by Don Shift
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know, boss said it was something bad. EMP she called it.”
Both Huerta and Church looked at each other, startled. “Thank you, Sergeant. You better come with me Church. Let’s go.”
Huerta drove Church over. Cars were parked everywhere outside the building. Inside, well over a hundred officers crammed into every available space, “nut to butt,” in a large common area. The base commander, a brigadier general, stood on a chair against a wall.
“Attention!” A sergeant major called at 1415 precisely. The room snapped to.
“At ease,” the general called. “At a little after 1345, the base lost power. Many of the backup generators did not activate. Maintenance is working on restoring power. All telecommunication systems are down, except VHF radio over short distances. We have been unable to contact anyone outside of the base. High-frequency radios are unusable due to static. Many electronic devices have been disabled. After careful deliberation, it appears we have been attacked by an unknown force using a high-altitude nuclear explosion to trigger an electromagnetic pulse, or EMP.”
The drone of several dozen hushed whispers filled the room.
“We do not know if we are in the midst of nuclear war. I have our aviation assets doing what they can to see if they can safely launch a reconnaissance flight. Fixed wing assets will be able to see if there have been any surface detonations. Helos and ground units will attempt to contact the Marines at Twentynine Palms and civilian authorities. When atmospheric conditions permit, we will attempt to contact FORSCOM for intel and orders.”
Sam didn’t know what FORSCOM was, but he assumed it involved communications.
“The effects of EMP are catastrophic,” the general continued. “The power grid has undeniably been compromised and likewise a vast majority of our GPS, communications, and surveillance satellites. We cannot expect reliable or timely communications with the Pentagon or higher echelons. Additionally, we will face severe infrastructure and logistical challenges. As cliché and dramatic as it sounds, this event is ‘the end of the world as we know it.’ Accordingly, at this time, until further notice, all persons are confined to post.”
Church whispered a curse.
“All officers will make their units ready to engage in imminent missions to support the civil order. If this is as bad as I fear, we will need to assume a combat posture in order to deal effectively with the breakdown of civilized society. I understand this is something out of a horror movie, but we will rise to the challenge and prevail. Further interim orders will be delivered to your unit by runners. Expect a further briefing at 1900 hours. Hooah!”
Church was the lone dissenter shouting the USMC “Oohrah.”
“Dismissed.” Once again, everyone snapped to attention until the general squeezed out of the room.
Church and Huerta wandered out in a daze. “This is bad,” Huerta said. “For once the Army had a straight answer they didn’t try to sugar coat.”
“You have no idea. Ever read One Second After?”
“No, who wrote it?” Huerta asked.
“William Forstchen, it came out a few years ago. I never took it seriously. I figured something like this would happen eventually, but I thought it was going to be a civil war if Hillary got elected.”
“Thank God Trump got elected and this happened first.”
“I’m not so sure. I bet everything breaks down along racial and geographical instead of political lines. Once everyone is dying and trying to kill each other, it becomes my tribe first, you know? Same as after we kicked Saddam out. Without the Baath Party, the cops, and the mukhabarat, that was Saddam’s version of the Gestapo, it was tribe against tribe, Sunni versus Shiite.”
“That won’t happen here,” Huerta said doubtfully.
“Why not? Happened in Bosnia and Kosovo. I know you’ve heard the stories from the guys who were over there. Look at our own civil war. Just in the past year, people rioted in Berkeley because a gay conservative who was invited by students wanted to give a speech.”
Huerta didn’t say anything until they arrived back at the building their class was in. “Prepper?” The term came loaded with images of gas-masked families stockpiling pinto beans for Doomsday. To those who prepared for massive disasters, it was a complementary term. For anyone else, it was a slightly derogatory and mocking name.
“Sorta. I was figuring on more of a Venezuela economic collapse type deal. Not a grid-down scenario. How about you?” Church was only telling half the truth.
“Same here. My wife cans and gardens, but all that’s back in Georgia. Speaking of my wife, I hope to God she’s okay.”
“What time was her plane supposed to get in?”
“Noon, in Ontario. She texted me to say it left on time.”
“Well, she should have been well on her way by then.”
“You think? What if they had trouble renting her a car?” Church shook his head. “Right, plenty of time.
“But what if she’s lost? She’s never been out here before and must use her phone to navigate everywhere. If there’s no GPS, how will she find us?”
“Come on, you’re being dramatic. She’s certainly northbound on I-15. Cars work, so she’s fine. It’s a straight shot up to Barstow with plenty of signs. And if she got over the Cajon Pass, it’s certain she can’t get lost. Where was she supposed to stay?”
“The Comfort Suites off of Lenwood Road.”
“Then she can’t miss it. She’s going to be fine.”
“What if she drives up to the base? She’d have no idea how to find it.”
“Then she’s not going to try to find it. She’ll expect you to come find her.” Church immediately realized that was a mistake to say.
“How the hell can I find her if I’m confined to post?”
“I’ll find her. They have to let the fast food workers and civilians leave sometime. You have family in Agoura?”
“My parents live in Westlake now.”
“Ventura or LA side?”
“Ventura side. Taxes were cheaper.”
“So that’s it. I’ll find her and give her a ride to your parents. You got kids?”
“Nope.” Huerta leaned back in his chair and tried to relax. “Chill out, think of it as deployment, but no IEDs and everyone speaks the same language. And you’re home in sunny California not Georgia.”
Huerta gave a slight laugh. “We like it there. It rains and the people are friendlier than here. Married?”
“Ain’t got nobody waiting for me at home of the female persuasion. There’s this college girl that I used to see when I worked in Monterey. Nobody but two horny male cops I rent my house in Simi out to and none of us swing that way.”
“What about your folks?”
Sam explained his parents lived in Sun City, Arizona. He prayed that his father would have the sense to realize that something was dreadfully wrong, pack up the car, and drive Mom back to California. While not a fool, Mr. Church didn’t share his son’s deep concern for multivariable disaster planning. Some extra water and a couple pre-packed emergency survival boxes were all he thought they’d need. Sam had always thought that his father was afraid of emergencies and disasters and a way to cope with that fear was to ignore the possibility, even if that meant he would be unprepared. Mr. Church was an optimist, cynical and worldly, but still at heart an optimist. Perhaps had he served in combat rather he would feel differently.
As much as Mr. Church tried to avoid thinking about the harsher things in life, he was not a fool and faced them directly when trouble befell him. When the 2008 market crash happened, it wiped out his nest egg, cost him his job, and stole the house out from under them. With life in California unaffordable, Mr. and Mrs. Church took their early retirement offers and moved to Arizona. They could have faced mounting debts and eventual financial ruin instead of acknowledging reality and adapting to their changed financial circumstances.
Sam felt that his dad seemed a little happier in
life working 20 hours a week at a hardware store. His mother took pride in her online business selling crafts, knitting, and needlework; it was something that she did for herself, instead of punching someone else’s timeclock. The loss of their American Dream aside, they seemed happier now.
Knowing his father, it would take a day or two before he appreciated the dire circumstance he was in. By tomorrow morning, after sweating through the night, his mother and father would pack up and leave. Surely the lack of all telecommunications and major electronic devices would be a clue. His mother, on the other hand, would have suggested sitting in the car, running the air until the power came back on…
If his dad was determined to get out, and at some point, he would be, he would find enough gas to do it. Sam wondered what kind of mileage his parents’ cars got and how much gas their tanks held. He shook the thought away. Nothing he could do now unless he wanted to mount a rescue mission.
“Screw this. Let’s head back to my room.”
Church and Huerta played cards all afternoon to try and distract themselves. The temperature slowly crept up until the thermometer clipped to a zipper on Church’s backpack read 89º. Neither man spoke much. Huerta’s mind dwelt on his wife. It was different with Church. The feeling inside him was the same one he got arriving at the station for his reserve shifts anticipating what the night might bring.
It was a slightly nervous sensation in his gut, like the excitement of going on an adventure or the worrisome fear of rejection before a first date. Hot calls that promised danger always gave him that feeling. He had felt the same way before rolling out on a patrol in Iraq. It could only be anticipation of a new high-stakes situation mixed with fear of failure. As a Marine, he feared that he would fail his squad mates and a deputy he feared that he wouldn’t be in time to save the life of his partner or some citizen who was in danger.
For the first week after stepping down to light duty, Sam sat in his father’s backyard and listened to the scanner obsessively, vicariously on patrol with his partners who were still full-time. Seeing them on the street was a different matter. It was a will of effort not to pull up at a traffic stop and provide backup. It quickly became painful. Every time he heard a siren kick on, he felt like he was missing something. Going on patrol twice a month wasn’t enough to make that feeling go away completely.
As he mechanically played cards, Sam kept forcing the thoughts out of his head that screamed “Ventura County needs you!” The survival of his county was not dependent solely upon the policing abilities of Samuel Church. Two years of unimportant teaching were now welling up as a desire to be more than just a spectator. He had to go back. He admitted to himself part of it was the thrill at having a front-row seat to the collapse of society, the same morbid curiosity and perverse excitement that every true cop felt. It was his destiny.
TRJ
Deputy Mika Fischer happened to be peeing at the very moment when the lights went out. In a pitch-black, windowless staff bathroom of the Todd Road Jail, all she could muster was an “Ah, crap.” Bodily functions that involve sitting, for either sex, required the extensive removal of belts and equipment. Once she had her pants fastened again, she fumbled for her Sam Browne belt, that hung from a hook on the door. It was not easily getting the belt keepers snapped in by feel to secure the belt around her waist properly.
In the hallway, there was enough light from the emergency lamps and the few natural sources to see. The first security door she ran into did not open automatically. Annoyed, she pushed the button to ring Central Control. Ten seconds later, she rang it again. Nothing happened. She swore, fished out her keys, and finally unlocked the door, slid it open, then shut it behind her. Back in her section, she found Senior Deputy McKenny guarding the door. Two deputies were inside the dayroom yelling at the inmates to lock down in their cells.
“But how are we going to get out of our cells?” she could barely hear and inmate yelling.
“With keys. It is a jail, dummy,” the deputy replied.
Situated on the banks of the usually dry Santa Clara River, the Todd Road Jail was built to handle the sentenced inmates. The jail was nearly self-contained with its own solar field and sewage treatment plant. It sat several miles from any town and was twenty minutes east of the government center surrounded by farmland, though the orchards and fields were leased out, not tended by the inmates, as the old Honor Farm had been.
Mika enjoyed working at Todd Road because of the remote nature. She could go outside and look up, seeing hills and mountains in the distance instead of the hideous dun-colored brutalist architecture of the Main Jail and Government Center in Ventura.
A civilian sheriff’s service tech (SST), now with nothing to do since her booth console was dead, watched through the glass. No doors to buzz open and no cameras to watch made the job nothing more than making sure the inmates didn’t kill each other. Once all the inmates complied with the lockdown, the deputies came out of the pod and into the booth.
“Now what?” someone asked.
“I’m going up to Admin to find out what’s going on. Stay here unless something happens.” McKenny walked away. McKenny and the other senior deputies were the first line of supervision under the sergeants.
“What happened?” Mika asked.
“Power went out Einstein,” Rybals said. Mika was not particularly bright or well liked, despite being an attractive, petite blonde.
“Don’t we have a generator?”
“Obviously it didn’t automatically kick on. Any other questions?”
“No,” she said sheepishly.
“Well, no point in doing the count,” Deputy Rybals said. She was one of the few members of the sworn staff that was friends with Fischer. Mika had been Rybals’ trainee last year.
“McKenny will have us do it on paper,” Fischer said. The count was done by touching a wand to a sensor on each cell while the deputy made sure the inmates were accounted for and were still alive. Rybals griped loudly and often about running around like a rent-a-cop trying to prove she wasn’t sleeping on the job. “I hope the generator comes on soon.”
“Well, until then,” Deputy Henderson said, “I’m sitting down. Never stand when you can sit.” Henderson was overweight and his gut protruded over his belt without a vest to hold it in. He was one of the patrol deputies sent back to the jail on a “lottery” rotation designed to get jail deputies into the field before they quit. Fischer was on year four of her jail tour and was strongly considering going to work for Santa Barbara County, which did not make the deputies work in jail before patrol.
Henderson went inside the office and sat down. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket; strictly contraband, but the seniors and sergeants looked the other way for dawn shift. It was day shift. Disdainful of being taken off patrol and not even sent to courts for six months of a cushy nine-to-five gig, he didn’t care about the rules. “Dang, no service.” Service was not especially good inside either of the jails. “What the heck, I’ll play Tetris.” No one was listening.
The SST let herself out of the booth and whispered to the female deputies. SSTs in on patrol were usually called ‘community service officers’ elsewhere. “When I was a report writer, we had this one deputy that was a pig just like him. His car was so filthy that the guys on the other shift kept putting stink bombs under his seat so they would break and stink up the car when he sat down. He got the message.”
Rybals and Fischer started laughing. “I want a Coke,” Fischer said.
“Can’t if the power is out.”
“Crap, that’s right.”
The three made small talk while Henderson played his game, not very well, based on the amount of his grunts and curses. After about ten minutes, Senior McKenny came back.
“Something is very wrong. No cell service, no phones, no contact with Dispatch. Maintenance is looking at the generator.”
“So what do we do?” The power outage plan assumed there would be some electricity from the generators. Unfortunate
ly, there were too few sets of keys for everyone to manually work the doors and days of the old style jail most people were familiar with from prison movies was long dismantled. The disaster had found a blind spot.
“Sit tight for now. I’ll be back.”
Twenty minutes later, McKenny came back again. “Okay, the Transportation van just got here. Teague says whatever happened, it’s widespread. He said he was waiting for the light on Wells Road when the van stalled. The same thing happened to a lot of cars, but some wouldn’t start back up. He helped push them out of the way, then came back here. The freeway had a lot of cars on the side of the road. He also said that his stereo died, and he couldn’t talk to Dispatch, but he could hear the Fillmore and headquarters guys on the unit radio. He saw a lot of fires too, looks like a power surge or something caused a lot of transformers to explode. If so, then the power surge knocked the generator off-line. Expect a couple hours in the dark.”
“Dinner will be served late?” Rybals asked.
“Yes.”
“Ugh, they’re gonna be really happy,” she said, gesturing towards the inmates who were still on lock-down.
“With no door pass-throughs like at Main Jail, it’ll be dicey. Just threaten them with minor infractions for everybody unless they behave and feed them in the dayroom like normal. Power should be back on by then, so it won’t be too much of an issue.”
“The count?”
“Paper.” Rybals and Fischer gave each other a knowing look.
“Can I go eat? I haven’t had Code 7 yet and I’m starving,” Mika asked.
“Sure, but it’ll be sandwiches and salad.”
“Nothing wrong with salad,” she replied.
It took longer to get to the police station than Stackhouse had anticipated, owing to more dead traffic lights and more traffic. Strangely, there were several disabled vehicles that were stopped on the side of the road, their owners nowhere in sight. Two of them were blocking traffic and should have had a cadet or volunteer standing by with them, waiting for a tow truck. Good thing he wasn’t on a Code 3 run.