Powerless (21 page)

 

P
resident Mahmoud Rafsanjani's usual white button-down shirt is damp with perspiration as he and Major General Ahmad Safani make their way down the hall to the supreme leader's office. It's sweltering in Iran, but the shirt dampness isn't due to the weather. The two men walk silently along the long hallway paved with antique Persian rugs. No chitchat or idle chatter fill the void, as each is consumed with his own thoughts. The medals pinned to the chest of General Safani's crisply pressed uniform tinkle in the silence. Some were earned, but most of the medals are merely window dressing. President Rafsanjani glances over at the noise and smirks.

They slow their pace and turn toward the guarded office. One of the clerics that flock around the offices of the supreme leader opens the door, allowing the two to enter without breaking stride. The office is sparsely furnished with a small desk fronted by two chairs for guests. The white, green, and red flag of the Islamic Republic of Iran hangs limply in the far corner. Staked to the wall over the grand ayatollah's shoulder is a photograph of his predecessor, the man who grabbed power after the Iranian Revolution in 1979.

The grim-faced ayatollah waves them toward the two chairs that are parked a foot lower than the one the supreme leader sits in. “Why are the troops stopping their advancement?”

“Imam, we are—”

The ayatollah silences President Rafsanjani with a curt wave. “I want to hear the general's excuse.”

General Safani's throat jerks with a dry swallow. “We are trying to negotiate safe passage with the Syrians and the Jordanians, Dear Leader.”

The supreme leader jumps up from his chair. “Negotiate? Why would we negotiate with those swine? I want the troops advancing this minute!”

“But, Dear Leader, that will leave our flanks exposed—”

“No excuses! I don't care!” A spray of spittle shoots across the desk, spotting the faces of his two guests. “They will not stop our progress. Is that understood?”

President Rafsanjani pulls his hands from beneath his legs and waves one in the air. “Dear Leader, I believe the general is making a good point. We may not be able to reach our objective if we spend our resources fighting the Syrians or Jordanians.”

The ayatollah leans forward and slams the desk with fisted hands. “I do not care what the Syrians or Jordanians do. They are merely a nuisance. A nuisance we will crush. I'm ordering you to advance toward Israel.”

General Safani studies a spot on the floor. “But what about the Americans?”

“The Americans are weak. The great Satan can no longer care for its own country. I don't want to hear another word about the Americans!” He's back to shouting now. “I want Israel taken by the end of the week or I will find someone else to run the army.”

Both the president and the general offer nods of submission.

“Dismissed.”

The two stand and turn without looking at the supreme leader. Like two frightened dogs, they slink out of the office.

 

G
reg and Lara Connor are dead on their feet. It's deep into the night and what was a trickle of walkers is now down to only a pair here and there.

“Start looking for a place to bed down,” Greg says. His voice is raspy and his mouth is full of cotton.

As they round the curve where Riverside Drive splits, a little less than a mile from the George Washington Bridge, they spot a number of tents staked out in the trees. Numerous campfires dot the landscape, most reduced now to glowing embers. A little farther along, they find campsites set up on both sides of the road, with the tents growing denser with every passing block. The scene is reminiscent of an old Civil War photo, but with newfangled equipment. The fighting on the bridge is now reduced to brief bouts of gunfire.

“Where the hell did a bunch of New Yorkers get tents?” Greg says in a whisper.

“I don't know. But more importantly, I don't care. I'm cold and I'm exhausted, Greg.”

“Do you want to find some vacant ground where we can lie down?”

Lara's teeth are chattering when she answers. “What about somewhere inside?”

“I'm not opposed to finding an inside space. But where?”

Lara stares through the darkness. “There's a taller building just up the street. Let's try there.”

Another two blocks brings them to the front of a multistory building. It's too dark to read the full name on the sign but Greg can see the words
MEDICAL BUILDING
along the bottom. They trudge along the front façade searching for a door. They find one near the midpoint of the building, but it's protected by a metal roll-down door. They walk to the edge of the building and turn into a small alcove, where they find a blue metal door already pried open.

“What do you think?” Greg whispers.

Lara brushes past and he follows behind. The darkness is complete. Greg fumbles through his pocket for the flashlight and covers the lens with his hand before flicking it on. They're in some type of mechanical room with most of the space taken up by large machinery. They walk forward with Greg sporadically switching the flashlight on and off. On the far side of the room they discover a stairwell and begin to climb, their weary footsteps echoing in the darkness.

On the third level they ease open the door. Greg leans in and sweeps the flashlight beam back and forth. He sees a cluster of closed doors arranged in a staggered pattern down a long corridor.

Greg leans back and whispers to his wife, “Looks like a lot of small offices. What d'ya think?”

She nudges him forward. “I think I'm exhausted,” she whispers. “Just find us someplace where we can lie down and stretch out.”

With most of the flashlight beam obscured by his hand, Greg and Lara tiptoe down the hallway. The first room they open is empty but Lara wants to be farther away from the stairwell. Near the middle of the hall they turn the knob on the door to their right and peek in. Two large lumps are lying in the floor, with two smaller lumps lying next to them. Lara quietly closes the door while Greg opens the one on the left. Empty. They shuffle into the room and ease the heavy backpacks from their shoulders.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Lara whispers.

“Why didn't you go outside?”

“Because I didn't need to go then.”

Pointing his flashlight at the floor, he clicks it on. The carpeted office is small, with a desk and an uncomfortable-looking chair. Nothing they can use for a makeshift toilet.

“I guess you're going to have to go in the corner.”

“Greg, I can't defecate in someone's office.”

“Whoever occupied the office is no longer here. They could care less whether you take a shit in the corner.”

Lara shoots him an angry glare. “There has to be a bathroom down the hall somewhere.”

“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.

“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.

 

P
resident 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 probability 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.”