Powerless

by Tim Washburn

  More movement on the left side. He reaches his hand to the holster and pulls out the Glock, slowly bringing the gun around front. Now shielded behind the saddle horn, the pistol is grasped firmly in his hand. He doesn’t need to look to know a round is chambered. Zeke always carries hot. As the horses approach a car parked parallel to the road, he slows Murphy to concentrate on the foreground.

  About ten yards away from an old beater Malibu parked crossways in the street, four heads suddenly pop up in the clear. Zeke pulls on the reins and the small caravan comes to a dead stop. The four young men slink around the front of the dead car.

  “I like your horses,” one of them says. They’re late teens, maybe early twenties, full of themselves by the way they walk. All four are smiling.

  “Thanks,” Zeke says, shifting in the saddle to allow more freedom of movement.

  All of them are armed, their guns tucked in their waistbands, gangster style. Zeke sweeps his vision from one to the other, taking in their heavily tatted arms, their mangy hair, their leering looks of toughness. A quick glance to the side reveals a group of people edging closer. Not good.

  “I’d like to have ’em,” the one in front says.

  The leader, Zeke decides, because he occupies the center. “They’re good horses, but they’re not for sale,” Zeke says, his gaze boring in on the tough in front. They’re bunched up in a group instead of being spread out, a tactical error on their part. He sorts out the order—his progression if he needs to fire. His one concern is how Murphy will react if he fires his weapon from the saddle.

  “I ain’t saying I’m going to buy ’em.” The other three laugh.

  Zeke glances to the right to track the progress of the other group. Closer. No time.

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I’d like to be on my way.”

  “Hear that, fellas? He don’t want no trouble.” With a large toothy smile the leader glances at his buddies.

  Zeke sighs and grabs another handful of rein. “Let’s all go on about our business.”

  “Or what?” the leader says.

  “You best move along because you’re not getting the goddamn horses.”

  The leader’s smile turns to a frown as he reaches for the gun at his waist. Without hesitation, and with no remorse, Zeke raises his pistol and fires a single round from the Glock, punching a small hole in the man’s forehead. He collapses to the ground as if his strings had been suddenly cut. Murphy bucks and stomps but Zeke wrestles for control and immediately switches his focus to the other three. The one on the right reaches for his gun but it hasn’t even cleared his waistband when Zeke’s second bullet punches a hole in almost the exact same spot as his friend’s.

  Off to his right, hands are grabbing for weapons. Zeke buries his heels into Murphy’s side and the horse, skittish from the noise and the scent of blood in the air, breaks into a full gallop, plowing through the other two men. He glances back to make sure the mares are keeping up. Other gunshots bark in the night. Zeke leans forward and hugs Murphy’s neck, hoping like hell none of the bullets hit the horses.

  Four blocks later, Zeke pulls gently on the reins to slow their progress. Murphy slows to a walk and Zeke removes a full mag from his pocket and reloads the Glock. He holsters the gun, hoping like hell he won’t need to pull it out again. He stops the horses and climbs down from the saddle. He looks back to make sure there is no pursuit and spends a few moments checking the health of the three horses. No obvious blood. He whispers to the horses as he runs his hands across their lathered shoulders. Murphy is quivering and he spends a little more time stroking his soft muzzle and talking in a low, soothing voice. Once the horses are calmed, he climbs back aboard and loosens the reins so Murphy can set his own pace.

  His own nerves are rattled from the gunplay. He inhales a series of deep breaths, but he doesn’t dwell on the outcome. Those guys made a choice. Unfortunately, they made the wrong one. He scans for other threats as he vanquishes what happened from his mind. Army training.

  He can’t make out the street sign at the next intersection because full dark has descended on the lightless city. As they draw closer he sees the wording on the sign: WALNUT HILL LANE. From his recollection they are about two miles from Ruth’s house. The day’s hard riding and the sudden adrenaline dump leave Zeke with a stress hangover, and he slumps in the saddle.

  They plug along until he starts noticing familiar sights—places he’s visited. Restaurants where their family’s eaten. His spirits lift as he focuses on the street signs. They pass Hanover, Purdue, and Stanford and he steers Murphy left onto Amherst Avenue. Ruth’s house is in the middle of the block but he can’t yet see it. Damn, he wants off this horse. He wills Murphy to go faster until they are abreast the home Carl and his sister had spent a full year remodeling. He climbs wearily from the saddle and leads the three horses into the front yard, tying off Murphy’s reins on the front porch railing.

  Zeke limps up the steps and knocks on the front door. No answer. He knocks again and peers through the side window to see candles flickering in the darkness. Zeke has no idea what time it is. He knocks again and is rewarded by approaching footfalls.

  His sister’s voice drifts through the closed door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, sis,” he says, suddenly overcome with emotion.

  She throws the front door open, lunges through the storm door and into his arms. “Oh, Zeke,” she moans into his chest. “I knew you’d come.”

  Zeke looks up to see two small heads peeking around the wall of the living room.

  “Uncle Zeke,” they shout in unison, charging across the empty space. They spill out onto the front porch and surround their mother and uncle, hugging Zeke’s waist, his legs, any part of his body that they can reach. He breaks from the embrace and takes a step back. They’ve lost weight. Emma and Noah are skin and bones. His heart stutters.

  “Where’s Carl?” he says.

  Ruth shakes her head as fresh tears begin. “He went to find water. But he’s been gone for over five hours.”

  Zeke wipes the tears from her cheeks with his dirty thumb. “I’ll go find him, sis. Give me a minute to get situated.”

  Ruth nods and gives her brother another hug.

  Zeke kneels and embraces his niece and nephew and peppers their gaunt faces with kisses. “How do you like it with no Internet?”

  “It sucks, Uncle Zeke,” Noah says.

  “Oh yeah? Your mother and I didn’t have Internet until we got to be old,” he says, giving each another kiss. He stands and walks back to the horses, which they spot for the first time. They race down the steps and run to Murphy, raking their little hands across his soft nose.

  “Why are you riding Grandpa’s horses?” Emma says as she moves from Murphy to Ruby.

  “Had to, baby girl. I didn’t have enough gas to make it down here and get you back to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s.” He unties the saddlebag on Ruby’s back and hands it to Ruth. “From Mom. You guys eat all you want. I’m going to put the mares in the backyard.”

  He unclips the lead attached to Murphy and leads the two mares to the side gate while Ruth and the kids return inside, the saddlebags containing the food grasped firmly in his sister’s thin hand. After he removes the packs, he pours each horse a good portion of oats and takes another healthy portion around to Murphy, still tied up in the front yard. He’s going to need to find them some water in a bit. While Murphy crunches on the oats, Zeke retreats indoors and finds his sister, niece, and nephew around the kitchen table with the bounty from the saddlebags spilled out in front of them. Noah has a mouthful of peanut butter and crackers while Emma munches a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  “Eat, Ruth,” he says, stepping closer.

  “I will, but let them eat first.”

  “There’s plenty, I promise. I have a big portion of deer jerky, too.”

  Ruth hesitates before picking up one of the sandwiches. She delicately unwraps it and takes a bite.

  Zeke waits f
or her to swallow. “Where’s the closest creek?”

  “There’s a creek across the next street that runs through the country club,” she says, struggling with all her willpower not to inhale the food.

  “I’m going to lead the horses down for a drink.” He turns toward the door.

  “Zeke.” He turns to face her and she mouths a silent “thank you.”

  Zeke nods and disappears back into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 70

  The White House Situation Room

  Due to the divergence of time zones, the President and all of his advisors are arranged around the large conference table in the Sit Room deep into the night. Admiral Hickerson and Defense Secretary Martin Wilson are shuttling between the Pentagon and the White House via helicopter. When at the Pentagon both are in nearly constant contact with the President and other advisors through the use of videoconferencing. The Sit Room has a direct line to the offices in the Pentagon.

  “Admiral, what is the Iranian response?” President Harris says to the picture projected on the front screen.

  “Sir, we aren’t able to accurately determine their response. According to reports from the field we decimated their command structure, knocked out a majority of their air defense systems, and obliterated their feeble air force. Their troops are no longer pressing forward, but they also are not retreating.”

  “Any battlefield intelligence suggesting what they might do?”

  “We’ve intercepted some of their radio chatter with the help of AWACS aircraft on station, but nothing which gives us an insight into their thinking.”

  “What’s the next phase, Admiral?”

  “Israel is about to launch another air sortie, and we will follow close behind with our own aircraft. We’re also continually pounding them with both ship- and sub-launched Tomahawk cruise missiles. Israel is also massing its troops along their eastern border, but they, like we, are hoping to avoid any type of ground war.”

  “How are we on supplies?” President Harris asks.

  “So far, so good, sir. We have transferred a number of missiles to Strike Group One from the Israeli’s stockpile of weapons. The rest of the fleet is well supplied, at least for another twenty-four hours, sir.”

  The President leans forward in his chair. “Is this going to be over in twenty-four hours?”

  “Unknown, sir, but I hope so. I wish we had some intel out of Tehran that would provide an insight into their thinking.”

  “We’re working on it, Admiral. Director Green will be in touch to update the situation shortly. Keep me posted, Admiral.”

  “I will, sir,” Admiral Hickerson says before the screen at the front of the room transitions to black.

  The President turns his attention to CIA Director Isaac Green. “Isaac, we need intel and we need it yesterday. Do we have any assets in Iran?”

  “No, but the Israelis do. Unfortunately, the only source of contact is via satellite phone. Maybe”—the CIA director pauses for a moment, racking his brain—“we could assemble a joint team of agents to send into Iran through Afghanistan. There are a few CIA agents still in country. Let me talk to the Israeli ambassador, sir. We’ll come up with something, hopefully within the next few hours.”

  “Good, Isaac. Allison, any luck contacting Iranian leadership?”

  The secretary of state shakes her head as she replies, “Nothing, sir. Not a hello, thank-you, or kiss my ass, sir.” Her reply elicits a few chuckles from the exhausted group around the table.

  An ashen-faced national security aide rushes into the room, stops at the President’s elbow, and leans in to whisper something in his ear. President Harris holds up his hand to stop him. “Tell everyone here—we’re all in this together.”

  The aide, who looks like he’s only a couple of years removed from graduate school, clears his throat before speaking. “Mr. President, one of the AWACS planes reported a massive launch of some type of missile on the outskirts of Tehran.”

  Gasps from those around the table.

  “Heading?” the President barks.

  “Unknown, sir.”

  He turns his anger upon his advisors. “All of you assured me Iran was incapable of launching a nuclear warhead. What the hell just blasted off? I want to know, and I want to know right goddamn now.”

  Advisors grab for phones as the President orders a reconnection with Admiral Hickerson and SECDEF Martin.

  “Yes, Mr. President?” Admiral Hickerson says when the camera in front of him kicks on.

  “Admiral, a large missile or some large something was launched from the outskirts of Tehran.”

  Admiral Hickerson’s face transitions from astonishment to concern in the blink of an eye. “I’m on it, Mr. President.”

  “Wait!” President Harris shouts. “We have anything in our arsenal that can shoot the damn thing down?”

  “Yes, we do, sir, but it comes down to a matter of trajectory. We need time for our systems to acquire the target, time we may not have.” Admiral Hickerson pushes out of his chair and disappears from the frame.

  “Goddammit, I want answers, people.”

  Chief of Staff Scott Alexander, who had taken a seat at the back of the room, carries his chair to the table and sits. He leans sideways and whispers in the President’s ear. “Take a deep breath, Paul. We’ll figure it out.”

  President Harris takes a long look at Alexander, then nods.

  “Mr. President, we don’t know exactly what launched. It may not be a nuclear warhead,” one of the military aides says.

  “Well, it’s sure as hell wasn’t a giant pop-bottle rocket,” the President snaps. “I need concrete answers, son. Do we have any way to track the whatever-the-hell-it-is?”

  “Only what we can pick up through ship radar on site or possibly from the AWACS aircraft. But their radars are configured more for a look-down scenario, not for tracing atmospheric flight,” the director of the CIA answers.

  President Harris throws his hands up in the air. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  Alexander reaches out to put a hand on the arm of the President.

  The CIA director says, “We need more info, sir.”

  “There isn’t any more info, Isaac. What’s the flight time to Israel?”

  One of the aides at the back of the room clears his throat and says, “Minutes, sir—at best.”

  CHAPTER 71

  Dallas

  Zeke waters the horses in a creek bordered by multimillion-dollar homes that look out over the rolling fairways of the Dallas Country Club two blocks away. He can’t actually see the fairways or the houses, because of the dark, but he has seen them before. Upon his return, he parks all three horses in the backyard. He strips the saddle and blanket from Murphy’s back, his ass protesting too much about another round in the saddle. He’ll walk on his search for Carl. He pulls the Kimber rifle from its scabbard and lugs it, along with the saddlebag of ammunition, into the house.

  The first item of business is to replace the two missing bullets from the magazine out of the Glock. Task completed, he stuffs the reloaded mag, along with extra rifle ammunition, into his jacket pocket. He glances up to see Ruth watching him work with the weapons. It’s their only real bone of contention. Ruth would prefer a world without deadly weapons. Zeke ignores her look of annoyance. “Which way did he go?”

  She steps closer so the conversation can’t be overheard by the children in the next room. “He was going to try and get in the high school, thinking the vending machines would have some water.”

  “The school right around the corner?”

  “Yes. Highland Park High School.”

  “Was he going to try anywhere else?”

  “I don’t know, Zeke. He mentioned something about stores all along Lovers Lane, but nothing specifically.” She glances back over her shoulder at the children sitting around the table. “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know, Ruth, but I’m going to find him.” He triple-checks one jacket pocket
for the extra ammunition, then the other to make sure the small flashlight he brought is still there. At the last minute he decides to leave the rifle behind. If there’s gunplay it will be in close quarters.

  “Be careful, Zeke.”

  “I will. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  His sister follows him to the front door.

  “What if he’s injured? He took the gun he bought off you.”

  Zeke doesn’t know if that was an accusation. “I’ll find him, sis.” He slips out into the now colder, and if possible, darker night, the Glock riding comfortably on his hip.

  He makes his way down the block and hangs a left, crossing over Lovers Lane for the second time in the last fifteen minutes. On the other side he pauses for a few moments, listening to the silence. Nothing. No cars rumbling along the road, no humans out in the dark—dead quiet. He works his way toward the tall, dark structures silhouetted against the starry sky. The high school is large, and he sneaks between two of the buildings and comes face-to-face with what appears to be a baseball field. He scours the area for movement before continuing on.

  The next building he approaches is big, and being close to the athletic fields, he assumes this must be the gym. He creeps up to the doors and discovers all the security glass punched out. He snakes his hand through the broken window and pushes on the bar that opens the door.

  Slowly, he pulls the door open and steps inside. He halts for a moment to listen again. Silence. He moves farther into the building, enveloped in total darkness. He fishes the flashlight from his pocket and covers the lens with his hand before turning it on. He was right. It is the gym. The wide counter of the concession stand is covered by some type of roll-down metal door. He flashes the light to the side and spots the entryway to the concession area kicked open. He advances for a closer look, his hand hovering just above the pistol’s handle. He takes a quick peek around the doorjamb and pans the flashlight around the interior. Empty.