They both nodded.
“You cannot abandon her. It’s one mile. If you don’t want to stay at the hospital, you can be back in your tomb up there within fifteen minutes. You guys good with this?” said Ryan.
“Do you really think this is an EMP? What about that?” one of them said, pointing at the sinister contrail south of Boston.
“I don’t know what that is, but I guarantee this is not a regular power outage. We’d see some backup lights out there. I didn’t see anything from my room. Get her situated at the hospital, and talk your way onto some kind of volunteer detail. It’s the best you can do right now.”
“Sounds like the best plan we’ve got. Thanks for helping out, man.”
Ryan shook both of their hands and tightened his backpack.
“Where are you headed in such a hurry?” said Elsie.
“Boston College to find my girlfriend. Then north,” said Ryan.
“How far north?” she said.
“Maine.”
“Sounds like a long way.”
“It’s far enough to be trouble, but it’s closer than Sweden.”
“Thank you for helping,” said Elsie, glancing nervously at her two caretakers.
Ryan nodded and walked toward the road that took him behind Warren Towers. He agonized over the decision to leave Elsie, doubtful that the two students would carry through with their promise. He muttered, pounding his fist against his thigh. A diversion to Brigham and Women’s Hospital would cost him too much time. If he didn’t show up at Chloe’s apartment soon, she might come looking for him, which could put her in danger. Every scenario their parents had discussed led to the same conclusion. Ryan was the one to travel in the event of a disaster.
Ryan kept walking, fighting the urge to look back. He reached the street and stopped. Damnit! He couldn’t shake the image of Elsie crawling along the sidewalk, trying to escape a wall of water. He returned to the park bench, noting that no progress had been made toward getting her ambulatory.
“I’ll take her to the hospital. Go back to your bag of Fritos,” said Ryan, grasping her hand and pulling her onto her one good leg.
The two students took off toward the dormitory without saying a word, validating Ryan’s decision. They would have ditched her somewhere out of sight, where their cowardly act went unnoticed.
“Thank you. Those two would have left me for dead. They rushed to my room after the quake. You know—to help.”
“Imagine that,” said Ryan.
“Exactly. They’ve been attached to me like glue since I arrived, but they didn’t look too enthusiastic to help when they saw my leg.”
“A busted leg is a deal breaker, even if you’re a hot Danish chick,” said Ryan.
“Swedish.”
“I remember,” said Ryan, putting her arm around his shoulder.
“I really appreciate this. I know you’re in a hurry,” said Elsie.
“We’ll have to move fast. As fast as we can manage,” he said.
“I’m not sure how we’re going to do this. I can’t put any weight on the leg, and I don’t think hopping a few kilometers will work.”
Ryan looked down at her leg. She had it bent at a shallow angle to keep her foot from striking the ground. Judging by the pained expression she displayed when he pulled her to her feet, he knew she was right.
“How much do you weigh?” he said.
“Is that a polite question to ask?”
“It is if someone’s going to carry you a mile,” he said. “I don’t see any other way.”
“I’m sorry this became your burden. 48 kilograms—give or take.”
“I’m sure our paths crossed for a reason. What is that, like 220 pounds?” he said, receiving a playful slap to the shoulder. “You ready? This is going to hurt you a lot more than me.”
“I guess.”
He kneeled and reached under her good leg.
“Now lean over my backpack and reach your right arm over my shoulder,” he said.
She groaned as he lifted her off the ground into a fireman’s carry. He hooked his right arm under her knee and grasped the hand she had draped over his chest, freeing his left hand to pick up the bucket. Ryan took a few uneasy steps forward, wondering how the hell he was going to do this.
Chapter 7
EVENT +00:15 Hours
International Space Station
Commander David Stull, United States Navy, drifted away from the Harmony node to the adjoining Destiny Laboratory, using his fingertips to guide him. He was several minutes behind the rigid daily schedule imposed by NASA mission controllers, though his effortless flight down the equipment-packed passageway betrayed no sense of urgency. The draconian NASA itinerary served a purpose: to regulate the astronauts’ natural biorhythms in the face of a ninety-minute cycle of light and darkness experienced by the station’s low earth orbit.
An unresolved communications glitch had put him behind schedule today. The station’s connection to NASA had been interrupted during the final moments of their morning briefing and could not be reestablished. His initial diagnostics check indicated no obvious issues with the communications equipment onboard the station. Of course, he wouldn’t know for sure unless he inspected the radio link equipment directly, running a series of sophisticated checks on the transmitters. To do that, he would need to enter an unpressurized section of the Z1 Truss structure above the Unite node. This simple thirty-minute voyage into unpressurized space would require an entire day of planning.
He glided into the Destiny node, where Cosmonaut Sergei Moryakov waited. Moryakov’s permanent, good-natured smirk was gone. Something was wrong.
“Roscosmos station in Moscow lost all communications with NASA fifteen minutes ago,” said the cosmonaut, in perfectly structured Russian-accented English.
“So it’s on their end. Saves us the hassle of accessing Z1,” said Stull.
“It’s more complicated than that. You need to see something,” he said, gesturing for Stull to follow him.
Before either of them moved, the lights in the Destiny node flickered. Moryakov’s ice-blue eyes darted around the crowded laboratory compartment. In seventy-two days onboard the station, he had never seen the lights flicker—and he’d certainly never seen the Russian exhibit nervous behavior.
He floated behind Moryakov to the Tranquility node berthing connection, tapping the walls to propel his body through the cramped corridor. The short trip ended over the Cupola, the station’s seven-window observatory. A pair of legs dressed in a royal-blue jumper extended into the berthing node.
“Take a look. Then we need to talk. We don’t have much time,” said the Russian.
Commander Stull pushed off the floor with the tip of his boot and flipped upside-down, squeezing into the Cupola next to Cosmonaut Viktor Belekin, who stared through a spotting scope aimed through the center window.
“What the—”
A thick, orange-black smoke trail stretched from the outer stratosphere to the east coast of the United States. From four hundred and sixteen kilometers above the earth’s surface, the smoke trail appeared to penetrate a pulsing red magnetic aura that blanketed the Midwest.
He felt nauseous. His wife and children had flown to Boston on Friday, staying with friends for few days until joining his parents on Cape Cod for their annual vacation. The smoke trail ended in New England. His vision narrowed, and he squinted, shaking his head. He was overreacting. Larger meteorites always left massive trails of smoke when they traveled through the atmosphere, even if they were only a few meters in diameter.
“Can I take a look?” asked Stull.
“This is bad, my friend. Very sorry,” said Belekin, handing him the powerful scope.
Stull followed the magnified trail across Mexico into the United States. The single inbound object had separated high over northern Georgia, splitting into four tightly packed, but distinctly separate reentry signatures. The smoke trails terminated in a narrow elliptical pattern beginning in Virginia
and ending in Nova Scotia. He couldn’t pinpoint the two additional impact points through the atmospheric reentry stream.
He hoped his wife had decided to spend an extra day with friends in Braintree. The Cape was too exposed. Who was he kidding? All they could talk about last week was getting to Cape Cod. How could Spaceguard have missed something this big? Something else bothered him about the scene below him.
“Where are the lights?” he asked.
“I can’t believe I missed that,” the Russian murmured. “Most of North America is pitch black.”
“That’s the real problem,” interjected Moryakov, hovering above them.
Commander Stull backed out of the Cupola, along with Belekin.
“Our mission control registered a massive radiation flux on the station-based monitors. X-ray levels spiked, causing a minor system-generated EMP. Everything appears to function as it should, so latch-up must have been minimal.” Moryakov ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll have to run our own diagnostics, of course, and we’ll have to go outside to inspect the solar array coatings. Moscow isn’t optimistic about the long-term survival of the station.”
Stull shook his head. “What do they think happened?”
“All evidence indicates that a thermonuclear device was detonated in low orbit over the United States, causing a massive EMP event. Most of the United States is dark, consistent with this theory,” said Moryakov.
Commander Stull stared back into the Cupola, noting the eerie, reddish, spectral glow in the atmosphere over the Midwest.
“The aura,” he whispered. “Could it have been caused by whatever passed through the atmosphere?”
Moryakov shook his head. “Radiation readings were highest on the sensors aimed toward the ground. Moscow strongly suspects the radiation is from a manmade source.”
“The arrays?”
“Bad timing. All arrays were in Night Glider mode, pointed straight at the earth when the readings spiked. Another eighty-two seconds and they would have been aimed away from the blast, at the sunrise,” Moryakov explained.
“We’ll have to inspect the coatings for thermomechanical damage,” said Stull. “We can’t stay up here if the arrays fail.”
“That was Moscow’s assessment.”
“Is everything all right down there?” asked Stull.
“For now,” said the Russian.
He didn’t like Moryakov’s answer.
****
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Go back to Contents
Turn the page to read Book 2 in the Alex Fletcher Series:
The Perseid Collapse
The
Perseid
Collapse
Alex Fletcher Book Two
About THE ALEX FLETCHER BOOKS
The Perseid Collapse takes place six years after the H16N1 virus ravaged the world in my first novel, The Jakarta Pandemic. Feedback and reviews for The Jakarta Pandemic exceeded all expectations, with many readers asking me to write another novel featuring Alex Fletcher and his family. I shelved the idea for two years, before I started putting some serious thought into the possibility of bringing them back.
To pull it off, I knew I’d have to accomplish two critical tasks. First, I had to create a unique disaster scenario. Not an easy task given the recent flood of post-apocalyptic books. Second, I needed to rain hell down on the Fletcher’s world. They would not have the option of “bunkering up” within the confines of their home. The final disaster concept hit me like a meteorite, nearly derailing the publication of Black Flagged Vektor. I feel confident that you’ll share in my excitement, within the first few pages.
Time in The Perseid Collapse world is measured in plus (+) or minus (-) Hours:Minutes from the EVENT. Book One in The Perseid Collapse Series chronicles the first 48 hours post EVENT.
A list of military/government acronyms and definitions used throughout The Alex Fletcher Books is available via the Table of Contents.
PART I
“SINK OR SWIM”
Chapter 1
EVENT 00:00 Hours
Jewell Island, Maine
Alex buried his head in the sleeping bag, slightly annoyed at the light penetrating his eyelids. He peeked out of the bag, expecting to find Kate standing over him with a flashlight. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Instead, the island reflected a rich, sunset-orange hue, long shadows extending from the trees and clumps of rocks along the granite walls. A low-grade tingling sensation enveloped his body.
Lightning!
He rolled out of the hammock, still encased in the sleeping bag, landing hard on the fiberglass deck. He ripped frantically at the zipper, unable to get out of the polyester body bag. A glimpse of the sky eased his panic. The sky bristled with stars—hardly a meteorological condition conducive to lightning.
He took a deep breath and gave the zipper another try. When it didn’t move, he tore it open.
“Problem fucking solved,” he muttered, slipping out of the bag and kicking it aft.
Alex stood on the cockpit bench and took in the unusual scene.
Either the sun had risen in the wrong place, or the fall from the hammock had knocked him silly. Alex had spent enough time at anchor in this cove to orient himself without a compass. He scanned his surroundings one more time to be sure.
His boat pointed southeast, pulling lazily against the anchor line. A typical early morning setup at Jewell Island. The cove’s narrow opening lay directly off the port side, and the Katelyn Ann faced directly into a tree-lined, rocky cliff. The sun always rose over that cliff, but today it appeared due south, hidden behind the tallest part of the island. He watched as the distant light rapidly faded to reveal something more ominous.
A brilliant, undulating reddish glow appeared in the southwestern sky, high above the visible horizon. He closed his eyes and shook his head, seriously wondering if he might have a head injury. Nothing he had felt or seen since opening his eyes this morning seemed normal. Of course, he assumed it was still morning.
He checked his watch: 5:01 AM. Sunrise was at 5:50. Morning Nautical Twilight began twenty minutes ago. He looked over his shoulder toward the east and could see a slight difference between the blackness above and the sky showing between the trees. The sun was rising in the right place.
He turned back to the surreal lightshow to the west. The reddish-purple spectacle changed shape and appeared to pulse over the entire southwest horizon. He’d seen this before. He shook his head.
“No way,” he said, knowing there was only one way to find out.
Alex stepped aft, positioning himself behind the wheel where he could see the boat’s magnetic compass dial. He pressed a button on the center console to illuminate the compass, and pressed it again, getting the same result.
He took a small LED flashlight out of his pocket and jabbed at the on/off control. A shaky light bathed the compass, bringing the nightmare to life. The compass direction moved slowly from the direction of the fading, red aurora toward what he knew to be the right cardinal settings.
He fumbled to activate the digital chart plotter and navigation system mounted above the wheel. Nothing. He thought about calling out to Kate, but reached for the engine ignition panel instead. He turned the key, not sure what would happen. The engine sputtered for a moment and started.
“All right. All right. That’s a good sign,” he mumbled.
The forty-horsepower Yanmar diesel engine hummed, vibrating the cockpit and shattering the cove’s tranquility. He pulled the kill lever, secure in the knowledge that they could reach the Portland Harbor without getting wet.
A light from the forward berth illuminated the cabin, flickering back and forth as the source drew closer to the cabin door. He stepped forward in the tight cockpit to intercept Kate at the screen door. Woken by the unexpected engine start, she would no doubt be in a hurry to investigate. The door slid open ju
st as he arrived.
“Why did you start—”
“Shhhh,” he said, putting a hand out to stop her. “Let’s talk out here.”
“Did we slip anchor?” she asked, shining the light in his face.
“Not in my face, please. We’re right where we should—”
“Something is wrong with the lights.”
She was in rapid-fire mode, no doubt brought on by her sudden maritime wake up. Kate was a notoriously deep sleeper at home, who did not respond well to being jarred awake. On the boat she was an entirely different person. She understood the fluid nature of boating, which required quick decisions and immediate action. Boats slipped anchorages, storms arrived unannounced, and equipment failed—often in the middle of the night, and always at the least opportune time.
“Are you done?” he asked.
“You haven’t really answered any of my questions,” she said.
Alex pulled Kate through the cockpit door and pointed to the bright red and purple aura to the west.
“What do you think that is?” he asked.
She stared off into the distance, shaking her head slowly before finally shrugging her shoulders. “Looks like the northern lights, but the wrong color. And that’s not north, is it?” she asked, finally rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Southwest,” he stated, gripping her hand.
“Why did you start the diesel?” she insisted, her gaze captivated by the lights dancing playfully above the southwestern horizon.
“Because I didn’t think it would start. I’ve seen pictures like that at Quantico. Looks a lot like the atmospheric nuclear tests they did out in the Pacific,” he said.
“You don’t think that was a nuke, do you?” she asked sharply, stepping off the cockpit bench.
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 41