by Tim Washburn
“Maybe our side has some, too,” Lara says.
“If they do, they aren’t using them. I wonder how long the fight has gone on?”
“I bet within hours of the blackout. I just don’t understand why they won’t let us cross to their side.”
“It’s called survival, Lara. I understand their position. I don’t agree with it, but I do understand it. Turn millions of people loose on the other side and every available resource, already in very short supply, will be decimated.”
Lara sags against him and rests her head on his shoulder. “What are we going to do, Greg?”
“We need to find a place to bed down and, I guess, we wait to see if our side can get across the bridge.”
“But for how long?”
“A week, maybe. If it doesn’t happen by then, we’ll need to continue upstate.”
“And go where?”
Greg pauses before answering. “I don’t know. But I do know that we won’t survive if we stay in the city.”
They rest for a few moments as the battle on the bridge rages. Numerous automatic weapons are now in use and more of the larger explosions light the night sky, like a Fourth of July fireworks show gone terribly wrong.
After sharing a bottle of water and a PowerBar, Greg stands and pulls Lara up. He glances at his wrist before realizing he had left his watch at home to make them less tempting targets. He glances at the sky, but having no knowledge of the stars or the constellations he doesn’t have a clue what time it is. But it must be late because the steady stream of escapers has slowed to a trickle.
They trudge onward.
CHAPTER 60
The White House Situation Room
After several hours of briefings, arguments, and petty power plays, they are no closer to a consensus on what to do about Iran. In addition to the regular participants—secretary of defense, chairman of Joint Chiefs, NSA, CIA, and the rest of the alphabet soup—the Israeli ambassador has recently joined the group. Contact with his home country is spotty, other than through his embassy. They need to rely on him for responses from his government to their many questions.
Israel is in the same desperate situation as the United States. But the Israelis, ever prepared, are already working to restore power with several backup transformers they had stockpiled. Living in a country surrounded by hostile enemies on three sides tends to make them better prepared.
“Power should be restored to most of Jerusalem within the next two weeks,” Ambassador Har-Even says.
“What about the air defenses?” Admiral Hickerson says.
“The missile batteries are a priority and they are being powered round the clock by generators. We have one fairly good intelligence source placed in the Iranian government, but we haven’t been able to contact this person. But my government believes strongly that Iran is poised to attack.” He pauses for a drink of water. “We are massing troops along the borders of Syria and Jordan, but the prime minister wants to unleash an immediate air attack on Iran.”
President Harris rubs the back of his neck. “What assets are currently in the area, Admiral?”
“Carrier Strike Group One, the USS Carl Vinson, is just now sailing through the Strait of Gibraltar. They’re still a couple of days from the coast of Israel. Carrier Strike Group Seven is in the Gulf of Aden, and Carrier Strike Group Nine is sailing just outside the Persian Gulf. But that’s a fairly large area and they’re spread thin, not to mention our trouble with resupply. I ordered the 7th Fleet out of Japan to make ready upon your command. Even if they sailed immediately it’ll still take them the better part of a week to get there.”
“I think whatever is going to happen will happen soon. Order them to sail at best possible speed, Admiral,” President Harris orders.
Admiral Hickerson reaches for the phone on the table and gives the command to launch the 7th Fleet.
After the admiral hangs up the phone, President Harris says, “Admiral, how much firepower can we bring to bear?”
“Nearly two hundred aircraft and a good number of cruise missiles. Enough to pound the hell out of them, sir. But I don’t know if it’s enough to make them turn tail back home.”
President Harris turns to the Israeli ambassador. “Is your country ready to go?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Our aircraft are fueled and are on standby. But the prime minister has some concerns about the possibility of an extended ground war. Are there any American ground troops available that can be rushed to the battlefield?”
“No,” Admiral Hickerson replies. “If all goes as planned there will be no need for boots on the ground.”
President Harris drains his water glass. “Ambassador, we’re relying on what troops you have for now. As Admiral Hickerson suggested, we can hope we bloody them enough to send them running home.” The President takes a moment to survey the faces around the table before asking the million-dollar question. “Does Iran have nuclear capability? Yes or no?”
Silence.
“C’mon, people, I need an answer,” President Harris says.
“I don’t believe they do, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense says.
“I hope like hell you’re right, Martin. Ambassador Har-Even, what are your thoughts?”
“My country believes they are still several months away from developing a viable nuclear warhead, Mr. President. But they are sneaky bastards.”
“Well said, Ambassador. So everyone agrees Iran does not have the ability to launch a nuke?” He turns to each person in the room. Each offers a nod of his or her head.
“What about our allies?” the President says.
Secretary of State Allison Moore leans forward in her chair. “Sir, the lack of communications is severely hampering our ability to contact them. But we are working to bring them all on board.”
“That’s your job, Allison. You need to build a consensus, and you need to do it yesterday. I don’t want the damn Iranians to encroach another hundred miles while we dither around with politics.” President Harris stands from the table. “Let’s meet back here in one hour. Ambassador Har-Even, inform your country we will reach a decision within the next hour or so. Make damn sure they’re ready. Janice, when you get a few moments I’d like to meet with you in the Oval Office.”
“I’ll be right up, Mr. President,” the director of homeland security says.
President Harris exits the situation room, Scott Alexander following closely behind.
“You’re going to start a shooting war with Iran now?” Alexander whispers a little too loudly.
President Harris stops on the stair landing and turns to face his old friend. “If we don’t, Scott, we may never stop them. We need to teach those sons of bitches a lesson.”
Alexander starts to interrupt, but the President raises his hand to stop him.
“I know we’re in the shit here at home, Scott. Believe me, I know. But if we allow Iran to march into Israel without lifting a hand, we may never recover our place in the world. We may be down, but we’re damn sure not out.”
The President turns away and takes the stairs two at a time. He strides down the hallway and enters the Oval Office. “Scott, would you get Prime Minister Williams on the line?”
Scott moves over to the sofa and calls the White House switchboard. Normally, the President would pick up the phone and place the call directly through a scrambled satellite connection. But things are far from normal. All transcontinental calls are patched through a cable laid in the ocean over fifty years ago. “The prime minister is on line one, sir. But please remember the line is not secure.”
President Harris picks up the handset. “Hello, Wells.”
On the line is Wellington Williams, the British prime minster.
For the magnitude of the situation, the phone call is brief.
“So you’re with us?” President Harris asks, pausing for the answer. “Great. I’ll make sure our ambassador is at 10 Downing within the hour. We’ll need to relay information through the emb
assy.” Another pause, “Good luck to you, too.”
The President hangs up and leans back in his chair.
“So they’re on board?” Scott says.
“Yes. They’re as tired of dealing with them as we are. Once we finalize the plan, we’ll bring Ambassador Nelson up to speed and send him over to meet with the prime minister.”
The intercom buzzes. “Mr. President, Mrs. Baker is here.”
“Send her in.”
Secretary of Homeland Security Janice Baker steps through the door of the Oval Office and stops dead in her tracks. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Did you hire a new decorator?”
President Harris waves at the thick steel panels covering the windows. “Nope. Same decorator but with a little help from the Secret Service. You don’t like the modern industrial look?”
“If you’re going for a modern dungeon design, you’ve nailed it. But it’s a tad dark for my taste.” All three laugh as Baker steps across the carpet and comes to a stop in front of the desk.
“Have a seat for a minute, Janice,” the President says, waving to a chair flanking his desk. Alexander moseys over and takes the seat on the opposite side.
“Bring me up to speed on how martial law is working.”
“Well, sir, it’s somewhat better. Reports of looting are fewer, probably because everything worth looting is already gone. Not much you can do with a sixty-inch television. But we have another problem we’re dealing with. The people in the larger cities are trying to migrate away from their homes. Unfortunately, they’re meeting armed resistance from residents in the less-populated areas. New York City and Boston are hot spots, with intense fighting.”
“Where’s the National Guard?”
“They’re trying to curtail the fighting, but field reports suggest some of the National Guard units have splintered. Especially in the New York–New Jersey area, where home turf is king. When it comes to food and family, priorities change. Might be something you need to address with Admiral Hickerson.”
“Admiral Hickerson’s plate is full at the moment. Every branch of the military is neck-deep in trying to develop a plan to kick the shit out of the Iranians. See if your agents can coordinate with local police and National Guard units to put a stop to the fighting.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll do our best, but we just don’t have the manpower to police the whole country.”
President Harris leans back in his chair. “What about local law enforcement in the smaller communities?”
“Most of them will side with their constituents. They live with those people, and most likely they’re even more adamant about keeping the outsiders away. We can’t count on them to be effective enforcers of the law.”
“Maintain your focus on the urban areas, then. The other situation will need to take care of itself.”
“Do you think we’ll be successful in turning back the Iranians, sir?”
President Harris leans forward in his chair and plants his forearms on the desk. “We’re going to kick their ass. That, you can take to the bank.”
CHAPTER 61
Office of the Supreme Leader, Tehran, Iran
President 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.
CHAPTER 62
Near West 155th Street and Riverside Drive
New York City
Greg 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?” Gr
eg 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.”