The Geostorm Series (Book 4): Geostorm [The Flood]

by Akart, Bobby

  The deputies stopped to help Billy up, but the clumsy Clark slipped and fell onto his knees, providing a hearty chuckle to the people who’d returned to view the exchange.

  He finally stood and tried to brush off his suit, hoping to regain some semblance of decorum. “Fine, kid. You got your shot in. You’re just a momma’s boy anyway. Whatever.”

  Randy looked at his brother. “Anything broken?”

  “Nah, it’s nothing. Now, do what we’re here to do.”

  Levi stepped forward like he wasn’t done yet, but Chapman grabbed him firmly by the arm and whispered in his ear, “Not now. Not today. Okay?”

  Levi tried to wrestle free, but Chapman strengthened his grip. Feeling restrained, and having calmed down somewhat, Levi relaxed and nodded.

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Banker?” asked Carly, who still had smoke coming out of her ears.

  Billy ignored her and nodded to his brother, who nodded back.

  Randy reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded-up, multipage document. “Sarah Boone, by the authority granted to me by the County of Harrison and the State of Indiana, you are in default of your promissory note to the Bank of Corydon as secured by a deed of trust on your real property. Unless you take action to pay the balances owed to the Bank of Corydon in full, including interest, attorney fees, and other costs of collection, your property will be sold at foreclosure auction on the courthouse steps in Corydon, Harrison County, twenty-eight days from tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the morning. Govern yourself accordingly.”

  He tossed the notice of foreclosure at Sarah, and it hit her in the chest. She instinctively grabbed it and stared at Randy. The scene was surreal as the Boone family, in shock at the loss of Squire, was now caught in a state of frozen animation, mouths open as a deadly silence overcame the funeral.

  You could hear a pin drop amongst the sheets of rain until Levi let out a guttural yell and charged Billy headfirst. The crown of his skull struck the bully in the belly, knocking the wind out of him before he crashed to the ground.

  Levi showed no mercy as he relentlessly pummeled Billy with his fists, smacking him across the face with a right, then a left, and then another right, eventually causing blood to pour from the man’s mouth.

  One of the deputies attempted to grab Levi by the shirt to pull him off Billy, but Levi swung his arm around and caught the man in the groin. He immediately doubled over in pain and fell to the mud at the sheriff’s feet.

  Randy tried to restore order and he pulled his weapon. But he was not alone. The sound of a dozen rifles and shotguns chambering rounds, ready to fire, stopped him in his tracks. Both he and the remaining deputy looked behind them in disbelief as they faced off against the friends and neighbors of Squire Boone. All of them were armed and gave the Clarks the kind of stare that meant don’t mess with us.

  Randy looked at them and tried to take control. He placed his service weapon back in its holster and instructed his deputy to do the same. He raised both hands in a signal of surrender, in part.

  “Okay. Okay. I get it. Tensions are high. Everybody, lower your weapons. We had a job to do and now it’s done. But I’ve gotta take Levi in for assault. I can’t let that pass.”

  Randy turned toward his brother and the deputy, who helped each other up. Then he searched the Boone family and their friends for Levi.

  During the confusion, Levi had disappeared.

  Chapter 33

  Raven Rock Mountain Complex

  Liberty Township, Pennsylvania

  Since the invention of the atomic bomb and the revelation of its destructive capability at Alamogordo, New Mexico, as part of the Manhattan Project, leaders within the United States government began to take measures to protect themselves. The Constitution laid out the basics of continuity of government as it related to lines of succession to the presidency. Our Founding Fathers never imagined a weapon so lethal the entire government could be wiped out in a matter of seconds.

  To protect the nation’s senior administration officials, measures were taken, which included constructing secured facilities around the country for cabinet officials and congressional leaders to be safe in the event of an attack.

  One of the early bunkers was built underground in the basement of the Greenbrier Hotel in West Virginia. As communications technology became more advanced and the size of the government grew, the need for larger, more complex facilities arose.

  The Raven Rock Mountain Complex, located near the Maryland-Pennsylvania border, dated back to the days immediately following World War II when the U.S. government began to assess the damage inflicted upon Japan. Political leaders considered the consequences of their weapons technology potentially being used by the nation’s enemies to attack America.

  Construction on Raven Rock began with the idea of creating a freestanding city consisting of multiple three-story buildings tucked inside a mountain. Like any small town, it had a basic infrastructure of utilities, first responders, and dining facilities, which operated twenty-four hours a day. Sleeping quarters were tight, but they had all the amenities of a studio apartment.

  As the Cold War ended during the nineteen eighties, expansion and updating of the facility was set aside in favor of other forms of government spending. But then came 9/11, a wake-up call for all Americans and those within the government. In the two decades following the terrorist attack, the Raven Rock complex had been rapidly expanded and could now protect over five thousand people.

  President Grant Houston had toured the facility once following a post-election victory lap to thank his supporters in Pennsylvania for helping attain victory. Raven Rock, also known as Site R, had become an underground Pentagon because of its formal designation as the Alternate National Military Command Center.

  He’d been accompanied by his inner circle, those trusted advisors and senior administration officials whom he relied upon to conduct the nation’s business. There was, however, one noticeable absentee—his chief of staff, Angela O’Donnell.

  During the chaotic departure from the White House, she insisted she stay behind to ensure the president had everything he needed in the way of files, staff, and computers to govern the nation for an extended period of time. As the threat of the coming geostorm grew, the Secret Service insisted the president be evacuated. He and O’Donnell snuck away to say their goodbyes and gave each other assurances they’d be together again soon.

  Unfortunately for an unsuspecting president, O’Donnell’s definition of soon differed substantially from his. Rather than travelling to Andrews with the rest of the presidential support staff, O’Donnell instructed her driver to stop at Hyde Field, Washington’s Executive Airpark.

  The small Learjet she’d chartered stretched the capabilities of Hyde Field, but it was only the first means of transportation she’d take to her private island getaway in New Zealand. Through contacts arranged via her stockbroker in Los Angeles, O’Donnell purchased a modest oceanfront villa on White Island, thirty miles off the coast of New Zealand near Auckland.

  The circular island was sparsely inhabited, known mainly for tourism and a small contingent of scientists, who studied the cone volcano there. The waters offshore were teeming with fish, and the west side of the island contained vitamin-rich soil for farming. She envisioned a simple life with the president, just the two of them, riding out the storm and never resurfacing to public life.

  She teased the prospect at first and then became more direct in pressuring him to run away with her. When the president informed her that political optics dictated his wife be brought to Raven Rock for protection, she came to the realization her dream life wasn’t going to happen, so she made her own plans. Using the windfall from the stock short sales she’d made before the power grid announcement, she purchased property and sufficient supplies to live for a dozen years in complete obscurity and safety. In the end, it didn’t work out as she planned.

  By late that afternoon, the president suspected she wasn’t coming when the fina
l wave of staffers arrived at Raven Rock. He directed his secretary to discreetly quiz them to determine her whereabouts. It became readily apparent she had other plans, so he moved on with the business of protecting the country the best he could.

  He also inquired about the status of his wife whom he’d sent for in California. Despite his tryst with his chief of staff, and the fact he was in a loveless marriage, he felt an obligation to provide her the protection available to her as the First Lady.

  President Houston addressed those members of his cabinet who were in attendance. Pursuant to continuity-of-government protocols, other high-ranking government officials who were in the line of succession were moved throughout the country to protected bunkers. Within the command center of Raven Rock, a large conference room was constructed to act as a situation room for the president when he was within the complex. It bore the presidential seal on the wall and contained several monitors designed for face-to-face communications with other facilities, like Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado and Mount Weather in Virginia.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” said the president, turning first to his director of Homeland Security. “How successful have you been in utilizing the National Guard to tamp down unrest in the cities?”

  “Mr. President, the best word I can use is contained,” the former army general responded. “We don’t have the resources to enter the largest cities and engage in what amounts to hand-to-hand combat with American citizens. These people are scared, which fuels their anger and desperation. Any attempt we’ve made by using a show of force is met with gunfire. Unless we change the rules of engagement to allow our troops to fire upon civilians, then, frankly, the best result is containment of the unrest to where it arose.”

  The president shook his head in disappointment. “How about in the suburbs and rural areas?”

  “Less resistance, equal levels of desperation, sir. We’ve determined that a very large percentage of the population is away from home. Some by choice as they travel to reunite with loved ones to ride out the storm, metaphorically speaking. Millions of others got stranded at airports or ran out of fuel in their vehicles. Gasoline distribution came to a halt, and fuel couldn’t be pumped when the grid was taken down. As a result, you have, without exaggeration, millions of people either walking or riding alternative means of transportation.”

  “Bicycles?” asked the president.

  “Yes, sir. Horses, donkeys, skateboards. You name it.”

  The president turned to the FEMA representative who’d just arrived. “Where is Administrator Brock?”

  “Sir, he is en route from Washington now. He took every last moment available to place recovery assets where they needed to be.”

  The president grimaced. Recovery. Everyone was so optimistic that this crisis was going to be short-lived. He wasn’t so sure.

  “That’s good,” said the president without conviction. His mind wandered to the empty chair by his side, intentionally held open in case his lover showed up. “It’s too early for me to discuss recovery, quite frankly, but let me ask about allocation of resources to those in need. Is FEMA positioned to assist?”

  “Yes, sir. As instructed, we’ve placed FEMA assets nearest the large population centers so we can help the greatest numbers. As part of our action plan developed over twenty years, we’ve identified twenty metropolitan areas where we can do the greatest good.”

  “Just twenty?”

  “Yes, sir. The reason is twofold. First, we don’t have the personnel to spread ourselves out over a greater number of locations. Second, we’re advised by DHS that the National Guard can’t protect our teams unless we keep these recovery and assistance centers to twenty or less.”

  The president turned to his DHS Secretary. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Unless we reallocate our guardsmen away from the cities, our limited numbers can’t adequately protect a larger relief effort.”

  “The president shook his head in disgust. It’s the same principle a schoolteacher faces in a classroom. There’s always one student out of two dozen that garners the most negative attention. The whole class suffers as a result.”

  “Yes, sir. Good analogy,” added the FEMA representative.

  The former general made a suggestion. “Mr. President, we could pull back our perimeter established to cordon off the inner cities. Eventually, I don’t know when, the violence will spill out into the suburbs. But, in so doing, FEMA could expand its relief efforts in conjunction with our protection.”

  The president thought for a moment and shook his head. “No. Let’s maintain the status quo until we see the effects of this geostorm. When is it due?” He turned to Nola Taylor from NASA.

  “The early stages are happening now, sir.”

  Chapter 34

  Hoosier National Forest

  Southern Indiana

  Mobilized out of Camp Atterbury in Edinburgh, an hour south of Indianapolis, the Indiana National Guard’s 76th Infantry Brigade Combat Team was underutilized for the role it was playing after the president issued the martial law declaration. They were being deployed from one city to another, basically acting as a highly trained, well-armed police force. They were uncomfortable with the role, as they were used to fighting a real enemy, not American civilians.

  It was well after midnight and the unit had stopped for the night just off Interstate 64 in the heart of the Hoosier National Forest. They had been redeployed to Evansville, where flooding had forced residents out of the inner city and, without invitation, into the homes of suburbia, namely North Country Club, the former residence of Indiana’s governor.

  They had barely unloaded their gear to set up camp when they received a radio communication from Camp Atterbury. A gang had left St. Louis and were headed east along I-64. They’d reportedly killed dozens along the way, tearing through small communities with a vengeance. According to the information provided by local law enforcement in Crawford County, which adjoined Harrison County’s west boundary, the gang had stopped for the night and commandeered a Pilot Truck Stop.

  The elite unit dispatched two four-man teams to the woods at the rear of the truck stop. Arrayed in a standard wedge formation, the guardsmen moved in unison through the woods. Using hand and arm signals, they were silent and practically invisible in their camouflage.

  Captain Walsh, the unit’s commanding officer, was glad to finally utilize his personnel in a combat-type mission. They weren’t meant to direct traffic and help wayward cats out of a tree. Their job was not to convince people to go home or arrest some fool running out of a Best Buy carrying a television that couldn’t work anyway.

  They were fighters, and the orders he’d received were simple. Hunt down the murderous gangbangers, engage them, and kill them if necessary. Make no mistake, they were orders although he questioned their legality. Nonetheless, he had the cover he needed to unleash his team on targets worth eliminating.

  Walsh was hard-core even before he’d served in various Middle East and South American deployments. He sported a tattoo on his back that resembled King Arthur’s sword with the words beneath—Kill or Be Killed. Walsh took that motto to heart as he led his team ever closer to the truck stop.

  He now had eyes on the rear parking lot, where several eighteen-wheelers were parked, most likely out of fuel based upon their haphazard arrangement. His lieutenant briskly walked up the slight incline to join him. He whispered, “Cap, on our six. We’ve got movement.”

  Walsh stopped his team, and using hand signals, he spread them out to address the possible threat. He couldn’t assume the gangbangers were snoozing away in the truck stop. They might have set up their own perimeter security.

  His team’s standard-issue weapon was an M16 together with a quick-detach suppressor. He’d instructed them to use the silenced weapon for this mission. Walsh readied his own rifle and quietly moved through the team, who’d taken up positions on both sides of the narrow trail they’d used for their approach. He walked heel to toe, sil
ently retracing their route until he also picked up on the movement in front of him.

  As an Indiana native, what he saw through his night-vision scope surprised him. Several black bears were charging up the trail toward them. He couldn’t count them with certainty as they lumbered along in single file.

  First of all, black bears had been eradicated from the state in the 1800s although recently sightings had been confirmed. But these reports were few and far between. At this moment, it appeared at least four, if not more, were headed directly toward his unit.

  He paused, thinking about his next decision. He’d read the reports of crazed animal activity. Ordinarily, he could frighten the bears off by making lots of noise. However, this group, which was unusual in and of itself, was charging their position. He couldn’t risk their lives.

  “Light ’em up!” he shouted, and he immediately opened fire on the black bears, which were less than forty yards away. He killed the lead bear, but the others immediately sought cover in the woods. “What the hell?” he muttered to himself. The first kill should’ve sent the other bears into a full-on retreat. Yet they were still there. He could sense it.

  “Stay frosty, people!” he shouted, no longer attempting to be stealthy.

  To his right, he could barely hear the quick three-round burst from a suppressed M16, but the growling and guttural snarl was unmistakable.

  One of his team began to scream in agony as the growling grew louder. Panic among the guardsmen ensued as they began firing in all directions at the targets appearing in their scopes. He could hear the whine and swoosh of bullets flying past his ears, ripping through the dense foliage and splintering trees.

  “Watch your damn shooting lanes!” he demanded, fearful of dying by panicked friendly fire.