Blacksnow Zero

by Lee Gimenez

  Now that Martial law had been imposed, she mused, there was no way she could return to the U.S. Taylor would have her arrested with impunity. Better she remain here, biding her time.

  Megan’s thoughts raced, as she put aside the sickening images of the dead and wounded, and turned to the politics of it all. She tried to visualize what America would look like in a year or two. Although she was distressed about the senators and congressmen who had perished, the calculating side of her mind saw a bright side. She realized that most of her competitors for top government jobs were gone. Maybe, just maybe, she thought, my presidential ambitions aren’t dead.

  A small smile spread on her lips.

  ***

  Cheyenne Mountain Complex

  North American Aerospace Defense Command

  (NORAD)

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  President Matt Taylor was sitting at the head of the long table, in the conference room overlooking the NORAD amphitheater. Also sitting around the table were the members of the Cabinet, several high-ranking military officers, and the acting heads of FEMA and the FBI. The former chiefs of those agencies had died during the attack.

  Having just concluded a lengthy meeting discussing the federal government’s response to the devastation in LA and D.C., Taylor said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I commend you on all your efforts during this time of national crisis. That will be all for today. We’ll reconvene at the same time tomorrow.” He paused and noticed General Corvan raising a hand. “Yes, General?”

  “I need a word with you, sir, after the meeting.”

  “Of course.”

  The group in the room stood and filed out, leaving the two men alone in the conference room.

  Taylor rubbed his jaw. “Considering everything that’s happened, things are going as well as can be expected. Don’t you agree, General?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “The American people are pulling together. It reminds me of the days after September 11th, once the initial shock wore off.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “We’ve got a long road to recovery, but I believe that in time, we as a country will be better off.” Taylor paused, went quiet a moment as he mulled over the events of the last week. “General, did I ever tell you why I named the operation BlackSnow?”

  “No, sir, you never did. Although I did wonder about it.”

  The president smiled. “Because I knew that after we blew up the Chinese, the black and gray nuclear ash over that country would mix with falling snow – hence black snow.”

  Corvan nodded. “Very true.”

  Taylor leaned forward in his seat. “You said you needed to talk to me about something?”

  “Yes, sir. Early this morning I got a call from Master Sergeant Thomas.”

  “Refresh my memory. Who is that?”

  “Sir, that’s Captain Garcia’s 2nd in command.”

  “Of course, I remember now.”

  “Mr. President, Thomas is very concerned. Garcia’s wife was killed in D.C. and since then, the captain has been acting…irrationally. He’s been drinking heavily on the job, and has stopped communicating with the team. Thomas told me Garcia is distraught and very bitter.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Not good at all. Garcia knows a lot about BlackSnow. If he cracks from the stress, no telling what would happen.”

  “I agree, sir. The captain is an excellent operative. But, frankly, I’m worried.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Sir, we need to cut him loose.”

  Taylor mulled this over a moment. “I agree.” He stood up, faced the glass wall and watched the activity in the amphitheater below. “Take care of it. I don’t want to know the details.”

  ***

  Prison Complex

  Guantanamo Bay Naval Base

  Guantanamo, Cuba

  Erica Blake heard the corridor door creak open and she sprang to her feet. She had been lying on her cot for hours, trying to will away her thirst and hunger.

  Seeing Ensign Tulley approach her cell, she watched as he unlocked the door and came in. The ensign was wearing camouflage fatigues today, the white naval uniform gone. She also noticed he was wearing a sidearm and was carrying a duffel bag.

  But the frown he had on his face yesterday was still there.

  “Sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” Tulley said. “But things are getting crazy out there.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re pulling out today. The base is a madhouse, trying to get everything ready to go.”

  “What about me, Tulley?”

  “I’m sorry, Erica. I couldn’t get the judge to change his mind. Since they’ve decided to leave the other prisoners here, he didn’t want to make an exception.”

  “So I’m screwed.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe, maybe not. I can’t get you out of here legally. But there is another way, if you want to take the chance.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a freighter leaving Guantanamo tomorrow. They’re taking some of the supplies and fuel from the base to the Panama Canal Zone. The cargo ship is a private vessel, but I’ve talked to the captain. He owes me a favor, and he’s willing to take you on board. He would drop you off before they reach the Zone. After that, you’d be on your own.”

  A glimmer of hope filled her. “That sounds a hell of a lot better than dying in here.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought too. There are a few logistical problems, but I think we can overcome them.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve got to get you off this base and to the docks, without getting shot.”

  She chuckled. “No problem.”

  “I wish I had your confidence. Lucky for us, with so many people leaving today, the place is going insane. I think I can sneak you out.”

  She nodded. “First things first. Do you have any water? I’m dying of thirst.”

  He put the duffel bag on the floor and unzipped it. He rummaged around, pulled out two water bottles, offered them to her.

  Grabbing one, she unscrewed the top and gulped the contents. She coughed, then took the second bottle and drained it in seconds.

  “That’s better,” she said, wiping her mouth with her hand.

  “I’ve got a few more things for you.” He pulled out a green fatigue uniform and handed it to her. “The size is too big,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.” He also grabbed a green cap from the bag. “Pull your hair up and put this on too.”

  Erica unzipped her baggy orange jumpsuit and let it fall to the floor. The young officer blushed at seeing her in her underwear, but she ignored his reaction and began to put on the uniform and cap.

  The fatigues were at least three sizes too big and he took off his belt and handed it to her. “Take this. Cinch the belt tight and you should be okay.”

  “Thanks, Tulley.”

  He reached inside the bag again, pulled out two more items. One was a small, chrome plated revolver, probably a .32 caliber. The other item was a wad of cash.

  “Here,” he said, “you’ll need this.”

  She took them and put them in her pockets. Giving him a quizzical look, she asked, “Why are you doing all this? You’re taking a hell of chance.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I believe your story. I don’t think you’re guilty. I can’t let you die here.” He paused, gave her a small grin. “Maybe, after you get settled, wherever that is, you can pay back the money. I don’t make a hell of a lot as an Ensign.”

  She grinned back, stuck out her hand. “Don’t worry, if I make it out alive, I’ll pay you back. With interest.” They shook hands.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s go. Follow behind me and don’t say a word. I’ve got a Humvee parked outside.”

  She nodded, and he turned and walked out to the corridor, with Erica right behind. The other prisoners in the wing, seeing her leave, began to yell loudly in Arabic.


  There were no guards in the hallway and Tulley and Erica passed through a maze of poorly-lit, grimy corridors until they finally reached the main hallway of the prison. This area was also deserted of Marine guards.

  Using a set of metal keys, Tulley unlocked a series of barred doors. A few minutes later they were outside the antiquated prison building.

  The sunlight was blindingly bright outside, making Erica squint.

  Glancing around the parking area in front of the prison building, Erica saw rows of Humvees and trucks being loaded feverishly. There were Navy seamen and Marines everywhere, but they all seemed absorbed with the hectic work.

  The ensign locked the heavy prison door behind him and pointed to a Humvee parked next to the building. “I’ll open the storage panel in the cargo area of the jeep,” he said. “It’ll be a tight fit for you, but we have no choice. And whatever you do, stay quiet. We still have to drive through the main security checkpoint at the front gate of the prison complex. Hopefully, since I’m an officer, they won’t inspect the Humvee too closely.” He paused and frowned. “But if they do, we’re both screwed.”

  Tulley walked to the rear of the Humvee, with Erica right behind. The area was under an overhead canopy that extended from the building and was fairly secluded from the rest of the parking lot. The ensign opened the vehicle’s cargo door, then opened the lid to the storage bin. She crawled inside the small space, fitting her body around tools in the bin. He closed the lid shut and everything went dark.

  Panicking for a second from a feeling of being trapped, she slowed her breathing and forced herself to relax.

  The Humvee’s engine growled to life and she felt the vehicle pull away.

  A minute later it slowed down, then stopped. Hearing voices, she tried to make out what they were saying, but they were too muffled.

  Hearing the opening and slamming of the vehicle’s multiple doors, she squeezed her hand into her pocket and pried out the revolver. If they opened the storage bin lid, she was toast. But she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  Instead of seeing the lid open, she heard the Humvee start up again and move away.

  The vehicle picked up speed, swinging around curves of a bumpy, poorly-maintained road.

  Sometime later the Humvee slowed and came to a stop. She heard loud voices in what sounded like Spanish so she tightened her grip on the revolver.

  4 Days after Zero Hour

  Special Operations

  Marine Corps Detachment

  Training Facility, Building 14

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Bobbie Garcia was in his office, watching the latest news on his computer. He had been monitoring the news clips for hours, looking for any hopeful signs. But there were none. The images of D.C. were depressingly the same – burning rubble, towering plumes of black smoke and collapsed twisted metal. Deep down, he knew Maria was dead.

  But he kept at it, feeling that if he kept watching, she would by some miracle come back to him.

  Just then there was a knock on his door. He looked up briefly, ignored it.

  There was a second, louder knock and the door opened. Sergeant Thomas came in the room and closed the door behind him.

  “I told you, Sergeant. I don’t want to be interrupted. Now, get out of here.”

  Thomas locked the door and said, “I’m sorry, Captain. I have orders.”

  Garcia grimaced. “I’m giving you a direct order. Get the hell out of here!”

  “Sorry, sir.” Thomas drew a Walther P99 semi-automatic from the back of his waistband. The captain noticed the pistol had a suppressor attached to the barrel.

  Pointing the gun at Garcia’s chest, Thomas said, “The general called me. Gave me a direct order. I’m really sorry about this, Captain. We’ve known each other a long time and I admire you. But I follow orders.”

  Garcia’s jaw dropped. “What’s going on here? What in God’s name are you saying?”

  “No more talking. It’s over for you, sir.”

  Garcia’s mind raced, the depression that had enveloped him for days suddenly lifting. “Wait a second. Since you’re going to kill me, don’t I least get a final request?”

  A frown crossed Thomas’s face, but a moment later he nodded. “Okay. That’s fair. What is it?”

  Garcia pointed to his laptop. “I’ve got encrypted files in there, with passwords for my off-shore bank accounts. I’ll show them to you. You can have all the money. It’s not like I’ll need it. I just have one favor to ask. I want you to have a church service performed for Maria. She was Roman Catholic and I know she would have wanted that.”

  “You’d give me the passwords for such a simple thing?” Thomas said, eagerness in his voice. “You can count on me. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. That means a lot to me. Let me pull up the files now.”

  Thomas lowered the gun and Garcia began to tap on the laptop’s keyboard.

  A second later the captain grabbed the computer with both hands and threw it full-force at the other man. The laptop hit Thomas in the face and the sergeant flinched back and yelled in pain. As the pistol clattered to the floor, Garcia lunged out of his chair and flew into the other man, knocking him off his feet.

  The two grappled, punching wildly at each other while trying to reach for the gun.

  Garcia kicked Thomas in the groin and the man howled in pain. Seizing the opportunity, the captain grabbed the gun, pointed and fired three shots in rapid succession. The pistol made a muted clapping sound and the sergeant crumpled and went quiet.

  Garcia checked Thomas for a pulse, found none and picked up the laptop from the floor. Stuffing the computer into his go-bag, he quickly glanced around the small office. Realizing everything he would need was in the bag, he stuck the pistol in his waistband.

  Racing out of the office, he knew he had to get out of there fast.

  Instead of being the hunter, he had now become the hunted.

  ***

  Aboard the ocean freighter Vizcaya

  Heading west on the Caribbean Sea

  Erica Blake, still wearing the fatigue uniform, stood on the top deck of the huge freighter. She leaned on the railing and stared at the choppy seas. The cargo ship had left the port in Guantanamo early that morning, after the crew had finished loading the vessel. On the massive, lower deck of the ship, hundreds of 40 foot long cargo containers were stacked six and seven high.

  The ship’s captain, a swarthy man, had shown her to a tiny berth yesterday, pointed out the ship’s mess hall, and then left her alone. It was clear from his courteous demeanor that she was a welcome guest. No doubt he owed Tulley a big favor.

  As she watched the ship cut through the angry, blue water, her thoughts turned to the future. Besides the gun and the wad of cash, she had nothing. But, she mused, she was still better off than the rest of the prisoners back at Gitmo.

  Two Years Later

  The President’s Office

  Federal Building

  Denver, Colorado

  (Provisional Capital

  of the United States)

  President Matt Taylor was proud of himself. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he admired the fit and trim man he had become. Thanks to a strict exercise regime and a low-fat diet, he had shed sixty pounds. It also helped that he hadn’t had liquor in a year.

  He closed the center button of his Armani blue suit, and adjusted his red tie. The Presidential election was being held in six months, and he was ready. Practicing a sincere smile, he held it a moment. Perfect, he thought.

  Glancing around his modest office, which was Spartan compared to the Oval Office in D.C., he knew the situation was temporary. After the election, he would commission the construction of a new White House, here in Denver. A new congressional Capitol building would come next.

  The clock on the wall showed 9:00 a.m. and he turned and left the room. Followed by the two Secret Service agents who were posted in the corridor, he made his way to the Situat
ion Room, which was located at the end of the long hallway.

  Taylor stepped in the large conference room and the assembled Cabinet members rose to their feet.

  Smiling, he said, “Have a seat, ladies and gentlemen.” He took the chair at the head of the table and looked at the assembled group as they sat down.

  His Chief of Staff, General Corvan was to his right, while Admiral Peters, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, was to his left. The other Cabinet members had been with him since he assumed the presidency, except for the replacements made necessary by the attack on Washington. The new people he had chosen were loyal friends and participants in the still-secret Operation BlackSnow.

  Taylor leaned forward in his chair. “As I mentioned during our meeting yesterday, I have asked Treasury Secretary Longstreet to speak with us today, and give us an update on the country’s economic status. He has coordinated with various government agencies to give us this report.” He turned to the secretary. “Mike, why don’t you begin?”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Mike Longstreet replied, as he turned on the Power Point projector that sat on the table. The projector flickered to life and a map of the United States was projected on the far wall.

  “As you know,” Longstreet began, “after the nuclear missile strike on Los Angeles and Washington D.C., the federal and state governments of the United States focused a massive relief effort to the devastated areas. FEMA, along with the military, evacuated the hundreds of thousands of wounded. They also resettled the nearby populations, those areas affected by nuclear fallout, to other states. Decontamination of the fallout areas continues to this day. But I’m pleased to report that the radiation levels have dropped to such a degree, that debris removal and reconstruction is taking place at a much faster pace than we anticipated. This activity has been sped up by the rescinding of Martial law, which as you know, took place six months ago.”

  The images on the wall shifted to scenes of bulldozers and cranes clearing concrete debris and twisted metal. Those scenes were replaced by images of concrete trucks pouring foundations and workers laying utility pipes.