Powerless (20 page)

 

G
reg leads them away from Columbia University and they turn west on 120th Street, trying to avoid walking through the main part of Harlem at night. Harlem is not any less safe than the rest of Manhattan, at least during the day, but two people shuffling along the streets in the dark might be too tempting a target for any neighborhood. At Riverside, they discover streams of people heading north. They turn right and duck into an alcove fronting an ornate old church. They watch as the people pass—a mixture of young and old, some with children and some without. A good number of people are pedaling bicycles, swerving around those afoot.

Lara leans over and whispers in Greg's ear, “Are they all going to the George Washington Bridge?”

Her hot breath sends a shiver along his spine. “I guess so,” Greg whispers back. “I don't see how those on the Jersey side can hold back a mass exodus.”

“Guns and bullets, that's how. They only have to defend an area about a hundred feet across to choke off both levels of the bridge.”

“But still, that's a lot of people. They can't shoot them all.”

“No, they can't. But do you want a front-row spot in the charge across?”

“Hell no.”

“Exactly. Should we fall in with them?”

Greg nods and leads Lara away from the church. Within a couple of blocks they pass the entrance to Grant's Tomb as they continue their trek northward. In typical New York City fashion, the conversation between marchers is limited, most trudging onward with their eyes forward, their faces displaying grim determination.

As the Connors break into the clear where Riverside transitions to an elevated roadway, they look down on another stream of people clogging the Henry Hudson Parkway. Moonlight shimmers on the Hudson and the distant Jersey shore is eerily dark. Greg leads them over to the concrete balustrade, where they pause to rest.

Lara points toward the river. “Look, Greg, there are people in the water. Maybe we could swim across the Hudson.”

“When's the last time either of us went swimming? It's nearly a mile across and the currents are treacherous. A few of them might make it to the other side, but you and I don't stand a chance.”

Lara sighs and sags against the barrier. In the distance the two towers of the suspension bridge are silhouetted against the darker sky. On any normal night, the old lady would be lit up like a Christmas tree—with lights running along the nearly mile-long suspension cables and the towers, which would have been illuminated like pieces of fine sculpture.

Lara and Greg push off the wall and weave through the stalled cars, continuing on. As they pass West 158th Street the quiet shatters. They come to a dead stop. Muzzle flashes flare on both ends of the bridge. And not just sporadic fire. A sustained barrage of gunfire erupts. Still some distance away, the sounds of the battle are delayed for a few seconds before echoing in the void. On the city side, whoever is fighting is about a third of the way across the nearly five-thousand-foot-long bridge. Those on the Jersey side are firing from a position much closer to their side of the river.

“Damn,” Greg swears.

“This was a mistake.”

“Maybe our side can push across. I can't tell if there's fighting on the lower deck of the bridge. You see anything?”

His question is answered before Lara can reply. Muzzle flashes light the enclosed lower portion of the bridge—yellow strobe lights in a sea of darkness. With horror, they watch as an automatic weapon of some sort shoots tracers across the span, lighting the night sky with tendrils of red. On the top level, a streak of intense white light flashes and something on their side of the bridge explodes, sending a hot orange fireball into the cold night air.

Greg slumps to the curb. Lara tosses the backpack to the ground and sits down next to him.

“I had no idea those type of weapons would be in play. That's military-grade stuff. Anybody within three hundred yards of that machine gun will be shredded.”

“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.

 

A
fter 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 embassy.” 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.”