by Bobby Akart
When an object enters Earth’s atmosphere, it experiences pressure from gravity and drag. Gravity pulls an object down to Earth’s surface, but the particles of air making up the atmosphere rub against the object, creating friction and drag. This friction causes intense heat, which creates the illusion of the object speeding earthward having a brilliant, fiery tail.
What Duncan observed could’ve been a meteorite, but it wasn’t. His eyes strained to make out the landscape miles below their aircraft. Camp Pendleton’s lights were barely visible as they flickered just beyond the Pacific Ocean.
The object continued racing on its downward trajectory as the tension inside the Boeing C-17 grew higher, causing voices to fade away. The object sped up as the gravity of Earth assisted its descent.
Faster. Faster.
Impact.
The concussive blast caused the aircraft to tip from side to side, even from many miles away. What Duncan and the rest of the soldiers onboard the aircraft witnessed brought gasps, prayers, and tears to their eyes.
As the nuclear-tipped warhead made impact in Southern California, the atomic bomb detonated, suddenly releasing a massive amount of heat into the sky. A giant fireball rapidly developed and rose into the air, creating a vacuum effect and forming a mushroom cloud over the California coastline. The visual from above was unmistakable to everyone aboard.
San Diego had been destroyed.
Duncan closed his eyes for a few seconds and reopened them, hoping and praying this was a bad dream. It was not a dream, but it was indeed bad, because another streak of light caught his attention as it invaded the night sky.
“Another one!” someone shouted.
“And another. This can’t be!”
Duncan shook his head in disbelief as another streak of light hurtled toward the California coastline and struck Los Angeles and northward toward the Silicon Valley.
In each instance, with rapid succession, the sudden release of energy created temperatures to millions of degrees, similar to the heat on the surface of the sun. The mushroom clouds rose in a crescendo from south to north, leaving millions of dead and total destruction beneath them.
Duncan whispered aloud, “It is done,” unknowingly echoing the words of his sister, who was thousands of miles away in Montana.
Chapter 5
December 1
Ninety Miles South of San Diego
Pacific Ocean
Battle-hardened soldiers fell into the wooden fold-up seats that lined the C-17 transport and cried like babies. It was impossible to stifle the emotional effect of seeing their country devastated by nuclear weapons. It wasn’t glamorous as portrayed in some post-apocalyptic movie. The mushroom clouds represented real death to their fellow Americans, including family and friends who lived in the blast radiuses.
Duncan gave the horizon one last look, immediately wondering if Texas had been hit. His mind processed the geography and demographics of Texas. The Armstrong Ranch was located in proverbial BFE, an acronym akin to the middle of nowhere. He doubted the ranch was a target, but points west of there might be, such as Roswell or Albuquerque.
The fallout might impact the ranch as well. Upper-level winds and the jet stream might pull radioactive particles from San Diego or Los Angeles across the desert landscape of Arizona and New Mexico toward Texas. Duncan reminded himself that the fallout would hopefully dissipate over that distance.
He also took comfort in knowing that his parents were attuned to and prepared for this type of catastrophic event. On one occasion, when he’d teased his mother about her preparedness activities, she was quick to admonish him.
She’d said, “Son, prepping is like insurance against a catastrophic event. For years, we’ve paid Texas Windstorm a premium against hurricane-force winds, and we may never see them in our lifetimes. Prepping works the same way. A catastrophic event may never happen, but if it does, you can rest assured your old parents will be safe. That’s peace of mind for us, and for you, son.”
Duncan smiled as he reminded himself that mothers were always right.
Sook joined his side and wrapped her arms around his waist. It was also comforting to have her with him as she once again found a way to save him from despair. He turned to her and pulled her back toward the Humvee.
“I know something is bad, yes?” she asked, using her best broken English.
“Sook, we’ve been attacked. At least three nuclear bombs have hit the west coast in California.”
“Duncan, I am so sorry. Dear Leader is horrible man. Are you okay?”
Duncan was about to respond when one of the pilots made an announcement.
“Attention, please. We need everyone to take their seats as we modify our flight plan. Camp Pendleton is no longer available to us, so we’ll be diverted to a secondary landing area in either Arizona or Nevada. As we receive further instructions, we’ll provide you an update. Also, we do not have details on the attacks I know you witnessed, as we did. Our prayers are with our brothers and sisters on the ground, as well as with those of you who have loved ones in harm’s way. God rest their souls.”
Duncan gestured toward two seats near one of the windows as the passengers shuffled about looking for a place to settle in for landing. The mood of the soldiers turned from solemn to anger.
Expletives filled the air together with shouts of revenge and war. Racial slurs toward all Asians began to permeate the cargo hold, despite the fact that several of their fellow soldiers were of Asian descent.
One mouthy Marine hurled an insult in Sook’s direction, causing her to shy away and bury her head in Duncan’s chest. Duncan balled his fists and stared the man down, but held his tongue. If nothing else, Duncan had become a disciplined operative over the years. He knew now was not the time to engage a highly emotional Marine in a fistfight. Duncan allowed his stare to speak for him.
The Marine sat across the fuselage from them and was joined by several others in fatigues bearing the patch of the official seal of Camp Pendleton. These men had just lost their comrades and families. Their anger was expected.
“Sook, we have to be very careful right now. Do you understand?”
She responded by nodding her head.
Duncan explained his concerns. As a teen, he’d studied military history, including the societal reactions to war. Following the attacks on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, tensions ran high across America. Japanese in the States, many of whom were American citizens, were attacked mercilessly as people lashed out in anger.
President Franklin Roosevelt signed an executive order requiring all Japanese-Americans to be relocated away from the West Coast into ten internment camps spread across the country. Approximately one hundred twenty thousand people were held in these camps throughout World War II before being released. It wasn’t until March 1946 that the last camp closed.
On the surface, and with the benefit of hindsight, many argued that this was the worst violation of civil liberties in American history. But with rumors of war with Japan spreading, and hatred growing, fueled by racial prejudice against the Asian population, the Roosevelt administration was forced to protect Japanese-Americans by segregating them from the angry mobs that continued to harass them.
Duncan looked at the cross, distraught faces in the low light of the Boeing C-17. He imagined those same looks had permeated the public psyche in those weeks and months after Pearl Harbor. He wondered if the despair following the recent EMP attack would be replaced with a galvanized public ready to lash out at a common enemy—North Koreans, or anyone who looked like them.
Sook’s brown eyes met his as he pulled her a little closer to his chest. She was an innocent in this war, just like those who had perished in the nuclear wasteland below them. Somehow, he doubted an angry mob intent on causing Sook harm would give him a chance to explain.
Chapter 6
December 1
Air Force Global Strike Command
Barksdale Air Force Base
Near Shreveport, Louisia
na
Major Edmee Boudreau had been assigned to the Air Force Global Strike Command, or AFGSC, since being elevated to the rank of major. A New Orleans area native, having been born and raised in the French Quarter, she sought a better life for herself than the one her mother had led working the streets of the inner city. The name given to her by her Cajun mother, pronounced ed-may, meant prosperous protection in the archaic form of the French language used by the descendants of French Canadians in the bayou communities.
Major Boudreau’s mother, who’d died of a drug overdose many years ago, would have found it ironic that her beautiful baby, whose name meant prosperous protection, was now assigned the task of issuing the commands to deploy the nation’s nuclear-capable assets.
Barksdale AFB, located near Shreveport on the border with East Texas, was the home of the Global Strike Command, which controlled two-thirds of the nation’s nuclear deterrent. The AFGSC deploys air assets like the B-2 and B-52 aircraft, and as the headquarters for the Eighth Air Force, it stands ready to provide on-alert combat forces to the president. Known as the Mighty Eighth, the unit adopted a motto—deterrence through strength, global strike on demand.
Outwardly, Major Boudreau exemplified the attitude of the commanders of the Mighty Eighth. She was known as a no-nonsense, don’t-mess-with-me soldier. Cajun women were often portrayed in music and movies as stunningly beautiful heartbreakers who were the source of male frustration and misery.
Major Boudreau fit that mold as well. As a child, she had grown up in rough environs, required to take care of her younger brothers and sisters at an early age. She became immune to the activities of her mother and focused on running a tight household as she raised her siblings. Out of a sense of duty and loyalty to her family, she remained at home until her early twenties when the youngest of the Boudreau brood entered high school. At that point, she felt she could escape the confines of New Orleans.
She never looked back. Always fascinated by the airplanes taking off from Louis Armstrong Airport to the east of downtown New Orleans, she found an Air Force recruiting station and signed up for a new life. Her career was stellar. As part of the Air Force’s Affirmative Employment Program, she was given the opportunity for advancement, but Major Boudreau earned her way nonetheless.
Focused on her career, she studied, trained, learned, and impressed as a result. It was her steely nerve and unflappable character that had brought her to the Mighty Eighth. It was the ice running through her veins that had earned her a spot on the console leading to the first nuclear-tipped warheads being deployed by the United States since the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan in August of 1945.
It had only been a few minutes since her commanders had received notice of the nuclear launches being detected from North Korea. Major Boudreau, whose area of responsibility included the 341st Missile Wing at Malmstrom Air Force Base in Montana, scrambled to her station and awaited orders.
The ICBMs within her scope of responsibility were ready every second on any given day. She’d established personal relationships with the commanders of every Minuteman missile silo within the 341st Missile Wing and its support squadrons. This was a day that none of them wished would happen. The deployment of the nation’s nuclear assets most likely meant one thing—retaliation. And, as Major Boudreau reminded herself from time to time, retaliation could logically be equated with incoming nuclear missiles to the United States.
She’d alerted the command at Malmstrom, who were fully aware this was not a drill. They in turn advised the senior officers of the LGM-30G Minuteman III facilities to be at the ready for a launch order. Upon her command, relayed by the President of the United States, the Minuteman III missiles, equipped with the latest variant of the W87 thermonuclear warheads yielding four hundred seventy-five kilotons of destruction, would be launched toward their designated targets.
The operations center designated to the 341st Missile Wing was separate from the areas responsible for similar military bases in Wyoming, North Dakota, and New Mexico. The team sat quietly, focused on their computer screens as they watched data stream in from USSTRATCOM. Major Boudreau was singularly focused on the one that provided her the codes to be authenticated. Consisting of alphabetic characters, the message to her would mean that the president had issued the order the world dreaded most.
Two senior officers stood behind her console. Their job was to confirm the code sequence to absolutely ensure there were no mistakes. They all waited, barely breathing. She hated the so often overused cliché it’s not a matter of if, but when, but it certainly applied under these circumstances. Everyone in the room knew there were nuclear missiles heading toward the United States. The order would be forthcoming.
Suddenly, her screen illuminated. Her palms became sweaty as the reality set in. She was about to launch nuclear missiles at a country whose citizens were as much in the dark about their fate as Americans were. She silently cursed the people responsible for allowing the hostilities to come to this, yet she steadied her nerves to do her job.
“We have an authentication order,” announced the colonel standing behind her without emotion. “Major, please read the code aloud.”
Major Boudreau began the process. “Oscar Lima, Hotel November, Mike India, Bravo Echo, X-ray Mike, Oscar Kilo.”
The two superior officers standing behind her echoed their confirmation.
“Code authenticated,” they said.
Major Boudreau entered the code into a message destined for Malmstrom AFB in Montana. They would also be relayed to an Air Force captain and his team sitting deep underground in a missile silo somewhere in the state of Montana. This team would insert keys into consoles similar to Major Boudreau’s. The result would be the liftoff of massive rockets headed into space for a subsequent reentry into North Korean airspace.
With the message prepared, and reviewed by the men behind her, the usually stoic Major Edmee Boudreau slowly pressed the enter key on her keyboard, secretly hoping someone would call off this madness at the last moment.
Edmee allowed a single tear to flow down her cheek as she silently said a prayer of protection for the innocent lives in North Korea.
Heavenly Father, please lift up and protect the people of North Korea, knowing they are surrounded by enemies and a certain death will soon fall upon them. Take them to that secret place on High and shelter them under Your wings to guard and protect them, just as You guard and protect us from danger.
Heavenly Father, protect these people and show them refuge, as You have provided refuge and protection to us. I pray that You provide them the safety of Your fortress because it is You, alone, in Whom we place our trust and salvation.
Lord, I ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior. Amen.
Chapter 7
December 1
The Armstrong Ranch
Borden County, Texas
Major and Lucy carried out a tray of bread and side dishes to accompany the steaks cooking on the grill. Preacher and Antonio were chatting with a couple of the ranch hands about their day’s activities as they huddled around the fire. The evening temperatures had been a tolerable low forties on the Texas Panhandle for the last couple of nights, and Major thought a cookout would provide a perfect opportunity to create a sense of normalcy in an upside-down world.
“Perfect timing, boss!” said Preacher as he gave the meat a final flip to create a crosshatch pattern. Preacher was a throwback to the Old West in many ways. He was an avid reader of James Michener, William Johnstone, and, of course, Louis L’Amour. Despite his rough-around-the-edges appearance and overuse of Texas-speak, as he called it, Preacher was actually an astute, learned individual.
And he was one heckuva storyteller. “Back in the day, after the spring roundups, cowboys would herd their cattle out on the great trails of Texas. They’d leave out of San Angelo for Cheyenne on the Goodnight-Loving Trail. The Chisolm Trail ran from San Antone to Abilene, Kansas. The Shawnee Trail ran from down near the King Ranch al
l the way to upstate Missour-ah. I’m tellin’ ya, cowboys were the eighteen-wheelers of the good old days.”
Miss Lucy interrupted to begin handing out the plates to everyone. Major and Antonio stoked a big fire in the center of several cut-up stumps converted to seating. The hands gathered around the hot, dancing flames while Major, Lucy, Preacher, and Antonio set their plates on a nearby picnic table.
After the group filled their plates, Preacher said a brief prayer thanking God for their food and blessings before he continued. “While they were out on the trail, they’d eat meals consisting of beef, biscuits, corn, beans, and coffee that tasted like hot sludge. During the Civil War, the number of cattle drives increased in order to feed soldiers on both sides. As a result, the cooks found it harder and harder to feed the fifteen or twenty men necessary to drive the cattle.”
Preacher paused to carve off an oversized bite of steak and began chomping it down as he continued to tell the story.
“Anyhoo, an old Texas Ranger, James Goodnight, who created the Goodnight-Loving Trail, came up with an idea he called the chuckwagon. It was kinda like the mobile kitchens you see in the city that feed them construction workers on the job sites. The chuckwagon and its cooks became the lifeblood of cowboys on the trail. The ranchers wanted their cowboys well fed to ensure their livestock made it to market, so they stocked the chuckwagons with plenty of food.
“Of course, like now in most of the country, they didn’t have electricity, so everything was cooked in cast iron over an open fire. Their meals were simple, but filling, just like what we’ve got here tonight. They’d also have dried fruits, rice, cornmeal, bacon, brown sugar, and everything needed to bake. It made for good cowboy grub.”
Preacher paused to dip his bread into the baked beans and took a big bite.
Lucy added, “Back in the day, these men knew how to survive on basic foods that could be prepared without a big fuss. It wasn’t a horrible way to live. It was just, well, simple.”