Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (98 page)

Mary carefully helped Kelly into a chrome wheelchair and pushed her to the elevator in the middle of the hall. Azadeh followed her out of the apartment. “Remember, Azadeh,” Mary said for at least the third time, “you have my cell phone number right there.”

“Yes,” Azadeh replied.

“You remember how to call me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The clinic is in downtown Columbus. Northridge Children’s Cancer Center. It is well-known. If you have any questions, you can ask almost anyone.”

Azadeh nodded, smiling as she hovered under Mary’s protective worries.

Mary stood and thought, going through a checklist in her mind. “I’ve got the keys, the map and address—” she glanced at Azadeh. “Can you drive?”

Azadeh shook her head, amazed at the thought. Teenage girls didn’t drive in Iran. Neither did their mothers—at least, few of them did. “No, Mary,” she answered, almost laughing. “No, I do not drive.”

“OK, OK. I was going to tell you that I’ve borrowed a car from Yevonie, she’s a good friend of mine. I don’t think my old beater would have made it, but hers is pretty good. Anyway, I was going to tell you that you could take my car if you needed anything or had to get somewhere, but I don’t suppose that’s going to happen.”

Azadeh laughed again. “No, ma’am, I do not believe I will be driving around Chicago.”

Mary smiled. “Of course not. But someday. Someday soon we’ll help you get your license.”

It was a terrifying thought to Azadeh. Still, she smiled and muttered, “Yes, ma’am” in reply.

Mary had given up on the “ma’am” thing and didn’t correct her. “OK, I think I’ve got everything,” she said, closing her purse. “Remember, we’ll be back tomorrow night. It might be late. I don’t want you to worry, OK? If anything comes up, I’ll call you.”

“I will be fine,” Azadeh said.

Mary reached for the elevator button, then pulled her hand back. “I wish you could come with me,” she said again, “but there’s no place for you to stay. They won’t let you sleep at the clinic. I’m
really
sorry.”

“It is all right. It really is.”

“I just hate to leave you alone on only the second night you are here. But it won’t always be like this. This is the last time we have to go clear down to Columbus.”

Azadeh lifted a hand to cut Mary off, then walked toward Kelly, who was waiting in her wheelchair. Azadeh knelt down beside her. “You will be OK?” she asked.

“Sure,” Kelly answered. “I like Doctor Ryan. He always has,” she stopped and turned her head to swallow, “a treat for me.” Her voice was weak from talking to Azadeh for so long that morning.

Kelly looked up with her dark eyes and Azadeh felt her heart melt. There was so much about this little girl that was so easy to love.

Azadeh smiled at her, but inside she seemed to panic. Kelly looked so weak, so drawn out, as if at the end of a battle that had gone on too long. “Have a good trip,” she added quickly to push the thought away. “When you get back, I will teach you how to speak more Farsi. You never know, it might come in handy sometime.”

Kelly smiled. “See you tomorrow night.”

Mary and Kelly stepped into the elevator, leaving Azadeh alone in the hallway. As she watched the elevator doors close, a thought leapt into Azadeh’s mind.

“
Smile at her, Azadeh. You may never see her again.
”

She raised her hand and smiled quickly. “Good-bye, Kelly. I’ll see—”

The metal doors rolled shut.

Mary and Kelly were gone.

Azadeh stood sadly for a moment in the hallway, then turned to the open apartment door.

She cleaned and straightened, took a bath, unpacked her clothes, hanging them in the closet (everything she owned hardly filled one half of one side), then stood alone in the middle of the bedroom, unsure of what to do next.

Starting as early as 2005, the Iranians had paved the way for the EMP attack upon the United States when, early in the spring, they completed a series of missile tests over the Caspian Sea. Firing from a freighter very similar in size and weight to the
Ab Tayyib,
they sent their Shehab-3 missiles climbing upward on steep trajectories, exploding them one hundred fifty miles to one hundred eighty miles above the water.

After monitoring the missile tests, the United States had concluded that they were an utter failure. “Missile Tests Fall Short of Expectations,” the classified reports had read.

But the missile tests hadn’t been a failure. In fact, they had been a rousing success.

Further testing in 2006 revealed that the high-altitude nuclear warheads might be better launched using the more powerful and updated Scud missiles. Because of this, King Abdullah had made the decision to replace the Iranian Shehab missiles inside the hull of the
Ab Tayyib
with the more capable and powerful Scuds.

Developed by the Soviets in the mid-1960s, the Scud missiles were the grandchildren of the German V-2s that haunted England at the end of the Second World War. Originally designed to carry a one hundred-kiloton nuclear warhead, the updated missiles had been sold and shipped to dozens of nations throughout the world. Modified from its original nuclear role, the Scud was capable of carrying a two thousand-pound conventional warhead up to one hundred eighty miles. Later, Pakistani and Iranian scientists had taken the Iraqi Scuds and improved them to provide even greater range. The warhead and fuselage weight had been reduced, the fuel tanks expanded, and the engines modified in order to burn most of the fuel during the launch phase of flight, a technique that developed a far greater launch velocity, pushing the missile even higher into the upper atmosphere.

Known as
Al Abbas,
the newest Scuds had a range of eight hundred kilometers, a long way to go, especially when flying almost straight up.

But the Scuds did have one problem. Because their warheads were permanently attached to the missile bodies, they were notoriously inaccurate—acceptable when tossing a nuclear weapon, but completely unacceptable in conventional war.

Still, the military officers on board the
Ab Tayyib
weren’t concerned about the
Al Abbas
missiles’ weakness. Tonight they needed altitude, not accuracy, and the Scuds were very good for that.

* * *

The final launch orders had been received and confirmed. Preparations complete, the captain of the
Ab Tayyib
turned to his first officer, who stared back with dark, empty eyes. “Are you ready, my friend?” he asked.

The officer nodded slowly but didn’t say anything.

The captain took a deep breath. He had enough Valium and opium in his bloodstream to keep his emotions in check. “Launch the missiles,” he ordered, his voice tight and dry.

The officer stared at him a long moment, then turned and walked away.

* * *

Darkness had just settled over the rolling ocean. The skies were almost clear, with scattered layers of thin cirrus at twenty-one thousand feet and twenty-six thousand feet. Operating in the starlight, their navigation lights turned to dim, the weapons crew set to work. The ship was turned to put its stern into the wind and set at twelve knots to match the south wind, minimizing any airflow over the deck. The hold was opened, the dual-plate doors folding back on huge, hydraulic rods, and the elevators rose, lifting the two side-by-side missiles and their launch rails into the dark night.

Eleven minutes after the captain’s order, the launch deck was ready and clear, the final navigation updates input into the missile launch computer, the ship stabilizers below the waterline extended to their maximum length.

The captain gave a final word. Standing at the weapons control panel, the first officer turned his key and stepped back. The captain moved toward the panel, inserted his own key, and punched in a final code.

The gelled fuel moved through the high-pressure lines inside the Scud missile engines, the fuel flow tripling every half-second. Then the deck lit up with white light, turning the darkness into day. Ignition. Smoke. Furious noise and vibration.

The first missile lifted into the air. It hung there half a second, the nose cone moving in the breeze, then thrust skyward into the dark night, the enormous exhaust nozzle blazing white-hot flame. Ten seconds later, the second missile also fired.

The missiles flew in trail, the second missile mimicking the flight path of the first until passing through fifty-five thousand feet. There the second missile turned slightly south, heading for the southern states. The first missile continued northward and climbed, both of them reaching for two hundred eighty-five miles above the earth.

Two hundred eighty-five miles. One million five hundred four thousand eight hundred feet. The perfect altitude.

Any higher and the electromagnetic pulse would be weakened by the distance to the ground. Any lower and the electromagnetic pulse would not been maximized.

Three fishing vessels were within ten miles of the freighter when the missiles fired into the night sky. Two dozen eyes watched as the missiles climbed upward, the white fire illuminating the smoky trail that followed. But no one knew what it was, and no one knew what to do.

As the missiles climbed, they also became visible along the east coast, their smoky contrails and burning engines illuminating the night.

Higher. Higher. Almost straight up they flew. Crossing the shoreline, they followed their intended flight path to the east.

Seventy thousand feet below the first missile, a ten-year-old boy stood on the beach. To his right, the ocean lapped, the whitecaps illuminated by the low moon and stars. Above him, he watched the tiny trail of moving flame.

“What is that?” he asked his brother.

“I don’t know,” his brother said.

It was eleven minutes, nineteen seconds from missile launch to the highest arc in the parabola, where the warheads would explode.

Three hours ahead of the Eastern Time Zone, the North Korean frigate, the
Choun Ohmonee,
got the launch codes for its missiles when the sun was barely setting. Still, the crewmen didn’t wait until it was dark to launch. Once they had received the codes, they knew they had only a few minutes to get the missiles in the air.

The modified cargo doors were pulled open, the launchers raised, the missiles readied to go.

The North Korean freighter launched its two Scud missiles a little more than forty seconds after her sister ship in the North Atlantic Ocean had fired its two Scud missiles. The two missiles burned their way upward, piercing the glowing sky. Like their predecessors, the missiles followed each other until passing through fifty-five thousand feet, then separated, the first one taking up a northern heading, the other tracking almost straight east.

The Combat Operations Center came instantly to life, the huge screen at the front of the room illuminating the two missiles climbing over the east coast. A low growl filled the air from the warning buzzer overhead.

“Oh no, oh no,” the chief controller mumbled as he stared at the screen.

“What is it? What are they?” the commanding general demanded.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Launch point was—they share the same launch point—looks like eighty, maybe ninety miles off the coast—”

“Submarine-launched missiles? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“It could be. They are ballistic—”

“What are their targets?”

Five seconds of hesitation. “We don’t know for certain, sir. The missiles are still in their climb phase. Their flight paths are not matching any of our parabolas. They’re going high, going high.”

The general thought a second. “Check your systems,” he said, his voice low and cold.

Another long moment of silence. Every eye in the Combat Operations Center watched the senior controller. “Sir,” he finally answered, “self-check complete. We have two confirmed bandits. Both of the missiles are still climbing.”

“That can’t be right,” the general answered. “Not when they were launched so close.”

The controller moved his cursor across his screen. “Final self-check complete,” he announced, finishing the last step in his checklist to confirm the missile launch.

The general’s face was utterly calm, but his mind raced ahead. “Get me Raven Rock,” he said as he turned to his chair.

Another warning chime. The enormous screen of the United States lit up again.

Two more missiles. Off the west coast. Climbing. Always climbing. One turning north, one heading east.

Twenty seconds of silence as the controllers and computers worked.

“The four missiles have taken up headings to hit our four major quadrants,” the lead controller said.

And that was all it took. The general finally understood.

Falling back in his chair, he gripped the armrest, realizing that the world, as they all knew it, was about to end.

They headed west. Luke drove, his right hand on the wheel, his fingers nervously tapping it. Sara sat beside him, her hands resting calmly on her lap. Ammon crouched in the backseat of the Honda, leaning against the window, his eyes closed. He hadn’t spoken in a couple of hours, but Sara knew he was awake.

Traffic was heavy, the interstate clogged in both directions, though the heaviest line of cars was heading west. A long, slow, and discouraging day’s drive was behind them. The setting sun was directly ahead, the slanting rays burning through the front window. They didn’t talk as they drove, the Honda tires humming over the smooth interstate. Sara reached up and turned off the radio; every station played nothing but the news, repeating the same information again and again. The president was dead now, the vice president as well. The speaker of the House of Representatives and president pro tempore of the Senate were both alive but critically injured, leaving the secretary of state as the acting president. Occasional riots still flared up in Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles, but most of the other major cities had calmed down. Millions of people, with no real explanation, were fleeing the east coast. Everyone had a grandparent, a sibling, a distant relation, or a friend who lived away from the major cities, and those people were extraordinarily popular right now.