Blackout (31 page)

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 serves, 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 boat 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.”

“Wow—you're good,” Scott said admiringly.

Tara held Scott's arm, flashed a smile that he felt down to his knees, and said, “Well, thank you. You're not so bad yourself.”

As she walked back to her desk, Scott thought,
Was that a moment? Did we just have a moment? Yeah, I think that was a moment!

Whistling, he went back to his office to devise a new plan for saving Western civilization.

Monday, September 14, 5:30 p.m. EDT

New York, New York

“Everyone back here by 7:30. And don't forget to wind your watches!” They had found enough mechanical watches among the players and trainers for each of the five pairs to carry one.

“Got it, Keith,” they said.

“And remember, don't talk to anyone if you can help it. Your goal is to be as invisible as possible. Oh, and never, ever let anyone see what's in your envelopes!”

Keith's biggest concern was that someone would see the loot that each of the pairs was carrying and try to forcibly take it. With the amount they all had, combined with the lawlessness that seemed to be taking place down below, that wasn't far from the realm of possibility.

Earlier, Keith and Afshin had circuited through the team and asked for all the cash the guys had. The first time they tried it was early in the morning. During that initial pass, they found the players reluctant to give up their hard-earned money. Later in the day, however, as the sun rose and the water depleted, the wallets began to open.

Getting the cash had been the easy part. But then Keith had started thinking that cash was probably becoming less and less valuable, so he had gone back through one more time, asking for jewelry that he could use to barter with. The guys had been even more hesitant to honor this request until they noticed the two trademark two-karat diamond stud earrings gone from Keith's ears. Soon the clink of gold chains and the plink of rings and earrings sounded in the various bus groups.

Each team now carried a minimum of three thousand dollars in cash and about five thousand worth of jewelry—enough to buy whatever supplies they wanted, but also enough to tempt even the smallest of criminals to go up against these big men.

One last safety preparation Keith had made was to carefully plot the path that each pair would take, using a borrowed map from a nearby car with Missouri license plates.

Scanning each pair one last time and saying a quick prayer for their safety, he said, “You guys know your routes. Don't deviate! We want to be able to find you if for some reason you don't come back on time. Buy as much as you can carry, but remember you have a long walk back here. Now gather in.”

As they huddled around him, Keith said, “Remember, we're not in a life-and-death situation yet, so there's no reason to put yourselves at risk. Get out there, get stuff, and get back. Got it? Now, ‘scavenger rats' on three. One, two, three!”

“Scavenger rats!” they yelled in unison, smiles on their faces.

As they walked past bus three, Gorkowski flashed an obscene gesture at Keith. Keith had removed the center from a pair with Travis Marshall and put Donovan Williams in his place.

Keith didn't even bother acknowledging Gorkowski.
You make your bed . . .

It took about eight minutes to weave their way to the off-ramp. A strange feeling slightly disoriented Keith as the ten men walked down to the city below. It felt like they had been up on that freeway for days. It was hard for him to believe that it was less than twenty-four hours since they were all on top of the world, having won their season opener on the road.

What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours,
he sang to himself with a wry smile.

At the bottom of the off-ramp, they split up. Two teams went left to fan out over the next blocks. Two other teams went right. Keith and Afshin went straight ahead.

The first thing Keith noticed as they walked was that the air was denser down here. They were at a lower elevation than the freeway, and there was less of a breeze to keep the air moving. So the smoke hung thick and gritty. All around them things had a grayish tint from the ash that continuously floated to the ground.

Because the sidewalks were filled with people, Keith and Afshin kept to the street, winding through the yellow cabs and beater cars. This was definitely not a limousine section of town.

One thing that surprised Keith down here was the amount of debris along the blocks of shops. Mailboxes had been toppled, benches had been broken, cars had been overturned and burned. So many windows had been broken out onto the sidewalk that there was a bizarre tinkling, crunching sound that blended in with the din of the city as they walked.

Another thing that Keith noticed was a tension among the people. There was nothing outwardly visible, necessarily. But there was a palpable feeling in the air—an electricity almost, although Keith thought that comparison was an odd choice given the circumstances. It was as if, with a word or a sound or the pull of a trigger, everyone would riot.

“Can you feel that, Afshin?”

“What? That we're on the brink of violent anarchy? that we better do what we came to do and get ourselves out of here before we end up like him?” Afshin answered, nodding toward a guy curled under a bus stop, either sleeping or dead. “No, I don't feel a thing.”

“Well, let's get a hustle on. Here, let's try this one,” Keith said pointing to a corner market that still had most of its windows intact.

But even as they approached, it was clear they were too late. Stepping in, Keith was appalled by what he saw. The store had been stripped bare. Most of the display racks had been toppled, and the glass cooler doors had been shattered.

“Keith, look,” Afshin said, pointing toward the register.

Next to it lay a man, his open, sightless eyes still registering shock and pain. His fingers clutched a crowbar, and a stream of blood wound its way from the back of his head to a small pool that had formed under the ice freezer.

Taking a deep breath, Keith walked over and took hold of the end of the iron bar. After a couple of tugs, he pulled it free from the dead man's grip.

As he walked back toward the front door, he saw Afshin's look of shock.

“Close your mouth, Rook. We might need this,” Keith said, fighting to ignore his own revulsion at what he'd just done.

The next two stores they checked were similar to the first. Thoroughly cleaned out, though thankfully no sign of the owners. Just when they were about to lose hope, they saw a store with all of its windows in one piece. The sign above the doors identified it as Grissom's Market—Your Friendly Neighborhood Store.

As they approached, a man at the door leveled a shotgun at them.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We're just looking for some food and some water or Gatorade or something like that,” Keith answered.

“Let me see your money,” the man demanded.

Afshin started to reach into his pocket, but Keith stopped him. “My name's Keith Simmons, and this is my friend. We're both with the Colorado Mustangs. Believe me, we've got money.”

The man lowered his gun a touch. “Yeah, I thought I recognized you. What's your friend's name? He looks kinda familiar, too.”

“Don't you worry about him. You just need to know who I am. So are we coming in or not?”

The man motioned with his gun and said, “Yeah, you can come in. But leave the bar with me.”

“You got it,” Keith said as he leaned the crowbar against the doorframe and walked in with Afshin in tow.

The doorman called into the store after them, “Keith Simmons from the Colorado Mustangs and some mystery date. They're cool.”

A man came from the back room and held out his hand. “Keith Simmons! How're you doing? Sorry about the precautions. I'm sure you can understand.”

“No problem. It's a nightmare out there.”

“It's been a nightmare in here, too. Last night was insane, and I'm expecting tonight to be worse. By the way, my name's John Grissom. I own the place. Everyone knows you, Keith, but who's your friend, if you don't mind me asking.”

“His name's Matt,” Keith said before Afshin had a chance to speak. “He's one of our trainers. I told him to let me do the talking.” Then, turning to Afshin, he said, “It's okay, Matt. You can say hi to the man.”

“Hey,” Afshin said, shaking hands with Grissom.

“Good to meet you, Matt. So what does a trainer do? You like a coach or something?”

After a quick glance at Keith, Afshin answered, “No, I mostly work on guys like Keith—rubbing them down and taping them up. That kind of stuff.”

“Huh,” Grissom said, giving Afshin a strange look. “Well, to each his own.”

“Listen, John, we gotta get going as quick as we can. We have a whole team up on the freeway waiting for us,” Keith said.

“No time for chitchat right now, huh? Hey, I understand. No problemo. As you can see, we don't have a whole lot left. I'm afraid we're totally out of bottled water.”

Keith scanned the store's meager stock. “Do you have any Gatorade or Powerade or anything like that?”

“Not out here, but I do have some in the storeroom that I've been holding back. How much you want?” Grissom asked as he walked toward the cooler door.

“Just bring what you've got,” Keith called out, making his way to where a couple boxes of PowerBars were.

“What's with the ‘Matt' thing?” Afshin whispered to him.

“Think about it. How popular do you think the names
Afshin
or
Ziafat
are right now? Don't mean to offend, bro, but the more white American you can be, the better.”

“Suppose you're right,” Afshin said as he started pulling some small cans of food off the shelves. “But couldn't you have given me a better name, like Rock or Thor or something? Hey, maybe that could be my last name. Matt Thor . . . Rock . . . son.”

“Okay, Mr. Thorrockson. Check it out, unless you see a can opener or those things are pull-top, don't bother with them. Snag any nuts you can find and some Snickers. . . . Oh, and see if there's any beef jerky left.”

Grissom came out carrying two cases of Gatorade. “Hang on; I've got two more.”

While Keith looked to see if there was anything behind the counter they might need, Afshin came up with an armload of nuts, Snickers, and PayDay bars.

“They were out of jerky.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling they might be. Nice haul, though.”

Grissom came back out with the other two cases. “Wow, you guys really loaded up.”

“Got a lot of big, hungry mouths to feed. Now, how much do we owe you?”

A sly smile spread across Grissom's face. “How much you got?”

Oh no! Here it comes. Greedy little gouger.
“No way. You give me a price, and I'll tell you if I have enough.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Grissom said, shaking his head. “That's not the way things are working these days, Keith. I'm almost out of stock, and who knows when the next shipments are going to reach the city. I'm afraid that's caused a bit of inflation.”

A scuff behind him caused Keith to turn around. Shotgun guy was now standing just inside the door. Angrily, Keith reached into his pocket and threw his cash on the counter. “There's more than two thousand dollars there. That should be more than enough for this, even with ‘inflation.'”

“And how much might you be carrying, Matt?”

Afshin threw the other half of their money on the counter.

“That enough for you?” Keith asked.

“Almost. It's just that cash ain't buying what it used to. I noticed you've got those two empty holes in your ears. You wouldn't happen to have on your person what used to be sticking through them, do you?” Grissom asked.

“You're serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Disgusted, Keith reached into his shirt pocket and tossed the diamonds onto the counter. They bounced on the hard surface, and Grissom stopped them with his hand.

“Looks like we have ourselves a deal,” the storeowner said with a big grin. “Do you want paper or plastic with that?”

Moments later, each man threaded three bags on each arm, then lifted two cases of the Gatorade.

On the way out, the guy with the shotgun asked, “Hey, where do you want me to put your crowbar?”

“You really want me to answer that?” Keith said as he slammed out the door.

They both stormed down the street, but after they had gotten half a block, Keith began laughing.

“What's so funny? We just got shafted back there!”

By now, Keith was laughing so hard that he had to put down his boxes. “So what? Look at the haul we've got! Besides, I just keep picturing his face when he tries to trade those studs to someone who really knows jewelry.”

Now Afshin started laughing. “You mean they're fake?”

“The best $200 can buy. I never take the real ones on road trips,” Keith said as he picked up his load. “Come on, Mr. Thorrockson, let's get our tails back home. I don't want to still be down here after dark.”