Powerless

by Tim Washburn

  Carl finds Ruth sitting in the window seat, staring out the bay window. It’s a frequent hangout for her since learning of Sarah Chlouber’s death. Carl walks over and sits next to her.

  “Emma wants to go down to Grace’s house.”

  Ruth turns toward her husband. “How do we know her parents weren’t involved in Sarah’s death? Absolutely not.”

  Carl’s anger and frustration bubble to the surface. “We’re all going a little stir-crazy, but sitting in front of the window on constant lookout for a killer isn’t normal, Ruth. We’ve known Grace’s parents since the girls were born. Do you actually think they could be involved in Mrs. Chlouber’s murder?”

  “Desperate times mean desperate people, Carl.”

  “We can’t stay cooped up in this house suspecting our neighbors of murder. Especially people we’ve known for years.”

  “How do you know there aren’t other dead bodies? We’re safer with all of us together.”

  “I don’t. And you don’t, either.” Carl slumps against the wall. “Honey, we’ll drive ourselves batshit crazy thinking about this.” Carl reaches over and kneads Ruth’s shoulder. “I think it will do Emma some good to spend some time with Grace.”

  Ruth closes her eyes in resignation. “Will you at least walk her down there and back?”

  “Of course. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Ruth stands from her vigil at the window and moves over to the sofa. The interior is dim even in the middle of the day because the front of the home faces north. The sun’s rays, low in the autumn sky, don’t penetrate much beyond the windows. She picks up the book she was reading, riffles through the pages, and puts it back down. Ruth pushes out of the sofa and returns to the window seat.

  That’s where Carl finds her upon his return. He sits on the cushioned window seat and leans against the wall.

  “What are we going to do, Carl?” she whispers to her husband.

  “I don’t know. What are the chances Zeke is on his way here?”

  “Pretty good, I think, knowing Zeke. The overriding question is when. We can’t survive here for more than another day or two. We need to come up with some type of game plan, but I don’t have a clue where to begin.”

  “We have nowhere else to go, Ruth. Leaving would be senseless. I’ll get up early in the morning, around daybreak, and see if I can at least find some water.”

  Ruth turns to face her husband. “And where are you going to find this water?”

  “There are vending machines fronting businesses are all along Lovers Lane road. Hell, I bet I could find a bunch of them inside the high school.”

  “What makes you think they haven’t already been raided? Besides, how are you going to get inside?”

  “I own a hammer and a crowbar. We need water, Ruth, and I don’t care how I get it. Our family comes first.”

  “What happens to our family if you get arrested for breaking and entering?”

  Carl sighs. “I’m not going to get arrested. When’s the last time you’ve even seen a cop?” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “I dunno, maybe going when it’s dark is a better alternative.”

  Ruth shakes her head. “Who knows what you could run into out there in the darkness?”

  “I still have the pistol I bought from Zeke.”

  “How long has it been since you shot the thing, Carl? Not only would I be concerned about you running into a bunch of thugs, now there’s added worry about you shooting yourself in the dark.”

  “How much water do we have left, Ruth?”

  “I told you. Six bottles.”

  “There you go. We need water. I can handle the gun. All you have to do is point and pull the damn trigger. How hard can that be?”

  “Can you shoot it accurately if someone is chasing you? It’s all fine and dandy sitting here in a locked house, but you don’t know what’s out there,” she says, pointing to the outdoors through the big bay window.

  “So what do you want me to do?” Carl takes his wife’s hands in his. “I’ve given you the options and you want to select none of the above, but that’s not an option. We can’t survive without water.”

  “What happens if you run into trouble? You won’t be able to call and tell me. Or call for help if you need to.”

  Carl leans forward and brushes his lips against hers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “Mom! I’m hungry,” Noah shouts from his room down the hall.

  “Will you swipe some candy bars, too?”

  Carl leans over and kisses her forehead “Almond Joy still your favorite?”

  Ruth nods, a small smile pushing up the corners of her mouth. “When are you going to go?”

  “Let’s give it a couple of hours.” He stands and pulls her up. “Now get in the kitchen and whip us up some of your magic.”

  She slaps him on the butt. “It’ll have to be magic because there’s only a can or two of stuff left to eat.”

  “That’s what I love about you—always thinking of the positive,” he says as she brushes past.

  Carl grabs a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and steps through the connecting door to the garage. Ruth’s two-year-old Lexus SUV, in desperate need of a car wash, is parked next to his almost-new BMW sedan. Now just two expensive hunks of metal taking up space. As he steps around the cars, he wonders what’ll happen when the monthly payments aren’t made. Then he stops in his tracks, wondering the same about the house. “I guess they can come and get them if they want them,” he mutters as he continues to his workbench. Tools lie scattered across the plywood surface peppered with oil rings and paint stains. On the wall is a pegboard with screwdrivers, pliers, and a couple of different hammers held on by small metal hooks. He grabs one of the hammers, a couple of different screwdrivers, and a pair of pliers. From one of the drawers he withdraws a small pry bar and a utility knife and piles it all into one of those canvas carryall bags that are all the rage at the big-box home improvement stores.

  Carl carries the bag back into the house and places it on the kitchen counter before heading upstairs to the master bedroom. He kneels down by his side of the bed and pulls out the small gun safe Ruth had insisted on when he bought the gun from Zeke. He enters the combination and lifts the lid on a Smith & Wesson model 1911—a .45 caliber pistol with a stainless steel frame and slide, dressed with crosshatched walnut grips. Zeke had assured him the larger round would stop most anything on two feet but the only thing Carl has killed with it are a few paper targets. Recalling Zeke’s words, he suppresses a sudden surge of trepidation. Next to the pistol rest two additional magazines, which his brother-in-law had thrown in on the deal.

  Carl takes the gun from the safe and tucks it into the back of his waistband. He slides the extra two mags in his front pocket and, when he stands, his too-loose jeans fall to his ankles. He laughs as he pulls the jeans up and notches his belt tighter. He removes the heavy magazines from his front pockets and puts them into the pockets of a lightweight jacket from his closet. Before descending the stairs he checks himself in the large mirror and readjusts things until only a slight budge is visible.

  “Your bowl of soup is on the counter,” Ruth says when he reenters the kitchen.

  “Divide it between the kids. I’m not hungry anyway.”

  “You need to eat, too, Carl,” Ruth says between spoonfuls of watery broth.

  Carl grabs the bag of tools. “I’ll find something while I’m out.” The news he is venturing out perks up the ears of his children.

  Emma, back from Grace’s, claps her small hands together. “Daddy, can you pick up some chicken nuggets from McDonald’s?”

  Carl cringes. “I don’t think they’re open now, sweetheart.”

  Noah says, “Where are you going, Dad?”

  “Just to run an errand, son.”

  “Can I go?”

  “Not this time, little buddy.”

  Ruth stands from the table and sidles up next to Carl, whispering, “You’re leaving now? I thought you were going
to wait a couple of hours.”

  Carl steers them toward the living room, talking in a low voice. “I was, but it’s dark enough now, I think. It’s still light enough that I won’t need the flashlight for a while.”

  Carl turns for the front door but Ruth steps around in front of him and tiptoes up to kiss him on the lips. “Be careful, Carl,” she whispers.

  “I will. Lock the door behind me.”

  “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “Two or three hours probably. I’m not coming home empty-handed.” Carl slips out into the growing darkness.

  CHAPTER 67

  U.S. Navy Strike Group One

  Off the coast of Egypt, Mediterranean Sea

  Seaman 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.”

  CHAPTER 68

  Office of the Supreme Leader

  President 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.
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  “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.

  CHAPTER 69

  Dallas, Texas

  The 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.