Blackout

by Jason Elam

  Gorkowski stood up and stepped into the men’s path. “Come on, just one bottle,” he said a little more firmly.

  The men looked at each other, and the first man said again, “Really, I’d love to help, but we’ve got to get this to our kids.”

  “I said, give me a bottle of your water,” Gorkowski said menacingly, stepping toward the two men.

  Billy Gaines, another offensive lineman, stood up next to Gorkowski. “Make that two,” he said.

  “Listen, we don’t want any trouble,” the second man said, reaching into his bag. He pulled out a couple of bottles and was preparing to pass them over when Keith leaped to his feet.

  In four steps he was between the players and the men, nose to nose with Gorkowski.

  “Sit down, Snap,” Keith said.

  “Back off, man,” Gorkowski growled. “This ain’t your deal.”

  “Really, it’s okay,” the second man said.

  “Put your water away and walk back to your car,” Keith said, never taking his eyes off of Gorkowski.

  “You’re making a big mistake, Simms,” Gorkowski threatened.

  “I am? Really? I’m the one making the mistake?” Out of his peripheral vision, Keith saw the two men scurry around the confrontation. When they were clear, Keith suddenly drove his hands into Gorkowski’s chest, pushing him back hard enough so that he tripped over Donovan Williams, landing flat on his back.

  “What are you? A thug? You out street-hustling here, Snap?” Then, turning to Gaines, he said, “You better sit down right now, son, or I swear I will slap you into next week!”

  “Whatever. Ain’t nothing off me,” Gaines said, retreating.

  Gorkowski was just getting to his feet. His face was dark red from rage and embarrassment.

  “You gonna come at me, Chris?” Keith said. “Come on, do it! Take me down for keeping you from thieving some poor kids of their water! That’s what you wanna do, right? So come on!”

  Gorkowski stared at Keith, the anger making beads of sweat drip down his face. But he didn’t move.

  Keith turned to the rest of the players around. “Anyone else? Anybody else want to steal food from babies? How about we all band together and start raiding the cars around us? Bet we could come away with a good haul! How’s that for an idea?”

  He scanned the faces, letting his anger slowly cool down. “Let it be known here and now that if I hear of anyone stealing anything from anybody, I personally will throw you off the side of this freeway.”

  Keith settled his stare on Gorkowski and held his gaze. Eventually the center dropped his eyes and sat down.

  Keith turned and almost bumped into Afshin, who was standing right behind him.

  “Whoa, didn’t know you were there.”

  “Of course I’m here. I told you I’d always have your back, my friend. Besides, do you think Snap would have backed down if he hadn’t been so intimidated by my rippling pythons?” Afshin said, lifting his arms and kissing his biceps.

  Keith was too steamed to laugh, but he did say, “Yeah, I’m sure that was it. Anyway, thanks. It’s good to know you’re there.”

  “No, thank you for doing what the rest of us should have done.”

  “Look!” someone yelled.

  Unsure who had spoken or where he was supposed to look, Keith glanced around. Afshin spotted it before Keith and pointed it out to him, although by that time, Keith, along with everyone else, had begun to hear what was coming.

  Off to the south, the sky was filled with helicopters—mostly twin-rotor CH-47 Chinooks, but a variety of other military choppers were mixed in as well. A low rumble filled the city, and the sound grew until everything around the players was vibrating. There were too many for Keith to count, but he guessed that there had to be more than a hundred.

  People started jumping up and cheering, and Keith couldn’t help but join in. Everyone screamed and waved and danced around. Then, at a little distance from the heart of the city, the helicopters began fanning out, and everyone quickly became quiet again. The fear that they would be passed over was strong in the hearts of those on the freeway.

  But after a time, they could see that one was coming their way. Elation filled the crowd again, and the cheers began even louder than before. Soon, the huge Chinook was passing slowly over them. Keith was waving along with everyone else. As it glided over their heads, a mass of people suddenly came pouring into their little bus camp.

  What the—? Who are all these people? Keith thought as the helicopter cruised past. Then he joined the crowd trying to keep up with the helicopter.

  People everywhere desperately yelled, “Stop! Wait!”

  Keith could see the edges of a large wooden pallet hanging over the side of the cargo bay. Why don’t they . . . ? Before he finished his thought, he knew the answer to his own question. There was no place to put the pallet down. It was too crowded on the freeway—too many cars and taxis and buses filling every inch of the road.

  As Keith wove his way through the cars, the helicopter pulled farther and farther away. Still he kept pushing, but the tight crowd of people and the litter of cars kept him from gaining any speed.

  Finally, when the helicopter had drifted about a half mile ahead, Keith saw the pallet slide out and begin its descent.

  “No! Wait,” he yelled with hundreds of others. Hopelessly, he watched as the supplies slowly drifted to the ground. Lord, please help me get there! Please let me get something for the guys!

  Before he even arrived at the site, though, he knew his efforts were futile. People were already turned around, walking dejectedly back to their cars—some angry, some in tears. But Keith didn’t stop. He had to see it for himself.

  When he finally arrived at the pallet, he understood the reason for its location. It had been dropped in the gap where an on-ramp merged onto the freeway. All around, people were cheering and dancing as they drank bottles of water and tore open military MREs. Others were milling about, begging for something from some of the lucky ones. Keith could see two fights taking place, apparently started over dual claims on some provisions.

  A majority of people still there, however, were simply looking to the skies in hopes of another drop.

  Keith knew that wouldn’t happen. This city’s too big. One hundred helicopters—even a thousand helicopters—are just a drop in the bucket. We were lucky to have gotten one this close.

  As he turned and began the long walk back to the buses, his will strengthened and eventually steeled. He knew what had to be done. He knew they couldn’t depend on anyone else for their survival. He knew it was time to go into the city.

  When he arrived back at the bus camp, he immediately started searching for Coach Burton. He didn’t have to look long because Burton was looking for him.

  “Coach, we have—”

  “Go,” Burton said. “Now!”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  Well, that was easy, Keith thought as he went to gather his teams together.

  Monday, September 14, 4:45 p.m. EDT

  Washington, D.C.

  “So do you guys want a little added incentive to get your work done fast?” Scott Ross asked the members of the RoU team who had gathered around the conference table. Gooey continued at his workstation.

  The gang nodded their impatient affirmation. Scott could tell by the way they kept glancing back toward their computer monitors that this impromptu meeting was nothing but a distraction. Oh, well; you gotta do what you gotta do.

  “Actually, first, can you guys bust down the net? It’s a little in the way,” Scott asked.

  “Aw, come on, Scott. We finally got it just right,” Joey Williamson complained.

  Recently the team had attached an improvised net to the conference table, creating a long, narrow Ping-Pong table. During their infrequent breaks, they had used the game to stretch their cramped muscles and get some activity in. While Hernandez and Williamson were strong with their fast game, nobody knew what to do with Evie’s spinning ser
ves, and she reigned as the RoU Ping-Pong queen. Gooey was banned from playing due to his tendency to sweat quickly, profusely, and pungently.

  “Okay, whatever,” Scott said, deciding that this certainly wasn’t a battle that needed to be fought right then. “They say there’s no incentive like self-preservation. I just—”

  “Who?” Evie interrupted.

  “Who what?” Scott said impatiently.

  “Who says that?”

  “Who says what?”

  “‘There’s no incentive like self-preservation.’ You said ‘they’ say it. I was just wondering who ‘they’ is.”

  Looking around the table, Scott saw that all eyes were on him. “I don’t know who ‘they’ is . . . I mean, are. What does it matter?”

  Taking a scolding tone to her voice, Evie said, “Do you really think you should be quoting someone you don’t even know?”

  “Samuel Butler said, ‘Self-preservation is the first law of nature,’” Gooey called out from his work area.

  “Shut up and get off Google,” Scott called back. “Evie, do you mind if I move on?”

  “As long as you promise not to—”

  “I promise! Now, what was I saying?”

  As Scott tried to regain his train of thought, he saw Williamson slip something across the table to Evie.

  “Wait! Lift that up!” he said, pointing to Evie’s hand. Evie hesitated, then revealed a folded five-dollar bill.

  Scott sighed. “Let’s hear it.”

  Williamson spoke with a barely suppressed grin. “Evie bet me she could totally derail you within thirty seconds. And I’m a man who always pays my debts.”

  “Sorry, Scottybear,” Evie said, giving Scott a coquettish bat of her eyelashes.

  Scott shook his head and tried not to smile. He had given Jim Hicks the same sort of hard time, and Stanley Porter before him. I’ve created these miscreants in my own image, and whatever I get probably serves me right. “Back to what I was saying. I heard from Riley after his meeting with Muhammed Zerin Khan. Washington, D.C., is the second target.”

  “I knew it,” Tara exulted, her hand coming down hard on the table.

  “Yes, you did,” Scott agreed. “That was an excellent call, Tara.”

  The young analysts snickered at Scott’s unnecessarily strong affirmation.

  “Keep it together, kids,” Khadi said, unsuccessfully suppressing her own smile. “Did Riley get anything else from him? Is he bringing him back?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Khan is dead.”

  “What about Riley?” Khadi quickly asked. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And Skeeter?”

  “They seem fine. Riley said to report to the authorities that Khan had killed himself. That’s all I know.”

  Khadi leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers through her hair. “I tell you, the guy’s going to drive me insane.”

  “You should have been with him in Afghanistan,” Scott said. “It was like this every day. Dude’s got an angel on his shoulder, no doubt about that.”

  “Where are Riley and Skeeter now?” Tara asked.

  “They’re on their way back here. ETA is a couple of hours. By the time they arrive, I want to have something to tell them. So let’s talk this through.”

  Khadi shook herself from her Riley Covington worries and jumped back into the conversation. “Before we do that, what’s Stanley Porter telling you about the world situation?”

  Scott shook his head. “Apparently we had our ears in a quickly convened meeting between some of the major Middle Eastern and Central Asian countries, along with Russia, China, North Korea, and Venezuela. Let’s just say that things are not good. A weak America means international anarchy, and everyone is clamoring to get their piece of a newly available pie. China’s got their eyes on Taiwan and Southeast Asia. Russia’s looking at the Baltics and at Israel.”

  “Israel? What does Russia want with Israel?” Evie asked.

  “Resources. An absolutely enormous natural gas reserve has been found off the coast of Haifa, and Israel’s hush-hush discovery of oil around the Dead Sea is turning into the worst-kept secret since . . . well, since worst-kept secrets were kept track of.”

  “Good one, Scott,” Williamson said.

  “Sorry I’m not living up to your standards, Joey. I’m a little tired.”

  “And cranky,” Evie offered.

  “And cranky,” Scott confirmed. “Anyway, all the bad guys of the world are waiting for our eventual demise. Already Iran is massing troops on its western border. Egypt, Syria, and Lebanon are moving military equipment to their respective borders with Israel. If we don’t stop this next weapon, I think Iran, with Russia’s help, is going to plow right through Iraq and Jordan, and Israel will finally get pushed into the sea.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Khadi said. “Not with their record. At least not before nuking every Middle Eastern capital as a parting gift.”

  “Which means that Russia will probably nuke Israel in retaliation,” Tara continued.

  “Which means that we’ll probably nuke Russia, who will have saved plenty of warheads for us,” Scott agreed. “The scenario keeps getting rosier and rosier.”

  “Well, it just means that instead of only getting to save America, we get to save all of mankind,” Evie said with a smile.

  “No pressure,” Williamson said.

  Scott’s insides twisted, and he bit his tongue. No matter what he had told Secretary Moss about using humor to deal with the pressure, sometimes the jokes just didn’t set well with him. But the kids need it. Just try to keep yourself under control and get the job done! “So what are we doing yakking about this! Let’s get back to business!”

  “My thinking is—,” Hernandez began.

  Scott put up his hand. “Hold on, Hernandez. Khadi, while we’re talking, can you message the ‘D.C. is the target’ tidbit up the chain? Just tell them you’ll give them all the details later.”

  “On it,” Khadi said, picking up her smartphone.

  “Sorry, Virge. You were saying . . .”

  “Okay, my thinking is that we need to focus almost exclusively on water transport again. With all air traffic grounded, they aren’t going to fly it in. I also don’t see it coming in by truck because there are too many weigh stations along the route up.”

  “Good call,” Scott agreed. “This is too big and too heavy to hide behind a false wall of Little Debbie cakes.”

  “Exactly,” Hernandez continued. “That means we look for water traffic—fishing-boat size and up—that’s making the trip from Cuba up to the waters outside of D.C.”

  “Which is a wide range,” Williamson jumped in. “The Chesapeake Bay and the Potomac River are closest, but the device could conceivably be launched from all the way on the other side of Delaware, out in the Atlantic.”

  “I don’t think so,” Tara said. “Remember, they tracked the New York City launch to a boat just off of Sandy Hook. That’s less than twenty miles from the heart of the city. I think they’re keeping the launches close because they don’t necessarily trust the North Korean Scuds. Or maybe because it’s better to be close to land for the uniting of the missile and the warhead.”

  “Would have been nice to have talked to those dudes on the New York City boat before they blew themselves to kibbles and bits,” Scott said.

  Khadi agreed. “From what I hear, President Lloyd isn’t too happy about how Secretary Moss handled that one. I have a feeling we’ll be called in next time before Moss has the chance to choke another op.”

  Scott snapped his fingers. “That’s one other thing. Text them again and remind them to keep Lloyd off of Air Force One and Marine One—no tours of the affected areas or anything.”

  Khadi started working her smartphone again.

  “Back to what Tara was saying,” Scott said. “While we need to be looking all around the Maryland and Delaware coasts, we really want to focus on the Chesapeake and the Potomac. What we’re looking for is a midsize boa
t that’s come up from Cuba.”

  “Got it!” Gooey yelled from his work area.

  Instantly, Scott was out of his chair, sprinting to Gooey’s computer, which, given the small size of the room, was a very short run. He arrived just in time to see Gooey closing a window on his computer.

  “Seriously? You got it?” Scott asked excitedly.

  “Got what?” Gooey asked.

  “The boat.”

  “What boat?”

  By now everyone had surrounded Gooey. “I was describing the boat we’re looking for, and you called out, ‘Got it!’”

  “Oh, that boat. No, I don’t got it.”

  Scott glared at Gooey, then said, “If that wasn’t it, can you please tell me what you did ‘got’?”

  “It was nothing,” Gooey said, seeming to shrink in his chair.

  “Gooey . . .”

  “Okay, I got a Death Knight.”

  Evie, Williamson, and Hernandez all made noises of disgust and walked away.

  “What’s a Death Knight?” Scott asked.

  “It’s the first hero class in World of Warcraft. This one had been lurking around for a while and really bugging me. I finally found a way to take him out. You should have seen it. I . . .” Gooey stopped when he saw the look on Scott’s face.

  “Tell you what, Gooey. How about we make a deal? You save our world first; then I’ll give you a whole week of paid office time to go saving other worlds.”

  Gooey’s face lit up. “Seriously? A whole week? Consider the boat as good as got!”

  Gooey swiveled back to his computer.

  The guy’s too good to get rid of. You just got to know the right incentive to make him work. Scott watched as Gooey pounded away on his keyboard. Nice work, Ross; you might just make a good suit after all—well, minus the tie . . . and the jacket . . . and the dress pants, nice shirt, and fancy shoes.

  Turning to get back to the meeting, Scott saw that everyone was already working. “Uh, meeting adjourned,” he said weakly.

  Tara walked up to him. “Khadi’s in her office giving details to the higher-ups. I’ve got Virgil and Joey scanning satellite images, trying to track a boat up the coast. Evie is continuing to try to find the container with the warhead.”