Free Powerless by Tim Washburn Page A

disruption in radio communications, such as happened here, may be the overriding reason. I have called numerous sources but . . .”
    Amy Whitworth, the chief speechwriter, hurries into the office and approaches the desk. Her blond hair is pulled up in a ponytail and most of her fingers are stained with blue ink. She slides a sheaf of papers across the desk. “Mr. President, this is the latest draft. But to be honest, sir, I don’t know what to write that won’t cause nationwide panic.”
    President Harris riffles the pages with his thumb. “It’s impossible. That’s why I’m thinking about not delivering a speech at all.”
    â€œBut, sir, don’t you think that would be irresponsible?”
    The President waves a hand at the vacant chair. “Amy, have a seat for a minute.”
    She tucks her dress under her legs sits.
    â€œHow old are you? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?” the President asks.
    â€œI’m twenty-nine, sir.”
    President Harris crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Let me ask you a what-if question. What would you do if I told you that the power was going to go out for months, maybe years?”
    â€œWell, sir, I’d go get as much water and food as I could. Then, I’d go to the bank and withdraw all of my money. After that, I’d fill up my car with gas and get out of the city.”
    â€œExactly. And your fellow three hundred million citizens will be trying to do the same thing.”
    Amy twirls a stray strand of hair around her finger. “But, sir, don’t you think they have a right to know?”
    â€œThat’s the ethical question I’m dealing with. Thank you for all of your work.”
    Amy takes that as her cue to leave. As she exits the office, the intercom on the desk buzzes. “Mr. President, Admiral Hickerson on line three.”
    The President hesitates, his hand hovering above the handset. “What do you think the grumpy old bastard wants?”
    â€œHell if I know,” Alexander says, running his finger around the collar of his shirt to loosen it. At five-eight, he wears the same shirt size he wore in college.
    Admiral Hickerson, the grandson of a famous World War II admiral, does not lack in ego. He tends to be somewhat disdainful of political presidents, believing they’ll be around at most eight years, whereas he has devoted his life to his country. The President plucks up the handset.
    â€œMr. President,” the deep voice says, “I’m getting a lot of blowback on activating the National Guard, sir.”
    â€œWhat kind of blowback, Admiral?”
    â€œWell, sir, no one is privy to the information we possess and many are questioning the reasons for the activation.”
    â€œThe reason, Admiral, is because I ordered it. Does there have to be more?”
    â€œNo, sir, I don’t suppose there does. But what would you like them to do, sir?”
    â€œAdmiral, I don’t care if they stand around scratching their asses. I want them ready to go when this shit storm hits.”

C HAPTER 22
    Durant
    Â 
    S ome of the color has returned to Robert Marshall’s cheeks. He lies in the hospital bed, an IV above his head dripping fluid into his body. His color isn’t back to normal, but at least it’s now a couple shades darker than the white sheets that surround him. He even feels well enough to carry on a conversation, which Zeke mostly ignores, as his mother and father speak in softened tones.
    Zeke paces four steps forward before turning and pacing back along the windowed wall overlooking the corridor. The odors, the subdued lighting, the beeping of the equipment, the constant stream of nurses in and out of the room, the squeaky-clean floors—all a reminder of a time he would rather blot from his memory forever.
    â€œDo you want me to call Ruth?” Zeke says.
    His mother turns in his direction. “Why don’t we wait until we have the