Beyond Borders

by Bobby Akart

  “A lot of our gear is at the hotel,” said Riley.

  “Yeah, so we need to get movin’,” Cooper suggested. “Palmer, you and Riley saddle up the horses. I’m gonna get our stuff out of the truck.”

  “Are you gonna bust out the windows?” asked Riley before adding, “Daddy’ll tan your hide.”

  “My guess is they’ll be pretty happy to see us,” said Cooper with a laugh. “Besides, the truck’s insured.”

  “Very funny, a lot of good that’ll do ya,” said Palmer with a chuckle. “C’mon, Riley. This leather’s gonna be cold and stiff to work with. It’ll help if we do it together.”

  Riley opened up the twin gates as the hinges squeaked their complaint over the cold air. “After six months in the saddle goin’ home, we’ll loosen up that leather.”

  Chapter 3

  November 25

  Black Friday

  The Executive Residence

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  President Harman took some time to adjust to life within the Executive Residence of the White House. She and her husband, well-known intellectual property and media attorney David Huff, had lived in a multimillion-dollar home in Brentwood, California, a suburb of Los Angeles.

  The Oakland native, who had resided in a nine-hundred-thirty-eight-foot condominium in San Francisco during her career as the city’s district attorney, found that marriage suited her, and she’d adjusted to life with a wealthy attorney with ease.

  However, in their new home within the most famous building on earth, she was surrounded by over one hundred maids, butlers, chefs, and florists, who maintain the first family’s four levels of luxury known as the Executive Residence.

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, America’s most prestigious address, was more than a working residence for the president and the First Husband. It was also their place of refuge. David transferred his practice to his law firm’s DC office and quickly embraced the Washington way of life when his wife became the junior senator from California.

  After her sudden thrust into the position of President of the United States following the demise of her original running mate, President Joe Billings, President Harman became overwhelmed at the immense power and responsibility she was afforded. Oftentimes, she would retreat to the Executive Residence to seek solace. She was known to block out the staff and sit alone in the West Sitting Hall, enjoying a glass or two of wine.

  On some evenings, when David was travelling back to LA, she’d partake of an extra glass just to calm her nerves. Her drinking was not a problem, as her husband assured her. However, he suggested she really should limit her intake to just two glasses.

  President Harman took another sip of a California red wine from a large Bordeaux glass that she had the staff maintain in her bar. It held four more ounces than the standard red wine stem glass.

  She’d parted the drapes adorning the large arched window of the West Sitting Hall where it overlooked the West Wing of the White House. This particular day’s presidential activities were unremarkable in most respects. Much of the staff was given a long weekend off to be with their families. The maintenance personnel were frantically readying the White House with Christmas decorations. All in all, she was pleased, as the world seemed to be behaving itself.

  “Hi, dear,” said her husband as he announced himself. He’d been working late at the office on a defamation suit concerning a high-profile client. He tossed his briefcase and coat on the seat of a wing chair and wrapped his arms around the president. “I hate that you have to wait for me to get home. I’m sorry.”

  She laughed and ran her hands across his. After taking another sip of wine, she said, “David, trust me. I’m not lonely. Sometimes, I need an opportunity to be alone with my thoughts. After all these months, I still have to pinch myself from time to time to remember it’s real.”

  A light rain started to fall, leaving trails of water on the bulletproof windows. As their view outside became obscured, they broke their embrace and walked to the sitting area. David poured himself a glass of wine, eased into a side chair, and crossed his legs.

  The curtains were still pulled open, and as David told her about his day, she stared mindlessly at the Washington skyline. Her mind wandered as David went on about his client’s case and the viciousness found on social media.

  Then something changed. Her mind was too slow to process it at first. She slowly leaned forward on the edge of the chair and stared. What is it? What’s different?

  Ignoring her husband, President Harman stood and walked toward the arched, lunette window. She was at the end of her second glass of wine, but her senses weren’t dulled too much to comprehend what had just happened.

  There were no lights throughout Washington except for the White House. Traffic wasn’t moving on Pennsylvania Avenue or in the distance on the Whitehurst Freeway. In fact, none of the headlights on the vehicles were working either.

  Buildings weren’t producing any light, including government structures like Blair House and the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. As far as her eyes could see, to the Potomac river and beyond, it was pitch black. Total darkness. Then a siren began to wail.

  Chapter 4

  November 25

  Home of Secretary of Defense Montgomery Gregg

  Georgetown

  Washington, DC

  Secretary Montgomery Gregg and his wife hosted the Yanceys for dinner on that Friday evening. The ladies, who had been friends before Billy Yancey and Secretary Gregg began working together, had enjoyed a day of shopping together at Tyson’s Corner in McLean, Virginia. Full of excitement as the Christmas shopping season was launched, they suggested an impromptu dinner at the Greggs’ Georgetown home.

  Secretary Gregg, still reeling from the North Korean Mother’s Day appearance of Dear Leader, Kim Jong-un, was in no mood for entertaining. However, he indulged his wife because he enjoyed Billy’s company, and it gave them the opportunity to speak in private without Carl Braun, the director of the Special Activities Division of the National Clandestine Service, being present.

  While Braun, Yancey, and Secretary Gregg shared common interests, he and Billy were old friends and fellow Texans. That made them practically family.

  “How did North Korea and Russia become aligned?” asked Mrs. Gregg. “I always thought it was China who was joined at the hip with North Korea.”

  “Their relationship goes back to the late eighteen hundreds,” started Billy. “It wasn’t until the last few decades that Moscow began to assist in advancing North Korea’s technology toward a viable nuclear weapons program.”

  “Billy’s right,” said Secretary Gregg. “In essence, the old Soviet Union helped create and prop up the Kim regimes. While Russia’s economic leverage over the North is not as substantial as China’s, their military support is invaluable to Kim.”

  “Plus, there is the energy connection,” interjected Billy. “When we imposed sanctions on Moscow restricting their energy exports to Europe because of their invasion of Ukraine and Crimea, Putin laughed and upped his economic ante with Kim Jong-un. He tripled Russia’s energy exports to the North, together with communications and military technology.”

  “Today, Russia along with China are the only two countries that provide Kim Jong-un with permanent transportation and telecommunications links connecting the Hermit Kingdom to the outside world.”

  Mrs. Gregg cleared the dishes and returned with a variety of holiday-adorned delicacies from Georgetown Cupcakes. She made an astute comment that impressed her husband, who rarely discussed shop with his wife.

  “I don’t trust Putin, and it sounds like the Chinese shouldn’t either. The man smiles while he stabs you in the front. If he’s helping North Korea with weapons and such, there has to be some kind of quid pro quo.”

  “Well said, dear,” said Secretary Gregg. “You’re right. The Kremlin may not be Kim’s biggest defender, but their insertion into the stalemate between our country and Pyongyang complica
tes matters. Like China, he doesn’t want North Korea to fall into Seoul’s hands and under our thumb. It also sends a message to Beijing that Kim has more than one friend.”

  Everyone chose a cupcake and a dessert fork. The delectable cupcake melted in Secretary Gregg’s mouth as the conversation slowed for a moment.

  After Mrs. Yancey commented on the delicious treat, she added, “Monty, this whole situation has the country on edge. Virtually every one of my friends asks me this question, so, if I may, I’ll pose it to you. What happens next?”

  Before Secretary Gregg could answer, a series of loud popping sounds could be heard, and then the Gregg home was consumed by darkness. The heating units stopped. The steady hum of appliances from the nearby kitchen ceased. All the lights shut off, leaving only the glow of two candlesticks flickering in the center of the table.

  “Oh my!” exclaimed Mrs. Gregg. “I didn’t know we were having a storm this evening. I saw the drizzle, but that’s it.”

  “Wait here,” Secretary Gregg said brusquely as he pushed away from the table. Instinctively, he walked directly to the dining room window and pulled the curtains open. The lights were out in all of the surrounding homes. He looked up and down the street. Nothing was moving.

  Nothing.

  “Monty?” asked Billy.

  “Billy, this is not good. Go outside and fetch my security—”

  Secretary Gregg was unable to complete his sentence when a loud rap was heard against the front door. He rushed to answer it.

  “Sir, we have a situation,” said one member of his security detail.

  His wife called for him from the dining room. “Monty? What is it? Has something happened?”

  He ignored her and turned his attention back to the uniformed members of the Defense Security Service. The DSS was an agency within the Department of Defense tasked with protecting the secretary and his family.

  “Do you have comms? Can you get in touch with Stanley?” Secretary Gregg was referring to Stanley Sims, the longtime director of the DSS and a hands-on manager.

  “No, sir.”

  Secretary Gregg shook his head in disbelief as he surveyed his surroundings. The evidence before him had all the earmarks of an EMP attack.

  I can’t believe he’s done it. Touché, Kim.

  “Okay, hold your position. I have satcoms in my safe. We’ll see if it survived the pulse.”

  He turned and returned to the dining room, where the dinner party stood at the window, staring into the darkness.

  “Everyone, please. Let’s get away from the window. Perhaps you should follow me into the study.”

  Mrs. Gregg became visibly upset. “Monty, get away from the window? Why?”

  “This may be part of a broader military operation,” he replied. “I don’t know yet. Please follow me.”

  He led them into the study, where a fire was beginning to burn out. Billy reached for a couple of logs and placed them on the flames. He stoked the coals, and the increased flame immediately warmed the room. He calmly turned to Secretary Gregg.

  “EMP?”

  “Most likely,” Secretary Gregg replied. “I hope that’s all it is, for all of our sakes.”

  Mrs. Gregg slumped into a chair and wiped the tears off her face. “Monty! You’re frightening me. Please explain. Are we under attack?”

  Secretary Gregg dropped to his hands and knees and rolled back a corner of the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, revealing a safe. Installed prior to their ownership of the home in Georgetown, it still opened by using a combination lock rather than an electronically controlled lock.

  He spun the dial and removed a government-issue Inmarsat satellite phone. Along with cash, important documents, and his beloved 1911 handgun, the safe worked to store electronics for protection from an EMP.

  “How can you be so calm?” Mrs. Yancey asked her husband, but Secretary Gregg provided the answer.

  “Panic is our greatest enemy,” he mumbled in response as the satphone powered up. “In fact, Kim’s counting on it.”

  Chapter 5

  November 25

  Black Friday

  The Armstrong Ranch

  Borden County, Texas

  Major and Lucy paused the DVR while they cleared the dishes from the living room. Major had spent a lot of time on the ranch with Preacher that day, assessing their fences and discussing the final sales of cattle before winter set in.

  When the kids were away, their evening meals together were far more casual. Each of them had their spot on the sofa and a place to prop up their feet to soak in the warmth of the fire. Supper was their chance to catch up on the day’s events regarding the ranch and news from around the world.

  The paused screen showed a picture of Cooper hung up on One-Night Stand during that fateful ride a month ago. The chyron generated by the CBS Sports Network read Cooper Armstrong Returns. Their son, who was already well-known on the rodeo circuit, was now catching the attention of major sports networks. Cooper’s good looks, down-home attitude, and drive to be the best was a winning combination for sports networks looking for American heroes rather than focusing on athletes who disrespected their country and profession.

  “Honey, let’s skip dessert tonight,” said Major as he piled his plate and the empty pots into the sink. “In fact, leave these dishes for me. I’ll knock ’em out after Coop rides. Right now, I’m nervous as a—”

  “All right, I get it,” said his wife with a chuckle. “I’m anxious too. These can wait.”

  The married couple of nearly thirty years scampered back into the family room like two kids ready to watch their favorite cartoon.

  Major settled in next to Lucy and pressed play on the remote. The screen remained frozen. He banged the remote on the palm of his hand, a typical man technique, hoping to jar the device into working. Once again, he pressed play.

  Same result. Nothing happened.

  “Did the batteries die?” asked Lucy.

  “I reckon.” Major dashed back to the kitchen and pulled open the junk drawer, their name for a designated drawer filled with everything from pens and paper to nuts, bolts, batteries, and loose change. You know, necessary junk.

  Within a minute, Major had returned and was already pushing play, frantically pointing the remote at the television rather than at the DirecTV box well below it. He tried rewind, fast-forward, and pause again. Nothing.

  “Honey, I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s not responding.”

  Major looked at the grandfather clock, which had stood near the dining room entrance for generations. He decided to take a chance that Cooper hadn’t started his ride yet. He changed the channels rapidly and then returned to CBS Sports. All of the channels returned a staticky, snow-filled screen.

  Major dropped the remote and unplugged the DVR box. In the past, temporary glitches in the operations of their satellite system could be resolved by a reset. By unplugging the unit, allowing it time to get its act together, and then plugging it in again, the device would suddenly function properly.

  He fumbled with the cords as the pressure of time weighed upon him. Major silently cursed himself for relying upon this electronic device to preserve his son’s most important bull ride of his career to date.

  “Major,” said Lucy as she jumped off the couch, “there’s something wrong. I can’t access our cell phone service. I mean, the phone powers up, but there’s no internet connection, and I even tried dialing your phone. None of the phone lines are working.”

  “Let me see,” he said, abandoning the remote.

  Major plugged the DVR in again and reached for Lucy’s phone. Longtime married couples don’t doubt one another, they just simply want to see for themselves. Lucy willingly handed over her iPhone and fumbled through the sofa cushions in search of her iPad.

  “Major, this is an awful time for DirecTV to quit on us,” Lucy lamented. “Let me see if I can pull it up online at ProRodeoTV.com.”

  The iPad display illuminated, but there was no inter
net connection. She then picked up the cordless phone, hit speaker, and pressed Preacher’s number on speed dial. The annoying fast busy signal sound filled the room. She held it in the air in disbelief.

  “I have an idea,” said Major as he calmly dropped the iPhone onto the coffee table. “Let me try something. Miss Lucy, go in the kitchen and find the weather radio. You know, the crank-up kind we got from the Red Cross. I think it’s in the cabinet above the fridge.”

  “No, it’s in the steel trash can in the pantry, but I’ll get it,” she said as she quickly exited the room in search of one of the many Faraday cages they maintained.

  He navigated to the guide on DirecTV and scrolled through to the Spanish-language channels. The same static appeared. Then he found his way to channel two-sixty-four, BBC America. The expression on the dour-looking Brit said it all. As he turned up the volume, the screen changed to a graphic.

  BREAKING NEWS … MASSIVE POWER OUTAGE STRIKES U.S., CANADA

  “Hey, it’s working!” exclaimed Lucy gleefully as she dropped the radio on the side table. “Wait? This is the BBC channel. Have you tried—?”

  Major reached for his wife’s hand and replied, “Hang on. This is bad.”

  Kurt Barling, a thirty-year veteran journalist with the BBC, was reporting from their London bureau.

  “Thus far, the only report we’ve received is a brief statement from Secretary of State Damian Williamson from his residence at Carlton Gardens in Chevening. It appears that much of the United States and Canada, from coast to coast, has been thrust into darkness by a cascading failure of the nation’s power grid. There are no reports emanating from the States at this time, and our attempts to reach reporters in our Washington bureau have failed.”

  “Major,” started Lucy as she clutched her husband’s arm, “he said Canada, too. The kids are gonna be—”

  Major put his arm around Lucy and pulled her head against his shoulder. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. At least we have a source of information.”