Point of Crisis (The Perseid Collapse Post Apocalyptic Series)

by Steven Konkoly

  “Marines have the Enclave locked down. We’re headed back to the shop.”

  “Did they say why?” asked Dave, instantly realizing the silliness of his question.

  “They’re not very talkative today—or any day.”

  “The boat’s gone,” said Dave, pointing past the car.

  The car’s occupants craned their heads toward the sliver of water between the trees. The electrician shook his head slowly and met Dave’s eyes.

  “They must have been in a hurry to get her out of the Sound.”

  “A big hurry,” replied Dave.

  EVENT +3 Days

  USS GRAVELY (DDG 107)

  Atlantic Ocean

  Chief Fire Controlman Warren Jeffries visually confirmed the aft Vertical Launch System (VLS) status on the Combat Information Center’s (CIC) Fire Control Systems screen, before sliding behind Petty Officer Clark’s seat at the dedicated C2BMC (Command, Control, Battle Management and Communications) console. He rested both of his hands on the back of Clark’s chair and leaned forward, watching the digital display for any changes to Graveley’s launch orders.

  “Same as it’s been for the past two hours, Chief,” said Clark, “not that it matters on our end.”

  Chief Jeffries patted Clark’s shoulder. “I know, but we can’t fuck this up. This may be our only chance at payback.”

  Clark was referring to the fact that no buttons would be pushed in CIC to carry out the mission. They would continue to function as a Launch-On-Remote platform, controlled by the Missile Defense Agency. The only key difference between today and every other day Gravely spent assigned to the Homeland Ballistic Missile Defense (HBMD) mission was that the ship was plying through the Atlantic Ocean at twenty knots. Typically, they were tied securely to the dedicated BMD pier at Naval Station Norfolk—like the day of the “event.”

  He’d never forget the terror of reaching the flight deck and seeing the naval station in flames. Across the water, the city of Hampton burned fiercely, reflecting bright yellow off the churned-up water of Hampton Roads. Confusion reigned for the next several minutes as the engineering duty section tried to restore power to the drifting ship.

  The thermal effects of the blast had burned the mooring lines, weakening them significantly for the inbound 117-mile-per-hour air blast recorded by the ship’s anemometer. Without the lines to keep her in place, the prevailing winds and the tide pushed the 9,200-ton warship lazily into Hampton Roads, sending her toward the mouth of the James River. Tugboats from the naval station responded with fifteen minutes, barely in time to keep Gravely from hitting the southern Hampton Roads Beltway Tunnel entrance.

  Most of the ship’s EMP fail-safes rebooted by the time they nestled against Pier 14, restoring the critical mission systems that had been automatically disabled to save them. Once pierside, the crew spent the next ninety-three minutes frantically conducting underway checks. Gravely had orders to get underway at 0730, with whatever crew she could muster.

  At 0729, with frantic family members lining the pier, Gravely sounded one prolonged blast, followed by three short blasts on the ship’s horn as the gray ship backed into Hampton Roads with 182 of her 380 crewmembers. Most of the officers and senior enlisted personnel never arrived, including the captain.

  After six days of steaming evasive patterns in an assigned patrol station east of Cape May, New Jersey, Gravely received a warning order preparing them for the remote launch of the ship’s twenty modified antisatellite-capable SM-3 missiles. Jeffries’ only mission in life for the past eight hours had been to ensure the successful launch of those missiles.

  The orders contained no information regarding the missiles’ targets, but enough information had surfaced since the event to suggest they would be used against satellites owned and operated by the People’s Republic of China. Long-range, unencrypted transmissions between Russian Federation Space Agency stations and the International Space Station (ISS) indicated damage to the station consistent with the detonation of a thermonuclear weapon in Low Earth Orbit over the United States. Coincidentally, the Chinese Space Station (CSS) had changed orbital location three days prior to the event and was several hundred miles further away from the ISS than normal.

  The crew was eager to connect the dots, and more than willing to launch the missiles. They had woken to a nightmare on Monday morning—left with the hellish image of their world on fire and no way to contact their families. The ship had set the strictest emissions-control conditions after cruising over the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel, eliminating all transmissions. Gravely was in receive-only mode, hidden from electronic observation until she fired her full complement of twenty Light Exo-Atmospheric Projectiles (LEAPs) into orbit over the continental United States.

  “Captain’s in CIC!” yelled a sailor seated at a console near the entrance.

  Lieutenant Commander Gayle Thompson rushed across CIC to the C2BMC console, bumping into the back of the first chair. Her eyes were several minutes away from making the adjustment between the bright sunlight of the ship’s bridge and the catacomb-like darkness of the ship’s nerve center. Thompson, previously the Combat Systems Officer, had been the senior officer present onboard Gravely when they got underway, designating her the ship’s acting commanding officer.

  “How are we looking, Chief?” she said, sounding out of breath.

  “Green lights across the board, ma’am. As long as the ship doesn’t sink in the next few seconds, we’ll get some payback,” said Jeffries.

  “Don’t say that,” she said.

  “About the payback?”

  “The other part. The C2 link is working?”

  “It’s transmitting the countdown time and all of the launch data. I’ve been watching it like a hawk. We’ve got this one, ma’am. Go watch over the new ensigns on the bridge.”

  “I feel like they’re keeping an eye on me. I’ve spent my last three years down here.”

  “Lieutenant Mosely’s keeping us out of trouble,” said Jeffries.

  “Barely,” grumbled Mosely. “Skylight One-One is still downloading surface tracks. All clear. No maritime bands on the ‘Slick 32’ or contacts of interest detected by TACTAS (Tactical Towed-Array Sonar).”

  “Nothing coming into the Delaware Channel?” Thompson asked.

  “Nothing, ma’am. We would have picked up any commercial radar transmissions.”

  “Hard to believe nothing’s heading in to Philly,” Jeffries remarked.

  “Eerie. TAO, I’m headed back to the bridge. I’d like a countdown over the 1MC. The crew needs to know that their nation is back in the fight,” said Thompson.

  “Excellent, ma’am,” said Mosely, nodding in their direction.

  “Captain’s out of CIC!” Jeffries heard, followed by the thunk of the hatch closing.

  “Chief, you want to do the honors?” asked Lieutenant Mosely.

  “Negative, sir. I need to keep an eye on this. It’s all you.”

  “Roger that, Chief. T-minus seventy seconds. Look alive,” he said to the half-manned CIC.

  The ship-wide countdown proceeded smoothly according to the time provided by Missile Defense Agency data. At zero, Jeffries detected a slight tremor, which was quickly swallowed by the normal vibrations felt on a warship plying through the water. He turned to watch the Aegis System Display screen at the front of CIC, which showed a live closed-circuit camera image of the rear VLS cells. One hatch after another sprang open, belching fire thirty feet into the air and boosting one of the SM-3 missiles skyward. Cheers filled CIC as the last missile left its canister.

  EVENT +3 Days

  ISS Mission Control, Russian Federal Space Agency

  Korolev, Russian Federation

  Alexei Belenkin barked at the mission control specialists before returning the phone to his ear.

  “Damn it, we need more warning than this!” he said.

  “This is all the warning you get!” insisted the Aerospace Defense Force general.

  “We can’t execute a Debri
s Avoidance Maneuver with the push of a button. This has to be planned carefully! We’re not playing a fucking video game here!”

  “I know how rocket boosters work, Doctor Belenkin! I spent most of my career in the Strategic Rocket Forces. You press a button, and they launch!”

  “It’s not that simple,” stated Belenkin.

  “Well, simplify the procedure, or risk losing the station. You need to move the ISS as far out of its current orbit as practical.”

  “I’m not getting any warnings about orbital debris from our sensors, General. This is too radical of an order—even from you.”

  “In about sixty-four seconds, Low Earth Orbit may very well become uninhabitable. I have no official authority over you, Doctor. This is a courtesy call before I contact Moscow. By the time they call to issue the order, it may be too late. Do what you need to do.”

  “Can you at least tell me what we’re dealing with?”

  “You scientists always need a damn explanation.”

  “We don’t follow orders blindly, General.”

  “Satellite early warning systems detected one hundred twenty sea-based missile launches fitting anti-satellite trajectory profiles. Ground-based space-tracking radars indicate sudden, drastic changes to U.S. military satellite orbits. Our best guess is they’re going for every Chinese satellite in Low Earth Orbit while trying to save their own. Good luck,” said the general, leaving Belenkin holding a disconnected line.

  “Mother of Russia,” muttered Belenkin, placing the phone in its cradle.

  If the Americans hit the Chinese satellites, they would instantly create hundreds of thousands of pieces of debris, effectively rendering portions of Low Earth Orbit (LEO) completely uninhabitable to satellites and manned space missions. The debris from the Chinese satellites, located at different altitudes and orbital planes, would eventually strike other satellites, triggering the Kessler Syndrome, which would pulverize everything in that orbital range. Navigating in Low Earth Orbit could become hazardous to the point of impossible, with millions of pieces travelling in unpredictable directions at relative speeds in excess of 20,000 kilometers per hour. He wasn’t sure there was any point to moving the station. They would have no way to reach it again.

  “Alexei! What are your orders?”

  He thought about the situation for a few seconds. They had to try to save the abandoned station.

  “Boost the station as high as possible for now. We need to get her out of the busiest orbital altitudes—immediately.”

  Ian Kharitonov, senior mission orbital specialist, turned to his section of personnel and nodded.

  “Do it!” he said, scattering the men and women to their control stations.

  Belenkin watched the screens for the next several seconds, waiting to see the mission parameters change. Kharitonov turned his head from his monitor.

  “Secondary thrusters on Zvezda Service Module activated. Maneuvering the station into position for primary thruster activation.”

  “Thank you, Ian,” Belenkin said, staring with disbelief at the overhead screens.

  “Alexei, what the hell happened?”

  “I think the Americans just started World War III.”

  PART I

  “REASSESS”

  Chapter 1

  EVENT +5 Days

  Limerick, Maine

  Jeffrey Brown steadied his hands on a thick branch and surveyed Old Middle Road with powerful binoculars. Sitting in a climber’s harness fifty feet above the ground, he could simultaneously watch the entrance to Gelder Pond and observe several hundred yards of road in either direction. His view through the leaves and branches was far from perfect—but clear lines of sight worked both ways. Since it was practically impossible to identify passengers inside the tactical vehicles, he saw no reason to risk detection by selecting a more exposed site. His job was simple. Estimate enemy troop strength at the compound and identify exploitable patterns. He didn’t need an unobstructed view to accomplish that mission.

  A low rumbling drew his attention west, his magnified view of the road competing with wavering green foliage. He spotted the rising dust trail before the vehicles—two fast-moving tactical vehicles, tan camouflage pattern, full turret configuration.

  Son of a bitch.

  Brown watched as they approached, hoping they would continue toward Limerick. A random military patrol didn’t represent a showstopper. He wasn’t surprised when they veered onto Gelder Pond Lane, tires screeching.

  Scratch Eli’s plan.

  He pressed the remote transmit button attached to his tactical vest. “Relay One, this is Overwatch. SPOTREP. Two Matvees approached from the west and turned into compound. Estimated enemy strength at compound follows. Three, possibly four Matvees with turret-mounted weapons. Possible addition of squad-sized unit. Maximum of twelve. Minimum of six based on previous observations. Number of personnel at compound estimated at eighteen. Overwatch remains unobserved. How copy? Over.”

  A short delay preceded the next station’s recitation of his report. They must be writing his words down verbatim. Finally. Their first few attempts at repeating his top-of-the-hour reports had been abysmal. He shuddered to think what might reach Eli’s ears after passing through four or five relay stations.

  “Solid copy, Relay One. Send the message. Out.”

  Brown lifted himself by the anchor lines and shifted in his harness, finding a slightly less uncomfortable position. He unconsciously glanced at his watch and shook his head. 0722. Fourteen hours until he climbed down and occupied OP Bravo for the night. A long fourteen hours. Leaning into the tree, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths—listening. A few minutes later, the familiar throttling of a diesel engine echoed through the trees. One of the tactical vehicles sped into sight and skidded onto Old Middle Road, heading for Limerick.

  Interesting.

  Chapter 2

  EVENT +5 Days

  Sanford, Maine

  “Jackson, I need you down from the turret,” said Alex.

  He’d visited Harrison Campbell’s farm twice while writing an informational piece about the York County Readiness Brigade. Once to formally interview selected militia leadership, the second time to attend one of the organization’s public potluck dinners. He remembered that the main house and barn sat close to a quarter mile back from the road, hidden by a deep stretch of pine trees.

  “Stop in front of the mailbox, but stay off the property. I’ll walk it in from the fence.”

  “Walk it where?”

  “Past those trees,” said Alex.

  The Matvee stopped in front of a deeply rutted dirt lane. Gently winding around a cattail-infested pond, the road disappeared into a dark stand of pines. He had no doubt they were watching his vehicle from a concealed position in the distant forest scrub.

  “I don’t know, sir. You’re awfully exposed on the approach. Once you get in the trees, we can’t do shit for you.”

  “I’ll be fine. These are the good guys.”

  “You willing to bet your life on that, sir?”

  He considered the marine’s question, before grabbing the door handle. Deeper examination of Homeland’s Recovery Zone protocols reinforced the critical importance of partnering with Campbell’s organization. Failure to secure the brigade’s cooperation could lead to severe consequences for the people of southern Maine—his family included.

  “I don’t have a choice. Grady needs these people on his side before Homeland starts calling the shots.”

  “I’ll park this rig across the street, pointing that way,” said Corporal Lianez, nodding toward the forest. “Say the word, and we roll up guns blazing.”

  “I’ll send regular updates. Every ten minutes or so. If you don’t hear from me and I don’t respond to your call—guns blazing,” Alex said, stepping out of the vehicle.

  “Sounds like a plan. Sir, you forgot your rifle!” yelled Lianez.

  “I won’t need it,” he said, shutting the door on the marine’s continued protest.<
br />
  His earpiece crackled.

  “Sir, you cannot—”

  “Lianez, Jackson, radio check. Over.”

  “This is Jackson. Lima Charlie. Lianez. Lima Charlie. Captain, I need you to take—”

  “Keep the channel clear for further instructions. Out,” Alex said, walking briskly down the dirt road.

  He could feel Lianez pounding the steering wheel behind him but didn’t turn to confirm it. Leaving a rifle behind ranked just below gut-punching your own mother on a Marine’s exhaustive list of rules and conventions. Purposefully walking into an unknown situation without your rifle wasn’t even on that list—it hovered in the gray area between negligent and insane.

  In this case, Captain Fletcher made a one-time exception to the rule. Ditching the rifle was a calculated act. Combined with the Matvee visibly idling across the street, he sent a not-so-subtle message to Harrison Campbell: I come in peace, but retain the ability to wreck your shit at a moment’s notice. Diplomacy—with the threat of violence.

  Roughly fifty paces into the forest, he started to question Campbell’s security measures. He hadn’t expected a guard post at the fence along the main road, but allowing him to get this close to their headquarters seemed a little careless.

  “Hands above your head!” yelled a female voice from his right.

  A woman dressed in woodland camouflage appeared from a concealed position behind a fallen tree, pointing an AR-15-style rifle at his head. He detected movement on the left side of the road. Purposeful, no doubt. Just to let him know that she wasn’t alone.

  “You and your friend know this is private property?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. We have no intention of violating your rights.”

  “But here you are—with a firearm.”

  “Goes with the territory. I need to speak with Harrison Campbell. I didn’t see any other way to get in touch.”