Charlie's Requiem: Resistance

by Walt Browning

  Now, one of the three older generators was finally overheating. The ear-splitting sound of metal grinding on metal was unmistakable as the machine’s increasing heat caused the its moving parts to swell. No matter how much oil he used nor how many prayers he said, nothing was going to keep the generator from a fiery and spectacular death.

  Davidson watched as the generator’s thermostat pushed into the red zone. The cacophony of noise assaulted his ears, and he could smell something burning. He resigned himself to the inevitable.

  “Shut it down now!” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “She’s got nothing left to prove.”

  “What now?” one of the half-dozen remaining workers asked. “Should we evacuate?”

  “Not yet,” Davidson replied. “There’s still a chance these two will keep things under control.”

  The other engineers nodded, yet all of them knew that his statement was more of a wish than a fact. Science was a harsh taskmaster. Numbers didn’t lie. There was no gray area when it came to equations and proven calculations. The flow of water wasn’t equal to the amount of nuclear material that needed to be cooled. They all knew the calculations from endless brainstorming sessions that they had performed over the past two months. They all knew that, within the next three days, one of the two reactors was going to melt. And unless DHS showed up with another generator, there was nothing they could do about it.

  “We need to get help,” one of the other plant workers said as the remaining two machines struggled to compensate for their broken companion. “Maybe we can dig up another generator from somewhere else. They’ve got a large one at the police station.”

  “Good luck getting them to give it up,” Davidson said.

  “They find out we’ll be melting down in the next two days, I don’t think they’ll argue too much.”

  “How will you get it here?”

  “One mountain at a time,” the man responded. “One mountain at a time.”

  “Take the minibus,” Davidson said. “It’s got enough gas to get you to town and back. And take everyone with you. You may need the manpower. I’ll stay here and see what I can do to slow the reaction down.”

  The remaining six workers filed out of the room, leaving Davidson alone with the deteriorating pile of uranium. He adjusted the water flow to the newer reactor when he saw its temperature beginning to creep up. But that was a temporary fix. When the other reactor started to overheat an hour or so later, he switched the flow and put more output in that side. The problem was that as each reactor cooled, the other heated more quickly. At some point, the system would fail, but at least he could push it out for a few days. He hoped his staff would return with the miracle generator that they needed.

  Outside, the six workers gathered a few items to take with them and drove the old diesel minibus down the long, asphalt road and through the abandoned guard gates. At the end of the access road, they veered around several abandoned vehicles and slowly drove toward the local police station, just five miles away. With the security of half a tank of gas and a full day to complete their mission, the crew chatted easily with each other.

  A few miles away, as they took a particularly sharp turn, they came face to face with a blockade of abandoned vehicles. The driver of the minibus slammed on the brakes as four men with black assault rifles sprinted from behind the roadblock.

  “Get out!” one of the armed men screamed.

  The driver opened the swinging door, and the six scientists and technicians quickly ran down the steps and onto the road. One of the four carjackers directed them into the grass and lined them up.

  “Put ‘yer hands on ‘yer head and turn around!” the man yelled, his voice thick with a rural Tennessee accent.

  “Wait!” one of the scientists said. “We’ve got to get into town. There’s an emergency—”

  “SHUT ‘YER MOUTH!” The vandal yelled. “’Jist Do What ‘Yer Told!”

  “Look at that there bus,” one of the other men said. “That’s nice.”

  “Told you I’d get us a ride,” the leader said.

  The grimy, bearded men smiled at each other, two of them high-fiving.

  The scientist tried to protest again before the butt of a gun smashed him in the forehead, sending him tumbling into the overgrown grass. Blood gushed from his scalp as he laid silently on his side.

  “Too bad ‘thar ain’t any women,” the ugliest, dirtiest of the thugs grunted.

  “Y’all turn around,” the leader commanded the power plant crew.

  The five remaining men slowly turned and faced the woods.

  “Please, mister, you don’t understand…”

  The staccato of four semi-automatic rifles let loose, dozens of rounds shredding the helpless crew. Within seconds, they lay dead, bleeding from multiple bullet wounds. The leader walked up to each body and put a bullet into all six skulls with a handgun.

  “Let’s move,” he said.

  “Where to?”

  “The nuclear plant,” the leader replied. “Y’all saw the sign on the side of the bus. If they got this ride, what else they got?”

  “I like the way you think, boss,” said one of the thugs as he slouched into the driver’s seat.

  Back at the nuclear plant, Davidson began gathering his notes and logbooks to preserve his team’s efforts. The Department of Energy would require this data for its post-disaster investigation, and the meticulous engineer was going to make sure that the blame fell squarely on the shoulders of the Department of Homeland Security. The loss of the backup generators for the second reactor was the result of Homeland’s negligence, and he wasn’t going to let Washington deflect the failure back onto the dedicated workers at the plant.

  He had ten storage boxes full of papers, all documenting the demise of their nuclear generator. Handwritten notes meticulously documented the power plant’s death spiral. Hopefully, their efforts would give the Department of Energy a clue on how to handle future emergencies and some good could come from the unfolding tragedy.

  The rumble of the old diesel bus reverberated off the office window, breaking Davidson’s concentration. He wrestled with the last box of papers, lifting it onto the top of the stack of evidence he’d assembled. As he glanced out the window, wondering why the bus had returned so soon, confusion quickly turned to fear as four armed men emerged from the bus’s door. Davidson ducked down behind the desk, less than a hundred yards from the unwanted visitors, and peered out of the window.

  Davidson was on the first level of the three-floor building. The thugs paired off, two of them moving toward the front door. They held their rifles up at low ready as they scanned the front of the concrete office block.

  Davidson had no combat experience. But his years spent in the Navy and his daily work with deadly nuclear material, gave him the ability to think without panicking. By the way the men walked and carried their firearms, he saw that they weren’t professionals. But they had guns, and he didn’t. That made his decision very simple. Escape was his only option.

  The grounds of the nuclear power plant were vast, and the building he was presently in covered at least twenty thousand square feet. Roughly an “L” shape, the office building had two entrances. The one on the north side was the main entrance where Nuclear Regulatory Commission employees as well as guests entered. That’s where Davidson’s office was. But on the south end of the structure, there was an employee entrance that was shielded by a large copse of trees. If he could get out that door and into the concealment of the stand of southern oaks, he would have a chance.

  He looked at the stacks of journals and paperwork in front of him. What was the most important documentation to take? After a moment of consideration, he opened a box near his feet. Davidson grabbed two journals and a folder of reports and stuffed them in his leather messenger bag. He slung the bag around his neck and then sprinted down the hall and out the back door. Without missing a beat, he plunged into the oak trees and raced south. Through the leafless forest he flew, eventu
ally breaking free of their cover at the southern end of the stand. He then cut west and began to jog up Morrison Lane, a two-lane road that led to the dirt field where the government kept surplus equipment and unused shipping containers.

  His staff was dead. Davidson knew it in his heart. There was no way they would have relinquished the bus otherwise. He had to make sure that their names were cleared, which kept his feet moving away from the plant—and away from the men with guns. Two hours later, he was far away, leaving the four criminals to their fate with the rapidly deteriorating pile of nuclear material. Surrounded by miles of fallow farmland, Davidson was safe. Now he had to find his way to the next occupied town, but he had no idea where that could possibly be.

  He was miles from any town, and all the neighboring farms had been evacuated over the last three months. So he kept jogging, clutching the leather satchel that he hoped would deliver redemption for him and his people, because the truth was all he had left.

  CHAPTER 4

  OFFICE OF MAJOR GENERAL LESTER

  FORT KNOX, KY

  “When one gets in bed with government, one must expect the diseases it spreads.”

  — Ron Paul

  AS DAVIDSON ESCAPED THE IMPENDING meltdown at the Watts-Bar plant, Major General Lester hung up the phone in his office at Fort Knox. A call from Washington had just informed him that he was assuming control of the United States Military, Southern Command. He was now in charge of the reorganized southern branches of the service, putting all military assets under one umbrella.

  DHS had instituted this change after the EMP took out the grid and most of the country’s computers. Centralizing power would give them more effective control of the recovery and the country’s military assets. More importantly—and unbeknownst to the general—he had been selected because of his consistent and unwavering belief in the chain of command and a history of following the rules. Furthermore, he wasn’t overly ambitious, so he wouldn’t present a threat to DHS. He was a “yes” man and would take orders from above without hesitation.

  The general was surprised to get a promotion, although his resume indicated that he was more than qualified for the job. Pushing sixty, all he had wanted was a less demanding command as his final years in the military came to a close. He had taken the ROTC billet because he felt he could leave a lasting mark on his beloved country by improving the quality and quantity of new officers.

  In his mind, strengthening the ROTC program, where college students were nurtured into officers, was just the way to do this.

  Nicknamed “Saint Bart,” for his almost fanatical dedication to Army doctrine and unwavering devotion to following the rules, he was a hard driving and by-the-book soldier. He never took a short cut and never strayed from his orders, demanding that all under him tow the same line.

  When he had taken over from his predecessor, he had given himself three years to bring the ROTC program up to snuff. He’d been on track to accomplish this when the EMP took out power to the rest of the country.

  Fort Knox fared better than most, with multiple redundant backup systems to keep the base and their precious gold reserves safe. Because of this, life carried on relatively normally. With the successful evacuation of non-military personnel from the adjacent town of Radcliff to the base, the general felt responsible for the surrounding countryside. Crime was non-existent under his watch, and he had commanded that the remaining personnel and their families move onto Fort Knox property with little disruption in the base’s function.

  And now, as the phone settled into its cradle, he realized that he was in charge of far more than a few square miles of Kentucky countryside. He had been made commander of all of the country’s southern forces, reporting directly to Washington and the head of the Department of Homeland Security. It was an awesome responsibility at a time when the nation would need stability and strength.

  Lester pressed a button on his Ethernet wired intercom box. “Welch, have Captain Kuris and Lieutenant Ferraro report to me at once.”

  As a major general, he was entitled to two aide-de-camps. Normally, Lester would give an order to the captain, who would then disseminate his demands down the line. But with such a tectonic shift in responsibilities, Lester wanted to speak to both his aides at once. Their lives would be changing dramatically. It would be especially difficult on Ferraro, given his lack of combat experience. Lester was going to have to reassign the lieutenant and wanted to give him the news personally.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lester’s intercom squawked.

  “Sir, Captain Kuris and Lieutenant Ferraro are here.”

  “Have them report immediately.”

  The two men entered the office. Each wore their Class “B” Army standard uniform. Their blue trousers and white short-sleeved shirts were starched to precision, and their appropriate rank was pinned to the right side of their stiff collars. Both the double silver “railroad tracks” bars of Captain Kuris and the single brass “butter” bar of Lieutenant Ferraro were parallel with the floor, and each had the Branch of Service Aide-De-Camp pinned on the other lapel. Their left breast displayed the campaign ribbons each had been awarded, the colorful boards displaying a rainbow of vertical bands that had, over the years, earned the nickname “fruit salad.” There was not a single hair out of place, and each crease was flawless. Perfect, just as the general demanded.

  “At ease,” Lester said after salutes were exchanged. “I just received new orders from Washington.”

  Both men shifted slightly, their only outward display of surprise.

  “Please, sit down,” the general said as he took his own seat, waving at the two leather chairs at the head of the desk.

  “Washington’s reorganized the military and I’ve been given its southern command.” Lester began. “This is going to mean big changes for us all.”

  Turning to Ferraro, the general continued.

  “Lieutenant, I’m reassigning you to Orlando. You’ll need a combat billet to qualify for your next promotion, and I’m planning to make Orlando a hub for our recovery. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, then let’s get down to the details.” Lester said.

  Almost an hour later, the two aides departed the general’s office.

  “Well,” Kuris said. “I thought things had gotten strange before.”

  “At least you’ll be staying with the general.” Ferraro sighed.

  He liked his job and Captain Kuris was an excellent teacher to work under. He had hoped to get his own senior aide position when he became a captain.

  “Come on,” Kuris chided. “You’ll love it there.”

  “Maybe now,” Ferraro replied. “I won’t miss the snow. But wait till summer. It’ll be brutal.”

  The men continued down the glossy linoleum floor, their perfectly shined shoes clicking with each step. Their gait was so well synchronized that it sounded as if only one person was marching down the empty hallway.

  “You should have electricity in your apartment, so staying cool won’t be a problem. But I do feel for you. Florida can be brutal in the summer.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Stella,” Ferraro said sarcastically. “She’ll flip. The kids love it here, and it’s safe.”

  “Hey,” Kuris said as he stopped and turned to his friend. “You’ll be alright. Besides, this is your chance to put ‘combat experience’ on your résumé. You’ll need that to move forward.”

  “Just about anywhere in the country is considered a combat zone right now.”

  “Chin up,” Kuris concluded. “You could have ended up in Chicago.”

  Ferraro shivered, thinking of the massive “Charlie Foxtrot” that was going on in the nation’s third largest city. With no power and millions of citizens starving and freezing over the winter, it was a massive “no-go” land for the military where the strongest survived and the weak were killed or enslaved. An assignment to that part of the country meant constant strife and a high probability of being wounded or kill
ed.

  “I suppose I could do worse than Orlando,” Ferraro agreed as they retrieved their Class “B” windbreakers. “But I haven’t heard anything about the city. Have you?”

  “No, but that’s a good thing. At least it’s not bad enough to show up on our radar.”

  “Plus, it mean that the general trusts you.” Kuris continued. “Orlando will be the hub of recovery for the entire southeast, so I’m sure he wants someone there who will send him accurate and unvarnished reports. Just do your job and you’ll move up quickly.”

  “I’ll put a good spin on this with the wife,” the lieutenant said. “And thanks, Captain.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kuris replied with a smile, holding out his hand.

  Shaking hands, Ferraro said, “I owe you, sir. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “The general and I are both counting on it.” Kuris said as the two men stepped out into the cold Kentucky morning.

  Back in his office, General Lester began the task of converting his headquarters from an administrative office to a combat command. He made a list of subordinates he would need to bring his staff to a proper level. As he scribbled down his notes, his intercom buzzed, interrupting his train of thought.

  “Yes?” Lester barked. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But your wife is here.”

  Damn it, Lester thought to himself. She’ll be pushing me to go to the lake house with the grandkids.

  After taking a deep breath, Lester hit the intercom and had his assistant bring his wife into his office.

  “Thank you, sergeant.” Lester said to his assistant as his wife took a seat in one of the chairs that the Kuris and Ferraro had just been using.