Powerless (24 page)

 

S
eaman Chase Oliver takes one last drag of his cigarette before flipping the butt over the rail of the USS
Bunker Hill
, a Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser support ship for the carrier USS
Carl Vinson
. He turns to one of his fellow sailors, who has a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Why the hell are they rousting us out of bed at three thirty in the morning? For a damn drill?”

“I dunno, cuz. It's the navy—I just go where they tell me, when they tell me,” Seaman Diaz says.

“But the fucking middle of the night?”

“C'mon, Ollie, you were probably in your bunk jacking—”

Another loud siren sounds.

“Here comes the pretend missile launch,” Seaman Oliver shouts as they work their way closer to the aft superstructure—standard operating procedure for missile launch.

The giant ship shudders and a yellow flame lights the night sky. “What the hell?” Seaman Oliver shouts to his friend.

“Well, cuz, don't appear to be no drill,” Diaz shouts back.

Against standard operating procedure, they drift to the rail so that they can get a better view of the three-thousand-pound Tomahawk missiles exploding upward from the bow of the ship. One after another, the TERCOM radar guidance–equipped missiles launch from their vertical launching system. The smoke from their turbofan engines washes across the deck of the ship, temporarily reducing visibility.

“Look.” Diaz points out to sea where other ships in their armada are launching the deadly cruise missiles. At over a million dollars a pop, it's not long before fifty million dollars in weapons are streaking through the sky.

“Who the hell we bombing?” Oliver shouts.

“Hell if I know. But whoever it is, I'm sure glad that I'm not on the other end of this shit.”

The ship contains a mix of 122 missiles, and within minutes 20 Tomahawks have blasted from the deck of the USS
Bunker Hill
. The night sky is lit with missile after missile racing off to their targets. Shortly after missile launch, the aircraft carrier USS
Carl Vinson
begins launching her aircraft.

The F/A-18s streak into the sky as the smell of burned jet fuel envelops Strike Group One. There's a continuous stream of aircraft being hurtled into the sky by the ship's steam-powered catapult system.

“Look at those planes, Diaz,” Seaman Oliver shouts.

“They are loaded down with ordnance. Somebody is getting their ass kicked.”

“Who do you think it is, cuz?” Diaz asks.

“Hell if I know.”

 

P
resident Rafsanjani stares at the sun cresting above the mountain peaks east of Tehran as he slumps in the rear seat of his chauffeured limousine. After a quick two-hour nap and a much-needed shower at home, he's been summoned back to the supreme leader's office.

Unfortunately, the president had chosen the worst possible two-hour window for sneaking in a nap. While he had been resting, Iranian troops along the front line in Iraq had been decimated by attack after attack from the Americans and Israelis. He turns from the serenity of the mountains and glances again at the piece of paper containing the projected death toll. He rakes a single hand across his face as the long black car pulls into the heavily fortified entrance to the ayatollah's office. The car is halted and mirrors are run under both sides of the car. A soldier with a death grip on his Tondar MPT-9 submachine gun orders the windows down.

President Rafsanjani scoots forward in the seat as another guard appears on his side of the car. After a heated exchange between the president and the soldier, the gate is lifted and the car eases farther into the complex. Although a cold front had come in sometime during the night, offering a respite from the untenable heat, a bead of sweat forms on his brow when he steps out of the car. He mops his brow upon entering and comes face-to-face with a very grim General Safani, who gives him the tiniest of nods.

President Rafsanjani leans forward to whisper into the general's ear, “What happened, Ahmad?”

The general glances around at the large number of security forces and steers President Rafsanjani toward a quiet corner. “What happened, Mr. President, is the sleeping bear has reawakened. The Americans and the Israelis unleashed a highly coordinated attack on our troops. Most of our command and control units were destroyed in the first few minutes and most all of our airplanes lie burning in the desert.”

The president grabs the general by the elbow. “What are you going to tell the ayatollah?”

“I'm not going to tell him anything,” General Safani hisses. “That's your job. You and the supreme leader cooked up this foolish mission against my repeated protests.”

President Rafsanjani leans back and tugs on the lapels of his suit coat. “You are in command, General. This disaster falls on your shoulders for such poor planning.”

Safani turns away in disgust and, accompanied by two of his most trusted aides, shuffles down the hallway to the supreme leader's office as if trudging toward the gallows. He glances back to see that President Rafsanjani is hurrying to catch up, no doubt eager to tell his side of the story first.

As before, a cleric is on hand to open the door. General Safani pauses before entering and turns to his most trusted aide. He reaches into his freshly pressed tunic and removes a standard white envelope. “Make sure my family gets this if something happens to me,” he whispers while handing the envelope to his aide.

Shocked at the implication, it takes a moment for the man to regain his composure before reaching a hand out to accept the envelope. The general turns away, runs a finger around the inside collar of his uniform, and squares his shoulders as President Rafsanjani brushes past.

The supreme leader is in a flurry of agitation as General Safani approaches the desk. The president is already seated in front of the desk, his head bowed as if he were a child being scolded.

“Tell me what happened, General,” the ayatollah says through clenched teeth. The general begins detailing the circumstances of the predawn battle until the supreme leader slams his hand on his desk.

“Enough excuses, General. You should have foreseen this attack. Where are our intelligence assets?”

“I tried to warn you about the—”

The ayatollah unleashes another verbal tirade. He jumps to his feet and paces the area behind the desk. His face is a deep crimson and the veins at his temples throb with every accelerated heartbeat.

General Safani, who hadn't been offered a seat, stands and takes the withering assault as President Rafsanjani looks on. After a few moments the supreme leader collapses into his chair, having spent all the venom he could muster.

The respite doesn't last as he lurches to his feet again. “Send more troops. Send every able-bodied man to the front lines. I will not lose this battle.”

“But, sir, most of our command structure is—”

“General, you are relieved of duty. I am placing you under house arrest,” the ayatollah says in a low, menacing voice. He turns his attention to President Rafsanjani.

“You are a coward. If it weren't so easy for me to dangle your strings you would rot in a jail cell.”

The president hangs his head, his eyes focused on the intricate pattern of the priceless Persian rug beneath his chair.

“Put another general in charge. I don't care who it is, but their success or failure will be a direct reflection on you. Keep that in mind as you make your selection.”

He waves his hand. “Get out. The next time I summon you here, Mr. President”—he emphasizes the title—“could well be your last trip if you have not destroyed the Jews.”

President Rafsanjani meekly stands from his chair and joins General Safani in leaving the office. Moving through the doorway, a pair of neckless uniformed Revolutionary Guards peels the general away, one at each elbow, as the president takes the long walk back to his car alone.

 

T
he last rays of the sun are hovering on the edge of the horizon and the temperature is maybe ten degrees cooler as Zeke ventures through one of the seamier areas he's ridden through. An outcropping of apartment buildings is butted up to the underside of the LBJ Freeway, occupying both sides of Preston Road. The fake, faded yellow stucco is flaking off most of the apartment buildings and the surrounding ground is hard-packed earth with tufts of weeds poking up at odd intervals. Window screens hang askew and the parking lot is littered with cars that look like they haven't been driven in years. A few huddled groups of people linger around the front doors of several apartments.

Zeke pulls on the reins to bring Murphy to a stop a good distance away and scans the area in the dying light. No obvious threats, but he loosens the Glock nonetheless. He takes advantage of the stoppage to study the map before the light fades. By his estimation it's about six miles to Ruth's house—a couple of hours of riding, three at the most, and they will be in her neighborhood. He tucks the map into one of the saddlebags and gives a little nudge with his heels to get Murphy going again. He swivels in the saddle to check on Ruby and Tilly. Both mares are trudging along but their shaggy heads are hanging a little closer to the ground.

He turns back to the front and catches sight of movement in the distance. The number of cars along this stretch of road is light compared to some of the other streets, but ample hiding space is available. He delivers another light kick to Murphy's ribs and the pace picks up. Zeke scans the grayness for more movement. His senses are now on high alert. The hairs are standing at the nape of his neck and the gloom is suddenly swirling with unseen menace.

More movement on the left side. He reaches his hand to the holster and pulls out the Glock, slowly bringing the gun around front. Now shielded behind the saddle horn, the pistol is grasped firmly in his hand. He doesn't need to look to know a round is chambered. Zeke always carries hot. As the horses approach a car parked parallel to the road, he slows Murphy to concentrate on the foreground.

About ten yards away from an old beater Malibu parked crossways in the street, four heads suddenly pop up in the clear. Zeke pulls on the reins and the small caravan comes to a dead stop. The four young men slink around the front of the dead car.

“I like your horses,” one of them says. They're late teens, maybe early twenties, full of themselves by the way they walk. All four are smiling.

“Thanks,” Zeke says, shifting in the saddle to allow more freedom of movement.

All of them are armed, their guns tucked in their waistbands, gangster style. Zeke sweeps his vision from one to the other, taking in their heavily tatted arms, their mangy hair, their leering looks of toughness. A quick glance to the side reveals a group of people edging closer. Not good.

“I'd like to have 'em,” the one in front says.

The leader, Zeke decides, because he occupies the center. “They're good horses, but they're not for sale,” Zeke says, his gaze boring in on the tough in front. They're bunched up in a group instead of being spread out, a tactical error on their part. He sorts out the order—his progression if he needs to fire. His one concern is how Murphy will react if he fires his weapon from the saddle.

“I ain't saying I'm going to buy 'em.” The other three laugh.

Zeke glances to the right to track the progress of the other group. Closer. No time.

“Look, I don't want any trouble. I'd like to be on my way.”

“Hear that, fellas? He don't want no trouble.” With a large toothy smile the leader glances at his buddies.

Zeke sighs and grabs another handful of rein. “Let's all go on about our business.”

“Or what?” the leader says.

“You best move along because you're not getting the goddamn horses.”

The leader's smile turns to a frown as he reaches for the gun at his waist. Without hesitation, and with no remorse, Zeke raises his pistol and fires a single round from the Glock, punching a small hole in the man's forehead. He collapses to the ground as if his strings had been suddenly cut. Murphy bucks and stomps but Zeke wrestles for control and immediately switches his focus to the other three. The one on the right reaches for his gun but it hasn't even cleared his waistband when Zeke's second bullet punches a hole in almost the exact same spot as his friend's.

Off to his right, hands are grabbing for weapons. Zeke buries his heels into Murphy's side and the horse, skittish from the noise and the scent of blood in the air, breaks into a full gallop, plowing through the other two men. He glances back to make sure the mares are keeping up. Other gunshots bark in the night. Zeke leans forward and hugs Murphy's neck, hoping like hell none of the bullets hit the horses.

Four blocks later, Zeke pulls gently on the reins to slow their progress. Murphy slows to a walk and Zeke removes a full mag from his pocket and reloads the Glock. He holsters the gun, hoping like hell he won't need to pull it out again. He stops the horses and climbs down from the saddle. He looks back to make sure there is no pursuit and spends a few moments checking the health of the three horses. No obvious blood. He whispers to the horses as he runs his hands across their lathered shoulders. Murphy is quivering and he spends a little more time stroking his soft muzzle and talking in a low, soothing voice. Once the horses are calmed, he climbs back aboard and loosens the reins so Murphy can set his own pace.

His own nerves are rattled from the gunplay. He inhales a series of deep breaths, but he doesn't dwell on the outcome. Those guys made a choice. Unfortunately, they made the wrong one. He scans for other threats as he vanquishes what happened from his mind. Army training.

He can't make out the street sign at the next intersection because full dark has descended on the lightless city. As they draw closer he sees the wording on the sign:
WALNUT HILL LANE.
From his recollection they are about two miles from Ruth's house. The day's hard riding and the sudden adrenaline dump leave Zeke with a stress hangover, and he slumps in the saddle.

They plug along until he starts noticing familiar sights—places he's visited. Restaurants where their family's eaten. His spirits lift as he focuses on the street signs. They pass Hanover, Purdue, and Stanford and he steers Murphy left onto Amherst Avenue. Ruth's house is in the middle of the block but he can't yet see it. Damn, he wants off this horse. He wills Murphy to go faster until they are abreast the home Carl and his sister had spent a full year remodeling. He climbs wearily from the saddle and leads the three horses into the front yard, tying off Murphy's reins on the front porch railing.

Zeke limps up the steps and knocks on the front door. No answer. He knocks again and peers through the side window to see candles flickering in the darkness. Zeke has no idea what time it is. He knocks again and is rewarded by approaching footfalls.

His sister's voice drifts through the closed door. “Who is it?”

“It's me, sis,” he says, suddenly overcome with emotion.

She throws the front door open, lunges through the storm door and into his arms. “Oh, Zeke,” she moans into his chest. “I knew you'd come.”

Zeke looks up to see two small heads peeking around the wall of the living room.

“Uncle Zeke,” they shout in unison, charging across the empty space. They spill out onto the front porch and surround their mother and uncle, hugging Zeke's waist, his legs, any part of his body that they can reach. He breaks from the embrace and takes a step back. They've lost weight. Emma and Noah are skin and bones. His heart stutters.

“Where's Carl?” he says.

Ruth shakes her head as fresh tears begin. “He went to find water. But he's been gone for over five hours.”

Zeke wipes the tears from her cheeks with his dirty thumb. “I'll go find him, sis. Give me a minute to get situated.”

Ruth nods and gives her brother another hug.

Zeke kneels and embraces his niece and nephew and peppers their gaunt faces with kisses. “How do you like it with no Internet?”

“It sucks, Uncle Zeke,” Noah says.

“Oh yeah? Your mother and I didn't have Internet until we got to be old,” he says, giving each another kiss. He stands and walks back to the horses, which they spot for the first time. They race down the steps and run to Murphy, raking their little hands across his soft nose.

“Why are you riding Grandpa's horses?” Emma says as she moves from Murphy to Ruby.

“Had to, baby girl. I didn't have enough gas to make it down here and get you back to Grandma's and Grandpa's.” He unties the saddlebag on Ruby's back and hands it to Ruth. “From Mom. You guys eat all you want. I'm going to put the mares in the backyard.”

He unclips the lead attached to Murphy and leads the two mares to the side gate while Ruth and the kids return inside, the saddlebags containing the food grasped firmly in his sister's thin hand. After he removes the packs, he pours each horse a good portion of oats and takes another healthy portion around to Murphy, still tied up in the front yard. He's going to need to find them some water in a bit. While Murphy crunches on the oats, Zeke retreats indoors and finds his sister, niece, and nephew around the kitchen table with the bounty from the saddlebags spilled out in front of them. Noah has a mouthful of peanut butter and crackers while Emma munches a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Eat, Ruth,” he says, stepping closer.

“I will, but let them eat first.”

“There's plenty, I promise. I have a big portion of deer jerky, too.”

Ruth hesitates before picking up one of the sandwiches. She delicately unwraps it and takes a bite.

Zeke waits for her to swallow. “Where's the closest creek?”

“There's a creek across the next street that runs through the country club,” she says, struggling with all her willpower not to inhale the food.

“I'm going to lead the horses down for a drink.” He turns toward the door.

“Zeke.” He turns to face her and she mouths a silent “thank you.”

Zeke nods and disappears back into the darkness.