by Jason Elam
“What do you mean by ‘take out’?” the president asked, looking sharply at Riley.
“Imagine every piece of electronic equipment suddenly stopping. The initial impact will be devastating enough—you’ll see everything from people with pacemakers falling over dead to planes falling from the sky. Roads will be filled with cars that just stopped, stranding people miles from their homes. Panic will set in quickly as parents aren’t able to get to their children at school or day care. They won’t even be able to call to make sure they’re all right because phones—cell and landline—will no longer function. Many people undergoing even the most routine of surgeries will die on the operating table because the hospital’s lights and equipment will fail, and even the required backup generators will be toast too. Fires from the airplane crashes will consume city blocks because the fire trucks won’t be able to start. It won’t be long before rioting and looting will fill the streets. But that’s just the beginning.
“Realize, sir, that it will be months, if not years, before we can recover from this kind of destruction. When electronics are hit with an EMP, they never function again. We’d be thrown back into the nineteenth century with a society that is not used to providing for itself. Because there’s no refrigeration, food will run short. Clean drinking water will be hard to come by.
“As far as long-term health care, dialysis patients will be the first to go, and soon after, death will spread to diabetics and cancer patients. Disease will run rampant, and simple ailments that were once cured with antibiotics will cause tens of thousands of deaths. Anarchy and mob rule will become the law of the land, because without communication or transportation, Washington, D.C., becomes just another starving, backwater town.”
Riley paused to collect his thoughts. “I know I’m painting a doomsday scenario, but, sir, that’s because that’s exactly what it is. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, will die, and American civilization as we know it will come to an end.”
“And these weapons exist,” the president said quietly.
“Anyone who has nukes and the capability to send them to altitude can create one of these high-altitude, doomsday-type EMPs—us, Russia, China, Israel, North Korea, the U.K., France, and possibly India and Pakistan. And that’s just the nuclear EMPs. For little more than four or five hundred dollars for explosives and copper tubing, any person with the know-how and even minimal intelligence can build what’s known as a flux compression generator, or FCG. One of these homemade mini EMPs has the power of up to a thousand lightning strikes and can wipe out the electronics of city blocks.
“Add to that the new nonnuclear EMP technology. North Korea, Russia, and the United States have been working hard on NNEMPs that can be detonated at fairly low altitude—say thirty kilometers—and still have a hundred-mile-plus footprint—sort of like an FCG on steroids. These—in a sense—‘surgical’ EMPs can be used to impact major population hotbeds, political centers, and key military bases. Imagine what would happen to our efforts in Iraq if Camp Liberty were suddenly and permanently off-line. And rather than needing an ICBM delivery device, a smaller missile or even a Scud could loft an NNEMP to where it needs to be.”
“And do we know that North Korea has this EMP-junior capability?” Lloyd asked.
“Sir, as of now, I’m not cleared to know if even we have this type of capability,” Riley answered, watching as Defense Secretary Carroll gave a slight nod to the president. “But every indication I’ve read recently is that if the DPRK doesn’t have the technology yet, they will soon. It’s amazing how starving your people can up your research-and-development budget.”
Silence hung in the air as Riley’s information sank in. Finally, President Lloyd turned to Defense Secretary Carroll. “Gordy, what are our defenses against this?”
“Honestly, I’m not up on the countermeasures against the small FCGs. As far as high-altitude EMPs, if it’s just one missile, the chances are fairly decent that we could take it out—given enough warning. But with every additional warhead, our odds decrease. And, unfortunately, it only takes one. If it’s a smaller, low-altitude attack, the chances of our catching it in time are slim to none.
“And, if I may, there’s one more thing you need to think about. If we have the doomsday scenario that Riley spoke about, that would open the door for other nations to roll in and take over parts of our country. We could easily see Russia in Alaska and the Pacific Northwest, Mexico up into the Southwest, and even Canada into New England, assuming our border allies weren’t taken off-line by the same weapon that was directed at us. We couldn’t even defend ourselves if Cuba decided to annex Florida.
“The only defenses we would have are those that were overseas during the time of attack. But realize, even if we brought them all home, how would we provide upkeep? How would we get them fuel? How would we feed the troops? Riley is exactly right, sir. A large-scale EMP attack could mean the end of America.”
The president abruptly got to his feet. “One bomb? Seriously, with all our weapons, with all our defenses, you’re saying one bomb could spell the end of the strongest, most technologically advanced nation this world has ever seen?”
“If I may, Mr. President, that’s the problem,” Khadi spoke up. “Our whole society is based on technology. Take away the technology, and what are we left with? If you detonated one of these devices in the heart of the Amazon or in the African bush, things would pretty much go on as they have for centuries. But for most of us? We wouldn’t know how to find a single meal without a nearby Chili’s or a Super Walmart.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this, the end of the world will not come on my watch,” President Lloyd said, as much to himself as to everyone else. “And it very well might be the end of the world, because there’s not a chance with all of our Ohio-class subs out there carrying their Tridents that I’m going to let any nation come rolling across our borders without giving them something to think about back home!”
Secretary Carroll paled at the president’s words. “Sir, I don’t think—”
“Oh, come on, Gordy! I’m just venting!” President Lloyd stood quietly for a moment. Nobody dared say a word. Finally, the president turned to Scott. “And how sure are you of this information?”
From behind the president came Secretary Moss’s voice, “See, that’s what I’m saying, Mr. President. Agent Ross is giving you this doomsday scenario, trying to incite panic, based on one person’s word. It’s ludicrous to be getting all worked up over—”
The president held up his hand, silencing Moss. He continued to stare at Scott.
Slowly moving his head side to side, Scott said, “Basically, he’s right, sir. It is just one person’s word, based on information MI6 has received from a North Korean mole. The whole thing could be a setup by the DPRK to embarrass us somehow . . . but I don’t think it is.”
It was obvious Scott had more to say, so the president waited him out.
“Because it’s coming from North Korea, I’m guessing the devices are small. They keep trying to show their power with their tests, but I have serious doubts as to whether they have anything that is both big and portable. Their Taepodong-2 ICBMs are well over a hundred feet long—not something easily hidden away. But their Scuds—the Rodongs and Hwasongs—are only about a third that size. Any of them would be capable of setting up an NNEMP blast. And even a small detonation over a major city like New York or L.A. could cause tens of thousands of deaths and could put our already-damaged economy into a death spiral.
“I also think it is probably an NNEMP because if a terrorist group launched a North Korean nuke on our soil, we’d know it by the weapon’s inherent identifiers. That’s the whole reason we haven’t seen a Russian-made nuke fall into some hajji’s hands. The world would know it was Russian, and the political fallout for them would be enormous.”
The president sat back down, again taking time to fix his crease. “Stanley, you’ve been pretty silent. What’s your opinion?”
“Sir, I know Sco
tt and Khadi well enough to realize that if they are scared, then we should be too.”
“Fair enough. Dwayne, how are you addressing this?”
With barely concealed contempt, Moss answered, “I can assure you that we are dedicating the resources appropriate to pursuing an unconfirmed rumor.”
“Which is about a quarter of what is needed for this kind of threat,” Stanley Porter added.
Before Moss could respond, President Lloyd said, “Fine. Dwayne, do what you have to do. Quadruple the resources if you need them. Stanley, I want you heading this up. If you find any roadblocks to getting what you need, I want you to contact me directly.”
Riley could see Porter suppressing a smile while Moss fumed next to him. The conversation between those two is far from over.
Turning back to Scott, the president said, “Agent Ross, you and Agent Faroughi still could have briefed me on this through Stanley, or even come in by yourselves. You brought Riley here for a reason.”
After clearing his throat, Scott said, “Well, sir, I brought Riley here so that you could witness his expertise. Otherwise, you would have thought it ridiculous when I told you that I need your permission to form a carte blanche black ops team and that I need Riley to be part of it.”
“Wouldn’t having one of the most recognizable faces in professional football as part of your secret team be sort of defeating the purpose?” Secretary Moss asked.
Ignoring his superior, Scott continued, “Please trust me when I say that Riley is necessary to the success of the team. Not only do the members of my team trust him with their lives, but he will be the one with the greatest knowledge of just what it is we’re looking for. You’ve heard today his expertise on the subject. You’ve already mentioned your awareness of his courage and leadership skills. Sir, I don’t exaggerate when I say that Riley is an essential element in our plan to thwart this attack.”
The president nodded, then stopped suddenly. “Just how do you plan on getting him out of football without . . . never mind. I don’t want to know,” he said as he stood, indicating that the meeting was over. Everyone else stood with him. “You just do what you need to do to stop those weapons from reaching our soil. I’m counting on all three of you.” President Lloyd shook each of their hands, looking directly into their eyes as he did so.
As he shook Riley’s hand, he said, “Riley, have Agent Ross take you to get some clothes. It’s the least the taxpayers of our great land can do for you.”
Great, Riley thought as he stammered out an embarrassed thank-you. Then President Lloyd turned to hold a private discussion with Secretary Carroll.
When they were in the hallway with the Oval Office’s door closed behind them, Moss put his finger in Scott’s face. “You may have won this battle, but believe you me, you’re going to lose the war!”
Scott took a step forward so that Moss’s finger was just inches away from his nose. “That’s funny. I wasn’t aware we were in a war except with the people who are trying to destroy this country! But if you really do want a war, Mr. Secretary, then I’m more than happy to oblige!”
“You best watch the way you talk to me, Ross! I’m not your boss—I’m two levels above your boss! That means that if I decide it’s time for you to go, I only need to say the word and you’re gone!”
“Then say the word! Go ahead—open my weekend schedule a bit; say the word!”
“Back off, Ross,” Porter said, stepping between the two.
“And you,” Moss continued, now directing his finger at Porter’s nose. “Let me assure you that your career is over! I will not have insubordination in my department, particularly in front of the president! You think I can’t find anyone who can replace you? someone who knows how to follow orders? someone who . . .”
As Moss continued his rant, Porter put a hand up behind his back and motioned for the rest of them to make their way out. Riley, Scott, and Khadi didn’t have to be told twice. They slowly backed themselves down the hall, turned a corner, then got out while the getting was good.
Wednesday, July 22, 10:30 a.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Riley gave the bellman a generous tip, even though all the kid had done was open the door to his room. Best to make friends of the staff now, since you’ll probably be staying here awhile.
Riley’s suite was 1002, but he also held the key to the adjoining top-floor room. Even though he had been unable to get Skeeter on the phone—which meant that Skeet was either on a plane or dead—he had no doubt that sometime in the next few hours his friend and bodyguard would be showing up at the Quincy looking for him. Better to risk paying for an unused room than to have Skeeter show up with no place to put him other than the other half of the suite’s king-size bed.
Scott and Khadi had wanted Riley to come with them, stick his head in, and say hey to the rest of the analysts, but hard as it was to separate from Khadi after so short a time, he had declined the invitation. Too much had happened in the past day, and he desperately needed time to process.
After a stop for some clothes and food and other necessities, Scott and Khadi had dropped him off at the downtown hotel. Earlier, Scott had tried to talk Riley into staying with him, but Riley had visited Scott’s place back in Denver and knew that their two differing definitions of “living conditions” would only cause them to clash. Better to keep some space.
After cranking up the air-conditioning against the humidity, Riley put his new clothes in the closet and the food in the refrigerator. Then, following a thorough search through the kitchenette for the necessary equipment, he opened a can of SpaghettiOs, dumped the contents into a pan, and slid the pan across the stove’s cooktop. It had been years since he had had this childhood favorite. He knew its nutritional value was just above eating paste, but for some reason it sounded good to him tonight. As he stirred, he smiled, thinking about Khadi’s grimace when he had reached for the can. He had been tempted to grab a can of the SpaghettiOs with sliced franks to mess with her even more, but in the end he was simply too tired to play around.
While his dinner cooked, he explored the rest of the suite. Trendy but comfortable. Huge television that he didn’t feel like turning on. Nice bathroom with a thick robe and slippers. All in all, not a bad place to hole up for a few weeks.
He lay back on the bed and immediately missed home. This was one of the worst things about road trips—the mattresses. The expensive hotels made them too soft, and the cheaper ones made them too hard. This one wasn’t bad as hotel beds went, but still, it was different from home.
The smell of tomato sauce cooking forced him to get up. After pouring the pasta into a bowl and pulling a Diet Coke out of the fridge, he sat at a table by the window and looked out at the monuments only minutes from his hotel.
Now that all the activity of settling in had ceased, it was only him, his SpaghettiOs, and his thoughts. He had to admit, he was still angry with Scott. But it wasn’t so much at what Scott had done. Every step his friend had taken had been well planned out, which told him it wasn’t just Scott’s brainchild. Khadi, too, had probably been involved from square one but was afraid to admit it.
His anger came more from the fact that his brief moment of serenity had been taken from him. For a short time it had felt to him like everything was going to be okay. He was starting to heal from his father’s murder. He was beginning to get excited about football again. He had been entertaining the hope that maybe—just maybe—everything could possibly return to a seminormal state.
Then came Scott.
Suddenly, civilization is about to end, America is about to be EMPed back into the Stone Age, and millions of people are about to meet grisly deaths. Of course, technically, none of those things were directly Scott’s fault. But still, being close to Scott was like having Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote as your best friend. Every place Jessica showed up, you knew that someone was going to die. Riley just hoped that he, or more so Khadi, would not be the one to get hit with the rock or stabbed wi
th the letter opener or poisoned with the merlot or driven off the cliff in the convertible with the cut brake lines.
Without Scott, Riley would have remained blissfully ignorant of the threat, like all the other 300 million Americans. But is that really what I would want? Would I rather be clueless, caught unawares, or be one of those in the know that is given an opportunity to do something about it? When it’s put that way, I guess I should be thanking Scott instead of cursing him.
Riley got up and put his bowl and spoon in the sink next to his dirty pan—one of the benefits of living in a place with maid service. His body was telling him that it needed activity, and the hotel offered free guest passes to the Bally’s two blocks down. But for once he ignored what he needed and instead chose what he wanted. And what he wanted was sleep—blissful, quiet, escapist sleep.
He stripped out of his filthy clothes and dropped them in the trash can. Actually, I probably should burn those! He showered, then slipped under the covers in his now-arctic-chilled room. A thought crossed his mind: I’m no longer a Colorado Mustang. I’m a Washington Warrior! A knot set in his stomach, and he felt his throat begin to constrict. The Mustangs had been Riley’s team from the time he was old enough to know what a football was. He had followed the team religiously, and the day he was drafted by his favorite team was one of the best of his life.
And now that was gone. Pfft, just like that.
Again the emotions against Scott began to rise. But this time they were combined with something else. Sorrow mixed with fear. Well, maybe not fear, but definitely nervousness. What will it be like when I walk into that new locker room? Will I get along with my teammates, with my coach? How quickly will I be able to pick up the new defensive scheme?
Fat chance going to sleep now, he thought with a sigh. Getting out of bed, he dressed, grabbed some of his new workout clothes, and walked out the door to do what his body had been telling him he should have done in the first place.
