“Coming through!” Manley performed a skidding sideways stop at the end of his approach, spraying slush and mud in a high arc of
MARK E. BECKER
the back of the crowd. Without waiting for the inevitable protests, he launched himself into the mass of people and propelled his athletic body toward the helo. His approach was a complete surprise, and for a brief moment, the crowd parted, leaving him facing the muzzles of automatic weapons capable of ripping him in half in less than a second.
“Secret Service! I’m here to take you to Hairbrush!” They had to believe him . . . he knew the right words. Hairbrush was Scarlett’s classified name, and it granted him immediate access. “You need to get this bird in the air and let Washington know that we have her safe and sound,” he said, launching himself into the helicopter.
“We can’t do that, sir,” said the pilot. “We kept her flying after the second EMP went off, but it knocked out all of our communications. We’ll be flying blind . . .”
“I don’t care. Our first duty is getting Hairbrush to safety, and we will serve her or die trying,” he responded. His urgency was contagious, and the helo’s blades began spinning. Manley directed them seven blocks away to the town house.
While they were in the air, Manley noted that the fire had spread and there were people running in the street toward the train station, where a black locomotive attached to passenger cars, all apparently snatched from a museum, was boarding refugees fleeing the city. Judging from the number of the waiting evacuees, it would not be enough. Smoke billowed across Manhattan like a gray curtain, changing the day into night for long minutes. When daylight was able to poke through the haze for a moment, the waiting crowd’s enormity was revealed.
The fire had begun at the source. The buildings across the Hudson that were closest to the Statue of Liberty sustained the most intense bombardment of the EMP blast, and the electrical charge caused sparks. The buildings were old, and the fire was inevitable. The wind coming out of the west spread it like a forest fire, moving in a wave toward the East River. Soon, anything that can burn will go up in smoke. We need to get to the Vice-President, and fast.
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They flew low enough to witness the chaos below. People were fleeing by train and on foot, all heading west off the island, with the spreading fire hastening their departure. These were the New Yorkers who had hunkered down, waiting for it to be over. When the lights didn’t come back on, and their apartments got cold, they had panicked. The glow of the flames came from the west, a constant reminder of the urgency of their mission. Their destination was well-marked. While Manley was on his reconnoitering mission, the rest of the vice president’s Secret Service contingent had been busy. In the snow-covered street outside of the townhouse, a large arrow had been created with fireplace ash.
Scarlett and her protectors heard the helo simultaneously. Without the need to voice the words, they moved as one toward the door. As they left the building, the fashion models stood at the top of the hallway stairs, crying and begging, “Take us! We’ll die here!” Scarlett paused and scanned the pitiful sight. Their makeup was smeared from constant crying, but it failed to diminish their fragile beauty. A wave of pity came into her mind, but in a flash, it was gone. They were in survival mode, and the first obligation was for the continuity of government to be assured. “You’re on your own now,” Scarlett announced in a solemn voice, and then they were gone.
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CHAPTER 72
O
n a dock on the Hudson sat the other helo, surrounded by the remaining members of the rescue team. The blast at the Statue of Liberty had fried all means of communication even though the internal controls were well shielded from the
gamma radiation. At least they were able to stay in the air. Without the shielding, both aircraft would have been at the bottom of the river, their occupants entombed beneath the brown water. The helo carrying the vice president landed briefly to redistribute passengers before a high-speed flight to safety.
Once the helos left Manhattan and crossed the Hudson, the scene below became surreal. They flew directly over the Statue of Liberty, or what was left of it. The second EMP blast was much smaller in scale, apparently. It was enough to melt the copper arm holding the torch, and the interior structure was fully exposed. The metal skeleton was glowing, and the super-heated mass was slowly collapsing in a melted heap. Lady Liberty’s face looked toward the sky from the ground, cracked from crown to jaw, the last recognizable feature of a noble countenance. It provoked a profound sadness in Scarlett, and the image lingered in her mind long after they had left the disaster zone and flew toward Washington.
“Do we have any way of contacting anyone to let them know our situation,” inquired Scarlett. “No ma’am,” replied the copilot, his hands tenuously cupped to the vice president’s ear to make himself heard over the thrup-thrup of the helo. “We managed to rig our transponder to get it working, so they know we’re alive and moving, but the gamma radiation must have been intense . . . we think it got past the shielding at the antennae and fried our communications. We can’t transmit or receive a signal, and nobody thought to bring spare parts. We’re flying on instinct and dead reckoning, but don’t worry ma’am, we’ll get you home.”
“Marine, quit ma’aming me, and tell me what happened,” she snipped.
“Well, it used to be called Radioflash. Starfish Prime. Operation Fishbowl. Knocked out streetlights in Hawaii from eight hundred ninety-eight miles away. Set off burglar alarms, destroyed microwave links back in the nineteen fifties . . .”
“You’re talking gobbledygook to a reasonably intelligent woman who happens to be a heartbeat away from the presidency. Give it to me straight and talk so I can understand what the hell you are talking about!” Her scolding tone intimidated him, but its effect made him focus.
“It’s basic physics that they taught us in flight school, ma’am. Those devices weren’t made to destroy buildings and people. They mess everything up with gamma radiation. You saw the effects of it on Inaugural Day, but that was a baby compared to the first one that toasted New York City . . .”
“How did it do so much damage?” She needed to be briefed so that when she got back, she would sound like an expert. It was expected of the commander in chief, and she had no intention of looking like a damsel in distress. She would surely be called upon to make a statement to the press, and she wanted to look and talk presidential. Her status as vice president was merely a resting place on the ladder to the presidency, she reasoned. Besides, the way Max had always exposed himself to danger meant that she may assume that role anytime.
“Well, the way I understand it, EMP bombs cause damage three ways. There’s the E-one pulse . . . it’s a brief, intense electromagnetic field. Electrical breakdown voltages get exceeded.”
While he continued to explain, Scarlett searched for the comb and makeup she had scrounged from the Palm Beach socialite’s apartment. She silently cursed herself for ordering Britney onto the other helo. She lacked a mirror, and had to be satisfied with her reflection on the window. “Go on, I can multitask,” she ordered.
“Then there’s the E-two pulse . . . it’s like lightning. But the third is the most damaging over a large area. The E-three pulse is very slow, and it moves the earth’s electromagnetic field out of the way. It’s like a geomagnetic storm from a solar flare. It causes electromagneticinduced currents in long electrical conductors and shuts down the grid. It pops transformers on power lines and there’s a cascading effect . . . it will take a long time to bring the city back to life, or what’s left of it.”
“One bomb did all of that?”
“Yes ma’am, and when the buildings started to burn, we had no way of putting out the fires.”
Scarlett absorbed the enormity of the situation, and reflected on how America could prevent a repeat of the disaster that was raging below them. It was obvious that the first order of business was to eliminate the threat.
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One hour later, the helo carrying Scarlett landed on the White House lawn, and she walked in with a plan.
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CHAPTER 73
S
carlett strode through the front door of the White House with purpose, not waiting to speak to the cluster of anxious aides that had assembled to ask questions and take direction from her. In the past, Scarlett was known to burst into a roomful of subordinates, peppering them with orders in brisk succession. That day, she made her way past the assemblage without a word, ascended the steps to the second floor, and entered the queen’s bedroom. Locking the door, she turned to face Roger Sinclair. “I assumed you would find your way here eventually,” he exclaimed. She fell into his arms and sobbed. “I thought I would never see you again. We almost didn’t make it out of there alive.”
“You were surrounded by the best, and I knew you would be well protected. I didn’t worry that you would get out of there until the second blast at the Statue of Liberty knocked out our eyes and ears. We knew that both helos were intact, but we had no idea what was happening on the ground. I warned them that they could expect a second bomb, and now we have found more.” She held him tight and kissed him deeply, prompting his arousal. Immediately, he began unbuttoning her blouse. “Oh, baby, I must look a mess. I haven’t bathed for three days,” she protested.
“I know that, darlin’, that’s why I drew you a bath. You don’t mind if I sit on the edge of the tub while you luxuriate in the bubbles, do you?”
“I prefer, in fact, I command, that you join me,” she said in her most sultry voice, taking his hand and pulling him toward the sitting room. “You really know how to treat a lady.” He undressed her with urgency, and she expertly unbuttoned his dress shirt, pulling it down over his shoulders when she was halfway down his chest. It was a game they played, the effect was to pin his arms to his body, rendering him helpless. She then worked on his belt buckle, and pulled his pants down around his ankles. He smiled in anticipation of things to come. Scarlett had total control of the situation, and he willingly played the role of helpless male.
“I see that you missed me,” she teased, making an effort to avoid the prominent erection that tented his boxers. She wanted to delay his satisfaction, and prolong his excitement. It was better that way. Hooking her hands inside the waistband, she drew him in the direction of the bathtub full of bubbles. He took stutter steps. Scarlett laughed in delight at his predicament. “You can brief me on the State of the Union, and I promise not to interrupt, Mr. Sinclair, or you can wait until we have concluded our bath. Which course do you recommend?”
“The only union I intend to brief you about is the state of our union, Vice President Conroy, and that is for your eyes only.”
“In that case, sir, I will release you from your confinement, so that you may have your way with me,” she joked. They made love with desperate passion, splashing water and bubbles in ripples across the tiled floor of the bathroom. “We seem to be defiling the queen’s private bathing quarters,” Roger remarked. “I won’t tell her if you won’t,” she giggled. When Scarlett was alone with him, the hard persona of her position was put aside, and she was free to be a woman. It was something she craved, the playful banter and the physical release, and her secret lover held the key to her satisfaction.
Hours later, they entered the Situation Room from separate doors, their hair still wet. “It’s about time you got back here,” said Max, winking.
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CHAPTER 74
T
he drones flew into the dark zone as the sun was setting. The video images were disturbing and terrifying, showing a massive column of smoke from a distance of twenty-five miles. As they approached the Manhattan skyline, the sun had
sunk below the horizon, and the flames became visible. Some of the taller buildings were totally engulfed. The orange of the flames reflected on the windows of adjacent buildings, magnifying the glow and illuminating the empty streets. Other than the flames, the only other light in the darkness was where the activity and the people were located; Grand Central Station was well lit, and Union Station, too.
Andrew had secured four locomotive engines and as many Amtrak passenger cars as they could pull, all from railroad museums and rail yards throughout the Northeast. Large portable lighting systems had been brought in as well, and from the air, the islands of activity stood out from the darkness. Those who had not made it off Manhattan, by foot or by their genius for survival, huddled inside and in the cold, waiting to leave. Old locomotives, pre-electronics, some dating to the early twentieth century, were brought in along old railroad lines from New Jersey and were transporting the evacuees off the island in a continuous loop. After that, if they had no family to take them in, or the funds to stay elsewhere, they stayed on the train until the end of the line, where temporary housing, not much more than a tent city, awaited. The end of the line was where those who had the least would suffer the most. In keeping with Pryor’s philosophy of survival, the Masterson administration, and Max Masterson alone, would be confronted with the failure that Adam Pryor had designed.
When the sound of the old locomotive became recognizable, the hunkered-down occupants of New York were drawn to it like moths to a flame. The steam whistle was insistent, and couldn’t be ignored. They packed up what they could carry, some with backpacks, but most with large suitcases more designed for air travel than evacuation.
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“Whoever is left when the fires are done, and the rats take to the streets, and the food runs out, those are the fools. I can only focus now on the people of Manhattan who want to live,” Max declared to those present in the Situation Room. General Bradbury looked on with the others, recalling evacuations in wars that had failed, and the frantic change of regimes that had led to thousands of innocent deaths. Turning to Max, he crisply saluted. “Mr. President, back when we were in the big buildup with the Soviets, a few wellmeaning military tacticians and engineers built these devices to destroy the infrastructure, so we could march in and take over without killing people. It looks like we failed. All of us.” It was disconcerting to see the career military leader look so helpless.
Bowles took no clues from his earlier dressing-down by Max. His ego kept him from remaining silent, “A lot of people are going to die. The weak and innocent and the sick will go first. Those who have the least will suffer the most.” General Bradbury left the situation room without another word, followed by Bowles. Shaking his head, Max returned to the task of leadership.
Bowles will not be returning. I have heard those words before.
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CHAPTER 75
D
aniel Stableton’s family had farmed the rich soil of the valleys between the Delaware and the Hudson River for five generations. They were dug in, and weren’t going anywhere. The valley was where they lived, and the twelve children
born to his parents, Edna Maude and Clifford, had not wandered far from the 160-acre homestead that had produced the large family. Before them, Daniel’s grandmother, Nora, had produced another batch of twelve kids, and died in childbirth while trying for a baker’s dozen. That was the way life was away from the city, sixty-five miles away. Some of them had moved closer to town. Liberty, New York was twelve miles to the west, but most, if they hadn’t found a way to go off to college after high school, had remained home.
Unlike the city dwellers, they were as self-sufficient as any family in the twenty-first century. They weren’t on the grid. A hydro-generator supplied electrical power from the dam, sufficient to provide for their needs. A solar charging station kept a bank of deep-cell batteries charged at all times, and their tractor and ATVs were plugged into the charger when they were not in use. They grew their own crops for the most part, supplementing their harvest with store-bought items when they had to, but they seldom spent money on things they saw as frivolous.
All family meetings were held in the kitchen, where the round table had a chair for each member. After Mom and D
ad, everyone had equal say about family matters. Dad would announce the issue, and Mom would express her concerns. Then they went around the table, from oldest to youngest. “We have a crisis,” Dad began. “You know that they just brought the people from New York City out to the Torgesson’s farm to live until they can go back home. They may be there for a while. You saw what happened to the city when the power went out. The buildings are still burning.” He scanned the faces of his four children, who sat silent and serious. They had always been his pride and joy, and they not only spoke and acted as a family, they thought alike. There would be no dissension.
“I have never thought much of city folks,” Dad continued. “They aren’t like us, and you can’t trust ’em.” He stopped and sipped on his coffee.
“We need to look out for our own and save what’s ours. What I’m sayin’, is that they will take what’s ours if we don’t watch out. We need to be vigilant.” He turned toward his wife, the organizer. She ran the family, as her mother had done before her. It was her purpose in life, and she took her role as matriarch competently and naturally. She could be nothing else.
“Kids, we need to get busy. Boys, you are in charge of protecting the livestock. I want you to move them from the pastures closest to the tent city, away from anyone who would mess with them. Girls, you will stay here and watch what is happening from your bedroom windows upstairs. Anything that is out of the ordinary, you need to tell your Dad and me. We all need to work together to make sure that bad things don’t happen.”
Betsy was the first to speak. She was the oldest and the most opinionated. At her sixteen years of wisdom, parents were invisible
NO CORNER TO HIDE
until the realities of living intruded. The presence of hundreds or thousands of strangers from the city was enough to take her out of her adolescent world.
“Mom, can’t we just tell them to go away? They don’t belong here. Jeremy told me that he saw some of them in town, and they were scary. They’re not like us . . .”
No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) Page 23