Powerless (27 page)

 

A
yatollah Rahameneiei is making preparations for
dhuhr salat
(the noon prayer) unaware that four Israeli F-15 Silent Eagle aircraft are streaking across the Iranian sky to deliver their payload right into his front room.

He begins his chanting, a mixture of whisper and song, before kneeling on the rug he has owned for most of his life. His old knees pop and grind until they meet the carpet. He leans forward with his forearms touching the ground and continues to chant in his native tongue. As the spiritual leader of his country there is much to pray for.

Before he can finish, a shriek of crashing metal sounds somewhere outside the office door, and he stumbles into a standing position only to be disintegrated when the GBU-28 bunker buster explodes.

Across the way, President Rafsanjani slept through the noon prayer. He was exhausted after his all-nighter in the control center of the Revolutionary Guards watching the progress of the Iranian army under the leadership of a new general. He startles awake when the five-thousand-pound laser-guided bomb crashes through the ceiling outside his bedroom. Hungover with sleep, he can't comprehend what it is, and before his mind can paint a mental picture, the massive explosion obliterates him and his home, along with the other structures built on his compound. The homes that had windows within a mile of his place no longer do, the concussive wave of the blast radiating out until it diminishes to just the faintest wisp of wind.

General Safani, under house arrest in his home a couple of miles away, knows immediately what the explosions are and who had been targeted. He offers a small prayer for their souls before a smile forms on his face.

 

R
uth bursts through the front door with a thin, balding man in his midforties following behind. He's dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, and has a large black bag in his hand. Not the old-fashioned fold-over doctor's bag, but something similar to the bag Zeke had seen the paramedics retrieve from their ambulance when his father had his heart attack. The doctor calls the children by name before kneeling next to Carl, who is now lying sideways on the sofa.

Despite Carl's appearance the doctor remains calm. He asks Carl to lie on his back and the doctor begins gently probing the chest and stomach area, ignoring his broken jaw to search for more serious internal injuries. Carl moans when the doctor discovers a broken rib, then another.

“There doesn't seem to be any internal bleeding,” Dr. Lewis says. “However, he has at least two broken ribs.”

Ruth stands next to Zeke, wringing her hands. He slips his arm around her frail shoulders. The children have drifted to the other side of the living room, but still within sight of the doctor as he works on their father.

Satisfied no blood is present in the abdomen, or at least as satisfied as possible without the benefit of a CT scan, Dr. Lewis turns his attention to Carl's jaw. He works his fingers across the left side of Carl's face, using his touch to determine where the fracture is. He turns to his bag of supplies and withdraws a syringe and a small vial of medicine.

“Carl, I'm going to give you a shot of Demerol, a painkiller, so I can set your jaw. Without having access to an X-ray, I can't be certain the jaw is not fragmented. But it feels solid.” He glances over his shoulder at Ruth. “How much does he weigh?”

Ruth stutters out her best guess. “Maybe one-ninety? Is that close, Carl?”

Carl moans and nods.

Dr. Lewis draws the liquid into the syringe. “I need to put this in the deep muscles of your butt because I don't want to risk a subcutaneous injection. Ruth, would you mind unfastening his pants and pulling them down enough to expose his bottom?”

Ruth, relieved to have something to do, walks around the sofa and slips her hands to Carl's belt. With some light back-and-forth tugging she exposes his butt enough for Dr. Lewis to sink the needle.

“Carl, I'm going to give the medicine a moment or two to take effect. What I'm going to do is called a closed reduction—basically I'm going to reposition the jaw back to its normal, functioning position. A surgeon would perform what's called a maxillomandibular fixation, where he would surgically place pins into bone and wire your mouth shut. But it's no longer a normal world, and I don't have any way of fixating the jaw, so we will need to develop some sort of sling which will immobilize the jaw while it heals.”

At this point Carl's breathing has slowed considerably. The doctor reaches out and manipulates the broken jaw, repositioning it so that it no longer hangs askew. Holding Carl's jaw closed, Dr. Lewis glances up at Ruth. “Would you grab a clean T-shirt so we can make a sling?”

Ruth hurries down the hall and quickly returns with the requested item and hands it across.

“Ruth, hold his jaw closed for a moment, please,” Dr. Lewis says.

Ruth complies and the doctor removes a pair of scissors from his bag and quickly cuts through the material, discarding the sleeve and neck portions. He folds the remaining material in half and leans forward to put the sling under Carl's chin before tying it off on top of his head.

“He needs to wear this sling continuously for the next four to six weeks. He will be restricted to a liquid diet. Normally I would suggest protein shakes, but any type of broth, or water with any type of ground-up protein is fine.”

Doctor Lewis reaches into his bag and retrieves another vial. “Ruth, is he allergic to penicillin?”

“No. Well, at least not that I know of.”

“My supply of antibiotics is limited. All I have is just some old-fashioned penicillin. But it should provide enough coverage to prevent infection.” He pulls on the plunger and the milky white liquid fills the body of the syringe. Choosing a spot on the other side of Carl's still-exposed butt, he plunges the needle deep and slowly depresses the plunger.

“What about his broken ribs?” Ruth asks.

“Not much can be done for those. You can wrap his chest tightly to reduce the discomfort, but they'll need to heal on their own time schedule, maybe six weeks before they're no longer unbearable.”

Carl has passed into dreamland as Dr. Lewis carefully disposes of the used needles and syringes before standing. He slips the heavy bag over his shoulder.

“How can I ever thank you, Gary?” Ruth says.

Dr. Lewis waves his hand. “Don't worry, Ruth. These are trying times and we need to do these kinds of things for one another if we are to survive.”

Zeke follows the doctor to the door. “Doc, can I have a quick word?” They step out on the porch and Zeke introduces himself.

“How long before he can ride a horse?” You would have thought Zeke had asked how long before Carl can blast off to the moon.

“I'm sorry?” a befuddled Dr. Lewis says.

Zeke explains the situation.

Dr. Lewis brushes his hands across the razor stubble on his cheeks. “It'll depend on his tolerance for pain. But I would allow him at least a week to recuperate before even attempting.”

Zeke's disappointed with the answer. “Thanks, Doc. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“No need,” he says, turning for the steps down to the sidewalk. He pauses and turns back. “Are you the Zeke Marshall who builds those fabulous tables?”

Zeke's turn for a surprise. “Yeah, that's me. Or at least was when we still had electricity. How did you know I made tables?”

“Because we own one, or did. One of the most beautiful tables I had ever seen, but I was none too pleased with the wife when I found out how much it had cost. Unfortunately, we had to chop the table up for firewood.”

Zeke's face sags with regret, but an inspiration strikes him. “Tell you what, Doc, when the power comes back on, I'm building you and your wife another table free of charge. I've been saving this beautiful, figured walnut for a special purpose, and I think I just found a use for it.”

“Terrific. I would like that very much. Once I recuperated from the sticker shock, I came to appreciate your craftsmanship.”

“We have a deal, Doc. Thanks again.”

“You're welcome, and I look forward to having another one of your tables grace our dining room.” He turns down the sidewalk and disappears into the darkness.

 

E
veryone is reassembled in the Sit Room after a four-hour break. President Harris used his time to have breakfast with his wife. No tryst was involved, but it was pleasant nonetheless, even with the ongoing mission weighing heavy on his mind. He glances over at the SECSTATE and can tell from her demeanor that she is still bristling with resentment. President Harris leans forward and drums his fingers on the table. “Can we get the admiral and Secretary Wilson on-screen?”

It takes a moment for the two to appear on-screen. “Admiral, were we successful?”

“I believe we were, sir. Video from the Israeli gun cameras shows massive damage to both areas where the ayatollah and the president of Iran were believed to be. We're intercepting radio chatter out of Tehran, hoping for confirmation. It may be a while, sir, before we know for certain.”

Someone steps into the frame and hands the secretary of defense a piece of paper.

“Sir, if I may interrupt,” the SECDEF says.

“Go ahead, Martin.”

“I've just received a cable from the commander aboard Strike Group One. They report the Iranian troops are now in full retreat.”

Those in the Situation Room cheer.

“Hopefully, that answers our question, Admiral,” the President says over the din.

“It's a good sign we were successful. How would you like to handle the retreat, sir?”

“Allow them an unfettered retreat. Let them go home to their families,” President Harris says, “but maintain position of the three strike groups.”

“Will do, sir. Congratulations.”

“The congratulations go to you and our troops along with the Israelis, Admiral.”

The large screen fades to black. “Allison, what can we expect out of Iran? Who do you think is going to try to fill the void?”

Allison shuffles through the mass of paper in front of her. “My bet is General Safani, sir, at least on an interim basis until they can sort out who the next supreme leader is going to be.”

“You don't think the progressives in Iran have enough power to shoot down the possibility of another religious zealot ruling with an iron fist?” President Harris says.

“Unknown, sir. That was my point before we assassinated the current leadership.” She takes a deep breath. “Sorry, sir, that was out of line.”

“It's all right, Allison. Do you see any way the Iranians will move toward a more democratic process?”

“Anything's possible, Mr. President. I think that should be our thrust going forward.”

“I agree. Isaac, any chance we can take advantage of the confusion to get a look at their nuclear program?”

“Interesting point, sir,” replies the director of the CIA. “I believe it's damn well worth a try.”

“I do, too. Work with the Israelis and make it happen.”

“I'm on it, sir,” the director says as he pushes away from the table.

President Harris leans back and inhales a deep breath. “Let's move on to another matter. I would like an update on the progress to restore electricity. Can we get Donald Carter on-screen?”

From his office in the Federal Emergency Management Agency at 500 C Street, an obviously weary Director Carter appears on the screen.

“Don, how's the progress on power restoration?” President Harris says.

“Slow, sir. Extremely slow. We aren't able to find a manufacturer who has the capacity to build new transformers. Our agency has located what few are stockpiled, but transporting them is another issue altogether. Truck transportation is a no go, so we're exploring rail options. But we still need to get the transformers to the railhead somehow. We're talking of items that weigh in excess of four hundred thousand pounds and a normal railway car can't haul them. Frankly, sir, the whole thing is a logistical nightmare of epic proportions.”

The President's face glimmers with faint hope. “How many spare transformers did you discover?”

“We found five, sir. But they will only interface with the grids along the West Coast, which leaves a large majority of the country still in the dark.”

The look of hope on the President's face transitions to anger. “Is no one in the United States capable of making these damn things?”

“Maybe two or three companies, sir. A majority of our transformers have been imported from overseas, mainly from South Korea.”

“Can't the U.S. manufacturers ramp up production?”

“It's a catch-22, sir. They need electrical power to run the plants and that doesn't exist. The three main plants are located in the southeastern United States where there are no available spare transformers.”

“Can we not supply them with military-grade generators to get their plants up and running?”

“Most of the military's largest generators are deployed to Afghanistan, Mr. President. We did find several in the states and we're working hard to get them on location, but even then, they'll only be able to supply enough electricity to operate a small portion of those plants.”

“Is there nothing else we can do?”

“We're working every angle we can, sir. It's just going to take time,” Director Carter says.

“How much time, Don?”

“Two or three years is the most likely scenario.”

The President sighs. “This is priority one, Don. I want every available asset our country has devoted to building or acquiring new transformers.”

“We're doing everything we can, sir.”

Silence fills the room as the image of the director of FEMA fades from the screen.

“Allison, what's the status of the South Koreans?” President Harris says to the secretary of state.

“About the same as ours, sir. They upgraded their electrical grid over the last two decades, using our system as a model. Most likely any transformers they are able to build will be for their own use.”

“So every man for himself?” His question doesn't elicit an answer.