Lines in the Sand: Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction (The Lone Star Series Book 3)
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She sighed. The president knew Hawaii was next, and the fate of a former president rested in the hands of the U.S. Pacific Command stationed there.
“Hawaii?” she asked.
“Spared, ma’am,” responded the newly installed Secretary of Defense, who wouldn’t officially take the post until confirmed by Congress, when and if it reconvened. “The Raytheon SM-3 Block IIA missile defense system did its job on the ICBMs. The Pacific Tracker was perfectly positioned for intercept, ma’am.”
The six-hundred-sixty-six-foot vessel was designed to have long-range, highly efficient telemetry processing systems to aid missile defense systems like the SM-3 IIA. The SM-3s were part of the forty-four ground-based interceptors in Alaska and California that defended the country against ICBM missiles.
“That’s great news!” exclaimed the president, whose enthusiasm wasn’t shared by the military leaders who surrounded her. She immediately felt embarrassed and sensed a but coming from her Defense Secretary.
“Yes, ma’am, to an extent,” continued Secretary Evans. “Without seeming inappropriate, ma’am, but Chairman Kim was shrewd in his tactics.”
“What do you mean?”
“The first two missiles fired by the DPRK were from known, fixed locations on the east coast of North Korea. Both were sent to expected targets—Guam and Hawaii.”
“So?” The president put her hands on her hips and looked to Acton, who gave her a blank stare in return.
“Madam President, because our past success rate in testing the SM-3 defense system was fifty-fifty, coupled with the fact that only two nukes were detected, we attempted intercept of these two initial missiles with eight of our forty-four SM-3s.”
“Leaving us only thirty-six?” she asked.
“Yes. Moments after our release of the intercepts, the DPRK launched twenty-four additional rockets.”
“Dammit! Bottom line this for me!” The president was irate.
Secretary Evans referred to his notes. “We can’t intercept them all, ma’am. There have already been direct hits in San Diego, Los Angeles, Sacramento, Colorado Springs, outside Houston, and at Barksdale near Shreveport.”
The president’s knees became weak, and she leaned backward into a wall. Acton moved quickly to grab her arm, preventing an embarrassing collapse to the floor. She became light-headed and suddenly had the urge to run. Run as fast as she could. To anywhere. Just not here.
“Have they all hit us?” she said with a tepid voice. She didn’t want to hear the answer. She just wanted to run.
“There are still seven en route to the Eastern United States,” he replied. “Anticipated targets are Washington, New York, Omaha, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Toledo.”
The president looked puzzled and turned her head as if the slight tilt would allow the list of cities to compute in her brain better. “Wait. Toledo? And why Sacramento? Did they miss?”
“No, ma’am. Toledo and Sacramento have between six and eight military installations surrounding their metropolitan areas, not to mention nuclear power plants. While New York City, for example, is a prime target because of its large population and high profile, more strategic targets include cities like Omaha and Philly, which have a number of military bases and nuclear plants as well.”
“Have you been in contact with NORTHCOM in Cheyenne Mountain?”
“Yes, ma’am. The city of Colorado Springs took a direct hit, but there was only minor damage within the mountain. The design worked.”
“Okay, what else so far?”
Secretary Evans nodded to Colonel Baker of the 1111th Signal Corps, who was in charge of all communications within Raven Rock.
Colonel Baker began. “Madam President, the Global Strike Command center at Barksdale took a direct hit. It’s hard to imagine any survivors. All infrastructure on base has been destroyed, and their operations have been delegated to support bases under their command.”
“How many service personnel did we lose?” she asked.
“Unknown, but most likely numbered in the thousands. But there is an ancillary aspect to this, ma’am.”
The president exhaled, no longer attempting to hide the smell of wine on her breath. She was ready for this to be over. “Go ahead, Colonel.”
Baker looked at the Defense Secretary, who nodded for him to continue. “Madam President, Barksdale is next to one of the nation’s major data transmission lines, which runs parallel to Interstate 20 into Texas. It’s part of the Louisiana Optical Network Initiative, or LONI.”
“And?” the president interrupted.
“It appears, Madam President, that the transmission lines have been severed. Raven Rock—and the Pentagon, when the time comes—has been cut off from our military bases in the Southwest.”
Chapter 10
December 1
Kingsbury Colony, Montana
Another hour had passed and the same emergency message repeated itself on the AM radio. Fiorella went to check on Morales and returned with a Charles Chips potato chip can. It was sealed with an aluminum tape that resembled air-conditioning duct tape. Riley immediately jumped out of his chair to assist her with the load. When she broke his heart by revealing that potato chips were not inside, he set the can on the kitchen table and sulked.
“I’m sorry, Riley,” joked Palmer, and then channeled their momma. “Are you not gettin’ enough to eat, hon?”
“Whatever, Palmer,” he gruffed. “I was just tryin’ to help her carry it. That’s all.”
“Liar!” she said playfully before Riley took a swat at her. Cooper often wondered who would come out of a wrestling match alive if they actually went at it. Riley was strong as an ox, but Palmer had tremendously quick reflexes. Plus, she was slippery. She’d always wrangled out of a choke hold when they played as kids.
Fiorella retrieved a knife from the kitchen drawer and cut the tape, followed by popping the lid. One item at a time, she unloaded the contents from the foam-lined container onto the kitchen table. Each item was wrapped in heavy-duty aluminum foil.
“A Faraday cage,” muttered Palmer.
“Very good, young lady,” said Fiorella. “They encourage everyone in the colony to have them. Believe it or not, this was a house-warming gift when we moved here. I’ve got one for my sister-in-law when they arrive as well.”
Winnie, the Schlossmachers’ English bulldog, slowly emerged from the bedroom in a half-sleepy state, looking for something to eat.
“Let me feed this tummy while you guys find the shortwave radio in this stuff,” Fiorella instructed. “There should also be some batteries. The shortwave band will provide you a lot more options to get information. You might even find the Three Percenters.”
“Three Percenters?” asked Cooper.
Fiorella pulled a bowl out of the cupboard and provided Winnie a combination of dry dog food and some leftover corn, which she shaved off the cob for a little added flavor.
She replied, “The Three Percenters are a nationwide group that, well, I guess some refer to them as a militia.”
“Why are they called the Three Percenters?” asked Palmer.
“Here’s what I know,” Fiorella began. “During the American Revolution, the number of men fighting against the Brits never really amounted to more than three percent of the colonist population.”
“You mean only three percent of the population wanted freedom and independence?” asked Riley.
“No,” she began her response. She set the food on a place mat for Winnie, who eagerly chomped it down, passing gas twice during the process. “Only three percent of the colonists took up arms against the British. Today, the Three Percenters identify with those colonists willing to fight, because they were considered the true patriots fighting for freedom from the king.”
“Wow, who knew?” said Palmer jokingly. “It kinda shows how powerful a minority can be if they’re passionate and stick together.”
Fiorella sat down and reached across the table for one of the aluminum-foil-covered bund
les. She began to unwrap it and eventually revealed a silver Sangean world-band receiver.
“Here we go. Did you find any double A batteries?”
Riley slid four across the table in her direction.
Fiorella continued. “Anyway, they’re what the government commonly refers to as a militia. Back in the colonial days, a militia was a normal, accepted form of raising an army. In fact, most of the three percenters were civilians who supplemented the regular Colonial Army who fought in the Revolution. Today, any group deemed a militia by the government is bad because they are labeled as anti-Washington, pro-freedom, pro-gun, pro-religion, etcetera.”
“We’ve got militia groups in Texas, especially along the Mexican border,” said Cooper. “I think they call themselves the United Patriots.”
“Three-UP,” interjected Fiorella.
Cooper sat up in his chair. “Yeah, that’s them—Three-UP. Do you reckon they’re the same bunch? I gotta tell ya, in Texas, the ranchers along the border loved them. Until they finished the wall from Brownsville to El Paso, ICE and federal border protection were undermanned and overrun. It was lawless. The United Patriots just had to stand across the river and the illegals would scatter in all directions on the other side.”
“That’s the same type of organization, or might even be connected, I don’t know. I haven’t listened to their broadcasts in a long time, but I imagine Three-UP stands for Three Percenter United Patriots.”
“Makes sense,” said Cooper.
“You mentioned broadcasts,” asked Riley. “Do they have a radio station or something?”
Fiorella inserted the batteries and closed up the radio. It powered up immediately, providing a loud static throughout the kitchen.
“Well, it’s a long shot, but they might be on the air,” she said as she handed the radio to Riley. “They’re located all over the mountain west. Plus, they’re all preppers. If we had one Faraday can courtesy of Charles Chips, each of their families had five or six.”
Palmer and Cooper huddled around the portable radio as Riley thumbed through the digital dials. Fiorella cleaned up after Winnie, and the two of them left for the bedroom to see about the Brazilians.
After they’d left, Palmer asked. “When should we tell her that we’re still plannin’ on leavin’? She’s so nice, y’all.”
“Let’s see what we can find out on the shortwave, and then we’ll sleep on it,” replied Cooper. “If nothing else happens, then we’ll tell her when we wake up. I hate long goodbyes.”
Chapter 11
December 1
The Armstrong Ranch
Borden County, Texas
It took thirty minutes to gather everyone in the bunker and seal the hatch. Most of the Armstrong Ranch residents heard the sonic booms and immediately began to gather their things under the assumption they’d be vacating their homes. They lived in a different world now, and situational awareness had become a way of life for everyone on the ranch.
In the first bunker, Major had gathered those who were interested in monitoring the radio for news from around the state. The second bunker was dedicated to the children and anyone who couldn’t handle the circumstances happening aboveground. The two bunkers were filled well beyond their capacity, and he didn’t want to expose people to the realities of nuclear war unnecessarily.
He and Lucy huddled in their room to scour the internet for information, since HughesNet finally made adjustments following the EMP. Major felt terrible they hadn’t monitored the radio more diligently. They’d reached a false sense of security after the president indicated hostilities had ceased based upon the words of Kim Jong-un. Major silently cursed Washington in general, as he held them responsible for this escalation. Then he scolded himself for trusting his better judgment to politicians.
“Here are some details from the BBC,” he said to Lucy, who sat in a folding chair alone in the corner. Despite their comforting words to one another, the reality had set in for Lucy when the hatch was closed for the second time in a week. My kids aren’t safe in a bunker.
“Okay,” she murmured her response.
“Apparently the first missiles were launched from North Korea a couple of hours ago. One hit Guam and the other was destroyed heading to Hawaii. We knocked some of them down, but several found their way through.”
Lucy became concerned, and she retrieved a U.S. atlas from a plastic bin under the steel-framed bed. She frantically thumbed through the pages until she found the border between Canada and Montana.
“Where did they get through?” she asked hesitantly.
Major replied, “The West Coast in California. Near Denver. Galveston. Near Shreveport. A couple of cities in the Midwest.”
“What about Canada?”
“Nope. No locations in Canada were targeted, according to this report.”
“Major, could the kids have made it to Denver already?”
Major took a deep breath and let out the air from his lungs. “Honey, I’ve thought about this every day. I’ve tried to imagine where the kids are and what they’ve done so far.”
Lucy added, “We’ve instilled a sense of urgency in them under these types of circumstances. I hazard to say they knew this was an EMP within a minute of it happening. They knew the telltale signs.”
“And we taught them the government wouldn’t be able to fix things immediately,” Major said as he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He looked up to the ceiling as he performed some mental calculations. “For sake of argument, let’s assume they left on horseback that night, or by the next day. It’s only been a week.”
Lucy interrupted. “Which means they’ve only made it as far as the middle of Montana or Northern Colorado, which would be a stretch.”
“Agreed. They’re probably in Montana.”
“Were any missiles fired at Montana?” asked Lucy.
Major returned his attention to the article and scanned through the list of targeted locations. He smiled and looked over the top of the screen at his wife.
“Not so far. Also, there’s this. The BBC reports that we’ve retaliated. We fired our nukes back at them.”
“Major, will this stop the attacks on us?”
“If we unleashed the hounds, so to speak, there won’t be anything left of North Korea. Yes, the attacks would stop.”
Lucy began thumbing through the map book again. She traced her index finger from Calgary, along the eastern edge of the Rockies, until she reached Texas. She looked up at Major with a look of concern. “If they take a direct route south, they’ll have to travel through, or at least near, Denver. What about the fallout?”
Major set the laptop aside. “I’m sure they have their get-home bags. They have the masks, the IOSAT tablets, and the radiation stamp things. Besides, by the time they reach Denver on horseback, the fallout will be gone.”
A gentle knock on the door interrupted the parents’ conversation.
“Major, can we talk for a minute?” asked Preacher.
“Yeah, come on in.”
Preacher slowly opened the door and slipped inside, quickly closing it behind him. “Listen, they found a Mexican station that is reporting that California got hit. Is that true?”
“Yes, unfortunately. San Diego, LA, and near Frisco. Why?”
Preacher grimaced before answering, “A lot of our people have family in Southern California. What should I tell them?”
Major looked to Lucy for advice.
Lucy had a question. “Major, if we retaliated and that means they can’t fire off any more nukes, how long will it be before we can leave the shelter?”
Major closed his left eye in concentration and stared at the ceiling as he thought about the fallout. “Assuming they didn’t hit Arizona or New Mexico, which there is no indication that they did, then we could leave whenever we want. The fallout from the West Coast will most likely dissipate before it reaches Texas.”
“But we’ll still monitor for radiation, right?”
Lucy thought for a moment and then addressed Preacher. “All of us should make this decision together, but it sounds like we would be safe if we left the bunker in the morning, after we confirm that North Korea has been wiped off the face of the planet. If that’s the case, let’s put off telling everyone about the cities that were attacked until we’re outside. I realize the unknown breeds anxiety. But the word of lost loved ones to a nuclear bomb will stir them all into a frenzy.”
Preacher shrugged. “I hate lying to folks, especially our people. That said, it’s the right thing to do under the circumstances. We can’t have everyone in a panic. It’ll use up all of the oxygen in these buried tin cans.”
“Hey, these tin cans, as you call them, got here just in time, don’t you think?” asked Major.
“Can’t argue with that,” said Preacher with a laugh. Then he got a serious look on his face. “When we walk out of here, things will be different. What does our future look like?”
Major stood and patted his friend on the shoulder as he reached for Lucy’s hand. “Here’s the thing about the future. Every time you look at it, it changes because you looked at it. And that, my friend, changes everything else. We’ll take it one day at a time and be thankful for another day after that one is over.”
Chapter 12
December 1
Grand Canyon West Airport
Peach Springs, Arizona
“This is Captain Doug Thomas speaking. We’ve been cleared for landing and have begun our descent into Grand Canyon West Airport. The Arizona National Guard and elements of the 58th Operations Group has taken control of GCW. I need everyone buckled up and holding tight, as this runway presents a challenge for this aircraft. You will be briefed further on the ground. That is all.”
Grand Canyon West Airport was located sixty miles northwest of the small Arizona town of Peach Springs. From the sky, it appeared abandoned, as it stood on top of a mesa overlooking the Grand Canyon. The runway, which stretched only five thousand feet before it reached the rocky soil, was just long enough to stop the massive Boeing aircraft, which would use every inch of asphalt.