77 DAYS IN SEPTEMBER
BY
RAY GORHAM
Copyright 2011 Ray Gorham
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
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Comments on this work can be sent to raygorham1@gmail.com.
All characters in this work are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons
is completely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my indescribably patient, loving, devoted and helpful wife, Jodi, and our five wonderful children --
Geoff, Tyler, Jessica, Nate, and Andrew.
A huge thank you also goes out to all those who have helped shape the story, the characters, and plodded through the various manuscripts as this project evolved.
I couldn’t have done it without you.
FOREWARD
On July 9, 1962, residents of the Hawaiian Islands became unwitting eyewitnesses of the latest scourge to escape from Pandora’s nuclear box. At just after eight o’clock in the evening, thirty electrical circuits powering a total of 300 streetlights overloaded, power lines melted together, burglar alarms sounded, dozens of car ignitions were rendered inoperable, TVs and radios malfunctioned, and microwave phone service to the island of Kauai was disrupted. At the exact same time, 930 miles southwest of Hawaii and 248 miles above sea level, the United States military detonated a 1.3-megaton nuclear bomb. The blast was an exercise by the Defense Atomic Support Agency (DASA) and the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) to determine and measure the effects of high altitude nuclear detonations for potential military applications.
This test, nicknamed “Starfish Prime,” was, and still is, the highest altitude, highest yield, atmospheric nuclear test of this type ever performed. It involved a bomb measuring just 20” in diameter, 54.3” in length, and weighing a little less than 1,700 lbs. A number of phenomena were observed as a result of the blast: an aurora was formed that lasted for over seven minutes and extended from Hawaii to New Zealand; seven satellites were immediately disabled, and, within a year, one-third of all low earth-orbiting satellites would fail (including Telstar 1, the world’s first communications satellite); radiation from the blast was trapped by the earth’s magnetic belts for seven years; and a previously theorized, but never studied, phenomenon called an Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) was observed, the direct cause of the problems in Hawaii.
The year 1962 saw significant nuclear testing by both the United States and the Soviet Union, the world’s two superpowers. The American tests, of which Starfish Prime was just one in a series, were conducted in response to the Soviet Union’s failure to renew a nuclear test ban a year earlier. Late in 1962, during the height of the Cuban missile crisis, the Soviets performed Test 184, code named “Operation K.” Carried out on October 22, Operation K involved the detonation of a 300-kiloton bomb 170 miles above a sparsely populated area of Kazakhstan. As with the American test, the most eye-opening consequences of the test resulted from the EMP phenomenon, including 355 miles of overhead telephone lines being rendered useless and 620 miles of underground power cables fusing together. In addition to the destruction of the cables, the power plant that was connected to the underground power line, unable to handle the corresponding electrical surge, caught fire and burned to the ground.
As scientists studied the data recorded during the 1962 atmospheric detonations, they determined that a single nuclear bomb detonated 300 miles above Kansas would create an EMP effect that would impact the entire continental United States. Indeed, the electrical devastation from such an attack would extend north and south of America’s borders, affecting every major Canadian and Mexican city as well. The result of this would be a continent of twenty first century people forced to survive with nineteenth century technology.
Less than one year after Operation K, the United States, the Soviet Union, and the United Kingdom, the nuclear powers of that period, signed the Partial Test Ban Treaty (PTBT) which, among other things, outlawed all atmospheric nuclear testing.
Since the signing of the PTBT in 1963, our world has changed significantly. Almost extinct, except in museums and time capsules, are the hardy vacuum tubes and electronics that were the standard of the early sixties. These have been replaced by the tiny, inexpensive, and amazingly fragile microchips of our day. These microchips, the source of so much convenience in our world, are many thousands of times more vulnerable to the effects of an EMP device than anything that was in service in 1962. Combine this technical vulnerability with nuclear proliferation and our world teeming with hostile countries and terrorist groups, and it quickly becomes obvious that North America, and all modern economies, face the potential for a catastrophe of unimaginable severity.
Fast forward forty-five years from the signing of the PTBT to September 2, 2008 and an article in the Washington Times titled Invisible Nuclear Threat by Dr. William R. Graham, Chairman of The Commission to Assess the Threat to the United States from Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Attack. In his article, Dr. Graham laments the unwillingness of the United States to adequately address the threat posed by rogue nations and their ability to launch such an attack. Instead, he laments, the government has focused its efforts almost exclusively on a dirty bomb or conventional strike that can only be carried out by a bomb smuggled into the country. Dr. Graham writes as follows:
…this other nuclear threat is potentially far more catastrophic; instead of a single city, it could threaten the entire nation’s survival.
…Our vulnerability to EMP attack is increasing daily, as our dependence on electronics continues to grow.
…One scenario of special concern is an EMP attack against the United States launched from an ordinary freighter off the U.S. coast using a short or medium range missile to loft a nuclear warhead to high altitude (such missiles are readily available on the world’s armaments black market).
While 77 Days in September takes some dramatic license, it is based on realistic assumptions and is an attempt to entertain while putting into perspective the impact such an attack would have at a national, as well as an individual and family level, should the unthinkable happen.
Ray Gorham
CHAPTER 1
Friday, September 2nd
George Bush International Airport, Houston, Texas 15:40 EST
Kyle worked his way down the aisle of the airplane, squeezing past the other passengers as they struggled to jam their oversized carry-ons into already too-full overhead bins,.. “Excuse me…pardon me…thank you,” Kyle mumbled as he went by, irritated that his flight was already thirty minutes behind schedule. Kyle re-checked his boarding pass for his seat assignment, 26F, then scanned the numbers above the seats. 23… 24… 25…. 26. A balding man in his late fifties who, by his tan face and comfortable attire, looked like he’d come directly from a golf course, sat in the aisle seat, the two seats beside him empty.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Kyle said, making eye contact with the man and motioning to the seat by the window. “I need to slip by. I’m in that seat.”
The man nodded and rose, and Kyle squeezed past and dropped into his seat, then pushed his carry-on into the cramped space in front of his feet.
“Guess I won’t be lying down for my nap today,” the man said with a grin as he settled back into his seat.
“Not unless you plan to put your head on my knee,” said Kyle, returning the smile.
“I’m pretty particular about whose knee I lay my head on, and you’re not nearly pretty enough. Guess I’ll just have to lean the chair back this flight.”
Kyle laughed. “My name’s Kyle Tait. It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Ed Davis,” the man said, extending his hand. “I guess we’re neighbors for the next couple of hours.”
“I guess so,” Kyle said as he shook Ed’s hand. “You headed home?”
“No, I’m heading out. I’ve got business meetings next week in Denver. Heading up early to visit my daughter and her family. You?
“Heading back home to Montana”
“Montana? You’re a long way from home. What brought you to Houston?”
“Hurricane Elliot.”
“You came for the hurricane?”
“No,” laughed Kyle, shaking his head. “I came because of it. I work for Western Montana Power. It’s a slow time of year, so they farm a few of us out to help in other areas.”
“Hmm. Well thanks for helping. How’d things go?”
“Overall, pretty smoothly. As you’ve probably heard, the damage didn’t end up being quite as bad as they’d anticipated, but the utility companies like to keep us around so the local folks can take care of their families. I helped in Louisiana after Katrina; it was my first time working out of town. Now that was an experience!”
“I’ll bet. We were affected by Katrina here too, but more by the refugees than the weather. Can’t imagine what it must have been like over there.”
“It sure made me appreciate Montana more. The occasional blizzard doesn’t seem so bad anymore.”
“I don’t know about that, I’m not one for the cold. I think I’ll stick with the annual hurricane.”
“Oh, the cold’s not so bad. You get used to it after awhile.”
“Have you lived in Montana long?”
Kyle nodded. “My whole life, except for a couple of years in Oregon when I was little. I love it there.”
“I’ve heard it’s nice, but I think I’d miss the city. Doesn’t Houston have about five times the population of your entire state? I don’t know if I could adjust.”
“Oh, you would. We lived in Missoula for a few years, but even that started to get too big for us. You begin to appreciate your space when you have it. This last spring we moved about fifteen miles out of town to a newer community with lots of space. We still have neighbors, but you don’t hear them, and the kids have plenty of room. As long as you’ve got a four wheel drive for the snow, it’s great.”
Ed gave an exaggerated shiver. “I think I’m too old for a drastic change like that.” He turned his attention back to his magazine and the conversation lagged. Kyle checked his watch, wondering why the plane still hadn’t moved from the gate. All of the passengers appeared to be on board, and the attendants were busy preparing themselves for the flight, but the jet hadn’t moved.
Kyle pulled his novel out of his carry-on just as the pilot’s voice came over the PA, offering apologies for the late departure and a promise that they would be underway as soon as possible. Kyle wanted to hear an estimate of when they would actually be getting underway, but the captain didn’t offer any specifics.
Digging his cell phone out of his carry-on Kyle pressed the speed dial for home. After four rings he heard Jennifer’s voice. “Hi. You’ve reached the Tait family. We can’t get to the phone but leave a message, and we’ll call back.”
Kyle waited for the tone. “Hi, Jenn. It’s me. Just wanted to let you know that I’m late getting out. It’s about quarter to three Houston time, and we’re still waiting to take off. I’ll call you from Denver and let you know if there are any problems with the connection. Talk to you soon.”
Kyle turned off his phone and dropped it back into his carry-on then opened his book and began to read.
Atlantic Ocean, 175 miles east of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina 15:42 EST
Clouds hung low over the water, and the flags on the mast snapped out a slow, steady rhythm in the light wind as Carmen’s Serenade rolled ever so slightly in the swells of the North Atlantic. Captain Jibril Musef, Jim to the crew, stood on the bridge of his container ship and stared down at the body of his first officer. Blood had stopped pumping from the deep gash in his neck and the body was already beginning to take on a waxy, artificial look.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Jibril muttered as he knelt down and wiped the blood from his knife onto the carpet. “Your life won’t have been taken in vain, I promise you.” He stood, slid the blade into the sheath that was strapped to his side, and stepped towards the forward window of the bridge. In the center of the main deck below him four members of his crew worked feverishly to open the oversized container that had been carefully located in the center of the ship.
Jibril heard the door to the bridge open and he turned in the direction of the sound. Amman, his chief mechanic stood at the door. His eyes moved from Jibril, to the body on the floor, and then back again to Jibril.
“Is it done?” Jibril asked, noting the streaks and splatters of red on the man's arms and hands.
Amman nodded. “They are all dead. We can proceed without interruption.”
Jibril nodded but showed no emotion. “That is good. Help the others on the deck. I’ll be there shortly.”
Amman turned obediently and left the bridge, the door clicking behind him as it closed. Jibril walked over to the computer terminal and quickly began to type. The container will be delivered today as scheduled. He clicked on the transmit button and watched as the computer indicated the status of the message. When the message had been sent Jibril exited the bridge for the last time and began a rapid descent of the stairs.
Taking the steps two at a time he reflected on the past decade. Two long years as the engineer’s assistant had finally been followed by a rapid rise through the relatively few positions that exist on the large container ships. After two years as a first officer Jibril’s handlers had been comfortable with his progress and promoted him to captain of a ship they had purchased the same month he made his first voyage as the engineers assistant. Patience marked their efforts in every way, and after 31 long months as captain a courier finally informed Jibril that the mission for which he had trained and waited for twelve years, four months, and twenty-two days was ready.
Since taking the command of this ship Jibril had slowly transitioned his crew, gradually bringing on the experts he knew were essential to the mission’s success. From the stairs he could see his brothers, working at the container that would change the world. He paused for a minute to admire the sight, said a prayer of thanks, and rapidly descended the final flight of steps and hurried to where his men were working.
“Any problems?” he asked.
Amman was working at a control panel and didn’t look up as he replied. “No. It is all proceeding as planned. We will be ready early.”
Jibril stroked the smooth, cold skin of the missile. “Today is a good day, my friends. Allah is watching. Be faithful.” A motor whirred and gears engaged with a thud. Jibril stepped away as the nose of the rocket began to lift into launch position.
Pacific Ocean, 40 miles west of Newport, Oregon 16:00 EST
Dae Hyun checked his watch. Five seconds, he thought to himself, then silently counted the time down. At exactly 4:00 PM EST, Dae’s fishing boat began to shake, and a deafening roar pounded his ears. At the far end of the boat, orange flames erupted from the opening in the deck as the rocket it had previously concealed leapt skyward. His crew watched with pride, but no one on the boat cheered. They all knew the world was about to change.
CHAPTER 2
George Bush International Airport, Houston, Texas 16:00 EST
Kyle tipped his seat back and closed his eyes. He hadn’t taken a day off the entire two weeks he’d been in Houston, and between work and the uncomfortable motel bed, he was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. The airplane still hadn’t moved and with his watch showing 3:00 P.M., Kyle could picture himself missing his connecting flight and spending the night sleeping on the floor of the airport in Denver.
As his head bobbed sleepily, Kyle heard the whine of the engines pick up and then felt a bump as the brakes released and the plane lurched backward away from the gate. A weary smile registered on his face.
Atlantic Ocean, 175 miles east of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina 16:00 EST
Jibril stood on the deck of Carmen’s Serenade, watching the glow of the missile disappear into the thick, gray clouds. His men spoke in quiet, reverent tones, their preparations and efforts of the past decade culminating in that moment.
A sense of loss unexpectedly swept over Jibril as the clouds swallowed not only the rocket, but his entire life’s focus as well. Everything he had worked for, the sole purpose of his life since his wife and son had been killed in Iraq had been accomplished. Every sleepless night, every trip across the ocean, every obstacle overcome was now, finally, worth it.
A melancholy-laced laugh escaped his lips as he thought about how the American leaders would be reacting this very instant. His leaders in Iran had played negotiations to their maximum effect, agreeing to dismantle their own weapon’s program only because Pakistan had already sold them what they needed. Now, with the American president being hailed as a hero for shutting down the Iranian’s nuclear program, all while having provided Iran with the materials to build enough power plants to double its electrical output, Iran was set to dominate the Middle East and the oil and power that came with it, for the next century.
Jibril regretted that he would not live to learn of the impact his efforts would have on the Americans, nor to witness Israel’s destruction and the fall of the Jews, which, with America crippled, would surely come in a matter of weeks.
With the missile faded from sight, Jibril turned to Zahir, his fellow warrior, and nodded. Zahir, drops of sweat falling from his scarred brow, swallowed hard and knelt in front of a small, digital display mounted on a now charred steel case and punched in the code to begin a new countdown.
Sighing with satisfaction, Jibril reflected on the past years. He had proven himself so dedicated that he had been trusted to lead the most radical strike ever attempted against the Americans. He understood that there were others attempting the same thing, but in the future, his name would be spoken in the same, hushed tones as those martyrs who had died in New York City so many years before. His only living son would beam with pride, knowing what his father had sacrificed himself for.
A tear of joy formed in the corner of Jibril’s eye, building slowly until it broke free and streaked his cheek.
NORAD Headquarters, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado 16:00 EST
Air Force Command Sergeant Alan Gagnon sat at his desk keying an email to his wife at the end of another uneventful week during another uneventful summer.
It was 16:00:05 EST when the alarm sounded. In the nine years he’d been in his current position this particular alarm had never gone off without him knowing about it beforehand, and until this instant, he had expected it never would. Alan jumped from his desk and was in the main control room in five rapid strides. Officers were responding as they had been trained, and for all they knew this was just another drill. With his heart racing, Alan quickly assessed the situation. Rows of glowing monitors at the front of the command room showed two missiles in American airspace, relaying their locations and projecting their flight paths with faint orange cones that took in much of the continent. It was too early to pinpoint where they were headed, but obvious the missiles had not traveled from foreign soil.
“What do we know?” Alan barked as he strode to the center of the room, dodging underlings who ran in every direction. “There are no scheduled tests, correct?” He already knew the answer but asked anyway.
Lieutenant Rodger Olsen, one of his most capable assistants and the only other person who would know ahead of time if a test was scheduled, sat with his eyes locked on the screen in front of him, processing the information. “There are no tests or drills scheduled, sir. These are real, and they’re not ours. Both missiles were launched simultaneously from areas with no identified military vessels, foreign or domestic. Tracking shows they are not headed directly inland at this point. They’re just gaining altitude.”
Alan picked up the phone on the closest desk. “Give me General Doss!” he shouted into the mouthpiece, then waited impatiently for the connection to be made. When he heard the general speak Alan cut him off. “General, this is Alan. It’s bad. We show two missiles, both launched from international waters, one off each coast. Both are in American airspace with indeterminate targets and unknown payloads.”
Monitors filled the front wall of the room and Alan’s eyes darted from screen to screen as he continued to relay what little information he had to the General. The largest screen showed two separate lines tracking the flights of the incoming missiles. It was now seventy three seconds since they had launched, and tracking showed the missiles to be at an elevation of just over eighty-two miles.
As Alan scanned the monitors, another alarm sounded and the screen flashed as the line tracking the missile launched from the west began to blink. He covered the mouthpiece and shouted at Lt. Olsen. “What just happened?!”
The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. That one just seems to have disappeared.”
“What do you mean disappeared? Did it detonate?”
“Negative, sir. Or if it did, it wasn’t nuclear. Our satellites indicate some kind of explosion, but I have to assume malfunction.
“Sir?” Alan spoke into the phone. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think any cities are targeted, but I can’t say that with any certainty. Listen, one of the missiles has just disappeared from radar. Looks like it malfunctioned. That leaves just one, but it’s gaining too much elevation for a direct strike to make sense. I think the intent is to detonate in space. It’s likely the second missile was meant as a backup. I think the country is the target, sir, not D.C. or New York.”
Alan caught his breath as the meaning of his last statement sunk in, knowing there wasn’t anything that could be done. The missile defense budget had been all but eliminated years ago; probably to make room for some government handout designed to win votes for a senator up for re-election in a tight race. Even if missile defense had not been shelved, the chances of an American missile launched from this close being accurate enough to knock out an incoming missile at an altitude of hundreds of miles were slim. But with the current situation, and no response beyond crossed fingers and desperate prayers, Alan would have liked to have had something to throw at it, proven or not.
Alan finished his conversation with General Doss and hung up. They both had calls to make, and he didn’t have much time -- five, maybe six minutes at the most, before all hell broke loose and America was turned on its head. The military had war gamed this scenario for years, and every outcome was bad. How severe the results would be depended on three things: the location of detonation, the tonnage of the missile, and the efficiency of the weapon.
In the military’s planning it always came down to the fact that once the missiles were in the air, there was almost no way to stop them. That was why they worked so hard to keep these weapons from getting into the wrong hands. This was America’s Achilles heel, the proverbial knockout punch that any rogue nation could throw if they had the money, the resources, and the willingness to weather the inevitable retaliation.
George Bush International Airport, Houston, Texas 16:03 EST
With the captain’s announcement that their plane was cleared for takeoff, the flight attendants rushed to get trays put up and seats returned to their upright positions before strapping themselves in.
Kyle folded down the top corner of the page in his book, set it in his lap, and glanced out the window. The plane had taxied down the runway and was now in line for takeoff. Kyle could see another plane ahead of them and three stacked up to land.
“I guess we’re going to miss our free tickets,” Ed commented.
Kyle looked at him, puzzled. “What free tickets?”
“I was starting to hope we’d get stuck a little longer. If you have to wait too long, sometimes the airlines will give you a couple of free tickets so you don’t hate them too much. Happened to my daughter last time she visited. Now, we just get put behind, and the airline doesn’t do anything, barely even an apology.”
Ed spoke with a grin, so Kyle guessed he wasn’t too serious, but the thought of free tickets intrigued him. His anniversary was coming up, and surprising Jennifer with something more than their traditional dinner out would have been nice.
“What are you reading?” asked Ed, changing the subject.
“It’s a mystery. I bought it at the airport on the way down and am trying to finish it before I get home. There’s never seems to be enough time for reading at home, and I’d like to see how it ends.”
“Is it any good?”
Kyle thought for a second. “So far so good, but you can never be sure until it wraps up. If I finish before we touch down, I’ll give you a full review.”
Deer Creek, Montana 16:06 EST
Jennifer Tait struggled into the house from the garage, her arms loaded with a week’s worth of groceries. The day’s mail was shoved into one of the bags, and a corner of an envelope had torn a gaping hole in the side, threatening to dump an assortment of canned goods onto the kitchen floor. As the door swung closed, she heard a wail from the small figure struggling along behind her.
“You okay, Spencer?” Jennifer called out.
He didn’t answer.
She could hear him fighting with the door, so hurried and swung the bags in her arms onto the table. A can of tomato soup, hanging part way out of the hole opened by the envelope, caught the corner of the table and extended the gash, dumping the contents onto the linoleum floor. Jennifer muttered under her breath. It had been a bad day, and this was just one more item to add to the list of things that had gone wrong. Kyle had been gone for two weeks, and she was looking forward to finally having him home again. She loved their kids, but being a single mother wasn’t what she had signed up for.
As she bent to pick up the cans scattering across the kitchen floor, she heard Spencer’s voice from out in the garage.
“Mom!” he called.
“What is it, Spencer?” she replied, gathering the cans.
“I need some help,” he called back.
“I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute.”
“No, Mom! Not just a minute. I need help now,” he said, irritation evident in his voice.
Jennifer giggled at his demand, marveling to herself how quickly he was growing up and reflecting on the joys of being able to watch her kids as they matured. Spencer was her baby, but he wasn’t so much a baby anymore. He had been attending kindergarten for three weeks now, and she already missed having him home with her on those days she didn’t work.
“Alright, I’m coming,” she answered as she grabbed a can of mushrooms that had come to stop against the leg of a chair.
Setting the can on the table, Jennifer went to the door and pushed it open for Spencer, who was still struggling to get in. He smiled as she carefully opened the door wide enough for him to enter.
“That’s a pretty big box,” she said, tussling his hair. “You sure you have it alright?”
“I’m fine,” he answered, a look of determination riveted on his face.
“Thanks so much for being such a good helper, big guy. You sure are growing up.”
“I’m not big guy. I’m Spencer,” came the terse reply.
“Yes, you are. You’re my Spencer, aren’t you?” Jennifer kissed her son on the forehead as he marched by.
Spencer grinned and reached up with his free arm to give her a hug, dropping the box of Corn Flakes on the floor as he did so. “Oops, sorry Mom,” he said. “I’ll get it.”
Jennifer straightened back up and heard the beep of the answering machine in the bedroom, making a mental note to check the messages once the groceries were put away. “Can’t have the ice cream melting while I listen to some salesman,” she told herself.
She grabbed the remaining bags of groceries from the car and slammed the trunk shut. Noticing that Spencer hadn’t shut his car door tight, Jennifer fixed that, waved to the neighbor who was outside working in her garden, and went back inside the house.
She was putting away the cereal when Spencer stomped into the kitchen from the play room. “Mom, the TV just turned off!” he whined.
“Just give me a minute,” she replied. After putting the rest of the cans away, Jennifer took Spencer by the hand and led him down the hall to see what was wrong with the TV.
NORAD Headquarters, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado 16:07 EST
Alan watched with a cold, technical detachment as the remaining missile’s course tracked across the screen, the speed and elevation numbers on the bottom of the screen registering the details of the rocket’s flight. He was shocked by his lack of emotion, something similar, he assumed, to an Emergency Room doctor forced to treat his own child. You should be a wreck, but the technical side of the brain takes over and you simply do what you’ve been trained to do.
During the seven minutes of the missile’s flight, Alan had already spoken with three of his superiors and knew, by the sound of their voices, they were in a state somewhere between panic and unbelief.
Monitors showed that the missile had been airborne for just under eight minutes, the longest eight minutes of Alan’s life, and its altitude was 306 miles.
When the missiles had first been detected, Alan had hoped that specific cities were targeted because, relatively speaking, that would have been easier to recover from. This, he knew, was going to be much, much worse.
Everyone around him was outwardly calm, and considering that the country to which they had pledged their lives was under attack, it was unnerving in a way. A few spoke on the phone, calmly relating to some unseen person the information displayed on their monitors. Others sat at their desks, watching wide-eyed as the missile tracked over Missouri towards the center of the theoretical bulls-eye. Tears streaked down more than one face.
Alan felt the room spin around him, and he reached for a chair to steady himself. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. For the sixty-six long years of his life, Alan had always known the appropriate response, could think his way out of every situation. This time he couldn’t. The only hope the country had was another failure, a failure like the one that had happened to the missile launched from the Pacific.
Alan held his breath and prayed, too scared to blink in case something happened in that instant. As the missile tracked farther than expected, the possibility that NORAD was the target flashed through Alan’s mind just as the largest screen in the room flashed red, and an additional alarm sounded. Detonation.
For a brief moment the room went totally silent, as if all the air had been sucked out of the building. When the lights flickered, someone cursed, and then the roar of voices began to swell as backup generators kicked on and the room brightened again.
Alan knew they would have power for months. The rest of the country wasn’t going to be so lucky.
CHAPTER 3
Lawrence, Kansas 16:08 EST
High above the sun-baked prairies of Lawrence, Kansas, the missile reached its target. No one on the ground even noticed the blast. Perhaps had someone been looking at precisely the right location, at precisely the right time, they might have noticed a tiny, momentary spark in the bright afternoon sky. Had they seen the flash, it likely would have been attributed to the glint of sunlight reflecting off a passing airplane. From every vantage point below the detonation, there was no sense of the destructive capacity contained in that tiny speck of light. More than 300 miles above the earth, a nuclear explosion impacts nothing with the force of its blast. It is merely a large bomb going off in a vacuum, creating no shockwaves, no fireballs, no radiation, not even any sound.
Despite the lack of explosive destruction, this was now the most lethal weapon to be unleashed in the history of the world, but it was a weapon that would have had absolutely no discernable affect on mankind 200 years ago, other than creating a more colorful aurora. Upon detonation, the bomb expelled an intense wave of gamma radiation in every direction. The gamma rays traveling earthward interacted with the upper levels of the atmosphere and created a chain reaction of displaced electrons that rushed towards the surface of the earth at the speed of light. Most of the these displaced electrons passed rapidly through the atmosphere and grounded themselves harmlessly in the earth.
A small percentage, however, encountered conductive materials: metal, antennas, copper wiring, and silicon chips. As these conductors absorbed untold billions of free electrons, they experienced sudden surges in both voltage and current. In simple items, like a garden rake, this surge was manifested as a harmless static electricity-like spark. But in larger networks and sensitive objects, the consequences of the electron overload were devastating.
Across the country, millions and millions of miles of power lines absorbed these displaced electrons and delivered them to every home and to every power plant in the country, melting the electrical lines in the process. Safety systems designed to arrest voltage spikes were unable to react to the overwhelming size and speed of the surge, allowing this massive wave of power to flow unchecked throughout the grid.
In Akron, Ohio, Kevin Leishman was using his computer to look up driving directions as he prepared to head out for the long weekend. He watched in dismay as his monitor suddenly glowed brighter for a moment, and then faded to black, the smoke of his cigarette masking the smell of the melting electrical components.
Erika Smith was sitting at a traffic light in Winnipeg, Manitoba when the engine of her new Honda Accord simply shut off. Confused, she glanced up and noticed the traffic lights were no longer operating, then watched as a semi-truck turning across the intersection in front of her seemed to lose control of its steering and brakes and crashed into a corner gas station, knocking over two gas pumps and causing an explosion that hurtled pieces of burning debris across the intersection and onto the hood of her car.
Jefferson Harris was reading an old issue of Sports Illustrated during his break at Northern Sierra Power when the safety alarms went off. He ran to the control room and watched in horror as one monitor after another flashed warnings or shut down. Then the generators went offline and he heard an unfamiliar sound from the turbines across the compound. Jefferson knew that if something went wrong, the computers were programmed to shut down the plant in a safe, orderly fashion. What he didn’t know was that the system designed to handle the shutdown had also failed, and the control that maintained lubrication for the turbine was offline. In the thirty seconds it took Jefferson to determine the telephones weren’t working, the temperature in the turbines rose from 300º F to just under 1,100º F. As he stood with the dead phone in his hand, trying to decide what to do, Jefferson heard new alarms go off, alarms that drowned out the sound of shrieking metal. The ground rumbled in the moment before the generator building exploded. Shockwaves from the blast blew out the window behind Jefferson and propelled shards of glass in every direction. As he turned to run for the exit, Jefferson slipped in a pool of his own blood, pumped from a deep gash in his thigh, the first indication he had that he’d been mortally wounded.
Officer Greg Henninger was issuing a ticket on the shoulder of Interstate 70, just east of the Hays, Kansas exit. Traffic was busy, and the driver of the red Mustang he’d pulled over was voicing her displeasure. As Officer Henninger explained the details of the citation, he sensed that something was wrong behind him, and turned just in time to see a semi-truck smash into the back of his patrol car, launching it into the back window of the Mustang. Greg tried to run but was hit before he could move his feet, leaving his boots where he’d stood on the road as his body hurtled through the air.
Frank Lunde sat in a booth at a McDonalds in Boise, Idaho, nursing a diet Coke while his grandkids played on the slides. Their mother was getting her hair done, and Frank had volunteered to watch the kids for a couple of hours. When the lights in the restaurant went dark, his attention turned briefly from the play area. The kids, oblivious to the problem, continued to climb through the giant orange and purple tubes. As he looked around the restaurant, Frank felt an ache in his chest and rubbed just below his sternum in an effort to relieve the pain. Through his shirt he felt the scar where the doctors had inserted a pacemaker the year before. He hadn’t experienced any problems since his surgery, but now he didn’t feel well. Frank’s fingers started to tingle, and sweat broke out on his forehead. “Lexie,” he called out, “don’t shove your brother! Be a good girl, and come here and help your grandfather.” Lexie turned towards her grandpa just as he slumped forward onto the table, then fell sideways off the bench.
George Bush International Airport, Houston, Texas 16:08 EST
Kyle looked out the window as the ground rushed by. The roaring engines straining to propel the airliner down the runway, the acceleration pressing Kyle firmly against his seat. Kyle enjoyed flying, but the takeoffs and landings always made his heart pound a little harder. He’d read once that the two most dangerous times for an airplane were takeoffs and landings, and that fact lingered in the back of his mind every time he flew.
The whine of the engines increased in pitch as the plane continued its race forward, rattling and jarring down the runway. Kyle could never figure out why airplanes rode so rough on the ground, like being towed down a city sidewalk in a wagon at 50 miles an hour, bouncing and rattling on every joint in the sidewalk. For a quarter of a billion dollars, or whatever outrageous sum an airplane cost, Kyle figured that the manufacturer should have throw in a set of shock absorbers. The nose of the plane lifted off the ground, and Kyle knew it would only be another second until the rough ride would be over.
Then, without warning, the pitch of the engines changed drastically and Kyle felt himself thrust forward against the restraint of his seatbelt. The nose of the airplane plummeted back to the ground, striking the runway with a spine-wrenching crack, the impact brutally jarring the aircraft. Overhead storage bins burst open and ejected their contents into the aisle and onto the heads and laps of the passengers, eliciting a panicked chorus of screams that rose over the rumble of the airplane. Kyle heard a child screaming hysterically a few rows behind him and her father trying to calm her.
Kyle saw his seatmate lean forward and wrap his arms tightly around his legs. Ed’s face was turned towards Kyle, the terror evident in his eyes.
Frozen with fear, Kyle tried to remember the instructions the flight attendants had given just minutes earlier.
“Grab your legs!” Ed shouted.
Ed’s voice was barely discernable over the uproar, but Kyle picked out the words and did as Ed instructed.
“Please, God, don’t let me die,” Kyle whispered as he thought of his wife and three kids. The idea that he might never see them again raced through his mind, and he again repeated the words of his abbreviated prayer.
Kyle could feel the plane slowing, but it wasn’t like a typical landing. The engines weren’t thrusting, and it didn’t feel like there was any actual braking. He wondered how much of the runway was left and what might be at the end of it, then wrapped his arms even tighter around his legs.
The chorus of sobs and shouts blending with the roar of the airplane was deafening. The plane had barely slowed when it ran out of runway. The front wheels bit into the soft ground where the asphalt ended, causing the plane to shudder as the landing gear snapped and the airplane collapsed onto its belly. With no perceptible slowing, the airplane continued its forward rush, tearing a deep furrow in the ground and throwing clouds of dirt high into the air.
Traveling at nearly 140 miles an hour, Flight 17 struck a large, earthen berm a hundred yards from the end of the runway and launched awkwardly into the air. The crippled airplane made a feeble attempt at flight, hanging in the air for a moment, then twisted and fell defeated back towards earth. The tip of the right wing contacted first and pitched the plane to the right where the body of the plane struck with an earsplitting crash. The fuselage bounced and skidded another 200 yards, finally coming to a stop in a cloud of dirt and smoke, the nose of the broken airplane protruding through a chain-link fence that marked the boundary between the airport and an empty two-lane road.
The screaming inside the cabin ceased briefly, and for a moment, all that could be heard was the twisting, scraping and groaning of metal as the airplane settled into the dirt.
A baby’s cry was the first sound that Kyle heard and was quickly followed by a chorus of wails and moans. Soon there were dozens of voices, some calling for help while others cried out in panic, pain, and fear. Above the din, a single, authoritative voice yelled instructions to open the exits.
Stunned and disoriented Kyle sat up and looked around, noticing that most of the overhead bins were open and their contents were strewn haphazardly around the cabin. He caressed a spot on the back of his head where he’d been struck but didn’t feel any blood. Ed was hunched forward with his head on his knees, but wasn’t moving. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of Ed’s face
“Ed! You alright?” Kyle shouted as he reached out and pushed against him.
There was no response.
Kyle clawed at his own seatbelt and managed to unhook it, then slid to the middle seat and grabbed Ed by the shoulder and shook him. “Ed! Ed! You all right?” he shouted, straining to be heard over the chaos that surrounded him.
He looked for someone to help, but people were fighting their way to the exits, shoving the slower ones out of the way, desperate to save their own lives. Kyle could smell smoke and his eyes began to sting. Glancing quickly out his window, he noticed that the wing had been sheered off, and the stump that remained was engulfed in flames. There was also an orange glow towards the rear of the plane, and flames licked around the windows a few rows back.
A shrill voice rose over the chaos of the cabin, and Kyle looked up to see the flight attendant who had welcomed him onto the flight pushing her way to the back. “Someone open the rear exit!!” she hollered, trying to be heard. Gone was the pleasant smile and perfect grooming. Instead, her face was bruised and swollen, and strands of hair hung limply in front of her eyes. The right sleeve of her uniform was torn and a crimson stain was spreading around a gash. “People! Let me past!” she yelled, desperately fighting her way to the back, her eyes wide with panic and determination.
Kyle watched her as he continued to try and rouse Ed. When the flight attendant reached the back, she helped a man force the door open. Kyle watched the proceedings and could make out the rush of air as the slide deployed.
“We need to get out of here!” Kyle shouted at Ed. Receiving no response, Kyle pushed Ed up and felt for the seatbelt. His fingers found the steel of the latch and he yanked it open. Thick smoke made it hard to breath, and Kyle gagged as he called for help. One man stumbled by carrying a child. Across the aisle an older woman sat in a daze, dabbing at blood running from her mouth and watching the scene around her through glassy, distant eyes.
As flames danced outside the windows, Kyle continued to shake Ed to no effect. With no one to help him, Kyle stepped past Ed and hurried towards the exit at the rear of the airplane. Three rows back the aisle was blocked by on older woman struggling with a girl about the same age as his daughter. The girl was screaming and holding onto the unconscious body of the man beside her. “Daddy!” she screamed. “Daddy!”
“Come on, sweetie. We need to go!” the woman shouted, pulling on the girl’s arm. “Your dad will have to come later. Let’s go find your mom.”
Watching the scene unfold, Kyle could see the light of the exit marking his way to life, and he fought the urge to force his way past the woman and child. Kyle reached forward and pried the girl’s hands loose from the lifeless man and pulled her into the aisle. He took a deep breath and again choked on the thickening smoke. “Get off the airplane!” he ordered, shoving the girl down the aisle.
CHAPTER 4
Boston, Massachusetts 16:12 EST
Senator Christine George stood behind her mahogany desk and stared out the office window. Her staff was gone, most having left at lunchtime in order to get a jump on the last weekend of summer. She had stayed to contact a few more donors and review some committee reports, but was now anxiously waiting for the power to come back on. Irritated by the delay and worried about what she might have lost on her computer, Senator George noticed that traffic forty floors below had come to a stop and people were getting out of their cars in the middle of Hanover Street. It was a puzzling sight -- motorists wandering through the knot of vehicles, not at all concerned about the traffic. As she reached for her cell phone, one of the telephones on the desk rang, the shrillness of its ring in her silent office causing her to jump. She reached for the receiver, then realized the ringing wasn’t coming from the office phone, but from the secure line that had been installed four years before when she had become head of the Senate Intelligence Committee. This black, ugly paperweight didn’t ring often, but when it did, it usually meant the CIA was calling to warn her about some crisis before the reporters started calling.
She stared at the phone, trying to decide whether to answer it now or put the headache off for a couple of hours. Curiosity won out, and she picked the receiver up on the fifth ring. “Senator George,” she said, using her most official tone. She recognized the voice on the other end of the line instantly. “Yes. Hello, General Fletcher. What’s so urgent?” She checked her reflection in the mirror on the wall and adjusted her hair while the general spoke.
“Senator, I’m required to inform you that we have an extremely serious situation. America has been attacked.” His tone was even more sober than usual, if that was possible.
The Senator’s hand fell from her hair, and she reached out for her desk as she dropped into the imposing leather chair that dominated the space behind her desk. “Was it one of our embassies? Please tell me that people haven’t been hurt.”
“No, Senator, I wish it was that simple. The country has been attacked. The entire country.”
“What are you talking about, the entire country? Was there another terrorist strike? I haven’t seen anything indicating any new threats in my reports…”
“Christine!” The general cut her off, uncharacteristically calling her by her first name. “Senator,” he corrected himself. ”Do you remember the briefing we gave Congress in January, the one we give every January after an election? One of the things we discussed was an electromagnetic pulse, an EMP. Do you remember?”
“That’s been awhile, but yes, I remember. Why?”
“Look out your window, Senator. What do you see?”
“Not much, just cars and people. We’re having a blackout right now, so traffic lights …” she paused as the dots connected inside her head. “Michael?!”
“That’s right, Senator. We’ve been hit, and hit hard.” The general spoke in rapid fire staccato, a trait completely foreign to him, but that only served to give added weight to his words. “Missiles were launched off both coasts at exactly 1600 hours. There are also unconfirmed reports that there might have been a third missile down in the Gulf, but we’ve yet to see firm evidence on that. Of the two that we know about, it appears that one malfunctioned and broke up before it detonated. The other was successful. It has only been a few minutes, but it appears that things will be as bad as we were told to expect. The assessment could change, but there isn’t going to be a positive way to spin this.”
Senator George struggled to maintain her grip on the telephone. “How bad is it going to be? Where was the military?” she asked incredulously. “How could this happen?”
“We had no warning on this,” General Fletcher barked into the phone. “It was a complete surprise. As things stand, there is nothing we could have done. Perhaps if there had been some warning, or if we had other weapons in our arsenal, we could have tried. As for how bad it’s going to be, we don’t know, and we’re not going to know the full extent of the damage for years. One is all it takes to bring everything down.”
“Why wasn’t there any warning? I’m the head of the Intelligence Committee and I’ve heard nothing. How could this happen?”
“Like I said, Senator, there was no warning. They kept this one quiet. It had to have been years in the making, but it wouldn’t have taken many people to pull it off, a couple dozen at most. It’s likely that none of the perpetrators ever set foot in our country, and there’s only so much we can know. NORAD picked the missiles up just after they were launched; that was the very first indication we had. Both missiles were launched from non-military boats off our coasts. We had no chance to react.”
“What about shooting them down? I thought we had systems to protect us. That’s what we spend all that money on the military for, isn’t it?” Senator George spat the words into the phone, her temper rising as the magnitude of the problem sank in.
“We’ve been working on some systems, Senator, but you know what’s happened to our money. Those things aren’t free. Thanks to our elected officials, everything that can be cut has been, and then some. If we’d had even a day’s notice, we could have attempted something, but on this one, there was no chance to get a shot off, let alone two.”
The senator sat in silence, contemplating General Fletcher’s words along with her role in diverting money the military had said it needed. The scenarios the military had talked about, had even threatened congress with, seemed so remote, so unlikely. How could they justify spending billions on weapons that, in all probability, would never be needed? Surely the voters wouldn’t hold her accountable for this. At least fifty-seven other senators had voted with her on each measure to reduce weapons money.
“Senator,” the general said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’ve got other calls to make. I need to go.”
“Michael,” she said, barely able to choke out the words. “How bad do you think it’s going to be?”
“It’s hard to say, Senator,” the general answered in the steady, cold monotone that she was used to, the anger from seconds ago already dissipated. “Everything before today has, for the most part, been theory. My guess is that casualties will be around fifty or so. I might be wrong, but some of our estimate range to eight times that.”
“Fifty thousand?” Senator George gasped. “You’re kidding, right?” It was more of a plea than a question. “You can’t be serious. It’s just electricity. People will adjust.”
“Senator, the United States, Canada and Mexico have all been affected, and that’s close to half a billion people. By the time this is over, I think we are looking at fifty million casualties. I hope it’s much less, but that will all depend on how people react. The first wave is today: accidents, loss of medical care, fires, airplanes and such. Next will be weeks of chaos and lawlessness while people adjust to the realities of having no power, no functioning government, and no civic control. It will be much worse in the cities, so if you have someplace to go to, out of town, I highly recommend that you leave quickly. In this stage we’ll also lose everyone dependent on doctors and medicine to stay alive. That will be followed by a relatively quiet period of starvation as people run out of food and no longer have the energy to cause trouble and contribute to the chaos. In the north, people will freeze once winter hits. In three or four months, maybe not until spring time, we’ll be faced with large-scale anarchy as those who do have food and weapons try to piece together some semblance of tribal order.
“I just hope there’s a country worth saving after all of that,” the general continued. “I truly hope I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am. We’ve game-planned this one out quite a bit.” The general paused to let his words sink in then continued in his gravelly monotone. “Have a good day, Senator. You know how to get in touch with me if you need to, assuming this phone system that we’ve spent so much money on manages to hold up.”
The line went dead and Senator George let the phone drop from her hands. She knew General Fletcher didn’t care for her but had been obligated to call because she was the head of the Intelligence Committee. She didn’t particularly care for him either. He didn’t appreciate the difficult job politicians had of trying to keep constituents happy and making things work in Washington, all while working to get reelected. But despite her opinion of the general, she knew he was honest -- blunt, but honest, and not one to say things for effect. As she spun in her chair to stare out the window, Senator George tried to imagine how the chaos that General Fletcher threatened would descend on her beloved city. The images that came to mind sent shivers down her spine. Then she noticed a dark plume of smoke ascending skyward from an older neighborhood to the north.
George Bush International Airport, Houston, Texas 16:12 EST
Kyle returned to the row he had been sitting in and gripped the shoulders of the lady across the aisle who was still dabbing at her face. “Get off the airplane!” he yelled as he shook her and pointed to the exit. He then turned to Ed, still slumped over and unmoving. After confirming that Ed had a pulse, Kyle grabbed Ed under his arms and heaved him into the aisle. Dragging Ed behind him, Kyle backed down the aisle a half dozen steps when he bumped into someone and could go no further. He turned to see the flight attendant attempting to rouse the unconscious man who had been traveling with his daughter.
“Do you need help?” Kyle yelled.