by Jason Elam
Then the attack on Platte River Stadium took place. Several thousand people were killed. Not many months following came terrorist attacks on the subways in Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., and at a movie premiere in Hollywood. And now, recently, were the multiple small-scale attacks taking place throughout the country that had many Americans feeling as though they were living in Jerusalem during the intifada. All these things had combined to change President Lloyd’s view on the military and Homeland Security, and while he certainly couldn’t be described as a hawk, he now wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done to keep the country safe.
According to Scott, Gordon Carroll, the secretary of defense, was a great ally in the fight against terrorism. A civilian, he had started his career as a K-9 cop in Des Moines, Iowa. Eventually he entered politics, and his reputation for fearlessness and straight shooting led him into Congress, the Senate, and now into the president’s cabinet. Rumor was he didn’t speak much in meetings, but when he did, the commander in chief listened.
In contrast, Secretary of Homeland Security Dwayne Moss was a weasel. In Scott’s words, he was an “obnoxious, narcissistic stuffed shirt whose main concern is climbing over the people above him while protecting his backside against anyone or anything that might drag him down.” Scott had said Moss would be their biggest opponent in the meeting today.
Finally, Stanley Porter would be there. He was the director of the counterterrorism division. While Secretary Moss was Porter’s direct superior, there was probably no one on earth who had a greater disdain for the secretary of Homeland Security than Porter himself. In what now seemed like a previous lifetime, Scott had worked directly under Porter in the CTD Midwest Division Headquarters in St. Louis, Missouri. There, the two of them had clashed repeatedly. But over the last few months, the two men had developed a mutual respect for each other’s commitments and styles. Porter would be the CTD pit bull in the meeting if some biting was needed.
As their escort led them to a door, Scott whispered, “You know you ought to get that boot fixed. You sound like a walking suction cup.”
“Shut up, Raggedy-Man,” Riley answered, taking a quick glance at Scott’s grinning profile. This was only the second time Riley had seen Scott in a suit, and while it was better than his typical rock-and-roll T-shirt and torn jeans combo, he still had the discordant look of a high school burnout wearing a graduation gown.
“Gentlemen, this is the Roosevelt Room,” their escort said as she opened the door for them. “Please make yourselves comfortable until the president is ready for you. You’ll find water and coffee in the carafes on the conference table.”
They thanked her and entered. Riley was immediately taken by the large portrait of Teddy Roosevelt in his Rough Rider garb hanging over the fireplace. Riley had always admired the country’s twenty-sixth president. His independent spirit, fearlessness in battle, and amazing sense of adventure were all qualities that Riley strove to emulate in his own character.
Movement caught his eye, and in a moment all focus on the historicity of the room flew out the window. Standing up from a couch on the far side of the long conference table was Khadi Faroughi. Her eyes were wide and bright, and a smile filled her face. The look of excited expectation, however, quickly evaporated when she saw Riley.
“Scott, what did you do to him?” she asked in disbelief as she made her way around the table.
“Uh, just a little mix-up with our friends in the Federal Bureau of Literal Interpretation.”
“Riley, you’re a mess,” she said as she reached out to him. It had been nearly a month since they had seen each other, but as soon as he touched her, it felt like they had never been apart.
When they separated, Riley said, “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not so bad. I like to think of it as clamming chic. Like the boots?” he asked, lifting one up. But as he did, he accidentally kicked one of the conference chairs, leaving a dirt scuff and dropping bits of dried mud onto the immaculate carpet. Immediately he dropped down to wipe the scuff and pick up the mud, saying, “Great, we’ll never get invited back here.”
Scott laughed. “Riley, they’ve got people with vacuums who can do that.”
Khadi bent down to help Riley. “Where’s Skeeter? Did they make him wait in the lobby?”
“Ask Mr. Detail there about Skeeter,” Riley said, nodding toward Scott.
“Skeeter? You want to know about Skeeter?” Scott paused for a moment. “Well, he sort of got left behind.”
Khadi let out a sigh of exasperation. “And Porter chose you as team leader of our special operations group? Unbelievable!” Khadi still bristled a bit at her title of assistant team leader, considering her more extensive experience, more extensive education, and more extensive knowledge of counterintelligence.
“Hey, it’s not what you know; it’s who you know,” Scott jabbed back, affirming what they both already knew to be true. Scott was team leader because he had more history with Stanley Porter—pure and simple.
“Yeah, well, soon enough it won’t matter, because when Skeeter gets here, he’s going to kill you, and I’ll inherit your position,” Khadi muttered. Then she looked up at Scott and they both started laughing. True, it was unfair, but they both genuinely respected each other, and their growing friendship went a long way toward helping them work effectively with each other despite the circumstances.
Turning serious, Khadi asked Riley, “So has Scott filled you in on the situation?”
“With the EMP threat? Yeah. We have to find a way to make that a nonstarter. If it goes off, it could potentially knock us back to the nineteenth century,” Riley answered as they both stood up with little handfuls of dirt. They looked for a place to put it and finally settled on giving it to Scott, who proceeded to drop it into his pants pocket.
“Scott also told me about his wonderful plan for my life,” Riley continued, letting a little of his anger slip out. He had determined in the truck that he was going to put aside any of his feelings about what Scott had done until the meeting was over. There would be time enough to deal with his friend then.
Khadi reached out and took hold of Riley’s arm, “I’m so sorry about that. I wanted to tell you, at least to warn you. Scott just thought it was better to wait until you were here, and he pulled rank.”
“Honestly, he was probably right. But he and I are still going to have a bit of a chat when all this is done.” He turned to Scott, who pretended to admire a large grandfather clock.
The door opened, and the woman who had brought them to the room stepped in. “The president is ready to see you now,” she said.
Wednesday, July 22, 7:30 a.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Scott straightened his tie, Khadi pulled down on the bottom of her dress suit’s jacket, and Riley took one more quick sniff of his armpits, rolling his eyes and resigning himself to his impending embarrassment.
“Just follow my lead,” Scott whispered to Riley as they crossed the hallway to the open doors of the Oval Office. “And try not to say anything stupid.”
“Thanks for the confidence,” Riley whispered back.
As Riley stepped across the threshold into the Oval Office, his breath caught. What is a small-town Wyoming boy like me doing in a place like this? He was overwhelmed by a sense of the importance, the history, the absolute power of the decisions that were made in this room. Wars were declared and peace was won all from the desk in this office. And now they want to talk to me! Riley felt himself getting swept up in the moment, until he took his next step and heard the mmmup! of his heel pulling up in his galosh. So much for history-making moments, he thought as his face reddened.
“Ross, what is wrong with you, bringing someone looking like that into the office of the president of the United States? Have you no respect?” To Riley’s right, a thin, immaculately dressed man had jumped up from his place on a couch and was rushing toward Scott. That must be the weasel.
“Sorry, Secretary Moss,” Scott answered, “but I thought K
hadi looked pretty good.”
“That’s enough,” said both President Lloyd and Stanley Porter, although they each said it to a different man.
Moss glared at Scott another second before returning to the group of men who were now all standing. Scott, Khadi, and Riley walked around a second couch, and introductions were made.
Speaking to the president, Scott said, “I am truly sorry, sir, for Riley’s attire. There was a mix-up in the rush to get him here. It’s my fault.”
“Don’t worry about it, Agent Ross,” the president said with a smile. “You should see what I sometimes wear in here—or don’t wear,” he whispered with a conspiratorial wink toward Riley, “when I’m up late working.”
Riley wasn’t sure if he should laugh or be creeped out by the president’s remarks, but before he had time to decide, the president had taken his hand. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Riley. I’ve always enjoyed your football play, but in this last year I’ve gained a whole new kind of respect for you. On behalf of the American people, I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done in saving so many lives.”
“Thank you, sir,” Riley managed to stammer.
Then, turning to Scott and Khadi, the president said, “The same goes for the two of you. I’ve read about your actions. We owe you a debt of gratitude as well.”
Scott and Khadi shook the president’s hand and acknowledged his words.
“I’ve been very proud of them too,” Secretary Moss interjected. “They were a key part in my plan to stop the attacks on our soil and to bring down the Cause.”
Riley saw Scott give a quick, angry glance to Stanley Porter, who returned a barely perceptible eye roll and shake of the head. Smart move, Riley thought. Let the boss take the credit, which keeps you in good with him. Those in the know—and the president definitely seemed like a man in the know—would be able to discern who was really doing the work and who was just blowing smoke.
The president sat down in his chair under the famous Rembrandt Peale portrait of George Washington. On the chair next to him sat Secretary of Defense Carroll. Moss and Porter took seats on one of the couches, leaving the other for Scott, Khadi, and Riley, who couldn’t help wondering what his grimy T-shirt was doing to the cream-colored fabric.
Once everyone was settled, President Lloyd said to Scott, “Well, Agent Ross, I read your briefing, yet through Mr. Porter here I got word that you still insisted on a meeting. While it’s possible that this is all part of an elaborate plan to give Riley here one of his most embarrassing moments, I have to assume that this is something more than that. So, with the most detail in the least amount of time, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
Wednesday, July 22, 7:35 a.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Riley heard Scott take a deep breath and exhale his nerves, but before Scott could say a word, Secretary Moss jumped in. “Agent Ross has received information that—”
President Lloyd held up his hand and interrupted Moss. “Dwayne, I’ve heard enough from you for right now. Let’s hear what Agent Ross has to say.”
Riley saw the icy glare Moss directed at Scott. The guy seems like an impossible friend to make and a dangerous enemy to keep. Gotta keep an eye on him for Scott’s sake.
“Thank you, sir,” Scott said. “We have received very strong intel that an attack with electromagnetic pulse weapons is imminent. We believe that the devices originated in North Korea but are now in the hands of a terrorist group.”
“So said your report. And where do you believe these weapons are now?” President Lloyd asked.
“Sir, we don’t know. Our information is just that they left North Korea and are bound for the United States. We don’t even know what terrorist group has them. It could be al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, Hamas, or even some new Mexican terrorist drug cartel. All we know about is the departure. We’re in a fog after that.”
The president picked a piece of lint off his pant leg and flicked it to the ground. “And you’re sure that the DPRK is behind this? That’s a pretty serious accusation—one that could get a lot of people killed. There’s no telling what that crackpot Kim might do with his recently honed nuclear capabilities.”
“All I can tell you is that’s where the intel originated, Mr. President. Apparently MI6 has a mole fairly high up in North Korea’s government. He used a pipeline to get the information to a runner in China, who got it to the Brits. An analyst friend of mine called and gave me the heads-up. Technically, we’re not even supposed to know about this.”
Moss, who had been fidgeting in his seat, spoke up again. “You see, sir, that’s why I hesitated to hold this meeting. I hate taking up your time on supposed ‘North Korean moles’ and information from ‘analyst friends,’” he said, air-quoting the appropriate phrases.
“In the past, the information from this source has been nothing but credible,” Scott countered.
“But credibility has been an issue with you, hasn’t it, Agent Ross?” Moss sneered. “I seem to remember hundreds of thousands of dollars of taxpayer money wasted at the Rose Bowl stadium based on supposedly credible information from another of your buddies, a certain Riley Covington.”
Riley’s eyes jerked toward Moss, but before he said anything to defend himself, he spotted Porter, who was fixing Riley with a hard stare and giving him a furtive shake of the head. Riley swallowed his anger and let Scott answer Moss.
“Did we or did we not stop the attack by Hakeem Qasim?”
“But it wasn’t at the Rose Bowl!”
“Did we or did we not stop it?”
“Enough!” The president stood from his seat and had a finger pointing at each of the two men. “Now you’re both wasting my time. Agent Ross, you will remember that Secretary Moss is your superior. And, Dwayne, you will do me the courtesy of letting my questions get answered uninterrupted. Do you understand?”
Although both men were still seething, they each managed a “Yes, sir.”
The president sat down, crossed his legs, and straightened the crease in his pants. “Good. Now, Agent Ross, there are threats against our country every day. If you saw even half of the reports that came across my desk, you’d be wondering how it’s possible that our nation is still in one piece. What makes you feel that this threat is worthy of extra attention?”
“First of all, let me apologize both to you and to Secretary Moss.” The president nodded his pardon, but Moss’s head remained still.
Good move, Riley thought. Maybe the boy’s growing up after all.
Scott continued, “But it’s because of the nature of the weapon that my emotions are so high. The results of an EMP attack on our nation would be nothing short of catastrophic. However, I’m not the best person to tell you about that. Riley?”
Riley spun his head to look at Scott. Scott gave him a wink and a nod. Riley turned back toward the president, but before he could say anything, President Lloyd said, “Listen, Riley, there’s no offense meant, and I’ve already told you I’m a big fan, but I’ve got four members of Homeland Security in here, two of whom I understand are a couple of the best analytical minds in the whole country. Why in heaven’s name are you the one briefing me on EMPs?”
Exactly, Riley thought and was about to say so. Instead, the words that came out of his mouth were, “Because I’m the only person in this room who has the depth of knowledge to help you understand the gravity of our situation.”
A smile spread across the president’s face, and he nodded for Riley to continue.
Wednesday, July 22, 7:45 a.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Sweat and heat slowly began spreading over Riley’s body, causing the thinly masked stink of his T-shirt to break free from its bonds. Riley futilely tried to ignore it. “As you know, Mr. President, prior to joining the PFL, I was in Air Force Special Ops. Much of what AFSOC does is weather-related—high-altitude drops into hostile territory in order to gather necessary meteorologic information and the like for aerial and ground attacks.
>
“During my senior year at the Academy, missile defense was a major topic, so I decided to write my thesis on the atmospheric ramifications of the destruction of ballistic missiles while in a suborbital flight path. However, as I gathered information, I became aware of a phenomenon known as electromagnetic pulse. As I read more about it, I ended up changing my thesis to a study on EMP devices and their potential impact on American culture.”
“Riley, you may want to move it along just a bit,” Stanley Porter said.
“Of course, sir. Sorry. So the electromagnetic pulse was first discovered by accident in 1962 during a high-altitude nuclear detonation, code-named Starfish Prime, off Johnston Atoll in the Pacific Ocean. The blast could be seen clearly eight hundred miles away in Hawaii—that part was expected. What wasn’t expected was the damage to electronic equipment on the islands. More than three hundred streetlights no longer worked, many televisions and radios fried, and power lines fused together.
“What was ultimately determined was that the detonation’s rapid acceleration of charged particles caused a burst of electromagnetic energy that shot out across the visual horizon line. This energy has the potential to fry any and all electronics and crash electrical grids.”
President Lloyd shot a quick glance to his watch. “Interesting stuff, Riley, but let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. What could an EMP do to us?”
Riley took a deep breath. “First of all, it would depend on the type of weapon—nuclear or nonnuclear—the size of the bomb, and the height of the blast. A small nuclear device with a low-altitude detonation—say thirty kilometers—could affect an area 250 miles in diameter. However, a large nuke detonated four hundred kilometers over America’s heartland could potentially take out the whole continental United States.”
