Survival EMP Box Set | Books 1-4

by Lopez, Rob

  “What?” said Brad irritably.

  Joe and Caroline looked mutely at him.

  “We’ll monitor it closely, okay?” he said. “Everyone’s got their warnings. If they’ve got their procedures in place, they’ll act accordingly. Now back to work.”

  Joe and Caroline returned to their screens.

  “We’ve got another one,” said Caroline.

  On the screen, another bulge on the sun exploded, sending a plasma stream on the same trajectory as the last one.

  “This one’s moving faster,” she said. “It’s like it’s trying to catch up.”

  Joe watched the magnetic readings on the sun. “I think a third one’s forming. This could be a triple whammy.”

  They both turned to Brad, who threw his arms up in the air. “Okay, okay. Upgrade to a G5 and start crunching the data. And no messing with the figures. We report what we see, that’s all.”

  “They call us the Prediction Center, you know?” said Joe wryly.

  “Exactly. Not the Make It Up As You Go Along Center,” retorted Brad.

  Joe sucked in his lip. That had been the exact same remark made to Brad from the Chair when he’d been chewed out. The veins standing out on Brad’s temple showed it still burned. He was doing what he needed to keep his job, but he wasn’t happy.

  2

  Rick and his team spent the afternoon hidden in a wadi, twenty miles north-west of Raqqa, the self-proclaimed capital of ISIS. Underneath his camo net, he watched the drone feed on his laptop as it maintained high altitude surveillance on the Raqqa-Ain Issa road. A solitary T55 tank manned a checkpoint on the road, and Rick watched the crew take turns to man the turret, the other crew members sheltering under an awning. With the sun blazing down, it’d be as hot as hell inside that tank. Apart from the occasional pickup, nothing much else moved on the road, and the surrounding desert was featureless apart from an abandoned airfield pockmarked with craters and the wreck of an old Soviet MiG-21.

  Rick’s radio crackled. “Bird Two to Nomad, do you copy?”

  “We copy, Bird Two. Go ahead,” said Rick.

  “Be advised. We have a warning of solar atmospheric disturbance: ETA, ten hours. Downlinks and communications will be affected. Support may not be available, and we’ll lose the drones. What do you want to do?”

  As mission commander, Rick had the latitude to decide what to do. It was his call to abort or not. “How long will the disruption last?” he asked.

  “We’ve been warned it could be seventeen hours or more.”

  “How long are you going to be with us?”

  “We’ve got tanker support. We’ll be with you as long as you need us.”

  Rick mulled it over. It wasn’t a critical mission. He’d planned to head out once it was fully dark and probe south, testing the reaction of Raqqa’s defences. With the main offensive on Raqqa happening to the east, he wanted to find out what ISIS had left to guard their back door. A swift attack with the Kurdish militia might complete the circle around the city. It was speculative, though.

  Next to him on the truck bed, Scott squeezed out cold ravioli and meat sauce into his mouth from the foil packet of an MRE. Scott was a hairy veteran of wars that went back to Somalia, and was older than Rick. The other guys in the team joked that Rick only brought him along because he made Rick look young. Age or not, Scott knew his stuff. “What do you think?” asked Rick.

  Scott wiped his mouth and beard. “Up to you. Nothing saying we can’t come back tomorrow, though.”

  That was pretty much what Rick was thinking. He hated to waste the moment they had here – at the least he wanted to take out that tank – but it wasn’t worth the risk without dependable support. What bothered Rick the most was the effect a solar storm would have on the GPS satellites. At night, with their night vision goggles, his team had an advantage over most ISIS fighters – though the enemy had acquired and captured some NVGs of their own from the Syrian army. The first thing affected by any atmospheric disturbance would be the GPS signals, either cutting them or, worse still, introducing navigational errors. With pockets of ISIS all around them, Rick didn’t want to stray into the wrong areas. Especially without drone support. The drones relied heavily on satellite uplinking.

  “Roger that, Bird Two. We’ll exfil at nightfall. Out.” That gave them seven hours to get out of enemy territory – more than enough time.

  “Good call,” nodded Scott sagely.

  “Didn’t have to be so damned vague about it,” said Rick.

  “Don’t need to be so damned prissy about it.”

  Rick smiled, cracking the layer of dust on his face. “Did you get all that, guys?” he radioed on his tac link.

  The others were sprawled out on the lip of the wadi, scanning the desert with binoculars and sniper scopes. They each gave a silent thumbs up.

  At least they’d get a beer when they got back.

  *

  “Wanna beer?”

  Grandpa turned the steaks on the grill, giving Josh a sideways glance. Elena Seinfeld and her husband Max, neighbors from across the street, sat on the sun loungers, fanning themselves. The grass was yellow and parched. The fall heat was oppressive, and the Seinfelds wore their straw hats, the brims nodding in appreciation at Lizzy presenting her latest sketch to them. Grandma laid a cloth and coasters out on the table. The parasol was in the garage, and Josh knew he’d be asked to fetch it soon.

  “Okay,” replied Josh.

  Grandpa quietly poured some of his beer into a plastic cup and handed it to Josh. “Don’t tell your mom,” he said.

  Wasn’t any chance of that, thought Josh. He didn’t tell his mom anything anymore. And Dad might as well be on another planet for all the good he was. Gee, Dad. Thanks for your service. With Mom working longer hours for her new job, he was starting to feel like an orphan. He wasn’t a cute, wide eyed kid anymore, worthy of everyone’s attention. His teacher said his moodiness was a phase, and that it would pass. Just a part of adolescence.

  It wasn’t his phase, though. He didn’t ask for it. It was like being given cabbage and beans on a plate instead of fried chicken. Hating the cabbage wasn’t some phase. It was just that cabbage sucked. But somehow, having cabbage instead of chicken was his fault, not anyone else’s. And if he claimed it wasn’t fair, that was his fault too, like he should have known what he was signing up for. Because life’s like that, Josh.

  Well, screw life.

  “Still seeing that girl? What was her name? Linda?” said Grandpa.

  “Lydia,” said Josh. “No, we were just friends.”

  “No making out, huh?”

  “Don’t be so gross. It wasn’t like that.”

  “Sure.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Ah, don’t worry, sport. There’s plenty more fish.”

  Grandpa was in his cargo shorts and his legs were stick-thin. The sight of loose skin over wasted muscles made Josh think that, over a certain age, people should be banned from wearing them. Nobody wanted to see that many liver spots in full view. Grandpa used to be a barrel of a man, and he was still pretty big, but he didn’t walk much anymore. On the other hand, Josh himself didn’t wear short pants anymore. His mom had bought him baggies for the summer, like he was some kind of surfer dude, but, in keeping with his mood, he preferred to wear black. And he hated being in the sun, preferring the shade. He just wanted to blend in and disappear.

  “...and there’s been another burglary on the end row,” Elena was saying.

  “No!” said Grandma in polite horror.

  “Yes. They broke the lock on his garage and took his tools. Hundreds of dollars’ worth, they say.”

  “Oh my, it’s just getting worse. All these people coming to live in Charlotte now. It’s getting out of control. We’ve got more crime than the rest of the country.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. It was on the news. All those statistics.”

  “Awful. I think it was that Henderson boy, Rory. He took the tools.”<
br />
  “Really?”

  “Oh sure. The police won’t do anything, but he and his friends are always out in that Chevy of his, cruising or somewhat. They’re into alcohol. And drugs,” mouthed Elena ominously.

  “Oh, but Rory was such a good boy when he was younger.”

  “They all start like that, Daisy. Then they play these crazy games on the internet and it drives them wild, I tell you. We’ve bought ourselves a gun, haven’t we Max?”

  “A thirty eight,” intoned Max.

  “How wonderful,” said Grandma. “You should talk to Harry about that. You can compare models, and whatever else gun men do. He gets so bored these days. He needs something to get him out.”

  “I’m not a gun man,” called Grandpa. “You make me sound like a terrorist.”

  Grandma dismissed him with a wave. “You know what I mean.”

  Lizzy approached Josh with her drawing pad. “And what do you want me to draw you, Josh?”

  Josh sipped his acrid lager. “A hole.”

  “A hole,” echoed Lizzy seriously, picturing it on the paper. “Why?”

  “So I can jump in it.”

  “Josh,” called his grandma. “Can you go to the garage and get the parasol? I’m cooking like a shrimp, here. And what is that you’re drinking?”

  *

  Lauren waited uneasily in the New York boardroom of the Underwood Financial Services building. Plush carpeting, teak tables and tasteful art on the walls. Modern and minimal, with a view of steel and glass skyscrapers out the window. Lauren felt seriously out of place, wearing high heels with a black pencil skirt and blouse. Whoever said the outfit was coming back into fashion had never tried to wear the damned thing. The other women present wore looser and more comfortable looking pantsuits. And low heels.

  Lauren helped herself to another canapé. Trays of them adorned the table, along with fluted glasses of white wine. Not a cookie in sight.

  She thought about the food parcel still in her backpack. The airport security guy had given her a strange look when he spotted it on the scanner and she was forced to empty the contents of her bag and open the foil wrapping to show that it was food, not a bomb. She was tempted to throw it in the garbage after that, but she felt guilty. Her mother had taken the time to make that, and Lauren had been raised to never waste food. So the crushed parcel remained, the toasted cheese sandwiches coated now in cookie crumbs.

  She was impatient for the seminar to start. At least she could focus her attention on something, then. This whole mixing and greeting thing wasn’t her style, especially with these elite university types with their crisp accents and flawless hair. It wasn’t until the catering girl came in with more trays that Lauren felt there was someone else in the room she could relate to.

  A woman who looked like a model moved through the crowd, her legs striding elegantly as she wiggled her hips, a lipstick smile glued permanently to her face. She carried a sheaf of papers and homed in like a cruise missile on Lauren.

  “Hi,” she said. “You must be Ms Nolan from our North Carolina office.”

  Lauren wondered how she knew. Was it really that obvious?

  “I’m fine with Mrs,” she said, “and yes, I’m from the Charlotte office.”

  “You have such a cute accent,” said the model with the corpse grin. “These are the modules we’ll be covering today,” she added, handing over a sheet, “all questions should be reserved until the end, and there will be a feedback session afterwards. Have a lovely afternoon.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  One look at the complex sounding modules was all Lauren needed to confirm that she was in the wrong place. Hell, she was in the wrong job.

  She only took the job because she was worried about how she’d raise the kids if something happened to Rick. She’d get a gratuity off the military if anything bad happened to him, tax free, but the fear haunted her for years, nevertheless. The fact that he told her repeatedly he was thinking of retiring only served to increase the fear, as if it was somehow tempting fate. His rate of operations had increased significantly in recent years, and the places he was visiting were getting more dangerous. Hearing about the deaths of the two operators in Benghazi in 2012 as they attempted to protect the ambassador from an attack on the Libyan consulate prompted her to think the unthinkable. A chance meeting with a friend last year got her an interview for the prestigious financial firm and a chance of starting a lucrative career. Her past record in Military Intelligence convinced them to take her on – she artfully neglected to mention she’d only been a linguist – and she’d been winging it ever since. Her stress levels had gone through the roof as a result, and just when she thought she was coping, she’d been invited to listen to a high level speaker flying over from some university in California. Apparently it would prepare her for some coming changes to her role. Maybe a promotion. It should have been good news, but in all honesty, it terrified her. Her original plan for stability and security was spiraling out of control.

  What the hell was she thinking?

  Breathe, she thought. I can do this. Just means learning a whole lot more complicated financial shit.

  Yeah, right. She was struggling with her work as it was.

  A balding man in a pin striped suit entered the room and approached a desk microphone at the end of the table. Switching it on, he tapped it once, then addressed the room:

  “Ladies and Gentlemen. My apologies for the delay, but I regret to inform you that our keynote speaker has been forced to cancel his journey and cannot now attend. This seminar is postponed and we will send you the dates as soon as we have the details. Thank you all for taking the time to come today and we apologize for any inconvenience. That is all.”

  The hubbub that followed indicated that most people were okay with that, like it was just another journey to them. Lauren felt seriously pissed at first, but after a few minutes she felt the weight lift off her shoulders as she realized she could go back to her normal life now.

  If nothing else, it would give her a chance to rethink what the hell she was doing.

  People drifted out of the room and the catering girl returned to begin gathering up the trays, most still full of food. “What happens to all this stuff now?” Lauren asked her.

  “It’ll get thrown away. If you want, I can box some up for you as a carryout.”

  “Could you? That would be fantastic. My daughter would love this.”

  “Sure. Let me just get you a box.”

  For good measure, Lauren helped herself to a few unopened bottles of water from the table. She felt like a hick, but what the hell? Waste not want not.

  *

  The best part of the Underwood building was that it had its own employee gym. Lauren had read about it in the company brochure. Anticipating a wait before her 6pm return flight, she’d packed her sweatpants and hoodie. She was glad she did, because she had a lot more time to kill now, and wandering the noisy streets of New York didn’t appeal to her. She wasn’t interested in shopping at overpriced boutiques.

  From the bank of treadmills at the window, Lauren had a great view over 42nd Street and the carousel and tables of Bryant Park. There was nobody else in the gym and she had the equipment all to herself. She couldn’t find the remote to change the channel on the plasma screens on the wall, though, all of which were tuned to CNBC business news, with its rolling ticker tape of stock prices and shares across the world. The company clearly didn’t want its employees to get too relaxed in their downtime. As she jogged for her ten minute cardio warm-up, she wished she’d brought her MP3 player.

  But she never listened to music much, anyway, and she’d probably given it to Lizzy at some point and forgotten about it.

  Tuning out the smug presenters on the TV, she ran through her workout routine, looking for that endorphin hit. The stress and worry fell off her as she locked herself into her sweat bubble and by the time she headed for the showers, she was buzzed and relaxed.

  She totally missed the i
mportant message on the TV:

  ...what you heard there was Professor Kathy Taylor from the National Space Weather Prediction Center talking about the solar storm that’s expected to hit the planet tonight. That’s a geomagnetic storm that’s going to fry the atmosphere and give us a beautiful light show if you live far enough north. Is this the extinction event all those preppers have been waiting for? Hell, no. You might drop a signal bar on your cell and get a bit of interference on your TV, but that’s about it. If you’re on a plane, you may be re-routed or delayed on account of the radar interference that might occur, but that’s just a safety precaution. It’s in the regs. What you really want to be looking at is the price of gold. This is spiking as people get nervous, and shares are taking a nosedive, but pay attention, because this is when you want to be buying. Scoop up those shares now and in the morning your investment will have doubled when the market rebounds. The fact is, Bruce, these doomsday scenarios never play out, so if you’re smart, you could be laughing all the way to the bank...

  *

  Professor Kathy Taylor removed the microphone from her lapel and handed it to the technician. The camera crew were already dismantling their gear. The interview was over and they had other places to be.

  Brad waited to one side, fidgeting. His shift was over but he was still hanging around.