encouraging nod, so he said, “It's good to be out, but it was hard to leave. There are a lot of really good people down there who are in for a rough go.”

The president's voice sounded quite different from the last time Riley had talked to him—more somber, more weary. “I know it. We're doing everything we can to help them out. What can you tell me about being on the ground?”

Deciding not to pull any punches, Riley said, “It's bad, sir. We had sixty-seven dead in the stadium alone, and I lost count of the injured hours ago. People are scared and confused. But as bad as it was in the stadium, from what I could see, it looked a whole lot worse in the city. Fires are shredding whole city blocks. And I would guess all but a small handful have absolutely no clue what's going on.”

“I understand. With information, people can have hope. No information, no hope. We're working on that already—trying to get the facts out.”

“That's good to know, sir,” Riley said.

“So here's how it's going to go,” the president went on. “You and Agent Ross and the rest of your team have full access to whatever information you want and whatever resources you need. Even though there are thousands of others pursuing this, your little band there seems to have a way of always showing up where the bullets are flying. Also, I have given Agent Ross my private line. You and he have 24-7 access to me.

“You and Ross were right, Riley. I won't forget that. Now good luck to you, and Godspeed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Riley said, not knowing if the president was still on the line to hear him. He sat there for a moment looking at the floor. Finally he lifted his head and coughed. Now that he was out of the stadium, the smell of smoke on his clothes was so strong it was starting to constrict his throat. Scott handed him a water bottle, which he drank in one pass.

“Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now, you were about to tell me how big the affected area is.”

“There was just the one detonation over NYC. Remember we were wondering about the DPRK having the technology for a nonnuclear EMP? Well, now you have your answer. That is the one piece of good news in this whole thing—it was a lower-altitude blast from a lower-yield bomb. The affected zone is approximately seventy miles from Manhattan in all directions. Southern New York, most of Long Island, half of New Jersey and Connecticut, and eastern Pennsylvania up to the suburbs of Philadelphia.”

“All the way to Philly? So you're talking, what, 15, 20 million affected?”

Scott shook his head. “Try 25 million. It's an absolute nightmare. If you figure on the fires from the air crashes, plus the medical issues—which are only going to get worse as time progresses—plus the impending disease from unhealthy food, tainted water, and exposure to dead bodies, plus crime . . . let's say conservatively there's just a one percent casualty rate. Well, even with that lowball figure, you're still talking about 250,000 dead.”

Riley couldn't speak for a time. He looked out the window. The landscape below was so dark, he had to remind himself that they weren't flying over water.
How can a quarter million dead be a conservative number? How could this have happened?

“What's President Lloyd doing about it?”

Khadi jumped in to answer this question. “He immediately grounded all air traffic. As far as addressing the disaster, he's had FEMA activate the National Incident Management System, so you've got both public and private groups involved. Unfortunately, quite a few of the major law enforcement agencies are being distracted by the other incidents.”

“Other incidents?”

“Oh—sorry, I forgot; you don't know about them,” Khadi said, turning more fully toward Riley. “In the past few hours, thirteen major cities have had suicide bombings—mostly singles, but Los Angeles, Chicago, and Philadelphia have had two each. Also, there are forty-seven state and federal prisons that are experiencing major rioting. It all seems to be a coordinated effort. Obviously, all these incidents are drawing resources that would otherwise have been allocated toward New York and Newark.”

Smart; very smart,
Riley thought.
We're not just dealing with some Afghani cave rat.
“What's Lloyd doing about North Korea?”

Scott took this one. “Well, until we can get positive proof that the weapons are theirs, he's doing nothing. However, he is putting out word that the United States will not tolerate nations taking advantage of the situation to pursue any long-simmering imperialistic notions.”

“I.e., Russia and China.”

“And India and Venezuela and any number of African nations,” Khadi added.

“We are getting offers of help from around the globe, particularly Western and Central Europe,” Scott said. “This is the time you really learn who your friends are.”

A thought occurred to Riley. “Speaking of our friends, what's happening with Israel?”

Scott shrugged. “That's obviously a big concern right now. If we're too hurt to help them, then they're truly on their own—David against the giants. Not that it's much different from the way things have been lately anyway. Lloyd's policies have already been pulling us further and further away from Israel, so they've been preparing to go it alone for a while now.”

“According to my sources,” Khadi jumped in, “Israel has a three-strike plan lined up to take out Iran's nuclear capabilities. One Jericho ballistic nuke to Esfaha-n to take out their nuclear research center and uranium conversion facility, another to Natanz to take out their uranium enrichment facility, and the third to Ara-k to destroy their heavy water reactor. Three Israeli nukes and Iran's nuclear program goes almost back to square one.”

Scott waved a hand as if he didn't even want to consider that possibility at the moment. “Thankfully, right now they are only posturing. They've let it be known that if anyone, particularly Iran, tries anything, they reserve the right to bomb them to hell and back.”

Riley raised his eyebrows. “Well, that must have made them even more popular among our Middle Eastern friends.”

“No doubt. The Iranian president is already declaring the words to be statements of war.”

Riley side-armed his fist into the helicopter's shell. “I'll give you ten to one he's got a finger in this somehow.”

Khadi shook her head and said, “I don't think so. This is too . . . I don't know . . . too creative for him—too out of the box. He's such a one-track Twelver that all he can think about is getting nukes so that he can drop them on Israel and America and in the ensuing destruction usher in the Mahdi.”

“Okay, so if it's not Iran, then who is it—the Saudis?”

Khadi put up her hand. “I didn't say it wasn't Iran. I just don't think it's state-sponsored Iranian. It could still be a Persian terrorist organization or a Saudi group. There's got to be some oil money involved somewhere; that's the only way they could afford to buy these weapons.”

“You mean someone like bin Laden?”

“Someone like him, but not him. He doesn't have the infrastructure anymore to pull something like this off. I think we're looking at a new group that is well respected and well connected. That's why we're seeing the bombings and the Wahhabist riots—and I'll guarantee you that it is the prison Wahhabis who are behind the riots.”

“What about the other EMP?” Skeeter asked.

Scott looked at the floor, frustration evident in his voice. “The president has got every intelligence agency working on this—CIA, FBI, CTD, everyone—but still we haven't been able to track down the second warhead, and we have no clue as to the location of the replacement delivery device. We haven't even figured out the planned location of detonation. So, basically, we have—”

“Squat,” Riley said. “Swell.”

Turning back to look out the window, Riley could see the ragged edges of the affected area down below. Relief flooded through him as the Blackhawk passed from darkness into light.

“Touchdown in twenty,” Scott said. “Oh, and, Riley, I got this for you.”

He tossed something to Riley. When Riley looked at it, he saw it was a new cell phone.

“Got it programmed with your number. Figured you'll probably want to make some calls to your family after we land.”

“Thanks,” Riley said, slipping the phone into his jeans pocket. Suddenly something sparked in his mind. He grabbed hold of Khadi's arm and said, “Have you heard anything about the Mustangs? They played earlier in the evening. I've been praying they weren't in the air yet.”

Khadi placed her hand on Riley's and said, “No, I figured you'd be asking about them. I checked on it, and they hadn't arrived at the airport yet. I don't know where they are, but they weren't in the air.”

“Praise the Lord for that,” Riley said, taking his hand back and leaning against the Blackhawk's frame.
Being stuck in the city is bad, but at least it's better than dropping from the sky.

Somberness spread through the helicopter, and everyone was quiet for the rest of the flight. After landing, the seven agents piled into a government Suburban. Riley slept all the way to the RoU.

Monday, September 14, 1:30 p.m. IRDT

Tehran, Iran

The car slowed as celebrants mobbed the street. Ayatollah Beheshti heard drums and tambourines all around, and dancers surrounded the car. A woman walked past the window, and Beheshti took great pleasure in seeing the elation on her face as she clapped, chanted, and ululated.

Not far away, an effigy of American president Lloyd hung from a light pole, and as Beheshti watched, a man with a salt-and-pepper beard set fire to it, hitting it with his shoe as it began to burn. In front of the burning mannequin, the red, white, and blue of the American flag was laid on the ground, and men and women waited their turn in line to walk across it.

But as Beheshti widened his gaze, he noticed that outside of this celebration, far more people stood on the outskirts looking in. Some watched in amazement and some in amusement, pointing and laughing. Others seemed to be shaking their heads in disgust. A few were calling down curses or were being restrained by friends from attacking the celebrants below. Not surprisingly to Beheshti, most of those in the larger group were young people—students from the University of Tehran just a block to his left, up Nosrat Street.

We are starting to lose this new generation,
he thought, furious at what he saw.
The recent elections proved that! They know nothing of the debauchery of the shah and the way he tried to turn us into a little America. They don't know what it means to suffer or sacrifice for Allah—to make a difference with their lives. Instead, they sit in comfort, watching their American shows on their satellite televisions. They yearn for all things Western. They don't see how they are being infiltrated—corrupted—by the very things they venerate.

Two of the young men watching began performing a mocking impersonation of the dancers, causing those around them to laugh. Soon they tired of watching the demonstration, and wrapping their arms around each other's shoulders, they departed toward the university.
Starting tomorrow, I will redouble my efforts with my young students to ensure they don't turn out like those children of Satan.

“Let's go,” Beheshti said to Bahman Milani, who sat in front of him driving the silver Iran Khodro Sarir. Milani honked his horn and tried to weave his way through the people who had spread themselves across Kargar Avenue. But the people were too wrapped up in their celebration to take notice.

Milani turned around, frustration on his face, and said, “They won't move. They are ignoring me.”

A bang on the roof startled Beheshti. A smiling man looked in the window, but his smile was quickly replaced by recognition and fear. Pressing his hands together, he bowed his apology to the religious leader. Then, elbowing his way to the front of the car, he cleared a path, pushing, kicking, punching—whatever it took to get people out of the way.

Finally the car cleared the mob. The man came around by Beheshti's window and again bowed his apology. Beheshti lowered the window halfway, placed his hand on the man's head in blessing, and then tapped the back of Milani's seat, signaling him to drive off.

At least some people are celebrating as they should, unlike those lying hypocrites I just met with.

That morning he had been summoned by the Grand Ayatollah. When he arrived at the Supreme Leader's opulent offices, he had been made to wait in the outer room for two hours before he was called in.

When he entered, he saw that Iran's president was there as well. The two leaders had just finished an elaborate lunch, and the president seemed to make a special effort to wait until Beheshti was inside before dabbing his mouth with his napkin and rising from the table. That was just the first of many disrespects shown that morning.

While the president and the Supreme Leader sat down, Beheshti was made to stand, as if he were an inferior being interrogated.

“Is this attack on America your work?” the Supreme Leader asked.

“You know it is,
sayyid
. I spoke to you of it, if you will remember.”

“I remember you bringing me some ridiculous idea, and I also remember telling you not to follow through with it.”

So this is the way it's going to be.
“Begging
sayyid
's pardon, but your exact words were, ‘We have chosen not to sanction or participate in your plan. However, if you decide to proceed on your own, neither will we block your efforts.' I took that as an implicit go-ahead for the plan; I would just be on my own in carrying it out.”

“Is that what the Grand Ayatollah said—go ahead with the plan?” the president asked, taking over the fight as if he had just been tagged. “Or did you just assume that was what he meant?”

“It seemed clear to me—”

“Is it what he said? Answer the question!” As the president said this, a projectile of spit flew out of his mouth and landed on his shirt.

Pig!
“No, it is not what he said!”

Firmly established with the upper hand, the president turned up the attack. “So you took it upon yourself, a mere cleric, to launch an attack upon America, virtually destroying their most important city, then causing additional havoc with multiple incidents across the country. Do you know the danger we are in, and how much worse it will get if your part in this is ever discovered? We are not a terrorist nation!”

Beheshti had to bite his tongue at that last statement.
How much money do you funnel off to terrorism? What percentage of this country's GDP is designated to disrupt the West in any way possible?
But instead of saying what was truly on his heart, Beheshti said, “Of course not, Mr. President. If a trail ever led back this direction, I would make it very clear that I acted on my own in a rogue capacity. You could do with me what you willed.”

“Do you think you would be believed? Don't you know the world would simply determine that we were setting you up as a scapegoat? And by the way, we do not need your permission to do with you what we will.”

And so the conversation went for an hour. Accusation after accusation, disrespect after disrespect. Of course, they gloated over the pain caused to America. They rejoiced over the green light this gave them to launch the centrifuges in Natanz so they could begin transforming their low-enriched fuel-grade uranium to the highly enriched weapons-grade. They exulted over what they saw as the impending destruction of Israel.

But did they give me any credit for that? Never!
Beheshti thought as he took hold of the grab handle above the door to steady himself as his car cleared the Kargar-Azadi roundabout.
I have brought America to her knees in a way no one else could. 9/11 was about a couple of buildings and a few planes. Now that first attack will be forgotten as a small coin is lost in a cavern of riches.

And that, ultimately, is what that meeting was all about. It was jealousy, pure and simple.

Beheshti's cell rang. He reached into the deep pocket of his robe and pulled the phone out. “Yes?”

Nouri Saberi's voice was on the other end. “The package is in the neighborhood. It should be delivered tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very good,” Beheshti said, then hung up the phone.

As he held the grab handle again for the turn onto Jomhuri-Ye-Eslami, the one-way street that took him to his mosque, he couldn't help but let a smile creep onto his usually stern face.

America may think things are bad now, but they are about to get a lot worse. Praise be to Allah, the Mighty, the Powerful, for not letting one small setback destroy his divine plans.