by Tim Washburn
“A bathroom which no longer functions,” Greg snaps.
“I don’t care. There’ll still be a toilet.” Lara digs through her backpack and pulls out a roll of toilet paper.
Greg hands over the flashlight. “Knock yourself out.”
Lara plants her fisted hands on her hips. “You have to come with me.”
Greg sighs, then waves his arm forward. “After you, dear.”
They creep down the lightless hallway toward the other end of the corridor. Greg doesn’t need to switch on his light to know where the restrooms are located. They clap their hands over their mouths to keep from gagging at the stench leaking from two opposing doors near the elevator vestibule.
“You want to go in there?” Greg says in an incredulous whisper.
Lara shakes her head. “Let’s just run outside real quick. Maybe there’s another set of stairs we can use on this end.”
They walk to the end of the hallway and find, as Lara predicted, another set of stairs.
“What about our backpacks?”
“They’ll be fine. It won’t take but just a minute.”
Greg, feeling a sudden increase of bladder pressure, agrees. He eases the door to the stairs open and the putrid stench of human waste overwhelms them.
“I’m not walking through three stories of shit just to take a piss outside. This looks like a good spot to me.”
Lara sighs and moves hesitantly toward a corner of the stairwell. Greg places the flashlight between door and jamb and unzips his jeans. Once finished, Greg retrieves the flashlight and they creep back toward their temporary quarters. As they near the door to the small office, Lara grabs his arm and yanks.
She leans forward to whisper in his ear, “There’s someone in there.”
Greg turns to his wife. “You sure that’s where we left our stuff?”
Lara nods emphatically. “I remember. I swear I saw a flash of light just now.” Both turn to stare at the window next to the door. “What are we going to do, Greg?”
He stares at the door, struggling to formulate a plan. He lowers his head and whispers in Lara’s ear, “I’m going to get our stuff, that’s what I’m going to do. You stay here.” He creeps forward but Lara yanks him back.
“Where’s our knife?” Her breath is hot, urgent.
Greg frowns and points toward the abandoned office.
“Let’s just leave, Greg,” she says in a pleading whisper. “Let them have our stuff.”
“No. What’s left of our food and water is in there, not to mention the money.”
“We’ll find more food and water. And the money’s not worth having.”
“Where are you going to find more food?”
Lara shrugs.
Greg snicks off the flashlight and they stand in the darkness. After a brief moment, he says, “Stay here.”
A light moan escapes Lara’s lips.
Greg eases up to the doorway, weighing his options. He opts for surprise. He clicks on the flashlight and hurls the door open.
“What the hell do—”
A gunshot obliterates the silence.
Lara flinches, then screams. She races forward screaming Greg’s name. She rounds the doorway at a run and catches a brief glance of her husband on the floor before the gun barks again. A hot poker hits her in the chest. She spins and falls, searching the hazy darkness for her husband.
A moment later, a beam of light drills her in the eyes as someone kneels down beside her.
Greg?
“I’m really sorry but my kids are near starvin’.”
Lara tries to talk but her mouth won’t work. She rasps out, “We share,” before a final searing pain turns her world dark.
CHAPTER 63
The White House Situation Room
President Harris walks into the Situation Room before his hour deadline has expired. Though it’s very late in the evening, everyone is present with the exception of Admiral Hickerson.
“Where’s the boss?” The President directs his question to a group of military aides hugging the far walls.
One snaps to attention. “He should be here momentarily, sir.”
“At ease, soldier. We’ve got more important things to worry about than protocol.” The man slumps against the wall as the President pulls out the chair at the head of the table and sits. Scott Alexander slips in and takes a seat next to his boss.
The President takes a moment to survey the weary faces around the table. What he sees is similar to how he himself feels—weary, strained, and wishing for somewhere other than here. But, he reflects, they are some of the best and brightest minds in the world and he’s glad they are on his team.
“How’s everyone holding up?” the President asks.
A few “goods” and “just fines”—the standard answers.
“I know that’s not true,” President Harris says. “I want to thank you for your service. We all have family that we’re concerned about, but the only option is to work hard at improving the conditions. You don’t hear it enough, but again, thank you, and please feel free to take whatever you need for your families. I have asked the kitchen staff to provide you a generous food basket to take home. I need everyone at their best, and I know some comfort provided to your loved ones will ease the burden.”
The small speech lifts the mood of the room, and several people are nodding in support of the President. But the good mood evaporates when Admiral Hickerson arrives, bringing with him a reminder of why they’re there.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, I was on a call with CINC-PAC trying to iron out some issues.”
“Understandable, Admiral. Would you bring us up to date on the planning?”
“Would SECDEF like to begin?” the admiral says, looking across the table at Secretary of Defense Martin Wilson.
“Why don’t you explain what’s happening in theater, Admiral, then we’ll expand the conversation,” President Harris says.
“Well, sir, we have good news and bad. We will be able to strike Iranian troops quickly and with devastating firepower. But the main issue is the length of engagement. If it persists longer than forty-eight hours, then armament resupply is our main concern. My staff is putting together a list of supplies at bases in Europe and Japan, but it will take us some time to move those weapons to the battlefield. Support ships have a good supply of armaments, but they’ll be depleted quickly during the opening hours of battle. We can only hope that the Israelis are sitting on a large stockpile that we can tap into.”
President Harris turns to Ambassador Har-Even. “You guys have a large stockpile of weapons?”
“We will be able to offer some weapons, sir, but I’m not sure how well they’ll integrate with the sophisticated weaponry your ships use. We do have a good number of Tomahawk cruise missiles, and some of these could be transferred to American naval vessels,” Ambassador Har-Even says. “I’ve been instructed by the prime minister to offer you use of anything we have.”
“Good, thank you, Ambassador. I’ll leave the specifics to your country on how best to resupply our ships.”
President Harris turns back to Admiral Hickerson. “Can we move some supplies from here?”
“We can, sir, and we will. I ordered a ramp-up in munitions supply, and they’re being loaded as we speak and should be en route within the hour.”
“Is that the most critical problem we’re facing, Admiral?”
“That’s one of them, sir. There are two other critical problems we’re dealing with. The first is the lack of real-time satellite imagery of the battlefield. We’ll need to rely on drones to be our eyes.”
President Harris leans forward in his chair. “The Iranians are in the same boat, Admiral. With the sophistication of our weapon systems we should have an enormous advantage over them. What’s the other issue?”
“That sophistication of our weapon systems, sir. Most everything in our arsenal relies on GPS for targeting. AWACS will be of some help on the battlefield, but there’s a high pro
bability for considerable collateral damage. Without those GPS satellites it’ll be like shooting in the dark, sir.”
“Do the best you can, Admiral. That’s all we can expect under the circumstances.” The President leans back in his chair and sweeps his gaze around the table. “Now, another matter we need to discuss: what can we expect from the Chinese?”
All eyes turn to Secretary of State Allison Moore. In her midfifties, Allison appears much younger, due mainly to her maniacal morning workouts at the White House gym. Never married, she has devoted her life to public service, serving in numerous positions within the State Department. Her not being married is a source of speculation among those within the Beltway, but those closest to her know that Allison is twelve years into a committed relationship with her partner, Jill, a professor of music at Georgetown.
“I need to defer to CIA Director Green for some of this, but from what my staff put together, China is in a position similar to ours—basically the entire country is without power. I spoke with Ambassador Chen during our brief break to get the latest.
“The Chinese are not happy with Iran’s aggressiveness, especially at such a difficult time for most of the world. They are more concerned, at present, with their own domestic situation. Frankly, sir, I believe they will actually be pleased if we bloody Iran’s nose. With the political mess in both Afghanistan and Pakistan, they’re concerned Iran could spread its forces eastward toward their border.”
President Harris kneads the back of his neck. “So are they willing to be a part of our response?”
“No, I don’t believe they will, sir. They will be content with turning a blind eye to the whole situation.”
“What about the Syrians and the Jordanians, Allison?”
“They’re none too happy about having Iranian troops at their borders. But Syria is in such political upheaval it will be impossible to build any sort of consensus among the arguing factions. The whole country is a simmering cesspool. Jordan, on the other hand, may offer some resistance but their effectiveness is severely hampered by their own devastating lack of electrical power.”
President Harris shrugs. “We’re in the same boat, yet everyone looks to us to fix the world’s problems,”
“Nature of the beast, sir. We at least have generators and a flotilla of naval ships. The Jordanians have nothing. They may never fully recover.”
“Any chance diplomacy will force Iran to withdraw its troops?”
“No, sir, I don’t believe there is. We tried to contact the Iranian ambassador but apparently he was recalled sometime yesterday. He disappeared in the night. The Iranians don’t want to deal, sir—they want to wipe Israel from the world map.”
The President turns to the CIA director. “Isaac, do you concur with Allison’s assessment?”
“I do, sir. We’ve played the diplomacy card numerous times only to have the Iranians change the rules midgame.”
President Harris nods, then turns his focus to Martin Wilson, secretary of defense. “What do you think, Martin?”
“Mr. President, we are ready to proceed with whichever direction you wish to go.”
“That’s a political nonanswer, Martin,” the President says with a flash of anger. “Let me put it more succinctly—do you think we should launch an attack on the Iranian troops now in northern Iraq?”
The SECDEF expels a noisy exhale. “I think we have to, sir. Israel is one of our staunchest allies. If we let Iran walk into Jerusalem with no response from the United States, the rest of our allies will abandon ship before it even begins taking on water.”
President Harris turns back to Admiral Hickerson. “How long before the action could commence?”
The admiral leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I would like to delay another twenty-four hours to allow Strike Group One to get on station. That will put three carriers in theater.”
The President turns to the rest of his advisors. “Do we have twenty-four hours?”
“Maybe,” the CIA director answers. “According to the latest intel, the Iranians are slowing their advancement. I assume they are trying to broker a deal with the Syrians and the Jordanians for safe passage. But I wouldn’t push it any further past the twenty-four-hour time frame.”
President Harris takes a deep breath. “Admiral, put everything into place. We are a go the instant Strike Group One is within striking distance.”
CHAPTER 64
Texas
The sound of gunfire bolts Zeke upright from a dead sleep. He reaches for the Glock and panics when his hand finds air. His brain fights for clarity. Then he remembers taking the gun and the holster off sometime during the night after the grip had dug into his side one too many times. He scrambles around on all fours as the faint beginnings of daylight leak through the cracks of the old barn planking. His hand brushes across cold steel. He grabs the gun, reattaches the holster to his belt, and jumps to his feet. He grabs for his boots and, hopping one-legged in a tight circle, pulls on one, then the other.
There are no more gunshots, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe whoever is shooting hit their target with the first shot. A sense of dread descends on him as he stalks toward the sliding door. He eases the door open a few inches and sneaks a peek outside. Nothing seems to be amiss—no armed mob assembled on the small patch of grass fronting the house. He slides the door open a little farther and pops his head out.
He spots a figure walking in the foggy haziness of first light. He can’t tell from this distance if the walker is Summer or someone sinister. The person is toting a gun, evident by the dark shape of the barrel silhouetted against the gray horizon. He or she is also carrying something else in the other hand. Shivering from the early-morning chill, he slips out of the barn and creeps closer, one hand resting on the butt of his gun. Hunched over to lessen his target profile, he gets within twenty yards when Summer turns toward him, a wild turkey dangling from her grasp.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Zeke says.
She waves him forward. “Come warm up by the fire. Sorry about waking you, but a whole flock of wild turkeys were grazing at the edge of the field. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”
He reaches his hands toward the fire and rubs them together as he studies her. Her curly mop is gathered up in a ponytail this morning, allowing him an opportunity to study her in profile. Her nose and chin are aligned in a near straight line and her deep-set eyes have a slight upturn. No jewelry dangles from her ears, but Zeke spots a couple of holes in her lower lobe. She probably hasn’t showered in over a week, or washed her hair, but she is no less stunning. Dressed in jeans with a rip on one knee and an oversized sweatshirt draped off one shoulder, she moves the coffeepot closer to the edge of the fire. “Coffee will be ready in a jiff.”
The sun breaks on the horizon, lighting the surroundings in an amber glow.
“You’ve got quite the setup here,” Zeke says. A fire pit resides not far from the back door and an old picnic table is set off to the side. “You always up this early?”
“I can’t sleep late. Must be because I go to bed so early. Guess we’re turning into the pioneers—sleeping in rhythm with the sun.”
Zeke points at the turkey. “Want me to clean that?”
“I gutted it already. It’ll keep until I can pluck the feathers. How did you sleep?”
“I slept, I think,” he says with a smile. “Ground was a little hard and my body is sore from being in the saddle all day. I’m not sure my butt is up for another round.”
She chuckles. “You could stay here and rest up for a day.”
“You made yourself pretty clear yesterday you wanted me gone by first light.”
“Yeah, but that was before we talked last night. How did I know you weren’t a serial killer?”
“So you’re satisfied now. How do you know I’m not an extraordinarily charming serial killer?”
She smiles and the laugh lines enhance her beauty. “So, not just charming
but extraordinarily charming?”
Zeke shrugs and offers his own smile.
She pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to Zeke. “I like to think of myself as a good judge of character. Seriously, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
Zeke’s not sure how to take that, maybe because his mind is churning through all sorts of possibilities. This is the first time he’s truly looked at another woman since the death of his wife. “I should probably scoot on down to Dallas and grab my sister and her family.” His response elicits the smallest of frowns, confusing him further. “I would like to stop by on the way back through, if that’s okay.”
“Absolutely. I’ll bag a couple more turkeys in the next day or so to feed your family.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I know I don’t. But I want to.” She drifts away from the subject. “I’d offer sugar and cream, but I have neither.”
“Black is perfect. I’m going to put some more feed out for the horses,” he says, turning for the barn.
“Wait. I’ll walk with you.”
They walk to the barn, not touching, but close enough to do so.
“Give them some of the hay in the barn, too,” she says, glancing up at Zeke.
His heart skips a beat. “Thanks, I will. I wasn’t sure if the hay was included in the accommodations.”
Summer looks away and blushes before turning to punch his arm. “I couldn’t invite a killer into the house.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. No telling who might be out and about. Better to be safe than sorry.” He pushes the barn door to the stops and leaves it open, allowing enough light to see what he’s doing.
He watches as Summer steps over to Ruby and runs her hands across her flank, whispering softly. It’s obvious she’s been around horses before. He grabs the sack of oats and pours a couple of neat piles for the horses, then scatters some fresh hay around for them to munch on. He turns to Summer. “How long are you planning to stay here?”
