Powerless (26 page)

 

A
ll of the classroom doors are open and what little light exists outside is enough to proceed without the flashlight. Zeke creeps down the hallway, only taking a moment with each classroom. He can't see into the darkest corners but his ears are attuned for the slightest noise. So far he's heard zip. He thinks about shouting out for Carl but doesn't yet want to make his presence known. He's weary from being in the saddle all day and all this lurking around has his every last nerve frayed.

He moves down the next hallway, clearing the rooms fairly quickly but the building seems to be never ending. He follows the dim tile pattern in the floor; making a left then a right, and now he's so confused in the darkness he doesn't have an inkling of where he is. At the next hallway intersection he makes a left and comes upon a large open area. Enough ambient outside light leaks through the panel of glass doors that he can make out a sign mounted up high on the wall declaring the room to his right the principal's office. Working his way around the perimeter he clicks on the flashlight and shines the yellow light into the offices. Nothing.

It's been a long time since Zeke attended high school, but he's betting school designs haven't changed much over the years. The people in them, yes, but most follow the same basic layout, which means the cafeteria should be close. And where there's a cafeteria there will be vending machines. He ducks down another hallway and walks quietly, searching for the cafeteria. It needs to be a large space in order to have fed all the students in a timely manner. He steps across the hall and glances through a door to see a big, empty room. He stops and pivots a three-sixty, searching for the faint outline of a vending machine.

“Carl,” he whispers. “Carl.” He pauses to see if his whispers receive a response. A moan. He clicks on the flashlight and sweeps the beam around the area. The light falls on a man curled up in a fetal position next to a threesome of now-empty vending machines. He steps over and kneels down next to the man. “Carl?”

The man moans in response and Zeke puts his hand on the man's shoulder only to have him try to scurry away.

“Carl, it's me, Zeke,” he says, no longer whispering. He leans down as close to Carl's face as he can. Carl's jaw is hanging at an odd angle and dried blood coats his face in a heavy mask. “Carl . . . Carl . . .”

Finally he responds, trying to move his head in Zeke's direction.

“What happened?”

“Some ugs acked me.” His jaw is not functioning enough to form the words.

“Can you stand?”

“Dunno. I ry.”

Zeke grasps him under the arms and gently lifts as Carl shouts out in agony. He gets Carl on his feet and turns him around.

“Anything broken besides your jaw?”

“Don hink so,” he stutters out. “My somach,” he says, drawing one of his arms tight to his body.

Zeke's anger boils over at the sight of his injured brother-in-law. “How many were there?”

Carl holds up his five fingers.

“Five?”

Carl nods.

“How long ago?”

“Dunno, mus have passed ou.”

“What type of weapons were they carrying?”

“Aseall bas.”

“I'm going to take you home, Carl. Can you walk?”

“I hink so.”

Zeke drapes one of Carl's arms over his left shoulder, leaving his right side open so he can get to the Glock in a hurry. He sweeps the flashlight from wall to wall, trying to piece together how to get back to the place he entered. To hell with it. He leads Carl to the front and hips his way through the first set of doors. They stumble across the small vestibule and crash into the final set of doors, shuffle-stepping out into the cool evening air. Zeke hadn't realized he had been sweating as much as he had been and the westerly breeze chills his damp body.

“What happened to your gun?” Zeke asks, the question just now coming to him.

“Ook it.”

Damn, now he has to worry about someone around here toting the gun. He eases Carl down the steps to the sidewalk and pauses for a moment to listen. The only audible noise is Carl's labored breathing. They crab to the left and go around the outside of the school. Progress is slow. Zeke is mostly dragging Carl along, trying hard not to put any more pressure on Carl's damaged midsection.

They shuffle along the school's flank like two drunks heading home from the bar. The journey is slow and Carl's moans are a magnet for trouble in the otherwise still night. They pause between buildings for Carl to catch his breath. His breathing is ragged and Zeke begins to wonder if his injuries are more severe than he first thought.

Zeke helps Carl to the curb while he continues to scan for threats. Not only are there a group of thugs running around with baseball bats, now there's a gun in play. The night seems brighter, but it could be an illusion after having spent the last hour in near-total darkness. After resting for a few moments, Zeke helps Carl to his feet and they trudge toward home.

As they pass what looks like a softball field, the sound of laughter pierces the silence. They come to a dead stop as a flash of uncontrolled anger floods Zeke's system. Another burst of giggles and Zeke pinpoints the source. They're concealed behind the concrete wall of what appears to be a dugout.

“That them?” Zeke whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Think you can sit here on the curb for a moment?”

Carl nods and Zeke gently lowers him down. He makes his way over to the softball field and cuts through an opening in the fence just past first base. Slowly, Zeke follows along the fence until he's about ten feet from the front of the dugout. He pulls the Glock and glides up to the dugout opening. After a deep breath he swivels into the opening, the gun up and ready to fire.

The young men are seated on the long wooden bench at the far end of the dugout. They are so engrossed in what they're doing they don't notice that certain death is standing only a few feet away. Zeke steps closer. Their faces are awash in the spillover of a flashlight. The peach fuzz on their faces suggests they're young—maybe high school age. They're huddled together, intently focused on something. Zeke moves closer. A flash of metal in the wash of light. Carl's gun.

“That gun belongs to me,” Zeke says.

They whirl around as if jolted with a cattle prod. Two shriek, one screams, but the boy in the middle, the one holding the gun, remains calm.

“What are you talking about, man?” the one holding the gun says.

“I want that gun.” Zeke's voice is low, menacing.

“I found this gun,” the boy says. There's now a slight tremor in his voice.

With his pistol pointed center mass on the gun holder, Zeke moves closer. A quick glance at the ground reveals a heap of wooden baseball bats.

“No, you took the gun, and I'm taking it back. I can shoot you and take the gun from your dead body, or you could just hand it to me.”

The other boys are putting some distance between themselves and the boy holding the gun. Zeke really doesn't want to have to put a bullet in the young man in front of him, but he's not leaving without the gun.

“Give it to him, Richie,” one of the boys urges.

Richie looks up at Zeke with a smirk.

Zeke moves closer, now only about five feet from boy and gun. “Richie, hand me the gun. Whether you live or die doesn't matter to me. But your death might upset your parents.”

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.”

 

P
resident 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.”

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.”