Geostorm The Collapse: A Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The Geostorm Series Book 3)

by Bobby Akart

Roosevelt Room

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what the Daily Mail says! Tell them—or the prime minister, or whoever is running their mouth—to stay in their own lane!”

  President Grant Houston was slowly becoming unhinged as the pressure of a nation in collapse was pounding his head like a pile driver. Over the last two days, he’d demanded representatives of NOAA and NASA to maintain offices in the press briefing room.

  The media had been kicked out of the West Wing when the rioters began to descend upon the White House. The combination of a small battalion of three hundred U.S. Army soldiers camped on both the North and South Lawns, plus a much larger force that cordoned off a four-block perimeter, had allowed the occupants of the White House to return to their usual workspaces.

  The president could be seen almost hourly marching out of the Oval Office, along the West Colonnade overlooking the Rose Garden, and into the temporary offices of the nation’s weather and space agencies. He’d become obsessed with the surface of the sun and its active regions. Hoping, in a way, that a solar flare would be launched toward Earth so he could affirm his decision to intentionally take down the power grid.

  As time had passed, even his supporters were beginning to question his decision, and the American media, who’d taken up residency in international newsrooms abroad, were beginning to fuel the fires of discontent.

  “Mr. President, I understand your position, but the Brits believe we’ve overreacted—”

  “I don’t care!” The president stopped his own tirade by suddenly catching his breath. His face was red in anger, and beads of sweat had developed on his forehead as unusually warm weather had come to Washington. The White House had its own self-contained power-generation system using both stored and solar energy, but it was not capable of operating the massive HVAC units necessary to control the climate inside. “All I’m saying is thank goodness the opinions of people overseas can’t be heard by three hundred plus million Americans. You think we’ve got trouble now? Imagine if they all get pissed off.”

  Homeland Security Secretary Ducci tried to be the voice of reason as he delivered some bad news to the president. “Mr. President, unfortunately, some of the media’s message is getting through to the wrong people. Well, excuse me. That’s a poor choice of words. By wrong people, I mean the decision makers within the reliability council and, in turn, those individual utilities within their purview.”

  “Spit it out, Marc,” the president rudely insisted.

  “Yes, of course. We are receiving reports that some big-city mayors are considering breaking with us, sir.”

  “Breaking?”

  “Well, um, as this information trickles down to the locals, they begin to look around at their cities in flames. Mayors that normally support us are now looking to jump ship, just as I warned.”

  “Where?”

  “Cleveland. St. Louis. Detroit. Baltimore. Memphis. Atlanta. Miami.”

  “Those are all big cities,” interjected O’Donnell. “What about California?”

  Ducci quickly replied, “Cali is holding strong, Ange, but this list is not exclusive. I’m just hitting the high points. There are many more. Heck, even small municipalities like South Bend are considering firing up their substations.”

  “Mayor Pete?” asked the president. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, sir,” replied Ducci. “I tried to reach out to him directly via our FEMA operation in the state, but he refused to speak with me. As it was relayed to me, he said something like citizens first.”

  The president blew up again, something that had begun to occur more frequently. “What the hell does that mean? Does he not think that I’m trying to do the same damn thing?”

  “I imagine he does, sir, just as the other mayors do. However, they’re trying to govern cities embroiled in lawlessness and mayhem. If we’d given them more time to prepare …” His voice trailed off as he realized he’d directly questioned the president’s decision. Ducci became rigid in his chair and gripped the arms until his knuckles turned white in anticipation of the berating he was about to receive from the president.

  Instead, it came from his attack dog. “Well, Marc, where was your voice when we debated this decision before, hmmm? You wanna play Monday-morning quarterback?”

  “No, Angela, that’s not what I meant—”

  “Sure sounded like it to me,” she shot back. “As I see it, you’ve fought the president every step of the way.”

  “Me?” Ducci was on the defensive, so the long-running feud between the president’s two advisors flared up again. “You’ve been sitting on a martial law declaration that could’ve addressed all these issues. What’s the holdup, Ange?”

  The president stood and slammed both hands on the top of the Roosevelt Room’s conference table, coupled with an outburst that might have caused Teddy Roosevelt the Rough Rider to fall off his horse in Heaven.

  “Enough!”

  The other attendees in the room slid down in their chairs. Each had a report to give to the president on the state of the nation’s law enforcement readiness and National Guard troop positioning. Nola Taylor, the NASA representative who’d become a mandatory attendee at these briefings, was there with another report on the sun’s solar activity. A former astronaut and climatologist with an expertise in analyzing climate patterns and the geological effects on the world’s weather, Taylor was on the fast track to becoming the head of the agency’s Space Technology Mission Directorate. She also averted her eyes, trying to avoid eye contact with the exasperated president.

  “The decision to hold off on declaring martial law was mine, and mine alone. Suspending all civil authority and imposing our military might upon the American people is not something I take lightly. I’m not sure our citizens are prepared to accept that the military will take the place of law enforcement, the courts, and even their governing bodies, from legislatures to the states’ executive branches.”

  O’Donnell, who’d privately suggested the president use caution in making the declaration, tried to provide him further cover for his delay in implementing the extreme measure.

  “Well, there’s also the constitutional question. The attorney general has suggested that Article 1, Section 9 would necessarily suspend habeas corpus in the event of the president’s declaration. If the Constitution stands for anything, it certainly stands for a citizen to not be held without a charge or a hearing. Because of this, the AG believes Congress is the proper body to suspend this writ and, therefore, make the martial law declaration.”

  Ducci was unconvinced. “Who’s the commander-in-chief of the military? The president. He can’t assign that responsibility to Congress. Grant is the only one who can make the declaration.”

  “And what if Congress rejects it?”

  “Let them!” Ducci shot back. “What are they gonna do, sue? Take it to the Supreme Court. By the time we implement the directives, they’ll change their tune.”

  The room grew silent and O’Donnell began nodding her head. She’d appeared fidgety throughout the discussion of foreign media influence and was uncharacteristically combative with Ducci in a public setting.

  “You know what, Marc, maybe you’re right.”

  The Homeland Security secretary fell back into his chair and raised his eyebrows. He was at a loss for words.

  The president, however, frowned, as he knew his chief-of-staff all too well, on many levels. She was not one to give up a fight, much less declare her adversary to be right, even if he was. He decided a change of scenery was necessary, but first he needed a word with his lover.

  “Everyone, let’s adjourn for now. I have a lot to think about. Ange, please join me in the Oval Office so we can discuss this further.”

  He stood and quickly exited the Roosevelt Room without another word, leaving a flabbergasted group of advisors behind.

  Chapter 18

  The Oval Office

  The White
House

  Washington, DC

  President Houston was standing on top of the presidential seal with his arms folded across his chest when O’Donnell entered the room. His demeanor was dour anyway, but the look he was giving her was one of suspicion. She’d showed her cards too quickly, and now he was guarded. She decided to use their personal relationship to disarm him before she explained her sudden turnaround. She gave him a sultry smile and walked up to him. She rubbed his chest with both hands and looked into his eyes.

  “Do you remember how we’d steal away to the Hotel St. Lauren?” she asked.

  The president managed a smile as the memories of their secretive trysts flashed through his mind. “Yeah. It’s amazing how many fundraisers were held on Catalina Island.”

  “Hey, we were strategic about it. Hollywood was willing to open up their wallets as long as they had glitzy affairs to attend,” she said with a chuckle.

  “And, of course, a red carpet with plenty of paparazzi,” added the president.

  “Funny how that works, isn’t it? They complain about the photogs intruding on their private lives, but couldn’t wait for that red carpet to glam it up.”

  The president warmed up to her and wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist. “They say the most dangerous place in Washington is between a politician and a camera. They haven’t summered on Catalina during primary season.”

  They both laughed and kissed one another.

  “I was sitting in that briefing wondering if we could just run away. You know, like all the celebs and Silicon Valley types.”

  “You mean to New Zealand?”

  “Sure. Why not? Just resign, turn it over to people like Marc and your vice president, who live for this stuff. We’ll just fade into oblivion.”

  President Houston broke their embrace and wandered toward the bank of windows overlooking the South Lawn. He removed his jacket and tossed it in his chair. With his tie loosened, he leaned against the wall where he could take in the view of the military tents that surrounded the White House.

  “I remember the first day we walked into the Oval Office. I couldn’t get enough of this view. Of all the things to take in, the view of the South Lawn captured my attention.”

  O’Donnell was pulling out all the stops as she led the president down memory lane. “You know what I remember that first day? I remember you suggesting to the First Lady that she head over to the East Wing to meet her staff. Then you emptied the room, and seconds later, we were christening the Resolute desk with mind-blowing sex.”

  The president laughed loudly before catching himself. “Yeah, if I remember, I had to hold my hand over your mouth to contain your excitement.”

  “Yeah, and I bit your fingers to ignite yours.”

  He reached his hand out to invite her to join him, but she stopped and her face changed. She looked down and folded her arms.

  “Ange, what’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, Grant, not at all. Um, I need to tell you something.”

  He approached her and leaned against the desk. “What is it?”

  She hesitated and then tears began to stream down her face. “Um, the morning we decided to take down the power grid, you know, before the announcement was made official, I did something.”

  “What?” The president didn’t like people to beat around the bush.

  “I contacted our broker in LA. I confided in him as to what was about to happen.”

  The president was shocked at the revelation. “Oh no. Is he the one who leaked it to the media?”

  She vehemently shook her head back and forth. “No. No. Nothing like that. I can trust him with my life. He’s the model of discretion.”

  “So why did you call him? I thought we’d agreed to move our money out of equities and park it in cash or precious metals.”

  “Well, we did something different,” she began. “You see, um, in the last ten minutes of trading at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange that day, he moved all of our holdings into a cash account and immediately sold short S&P e-minis.”

  The president pushed off the desk and began to wander the Oval Office. “Ange, that’s a lot of money for one investment, especially one as risky as that under these circumstances.” S&P e-minis was a term used by brokerage firms for electronically traded contracts linked to the Standard & Poor’s 500 stock index. A short sale occurred when a commodity seller agreed to sell to a buyer a financial asset that the seller doesn’t own. The idea was to purchase them at a lower price later, then deliver them to the buyer at the much higher price, making a profit on the spread.

  O’Donnell nodded her head and raised her hand in an effort to calm him. “I know. Let me finish. Immediately after acquiring the purchasing rights to the e-minis, he sold them all short.”

  “Wait, the markets crashed after the news leak. Did you, um …?” His voice trailed off. The president gulped and gathered himself. “You knew the markets would crash, Ange. How much are we talking about?”

  “Using the cash reserves at this brokerage house after we liquidated everything else, I was able to margin ten times that amount.”

  “You borrowed fifty million dollars? Without asking me?”

  “Um, there wasn’t time. I mean, there was, but you were so busy.”

  The president was angry now. “What happened?”

  She hesitated and tried to approach him, but he pulled away. “Well, after the short sale was accepted, markets closed, and hours later the news regarding your decision to take down the grid spread. The S&P 500 dropped thirty percent immediately. I put in a buy order and immediately honored our contract. We cleared fifty million after commissions.”

  The president walked back to the windows and stared at the tents spread across the South Lawn. He raised his hands to lean against the window frame and shook his head in disbelief.

  “Grant, please say something.”

  He sighed. “Like what? Great job, honey. Now we have so many millions I can get a divorce and we can run away to New Zealand together. Of course I’d love to do that. Trust me. You don’t think running away with you hasn’t crossed my mind hundreds of times?”

  “I know. Now we can.”

  “Well, maybe when this is over,” he added. “You know, the stress got to me, etcetera, etcetera.”

  O’Donnell wasn’t relieved at his response. “Grant, there’s more. Um, a reporter at the Financial Times in London has made an inquiry at the Securities and Exchange Commission about unusual trading at the Chicago Merc that day. Nobody suspects it was us, but his nosing around could open up an inquiry into the brokerage house in Los Angeles. If it does, they may throw us under the bus.”

  “We’ve got to shut it down,” the president said convincingly.

  “We can’t. You know how it goes. You get caught because of the cover-up, not the deed itself.”

  The president was nervously fidgeting. He started pacing the floor and wiped the sweat off his brow with his shirtsleeve. “We’ve gotta do something. I can’t just resign, take the money, and run. That’ll fail miserably.”

  O’Donnell approached him and reached for his hand. “I have another idea.”

  “Okay.”

  “Declare martial law. It’s what all these inside-the-beltway bureaucrats and guys like Marc want anyway. Once you hold all the power, then you can govern with absolute control over all aspects of the public and private sector.”

  “I can shut down any inquiries.”

  She ran her hand down his cheek. “No. You’ll delegate that job to me as part of a streamlining effort to prepare the nation for recovery from this catastrophe. All markets will be shut down, and regulators will be reassigned to other departments. I’ll handpick our loyalists to scrub the place clean of any trace of our activity.”

  “What about the records at the Chicago Mercantile?”

  “Our broker is an electronics whiz kid. Let me get him to Washington and put him to work for us. He’ll figure out a way.”

&nb
sp; The president smiled and hugged his chief of staff. She’d manipulated him into forgiving her unforgivable betrayal. It wouldn’t be the last time her manipulations would be deployed on the President of the United States.

  Chapter 19

  Press Room, West Wing

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  “Okay, that was awkward,” NASA’s Nola Taylor said sarcastically to Sandra White from the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission, or FERC. White was also a constant fixture in the presidential briefings related to space weather due to her contributions in the Situation Room, where she’d suggested utilizing the black start plan.

  “I think they forgot who I work for,” she replied, not realizing that Taylor was referring to the spat between Secretary Ducci and Chief of Staff O’Donnell.

  “Oh, yeah, that too,” said Taylor as she shook her head. “No, I was referring to the suggestion that FERC somehow might undermine the president. And, to prevent that from happening, they want to take you guys over.”

  White chuckled as she motioned for Taylor to join her at the coffee bar set up where the press secretary’s podium usually stood. She grabbed a Styrofoam cup and poured it full.

  “They hid the real coffee mugs because they don’t want to waste their precious power on washing the dishes.”

  Taylor laughed and fixed a coffee full of cream and sugar. “Ironic, isn’t it? They won’t wash dishes, but they’ll bring a dump truck surrounded by armed soldiers to haul the excess trash away instead.”

  The two women stood alone and surveyed the staff members assigned to the newly created White House space weather detail established in the Press Corps suite located in the West Wing.

  After taking a moment to sip their coffee, White addressed Taylor’s point. “Listen, he’s under a lot of pressure, and his team is trying to assist him with solutions. Nola, the people who run FERC are beholden to the federal government anyway. I mean, who do you think pays for this nonprofit to exist?” She used her fingers to create air quotes around the term nonprofit. “We add a surcharge to the energy usage of the individual regional reliability councils, but it’s not enough to pay the bills. Washington feeds us the rest.”