Blackout

by Jason Elam

  “Scott. Oh, Scott,” Khadi was saying. “We’re in a meeting. Do you think it might be a good idea if we actually meet?”

  “What? Oh yeah. Right. Let’s get going. Khadi, can you give us an update on what’s happening in New York beyond what the talking heads are saying on the screen?”

  Pushing her untouched drink to the side, she began, “Not too much yet. Uncle Sam’s still getting organized. They’ve begun a leaflet campaign, letting people know what’s happened and assuring them that the government is still standing. Apparently, they’re also asking people to stay put until someone comes to evacuate them. That way they can keep the roads clear for the buses.”

  “We’ll see how long that lasts,” Hernandez said. “Once food and water start getting low, everyone’s going to be hightailing it out of there.”

  Crumpling the top paper of her stack and throwing it over her shoulder, Khadi said, “Yeah, I kind of shook my head at that one too. Just another example of the boneheads at FEMA not thinking things all the way through.

  “One thing they do seem to be getting right, though, is the start-up of the evacuations. They’re beginning on the fringes and working their way in. They’ve got refugee camps already set up around Wilmington, Delaware; Middlesex County in Connecticut; and Lancaster County in Pennsylvania.”

  “Lancaster?” Williamson said. “Isn’t that where the Amish are?”

  “It is. And most of them are opening up their homes and their barns, even allowing tents out in their fields.”

  “You know, when you think about it, they could have been hit by an EMP and not even known it,” Williamson said.

  “Exactly,” Hernandez said. “Some family’d hitch up the horse and buggy one day and ride into town. And when they saw all the cars abandoned and all the lights out, the dad’d be like, ‘Ach, Rebecca, finally the English are catching on!’”

  “Guys, seriously, may I finish?” Khadi asked.

  “Sure; sorry,” Hernandez said.

  “Beyond that, they’re starting food and water drops. By the way, Scott, I did put a call in to that girlfriend of mine who’s involved in the supply distribution. She’s going to make sure that Liberty Stadium is well taken care of.”

  “Thanks, Khadi. Anything else?”

  Khadi leveled her papers on the table, then laid them flat.

  “I’ll take that as a no. So let’s get down to finding that second EMP. What’s the latest?”

  Here Tara stepped in. “We’re absolutely clueless when it comes to the warhead. As for the delivery system, we know it’s a rush job, so we don’t expect it to be going by sea. That means air. Our friends at NORAD gave us the rundown of every flight that came out of North Korea into the Western Hemisphere over the last six days. Evie, you have the list?”

  “Right here,” she answered, quickly shuffling through her papers and pulling one out. Scott had no doubt that she had everything on that paper memorized, but she was always very cautious against mistakes. “Because of flight restrictions, the number is very low. Pretty much anything of size that goes in and out is Air Koryo, the national airline of the DPRK. Used to be they had routes going as far west as Budapest and Prague, but those have all been terminated. They don’t have anything regularly scheduled that goes outside of Asia-Pacific anymore. However, they do run charters. And in the last six days, there have been exactly three charters to the West—one to Caracas, one to Havana, and one to Mexico City.

  “The one to Caracas was interesting because we all know how Chávez feels about America. But as soon as that plane landed, it spewed out enough people that there’d be no room left for a delivery system of any sort.

  “The one to Mexico City seemed more unlikely because we still have a decent relationship with them. However, it suspiciously taxied directly into a hangar and hasn’t been seen since. NORAD’s keeping a bird above it, just to see what comes out.

  “The last one was Havana. It came yesterday. The weird thing about this plane is that it was a big ol’ Ilyushin Il-62. It can seat like 170 people. So it lands, and the next day on the front page of Granma Internacional is a picture of this little North Korean delegation deplaning and being met by some Cuban government reps.”

  “So maybe they wanted some elbow room,” Scott said.

  “You’re jumping the gun. The point is that the event in the newspaper never happened. The picture’s a fake—at least according to our aerospace defense friends. When they run the tape, they see the plane landing and pulling into a hangar just like the Mexico one.”

  “And NORAD’s sure about this?”

  A mischievous grin spread across Evie’s face. “Well, to make sure, we did a little experimenting ourselves. Gooey?”

  Standing up and looking very professorial, Gooey said, “Let me put it this way; there ain’t no Gooba down in Cooba.”

  Gooey had a way about him that, no matter how much Scott told himself he wouldn’t encourage him, he still ended up laughing. “Actually, Gooba, why don’t you put it another way, because I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Scotty, Scotty, Scotty, where’s the poetry in your life?” Gooey said as he fanned copies of a photograph across the middle of the table.

  Scott picked one up. In it were the same Cuban government reps. But this time the delegation they were meeting was made up of John F. Kennedy and J. Edgar Hoover, arm-in-arm.

  Scott stared at the picture, amazed. It was better than the work Gooey had done on Operation Keep the Lie Alive. And it was a far sight better than what the Cuban newspaper had done. When he compared that farce with Gooey’s pic, the blurred edges and incorrect depth lines were obvious.

  “Nice touch on Hoover’s wedding gown,” Scott said appreciatively.

  “Yeah, I figured he’d go simple yet elegant. Nothing ostentatious,” Gooey said proudly.

  “Excellent work, gang. So did something come to pick the Cuban cargo up?” Scott asked, getting a little excited.

  “That’s where the problem comes in, boss,” Evie answered. “There was a three-hour window when we didn’t have a bird keeping an eye out. It had to have been unloaded at that time, because two hours ago, the plane took off back to Kim-land.”

  Frustrated, Scott slammed his fist down onto the table, bouncing the coffee cups and causing Tara and Khadi to reach for theirs to keep them from tipping. So close and still nothing!

  “Sorry, guys,” Scott said, looking around at the wide eyes. “Wee bit stressed here and needing something other than Diet Code Red and lattes to keep me going. Let’s talk about potential targets for both the Havana and Mexico City possibilities. Havana, you’ve got Miami and Orlando.”

  “Not Miami,” Khadi said. “Not enough impact. Maybe Orlando—could be a big women and children toll. What about Atlanta?”

  “Still probably not enough impact,” Tara answered. “I think East Coast, you’ve got to go all the way up to Washington, D.C. Or maybe they’re going to truck it over to Chicago.”

  Scott closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Chicago. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  “I think we need to keep the Mexico City option open—there was an hour-long blind window there, too,” Hernandez said. “Besides, the Cubans are doing freaky stuff all the time, so the faked picture isn’t that big of a deal. But imagine what an EMP would do to Southern California. You’ve got almost 25 million people down there—the same as you had with this first hit. Add to that the fact that it’s a whole lot harder to get aid to. I really think we should keep an eye on the West Coast.”

  “Okay,” Scott said. “Let’s divide our efforts. Virgil, Evie, and Joey, you focus on the West Coast. Tara, you and Gooey take the East Coast. And let’s all just pray that it’s not Atlanta. The last thing Riley needs is to get hit with one of these a second time.”

  Monday, September 14, 3:15 p.m. EDT

  Stone Mountain, Georgia

  Muhammed Zerin Khan walked to the edge of the observation deck and looked out over the city. Just gotta
make a short run, clear a couple fences, and over I’d go. It would be so easy—so quick.

  He hadn’t come up onto Stone Mountain since before he had gone away to college, and the view he saw now took him back to his childhood. Some people said that if you looked close, you could see all the way to Tennessee from up here, but he could never tell. When he was a kid, he would try to spot the state line, thinking it had to be out there somewhere like it was on the maps. When he got older, he forgot about things like that and just focused on the city—his city.

  Out to the west, he could see the apartment block he grew up in—shabby-looking even from this great a distance. A fourteen-minute run from there (thirteen minutes twelve seconds, on his best day) was his alma mater, Crim High School, where he had managed to find himself on the good side of the 32 percent graduation rate—the side that didn’t involve prison or a bullet. It was at Crim that his life could have gone either way. But with the encouragement of his football coach and the tough love of his mother, he had made the right choices.

  And now I’ve thrown it all away! How did I let Dad talk me into this? How was I so stupid?

  When his father had called him last Thursday and told him it was time, Zerin had agonized over the decision. He knew what he could be giving up if he went. But his dad was so insistent, so earnest, so determined that Zerin not go on the road trip to New York.

  Way off to the west he spotted the Georgia Dome, a giant white blob in a field of gray. When he had come up here as a teenager, his eyes had always settled on the Dome. He had dreamed of pulling up to the players’ lot and parking right next to the stadium. He’d envisioned getting his bag from the back of his Escalade and walking past the security and into the locker room, then, with his uniform on, jogging out onto the field to the sound of tens of thousands of fans chanting his name.

  That—that is what I’ve lost. My dad said, “Jump,” and I immediately asked, “How high?” And I ended up jumping clear out of my career—out of my dream.

  Still, I guess I should thank him. Without his summons, I’d be trapped in New York instead of here, on my mountaintop. I also wouldn’t know who I really am deep inside—what my character really is, for better or worse.

  Zerin hiked around to the southeast side of the mountain. Far out beyond his sight line was the Georgia State Prison. He had no idea whether his dad was okay or not, and he wasn’t sure how much he really cared. The stories of the rioting there and at other penitentiaries around the country had been hard to find amid the near-constant coverage of New York City. And when the media weren’t talking about New York, they focused on the suicide bombings in all those cities. The plight of a bunch of rowdy convicts was a distant third on the news viewers’ list of things they cared about.

  The snippets he did hear, though, were bad. Scores of guards had been killed along with hundreds of prisoners. It was an all-out revenge fest with everyone finally acting on their long-held grudges. Over thirty prisons were in flames; one in Colorado and one in Texas had burned to the ground, each condemning over a hundred prisoners to a fiery death sentence.

  There was no doubt that America was under attack. He continued to be amazed that his father was actually a part of it.

  His plane had landed Friday evening, and early the next morning he had made the four-hour drive to Reidsville, arriving just after the weekend visiting hours had begun.

  Hamza Yusuf Khan had looked nervous but relieved when he saw his son on the other side of the glass. Dispensing with the usual niceties and small talk, Hamza had gotten straight to the point. In the most cryptic terms possible, he had warned Zerin that the thing he had been talking about was coming the next day. He told his son that they might never see each other again, but if something did happen to him, he had no doubt that he would go straight into the presence of Allah.

  Zerin tried to pull details out of his father, but that day, rather than pushing the limits of what he could divulge, Hamza seemed to want to say as little as possible.

  That is, until it was mini-sermon time. Hamza recounted to his son his conversion to Islam, and then his disillusionment and fall. He spoke of how one day, a fellow inmate had shown him what true Islam was—an Islam of commitment and strength, honor and vengeance.

  “That is what beats in my heart and runs through my veins,” Hamza had said. “It is my life’s blood—the essence of my being and the very purpose of my life. And because you are my son, it runs in your blood too. I wish I had more time to talk to you about this, but my time is short. So you must accept what I say to be true. You must step off the fence of half belief and come fully into Allah’s service. And you must do what I ask of you—for the love of Allah and for the memory of your father, not the failure that I once was but the warrior I have become.”

  At that point they had pressed each other’s palms through the glass.

  “What do you want me to do?” Zerin had asked, ready to follow his father into the depths of hell if need be.

  But when his father told him, Zerin was stunned. He quickly pulled his hand away and stood up.

  “Is that . . . is that what this has all been about?” he had asked.

  His father convinced him to sit back down. Then he spent the next ten minutes trying to convince Zerin to obey him. He yelled; he apologized; he pleaded; he promised spiritual rewards. As Zerin sat listening to him, he was torn between guilt and disgust, loyalty and contempt.

  Finally, without committing one way or another—without even saying good-bye—he got up and left the room. Now, two days later, he still didn’t know what he was going to do. No matter what he chose, there would be betrayal—whether against his father or against his own character or against his very life.

  He looked at his watch and saw that he had only fifteen minutes until his scheduled meeting time.

  When he had first tried Riley’s number on Sunday afternoon, his call had gone to voice mail. You lucky little idiot, he had thought, he’s in New York! I guess that takes care of that!

  Zerin had gone ahead and left an urgent message, figuring that had fulfilled his obligation. I tried, but I just couldn’t reach him! Allah is not unreasonable; he will understand.

  But early this morning, when his phone rang and he saw Riley’s number on the caller ID, he felt like the main character in a story he had read as a teen about a woman getting a phone call from her husband who had died in car crash earlier that evening. Zerin’s heart started racing, and he felt nauseous. Unsuccessfully trying to steady his shaking hand, he picked up the phone and pressed Talk.

  Riley seemed to sense immediately that something was wrong. He initially balked at Zerin’s request for him to fly down to Atlanta to meet with him, even after Zerin had convinced him that he had very important information about a possible second attack. Riley pleaded with him to tell him what he knew over the phone, but Zerin held his ground. It was in person or not at all—you never know who’s listening. He had even convinced Riley to leave his giant bodyguard behind, threatening to clam up if he saw any sign of him.

  But can I do it? Can I really go through with it?

  As he walked back toward the gondola that would take him to the bottom of Stone Mountain, the Colt Defender .45 ACP that he usually kept hidden away in his mom’s apartment rubbed gently against the small of his back.

  By the time the cable car had cleared the road and cut through the trees, Zerin had steeled himself for what he knew he had to do.

  Monday, September 14, 3:50 p.m. EDT

  Stone Mountain, Georgia

  “I don’t want to hear you crashing through the brush or see you popping up behind some bush,” Riley said to Skeeter as he put the Lincoln Navigator in park.

  “This is stupid,” Skeeter said.

  “You know what? I’m not even going to argue with you. You’re right! This is stupid! But what other choice do I have?”

  “I told you! You go out on the path; I circle through the woods. At least you’re covered.”

  “Come on, ma
n, you know that’s too big a risk,” Riley said, pulling low the 94th Airlift Wing cap that he had borrowed from one of the guys at Dobbins Reserve Air Base. He hoped that the hat and the dark glasses would be enough of a disguise so that his presence wouldn’t cause a stir. Guess it better be; it’s all you’ve got!

  Riley continued. “First, you don’t know these woods well enough to ‘circle through’ them. And second, look at you—you’re built for ‘Scare the Bejabbers Out of Them,’ not for ‘How Not to Be Seen.’”

  “I still say it’s stupid!”

  “We covered that already,” Riley said, exasperated and way past done with the conversation. “Listen, Skeet, I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know. But this one I’ve got to do on my own. Sometimes I gotta trust God, too, not just you.”

  Riley opened his door to get out, and Skeeter opened his, too.

  “Skeet!”

  “I know! I’m just gonna be sitting right here on the hood of the truck. But if I hear anything—anything—I’m out there whether you want me there or not.”

  Riley smiled. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Skeeter didn’t say anything. He just slid himself up on the Navigator’s hood, causing the metal to buckle loudly.

  Great! Guess I’ll just tell the folks at Dobbins that a rock fell on the truck, Riley thought as he jogged off. A very large, very smooth, non-paint-chipping rock that . . . On the other hand, what do I care what they think?

  He looked at his watch and saw that he had seven minutes to get to the rendezvous. Zerin’s instructions were to follow the Cherokee Trail under the three Confederate figures carved into the face of the mountain. Then, as soon as he passed the Studdard Picnic Area, he was to turn left toward Stone Mountain Lake. Zerin would be looking for him there.

  This B movie, cloak-and-dagger stuff is so incredibly frustrating. What could have taken five minutes by phone is instead costing me nearly a full day. This is stupid! This is stupid! This is stupid! This is stupid, he repeated in his mind, keeping time to his steps.