Dore rubbed his neck. “So if it wasn’t the Russians or Chinese, then who attacked us?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Major Lyons leaned his head against the map board. “You have to understand, because of this weird EMP stuff, we’re blind, deaf and dumb. Every satellite is offline, all microwave-band systems are fried and the ionosphere is shot to shit. Most of our radio communications are now only line of sight, which requires a network of airborne repeater stations to reach anyone over the horizon. As you can imagine, with thousands of enemy fighter craft popping up all over the place, they don’t survive long. Whoever the enemy is sure knows exactly what they’re doing.”
Kat sauntered over to the stack of exotic communications gear on a side table. “Wait, most communications are line of sight?”
Mr. Smith laced his fingers behind his head and spoke for the first time. “Show them, Major. I don’t think security clearances matter any longer.”
The major reached into an open safe and tossed a sheaf of loose papers on the table. “The only thing working, at least most of the time, is the Extremely Low Frequency radio. The network was designed specifically to function in a post-nuclear war environment. Problem is, the damn system is a Cold War-era relic with limited functionality. We can receive messages, but not transmit. Actually, ‘receive’ is being charitable. There’s only enough bandwidth to decode about a dozen characters a minute.”
Kat nudged past Dore and peeked at some of the short memos.
“Strategic launch command… Holy shit! Have we gone nuclear already?”
“Several times, in fact. The first counterattack came seconds after Washington was annihilated. POTUS managed to get out a strike order just before enemy aircraft intercepted Air Force One. NORAD fired off the remainder of our ICBM’s a few minutes later, right before their own destruction. From what we can gather, Cheyenne Mountain withstood three meteorite impacts before the bunker complex was breached. We haven’t heard a thing from any of the backup ‘Looking Glass’ command aircraft. Hell, I don’t know if they even made it off the ground.”
The major puffed out his cheeks and unclenched his fist. “Anyway, about twenty minutes ago, some Navy admiral I’ve never heard of claims he’s now commander-in-chief and ordered yet another launch from the ballistic missile subs. I guess he had the proper codes, because the subs complied. And that’s only America’s response. The rest of the world is tossing everything they have into the nuclear free-for-all. Everyone who’s got a nuke is squirting them off. Still, despite all the atomic firepower we’ve unleashed, I haven’t heard successful confirmation from any strike.”
Lyons slid over a ruggedized military laptop. “You know what’s screwy though? Check it out.”
A terribly rendered, 3-D map of the globe covered the screen. Hundreds of green trajectories curved out from the US and merged on six red X’s hovering well above the equator.
“We have no details on the targets other than their x, y, z altitude and velocity. Even more curious, the coordinates aren’t anywhere on Earth. The whole world’s aiming at these six somethings in space. In low geosynchronous orbits, to be exact. One of the targets is about 600 miles directly above us right now.”
Dore spun the global view. Thousands of multi-colored trajectories lanced out from around the planet at the same targets. White from America, blue from England and France, yellow from Russia and pink from China.
“What’s this single red line?”
“North Korea. I bet whoever’s still in charge freaked out when they joined the party, but after Pyongyang went up in smoke, we should be thankful the nuts didn’t aim at the West Coast. I sure hope that’s their only ICBM.”
Kat butted into the powwow around the laptop. “What’s with this bullshit? If we’ve launched so many missiles, why aren’t there six new suns glowing in the sky?”
The Air Force officer rubbed his temples. “That’s the big question. After the EMP, there simply aren’t many radars left operational. Not just here, but in any country. I don’t think anyone truly knows what’s going on up there.”
He collapsed in his folding chair. “Of course, it’s not hard to guess the general picture. I did a cross-training stint at a Minuteman ICBM silo back in my junior lieutenant days. The sad truth is these missiles aren’t designed to kill… well, whatever’s up there. Spaceships, I’m assuming.”
Kat shook her head. “UFO’s? We don’t have time for this shit.”
“Call them whatever you want, but there’s no way to guide our missiles once they leave the atmosphere. ICBM’s are little more than long-range artillery. They don’t have maneuvering thrusters or anything like that. In essence, we’re just throwing darts into space and hoping to get lucky. Even if the enemy isn’t intercepting our rockets, which wouldn’t be difficult, it would still take a miracle to hit anything smaller than the moon.”
He looked the skeptical female warrior up and down. “Here, try to visualize how complicated such an intercept is. I bet you’re a good shot with that rifle. Well, imagine firing at a target moving faster than your bullet, in four dimensions, and that’s so far away your shot needs ten minutes to get there. Even if you’ve led the target perfectly, all they need to do is make the tiniest orbital tweak in any direction and your round would miss by hundreds of miles.”
While Kat struggled to find a flaw in his logic, Sergeant Michaels broke the contemplative silence. “What about New York? I’ve got family…did they get… is it still there?”
Major Lyons worked his jaw, but lost his voice as he met the young man’s bloodshot eyes. Mr. Smith answered for him. “I’m sorry. Times Square was ground zero. The meteorite leveled everything within thirty miles.”
Kat grabbed Michaels as he collapsed to his knees. The bunker erupted in pandemonium as soldiers shouted above each other.
“What about Atlanta?”
“Is Los Angeles okay?”
“Do you have a way to call home?”
“Shut the fuck up everyone!” Captain Dore kicked the nearest folding chair across the room.
“All right. There’s not a damn thing we can do for them right now. If you want a chance to get home, then we have to stay focused. This is the wrong time to lose your shit. First things first, we’ve got twenty-five civilians to worry about right here. We need to link up with the regular military. Major, is Fifth Fleet headquarters in Bahrain still there?”
Lyons lowered his eyes. “Doubt it. They were one of the first installations to go off the air when the enemy’s space planes fanned out around the globe.”
“Ok, what about Kuwait? There were thousands of American and NATO troops scattered in bases around the country. Have you heard anything from them?”
“We were in contact until our last relay plane went down about half an hour ago. No idea what’s going on up north now.”
Captain Dore turned and studied his senior NCO’s. They all nodded, except for Michaels. He was too busy hyperventilating while Kat held his head up. “Well, let’s quit wasting time. Warrant Officer Sims?”
The senior Osprey pilot already huddled over his map, a protractor and calculator in hand. He puffed out his cheeks. “Well, if Major Lyons has some auxiliary fuel tanks we can borrow, we should be able to make it to Camp Arifjan in Kuwait. The big problem, since I’m assuming we’ll be flying nape of the Earth to avoid detection, is that we have zilch for wiggle room. Even with the extra tanks, it wouldn’t take much to strand us in the desert. A strong headwind or even a few minutes of excess maneuvering will tap out our fuel reserves. Of course, without the unnecessary mass from the civilians…”
“Negative. Figure out another way.”
Major Lyons cleared his throat. “You could leave them with us, Captain. We have plenty of food and space. They’ll be safe and we aren’t going anywhere. As far as I can tell, we’re the last surviving American outpost in five hundred miles. So I’m not going to abandon this base unless ordered to.”
Lyons
wilted under Dore’s cold gaze. “I respect what you’re doing, but let’s be honest. You don’t have a single real soldier. I have two dozen though. I also have a duty to get these people to a safe zone. And this base is far from fucking safe.” He spun around to the Osprey pilot.
“Ditch the ramp and door guns if you have to save weight, but the civvies are coming with us. We didn’t pull them out of one hellhole just to abandon them in another.” Sims and Kat exchanged exasperated glances, but neither had the courage to test their commander.
Mr. Smith ignored the details. The spook stashed a computer and some papers into his rucksack. Then he neatly arranged the remaining cartons of paperwork around the elaborate communications gear. He shrugged into his ruck and flashed Dore a wide grin.
“Make sure you save me a seat.”
Out of nowhere, Smith produced an incendiary grenade and rested it on top of the stack of electronics.
“Take the Extremely Low Frequency radio, Major, but the rest is too sensitive. Now, I suggest we all get out of here real soon.”
Captain Dore stuck out his arm. “I don’t care who you think you are, but you’re sure as hell not coming with us. I’ve got enough non-combatants to watch over.”
The spook patted down his pockets and eyed the room one last time. Satisfied, he somehow grew his smile even wider.
“Uh huh. So what’s your plan, Captain? You thinking of riding up there like a hero and hooking up with some official chain of command? Sure, maybe they’ll give you a medal for saving the hostages, but then they’ll just throw you right back in the fight somewhere else. On the other hand, if you show up with me in tow, I can guarantee you and your team a seat on the next ride back to the States. If you have to fight, why not for your families and on your home turf?”
Captain Dore avoided Kat’s pleading eyes and focused on the smirking spy in front of him.
“You sure a ‘lowly contractor’ has the authority to order my unit around?”
The spook chuckled and pulled the thermite grenade’s pin. “Who do you think sent you into Al Mukalla in the first place? I am sorry about the additional hostages. The Al Qaeda courier I water boarded assured me there were only two Westerners there. It’s like you just can’t trust anyone nowadays. Oh well. I’ll see you on the plane.”
West Palatka, Florida
30 miles southwest of Jacksonville
Rachel spotted their target first. She quit fiddling with the dead radio and pointed out the window. “About time! There’s an open one. Wait, where are you going?”
Dixon slowed, but didn’t stop. “There’s no rush. We still have a gallon or so left. I’d like to know what we’re getting into before we get out.”
Despite long lines at the pumps, the gas station on the edge of Palatka was calm. The source of order became clear as he circled around. Dixon pulled into the lot and parked behind some Florida Power and Light service van. A dark-skinned teenaged boy stood guard over the pumps twenty yards ahead of them. Hard to imagine how anyone could be intimidated by the jittery kid, even with the revolver at his side. Dixon almost laughed, until he caught sight of a hawk-eyed grandmother keeping watch over the boy and the crowd. The double-barreled shotgun in her slender arms never quivered.
Dixon pocketed his keys. “All right. Come with me and stay close.”
For once, she didn’t argue and just followed his lead. All it took was the end of the world.
The line was thin inside the rundown convenience store. Thin, but annoyed. Some guy ahead of them in a three-piece suit flipped his phone off and on. He loosened his red power tie and glared around the convenience store.
“Christ! You people still have power. Why not use your generator to get the AC going? Maybe this heat is nothing where you come from, but it’s hot for us Americans.”
The middle-aged Pakistani woman behind the counter curled her lip, but the suit kept venting under his breath. He glanced around at the other patrons all doing their best to ignore him. His frustrated gaze settled on Dixon. He winked and nodded at Dixon’s short-cropped, dirty blonde hair and All-American jaw.
“God damn foreigners, am I right? No wonder we’re getting hit by terrorists left and right. We just let any Muslim come on in here and do whatever they please. I doubt these bastards are even legal immigrants. Betcha they don’t speak a damn word of English…”
The clerk’s fingers slid towards her Beretta on the counter. Some older Pakistani man put a gentle hand on her shoulder and peeked over the Lotto display.
“You, ass of hole. No gas for you. Leave!”
“What the fuck did you say to me, raghead? Do you know who I am? I bet my company owns the insurance plan for this dump.” He kicked a freestanding rack of potato chips and sputtered even more racist nonsense.
Dixon snagged the enraged businessman from behind and gave him a shove towards the door. The guy flipped him the bird and reached in his back pocket. The ferocious stranger glanced over Dixon’s shoulder and froze with whatever weapon he had still in his pants. He gulped and tore off running to his BMW without another word. Dixon turned around and noticed the older shopkeeper resting an AK-47 muzzle on a box of chewing gum.
Like flipping a switch, the Pakistani couple went back to business.
“Next, please.”
A haggard utility worker came up and yanked a wallet from his coveralls. “Uh, hello. I’ll need twenty gallons, please.”
“Ok, that’s $120.” The cashier waved his plastic card away. “I’m afraid the credit machine is down. Cash only.”
Behind the shocked power company worker, Rachel whispered in Dixon’s ear. “How much does your car need?” Dixon shielded his wallet from the other customers. It didn’t take long to count. “Far more than I can afford.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Some prepper you are. Always have a gun within reach, but can’t remember to hit up an ATM?” She shoved a wad of bills into his hand. “I’m expecting some serious interest back on my babysitting money, you know.”
Up front, the Florida Power and Light worker was still gesticulating. “But this is crazy. That’s double the price on the board!”
The woman shrugged. “There’s a corporate-owned gas station downtown selling fuel at ten times the price. Be thankful I’m not American enough to be so greedy.”
“It’s not the price, but... Come on, who carries that much cash around? I only have twenty on me.”
Someone in the back of the line yelled. “Hey, I got the money! Let’s go!”
The baggy-eyed line repairman put his hands on the counter… a little too fast. The AK-47 twitched ever so slightly in his direction. He slowly pulled his hands back. “Please be reasonable. That’s a corporate card. From the power company, for crying out loud! You know they’re good for it.”
The Pakistani man smiled for the first time. “Where is electricity? Power company no in business. We in business. Business need hand money. No computer money. Sorry.”
“But… I can’t work. I can’t get home… I, uh, wait, wait!” He stuck out his palm as the woman waved Dixon and Rachel forward.
“What about barter, huh? I have some industrial-strength surge protectors out in the van. Very expensive. Should help protect your generator if there’s another EMP strike. I’ll even let you in on a little secret: we’ve actually been hit several times by a major electromagnetic pulse in the last few hours. Could happen again at any moment.”
The Pakistani cashier seemed intrigued, but Dixon beat her to the punch and slammed Rachel’s money down on the counter. “I’ll pay for his plus twenty gallons more for us.”
The woman shrugged and handed him some raffle tickets. “The computer controlling the pumps is down. Show these to my son and he’ll set the gauge manually. If you touch the pump, one of us will shoot you. Have a nice day.” Her friendly smile never slipped.
The electric worker trailed Dixon and Rachel outside. They all chuckled as the Pakistani teenager toyed with their tickets like a border agent inspecti
ng a fake ID. When they could finally fill up, the lineman hesitated with the gas nozzle in his hand.
“Thanks for that. I really appreciate your help, but in all honesty, I’m not sure how long the surge protectors would last hooked up to the grid. You could make a pretty penny reselling them though. I’ll just tell the head office I was robbed. That’s if I ever see them again. I’ve got a feeling the boss is the least of my worries.”
Dixon leaned against the van and scratched his old neck scar. “Forget the surge protectors. I want something much more valuable: information. What in God’s name is going on?”
The man rubbed his drooping eyes. “Hell if I know. I’ve had my head stuck inside burnt-out transformers all day.”
Rachel crossed her bony arms. “You said it was an EMP strike. Like in the movies?”
“Not quite as bad. Mostly E1 energy.”
Rachel and Dixon just blinked. The utility worker dug out a can of Skoal and squeezed out a double pinch.
“You gotta understand, this isn’t a single EMP attack. Think of it like a low-power but continuous solar flare. I wish one big pulse was all we had to deal with. Whatever game the terrorists are playing is so much worse. Rather than a quick and intense blast, say from a nuke, which wreaks havoc but then goes away, we’re being saturated with regular doses of electromagnetic radiation. Only a fraction of the nanotesla strength as a nuclear-generated EMP, sure, but the crap never stops! In many ways, it’s even worse than the movies. We can’t even begin fixing things until whatever’s causing these power overloads stops transmitting.”
The Caliphate Invasion Page 4
