by Bobby Akart
She did her duty. Push the wrong button.
Adams sent out an actual notification that triggered the state’s ballistic missile preparations computer program. She even clicked through on a second screen, per safeguard protocols, to confirm the directive. Instantaneously, the alert message interrupted radio, television, and satellite broadcasts in California and, moments later, in Oregon and Washington, too.
Once the false alarm was rescinded and the panic subsided, Adams told the head of Cal OES that the directive from her superiors had been confusing, and out of an abundance of caution, she’d issued the alert. She never revealed the payment she’d received or the brief conversation with her supervisor. She claimed to be one hundred percent certain issuing the alert was the right thing to do, and if anyone was to blame, it was the government for their system and process failures.
It took the Cal OES twenty-three minutes to override the alert and notify its citizens of the false alarm. Fear and panic spread across the West Coast like wildfire as residents were gripped with confusion. With no warning and little in the way of instructions, most people were unsure of what to do.
The next day, the death toll was in the hundreds from accidents, suicides, and heart attacks. Criticism was directed toward the governor of California and Cal OES. The governor immediately called on the legislature to form a commission to study the cause of the incident and the aftermath when it came back into session next week. Congress vowed to start hearings to assess the nation’s emergency alert protocols to coincide with California’s investigation.
The state and national politicians were unified in their statements condemning the mistake. They also agreed that hearings beginning on Monday would focus on the fact it was time to prepare the nation for the types of nuclear strikes endured by the people of the four countries on the other side of the world.
Next week, the politicians promised, they would tackle this very important issue.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Tuesday, October 22
Dumbarton Bridge
San Francisco Bay
Owen ran like the wind after he’d reached the end of Dumbarton Bridge and hit terra firma. Word had spread amongst the pedestrians fleeing to the east that Patterson Elementary School near the Nimitz Freeway had a fallout shelter. Thousands of people from the surrounding neighborhood coupled with stranded motorists attempted to cram into the closed school. They broke through windows and doors only to run helter-skelter in search of the basement facility that didn’t exist. About the time Owen gave up on the quest for safety and exited the school into the driving rain, the notification came through the alert system advising Californians of the false alarm.
Relief turned to anger. People whipped each other into an angry mob that vowed to march on Sacramento the next day to voice their displeasure. Things have to change, they yelled. Recall the governor was shouted by some.
Owen ignored the rancor and focused on how he was going to get his car off the bridge. Hundreds of motorists had fled their vehicles, looking for safety. Some had perished as they’d crossed the concrete dividers into oncoming westbound traffic. The bridge was littered with mauled and mangled bodies that had been run over repeatedly. Owen suspected many of those who’d died drove cars abandoned ahead of his.
He was at least twenty miles from the house. In the rain, and wearing Johnston & Murphy dress shoes, he’d be lucky to make it there in seven to eight hours unless Lacey could meet him somewhere in between.
Then there was the matter of Lacey’s car, which he’d driven so she could pack the Expedition. The four-door Nissan sedan would probably be towed to an impound lot somewhere. It would be aggravating trying to find out, and he suspected a fee might be charged. But the prospect of waiting for hours that might even stretch into daytime tomorrow to fix the mess didn’t appeal to Owen.
He tried to call Lacey and Tucker. The call wouldn’t go through, as everyone else in the state at the time was doing the same thing. Owen thought of what was left in the car. He didn’t bring his work home at night, so there was no briefcase or laptop. There were no valuables in the glove box. He felt his pockets for the keys and realized, in his panic, he’d left them in the ignition. If it was stolen, he had insurance.
He loosened his tie, set his jaw, and started the trek home, doing his best to avoid the angry motorists who couldn’t decide if the traffic jams or the overall predicament should be the target of their ire. The streets were clogged with debris, vehicles, and pedestrian refugees. A continuous downpour from the sky added to the aggravation.
In that moment, barely a mile into his walk home, he decided the family should start their vacation a day early.
Chapter Forty
Tuesday, October 22
Hayward, California
“Where are they all going, Mom?” asked Tucker, not expecting his mother to have a definitive answer. “I thought they always said to shelter in place. Maybe they think there are actual shelters somewhere when there aren’t.” Tucker shook his head in dismay when seconds later the alert cancelling the prior notification was transmitted to their cell phones and through the Expedition’s satellite radio.
“Finally, right?” asked Lacey facetiously. She’d questioned leaving the house during those frantic few minutes when she’d unsuccessfully tried to reach Owen by phone. She’d made the decision to load up Tucker and some supplies into the truck so they could flee toward the east. It was what she would’ve instructed Owen to do.
“Yeah,” muttered Tucker as he tried to call his dad again. They were both amazed at how overloaded the cell phone network was. “Look on the bright side, Mom.”
Lacey chuckled. The windshield wipers were whipping back and forth as the heavens were bringing a lot of rainfall to the Bay Area but not inland where the farmers needed it. It was an odd weather anomaly caused by Pacific Ocean currents and the Santa Ana winds.
“There’s a bright side?” she asked.
“Yeah. We got to do a practice run.”
“And failed miserably,” she added.
“Maybe so, but at least we’ll be ready if it does happen someday. You know, I’ve got a friend in school whose dad is into ham radios. I wonder if they’d work instead of cell phones right now.”
Lacey shrugged and then nodded her head. “You know, I’ve got the Garmin two-ways that we use when we go hiking, but they have a limited range.”
Tucker laughed. “For sure. The box says fifty miles, but that’s if nothing is in the way. Heck, pine trees block the signal sometimes. I think ham radios, even those portable ones, might work better.”
“We had marine band radios at Driftwood Key,” Lacey recalled. “Granddaddy taught me how to use them. He said they were like two-ways except stronger.”
“I’ve seen them at Walmart. We should get a few. You know, just in case.”
Lacey turned the truck down the winding road that led back to their neighborhood. Traffic began to dissipate. They’d arrived at the wrought-iron security gates and entered the subdivision. Their neighbors were standing on their covered porches, commiserating with each other. A couple waved to her in an effort to have her join the conversation, but she continued home. Lacey had a single focus, and that was to make sure her husband was safe.
As soon as she parked the truck and began to open the garage door, Tucker jumped out and raced underneath the half-open door. She followed him shortly thereafter, and by the time he entered the hallway through the garage, he was shouting to her.
“Dad left a voicemail. He’s okay. He’s walking home. He got stuck on the bridge and just left the car. He thinks it might take him seven hours or so.”
“What time did he call?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” replied Tucker as his mom joined him in the kitchen.
She walked over to the junk drawer, as they called it. It was in the far end of their expansive kitchen counter. The junk drawer was the least useful for purposes of cooking but was ideal for filling up with notepads, p
ens, rubber bands, and just about anything else that didn’t have a regular, family-approved storage location. She pulled out a pen and paper.
“I’m gonna write him a note to let him know we’re safe. We’ll head down the ridge toward the Dumbarton to find him. I’m hoping we can connect by phone in the meantime, but just in case, he’ll know to stay here.”
Tucker grabbed a Red Bull for himself and a Cherry Coke Zero for his mom while she wrote out the note. Lacey was full of emotion as she wrote the final words—we love you. She wiped the tears off her face and nervously laughed at herself.
Tucker was leaning against the counter. He took a swig of Red Bull and stifled a belch.
“You’re such a girl, Mom.”
“Brilliant observation, son,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m just glad your dad is okay. Now, let’s go find him.”
Tucker handed his mom the can of soda. “Should we bring him some clothes?”
Lacey beamed. Tucker had more common sense and empathy than she’d had when she was a teen. Hank had taught her to be a boy, but her mom had raised her as a young woman. Tucker was all boy, yet he had flashes of maturity she hadn’t had growing up. She gave him a smile and darted up to their master bedroom to retrieve a gym bag, which she filled with jeans, a sweatshirt, socks and sneakers.
“Hey, Mom! Text messaging between phones is working again. It’s Dad. He’s at the Safeway on Decoto Road.”
“Tell him we’re on our way!”
Lacey raced down the stairs, two at a time, just like a boy.
Chapter Forty-One
Tuesday, October 22
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center
Northern Virginia
The Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center was hidden away in the small community of Bluefield, Virginia, near the state’s border with West Virginia. It was one of America’s best-kept secrets as an unacknowledged continuity-of-government facility operated under the auspices of FEMA.
The two-hundred-thousand-square-foot facility, with multiple structures both above and below ground, encompassed a four-hundred-thirty-four-acre mountain site. Two hundred forty employees kept the lines of communication open between the high-level government officials buried deep underground and their counterparts around the world.
Based on a favorable evaluation of the hardness and integrity of the mountain’s rock by the Bureau of Mines in the 1930s, construction began on the facility’s tunnels in 1954, which was completed by the Army Corps of Engineers under the code name Operation High Point.
The billion-dollar facility included a system of tunnels with roofs shored up by iron bolts driven eight to ten feet into the overhead rock. The entrance was protected by a guillotine-style gate and a ten-foot-tall by twenty-foot-wide thirty-four-ton blast door that was five feet thick. It took almost fifteen minutes to open or close.
The underground bunker included a hospital, crematorium, dining and recreation areas, sleeping quarters, reservoirs of drinking and cooling water, an emergency power plant, and a radio and television studio, which was part of the Emergency Broadcasting System. A series of side tunnels connected with a total of twenty belowground office complexes, some of which were three stories tall. The East Tunnel included a computer complex for directing emergency simulations and wartime operations.
An on-site sewage treatment plant capable of processing ninety thousand gallons a day was coupled with two quarter-million-gallon aboveground storage tanks designed to support a population of two hundred for more than a month.
Although the facility was designed to accommodate several thousand people with sleeping cots, only the president, members of the cabinet, high-ranking military commanders, and Supreme Court justices were provided private sleeping quarters.
The president was told this might be an intermediary holdover until after the threat had passed. Based upon confirmed, active intelligence, he’d either return to the White House or be sent to Cheyenne Mountain, where he could better interact with his military commanders.
The planning of the president and the staffers who made up the White House operations team was timely, although complicated by the ballistic missile alert issued on the West Coast. The human side of the administration was safely tucked inside the bombproof bunker. However, the computers and files necessary to operate the government hadn’t arrived before the blast doors were forced to shut. The delivery trucks had been redirected to secure locations, and it wouldn’t be until the next day before their contents were delivered.
For the first time late that evening as midnight approached, the former Pennsylvanian who grew up in a coal-mining family got settled into the former Bureau of Mines property. He wasn’t sure if the false alarm was intentional or truly human error, as the young woman had professed to investigators. He tried to think through the events, especially the timing, to determine if there was a connection to the activities of his secret task force.
He couldn’t discern what the purpose might be. Why instigate a panic now when the possibility of actual nuclear retaliation by North Korea or China could come very soon? He shrugged off his own questions. He’d been assured by those he’d hand-selected for this job that their experience immersed in the inner workings of the DC bureaucracy would yield the result he sought.
The president insisted upon plausible deniability. When the time came to cross the Rubicon and pull the nuclear trigger, he needed to be shocked and disturbed that he, as president of the most powerful nation on earth, was forced to take such a dangerous, hostile action.
The term crossing the Rubicon was based upon an ancient event. In 49 BC, Julius Caesar prepared to cross the Rubicon River in present-day northeastern Italy during his quest to conquer Rome. To cross the Rubicon was a metaphor that meant to take an irrevocable step toward a risky or even revolutionary course of action. Many equate it with the more modern phrase passing the point of no return.
President Helton understood the risks and ramifications of his plan. It was calculated, to be sure, but also predicated on the counsel of the men and women who’d worked in Washington most of their adult lives. He felt certain their advice was sound, and because it comported with one of his unstated goals to accomplish as president, he likely downplayed the risks to suit his purpose.
The hour was fast approaching. He, like Julius Caesar, stood on the precipice of greatness or an abyss that would resemble Hell on Earth.
Part VI
One Week in October
Day six, Wednesday, October 23
Chapter Forty-Two
Wednesday, October 23
Driftwood Key
Hank Albright wasn’t a very good liar. In fact, he was terrible at it. That, coupled with the look of genuine guilt on his face, made many of the guests he was evicting from the hotel question his reasoning. They most likely understood his motives.
All of them had spent much of their vacation time monitoring the news in one way or another. In society, it was not unusual to observe any given public setting and see eyes focused on smartphones, perusing news or entertainment websites. Walking down the sidewalk of a busy city street, heads were bowed to read the screens. Sitting in the stadium of sporting events, fans alternated their attention between the actual game and the replays shown on streaming television via an app. A couple sitting at dinner in a restaurant or at home shoveled food in their mouth with one hand while scrolling through their media source of choice with the other. Rarely would they speak to one another except to point out a perceived newsworthy item.
Those outside habits and influences had found their way into the Driftwood Key Inn. So that morning, when guests woke up to no water in their bathrooms and a gentle knocking at the door with a letter containing the bad news about the water main break, many were not surprised. Some actually welcomed it. The directive to leave the inn made the decision for those who were on the fence of whether they should stay or go home.
By noon, all the guests had hurriedly left. The reservations for the rest o
f the month had been rescheduled. The housekeeping staff and bartenders had been instructed to button up their various areas of responsibilities as if a hurricane were coming.
Once the final guest had departed, Hank and Sonny closed the iron gates leading across the private bridge connecting the two keys. Only Mike and Jessica had keys to unlock the dual padlocks holding the thick steel chain wrapped through the doors.
Hank stood there for a moment. His hands were thrust into his pockets as he stared off into the mature groupings of mangroves that lined the bridge on the other side. Their exposed roots clung to the fine sandy soil surrounded by brackish water. He wondered how many mangrove snappers were feeding just below the surface. The thought reminded him of a gift he’d purchased himself, as well as one for Jimmy—a gutting and cleaning knife with a spoon attached to the handle, made by Morakniv.
He turned to Sonny. “What do you have Jimmy doin’ this morning?”
“Same as the others, really. Hurricane preparations. You know, putting away anything that’s not tied down. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, Mr. Hank, but your idea to treat it like a hurricane made perfect sense.”
“Did he fish this morning?” asked Hank.
Sonny gave him a puzzled look and then made a joke. “Ain’t nobody got time for fishin’ in the apocalypse.”
Hank laughed. At least that particular morning, anyway. Once the key was secured, they’d have to continue their daily routine, and fishing was a big part of it. The catch of the day, whether reeled in by Hank or Jimmy, fed the guests and those who resided on Driftwood Key. They’d need to continue that practice to avoid eating the foods stored by Phoebe. Besides, for Hank, it was therapeutic.