by Keith Taylor
“Damn, the call won’t connect.” She shoved the phone in her pocket. “Doc, you ready to go?”
Ramos didn't answer. He was staring up at the TV screen.
“Doc, I said—”
“Hang on.” Ramos held up a silencing hand, reaching for the remote and turning up the volume. “I think something's happening.”
΅
CHAPTER NINE
CRUEL AND SELFISH MEN
IT WASN'T UNTIL the swarming mob at the terminal was just a speck in the rear view mirror that Jack felt comfortable easing his foot off the gas, and the terminal had vanished completely before he finally felt safe enough to pull to the side of the airport access road and take a breath. His hands were trembling and his heart pounding, and his nerves only began to settle when he pulled out one of his vodka miniatures and drained the bottle in a few gulps.
As the alcohol did its thing he fished his phone from his jacket and stared at the screen, still frozen halfway through loading the news. He tapped the reload icon, and the screen immediately refreshed to an error page. No network connection. The 4G icon in the top corner was grayed out, but there were still three bars showing a connection to the local cell tower.
Jack knew what this meant. The service provider must have limited access to keep the network from crashing. Millions of people must be trying to access the news on their phones and tablets, and left unchecked the massive demand would quickly overwhelm the commercial cell networks. At times like this the providers could disable internet access, limiting the traffic to relatively undemanding voice calls and text messages to try to keep the network from crashing under the load.
He swiped out of the browser and scrolled through his phone book to bring up Karen’s number, tapping the phone icon and switching the speaker on. For a few seconds the phone emitted a few clicks of static, but then a pre-recorded voice began to play.
Sorry, we are unable to connect your call at this time. Please try again… Sorry, we are unable to connect your—
Jack stabbed angrily at the screen, scrolling through until he found Doctor Ramos. He tried again.
Sorry, we are unable—
“Damn it!” He tossed the phone onto the dash and thumped the steering wheel with a clenched fist, his frustration boiling over. If he couldn’t get through to Karen he was lost. Even if he could get all the way home to San Francisco there’d be no way to find her and Emily. They surely wouldn’t stay in the city, but he didn’t have the first clue as to where Karen might decide to evacuate.
They’d never spoken about this. Even with the risk of earthquakes and wildfires that always threatened the west coast they’d never sat down and gamed out an evacuation plan. It had just never felt necessary back when they were living together, and after Karen threw him out… well, the time for making plans as a family had long since passed.
There was only one thing Jack knew for certain. He had no idea where Karen might go, but he knew that she’d keep Emily away from crowds. They’d travel alone and move quickly. Never in a million years would she try to reach anything that resembled a refugee camp.
Years ago, back when he and Karen had first started talking about marriage, they’d flown to Dallas for a weekend to meet her parents, a terrifying experience for any young man. Karen’s mother was a delight, an all-American mom who looked like the kind of warm, welcoming soul who always had a fresh apple pie cooling at the window. Her father, on the other hand, was a retired Major, and possibly the most intense human being who’d ever walked the earth. Next to him R. Lee Ermey looked like a laid back hippy, and even after seven years of marriage Jack had never been invited to address him by his given name, Robert. Until the day he died he’d always been Major Keane.
During that first awkward weekend Jack had desperately hunted for some common ground with his imposing future father-in-law, just one thing they might be able to bond over, or at least use to fill an awkward silence. He’d struck out on fishing, hiking and baseball – the Major seemed to think they were all frivolous pursuits – and after an evening of awkward silence he'd been left with just one remaining option. Jack had absolutely no military experience, nor even much of an interest in the military, but he figured he might as well try to strike up a conversation on the subject over dinner.
He’d only been talking for a couple of minutes before he realized that he’d made a terrible mistake.
It was obvious to everyone at the table that Jack didn’t have the first clue what he was talking about. As he started rambling about the refugee crisis caused by the war in Iraq – something he only half remembered from an article he’d skimmed – he could see the Major grow more agitated with every word. When Jack mentioned the good work done by volunteers in the camps in surrounding countries Karen’s father finally lost his temper.
“Refugee camps? They’re nothing but Hell’s waiting room. It’d be kinder to just put a bullet in the skull of every poor bastard who crosses the border. Better a quick death than that Godawful purgatory.”
Jack was taken aback. “I… umm…”
“You ever seen a refugee camp, Jack?” the Major demanded, already knowing the answer. “You ever see that kind of suffering up close and personal? Of course you haven’t. Only suffering you ever saw was in your hospital, all white walls, sanitized and ordered, where you never run outta medicine and you can go home to your warm bed at the end of your shift.”
Jack awkwardly picked at the tablecloth. “Well, I mean… it’s not always… It can be quite stressful when—”
“I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe, son. I’ve seen mothers still clinging on to their babies days after they died. I’ve seen dysentery sweep through a camp like wildfire. I’ve seen—”
Karen’s mother gently placed her hand on his arm. “Bob, please, you know I don’t like this kind of talk at the table.”
“Sorry, dear,” the major muttered apologetically. For a moment it seemed as if he’d settled down. A tense silence settled over the table as he pushed his vegetables around his plate, but without warning he started up again, punctuating his words by jabbing his knife in Jack’s direction. There was something he felt he had to say.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Jack. You ever find yourself in a crisis, you take my little girl to a place like that you better hope they bury you deep when you die, cause I’d dig you up just to kill you a second time. You understand me, son?”
Jack stared at him, wide eyed and mortified. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Well that’s alright, then,” the major said, suddenly calm, acting as if he hadn’t just poked a knife at a virtual stranger over the dinner table. “Now how about that pie, Clara?”
The rest of the dinner had passed in dead silence. Jack had felt like a kid in short pants, completely humiliated, and not even sure why he’d been attacked. It was only later, after the Major and his wife had retired to bed and Jack sat out on the porch, quietly fuming, that Karen had come out to sit beside him and explained why her father had been so angry.
It turned out that during the first Gulf War the Major had been stationed at a refugee camp near Zakho, a small city in the Kurdistan region of Iraq. He’d been part of a unit delivering humanitarian aid to the eighty thousand Kurds sheltering in the camp, and in the six months he’d been posted there he’d watched its population fall to a little more than fifty thousand. Only a small fraction of that fall was due to refugees returning home.
In his time at the camp he’d witnessed outbreaks of disease that had left him shell-shocked. He’d seen starvation on a scale he’d never before witnessed, and he’d watched, helpless and unable to intervene, as violence and crime overtook the camp. Women were forced into prostitution to provide for their families. Men were forced to fight and die to defend what little they had, and children were simply helpless, slaves to events, living or dying on little more than blind luck.
The Major had seen exactly what happened when desperate refugees were crowded together in a pen. He’d seen how quickly
it could go wrong when supplies failed to arrive on time, or when dishonorable, cruel and selfish men prevented them from reaching the people who needed them. He’d led the detail charged with burying the dead, and he said the bodies had piled up faster than they could dig the graves.
The experience had scarred him, and when he returned to the US he’d told his daughter every last one of those terrible stories. He hadn’t tried to hide the horror from her. He’d drummed into her the idea that if you really wanted to die in the most awful way imaginable you should join refugees at a camp. If you wanted to fight for every last scrap of food, suffer a terrible disease or find yourself the victim of the worst predators on earth that’s exactly where you should be, penned in with thousands of others, dependent on charity and good will from people who lose interest as soon as your war slips out of the headlines.
If you wanted to live, on the other hand, when you see a sign pointing towards a refugee camp you should set out in the opposite direction as fast as your legs can carry you.
That was the only time Jack had ever discussed anything like that with Karen, but the experience had burned itself into his memory. Wherever she and Emily went it wouldn’t be to a camp. That just left… well, it left everywhere else. It left the entire state of California to search.
Jack sighed, staring out the rain-beaded window with a sense of hopelessness. He was hundreds of miles from home in a stolen cab with the gas on the red line. His ex-wife and daughter were God knows where. His phone wouldn’t call out, and the only thing he knew about what the hell was going on was that there had been some sort of nuclear attack, but he had no idea where. For all he knew he could be being showered with fallout as he sat in the cab.
“OK, Jack,” he muttered to himself, “get it together. Take a breath. There’s no hurry. Just take your time and think up a plan.” He pushed open the door and climbed out into the rain, hoping to clear his head and start thinking straight.
From here on the airport access road Seattle seemed completely deserted. In the city Jack knew there were almost a million people, most of them probably glued to their TV sets or planning their escape, but from where he was standing he couldn’t see a single person. The roads by the airport were dead. The skies were empty. It felt like the end of the world had already come for Seattle. Silence fell across the city like a blanket.
Apart from…
Huh.
There was an odd drone in the distance, a modulating tone that sounded like someone revving the world’s loudest leaf blower. Jack couldn’t quite make out the direction it was coming from. The sound seemed to jump around, shifting just as he thought he’d pinpointed it. As he listened it was joined by another, and then another, and then he finally saw it.
It was an airplane taking off in the distance, not from the airport behind him but from somewhere straight ahead. Another followed thirty seconds later along the same path, and a third plane climbed above the buildings soon after.
What is that? Is there a private airfield somewhere? He racked his brains, trying to remember if Seattle had a domestic airport as well as international, but he didn’t know enough about the city. He’d only been here twice before, and both times he’d flown into SeaTac.
He scanned around the landscape, trying to get his bearings. The high rises of the city were in the distance off to his left. With the airport at his back he figured the planes must be taking off from somewhere in the direction of… Lake Washington, maybe? They seemed to be climbing into the air just a couple of miles away, so the airfield must be on the south bank rather than the far side of the lake.
With a tut of frustration her realized he was being stupid. The answer was right there. He climbed back in the cab and tapped the central console on the dash, a large touchscreen that controlled everything from the radio to the door mirrors. With a couple of taps a loading bar appeared, quickly replaced by the navigation screen.
There was no data connection, but he could bring up the map and zoom in no problem. Jack wasn’t at all familiar with the city, but he didn’t need any local knowledge to pick out the mile long runway cutting through an industrial district on the south bank of the lake. It was obvious now he knew what he was looking for.
Renton Municipal Airport. It looked like a small private airfield, and if he was reading the map right it looked like it was a straight shot down the 405, maybe three miles to the east. If he left now he might just make it before all the planes took off.
He fired up the engine and pulled back into the road, whispering a prayer that he wasn’t already too late. It looked as if the planes were taking off in quick succession, less than a minute between each one, and he guessed that there wouldn’t be more than a couple dozen planes at any airport as small as Renton.
As he pulled the cab onto the virtually deserted highway his phone began to vibrate on the dash. He scooped it up, carefully keeping one eye on the road, and when he saw what was on the screen his heart leaped into his mouth.
1 new message
Karen
Where are you? Pls tell me you left Seattle. News says it could be hit by nuke. Me+Em+Doc headed to Anne’s place. Pls call when you can.
Love you.
Jack slipped the phone back into his jacket, gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and buried his foot to the floor.
This would be close.
΅
CHAPTER TEN
HEAD EAST
KAREN STARED AT the TV screen high on the wall, watching an image of an empty podium in front of a blue curtain, framed on either side by the Stars and Stripes. At the bottom of the screen the chyron read LIVE: PENTAGON BRIEFING.
After a long moment of silence there came the sound of seats shuffling. The curtain strobed with the reflected light of camera flashes, and an officer in uniform stepped out behind the podium. At the bottom of the screen appeared the name AF Gen. James Reynolds, and from the background came the sound of yelled questions from the press.
“Please, take your seats, take your seats. Save your questions until the end.”
Gradually the noise died down until only the sound of the cameras remained. Reynolds cleared his throat and placed his hands on the podium.
“At approximately 0700 today the US Navy was alerted to the presence of a small cargo freighter sailing several hundred miles from the California coast. This ship, now identified as the Azeri built MC Nakhorov, was sailing under a falsified Panamanian registration, and intelligence sources suggested that it may present a threat to the United States of a nuclear nature.”
A ripple of shocked murmurs passed through the crowd. This was clearly the first official confirmation that it had been a nuke. “The President was informed of the situation immediately. He cut short his stay at the Santiago summit and boarded Air Force One to return to Washington, where he’s expected to touch down within the hour at Andrews AFB. On his orders, and on the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs, a squad from the 3rd MAW, or Marine Aircraft Wing, was dispatched from Miramar. The squad was accompanied by a civilian specialist and two Marine pilots, and it was ordered to launch an assault on the freighter in an attempt to neutralize the threat.”
Reynolds looked down at the podium for a moment, as if steeling himself for the news to come, and then he looked directly into the crowd. “This attempt was, unfortunately, unsuccessful. At eleven minutes past noon what we now believe to be a low yield tactical nuclear missile, on the order of 20 to 30 kilotons, was detonated aboard the Nakhorov approximately two hundred miles to the west of Los Angeles, with the loss of all hands aboard ship and in the assault team.” He had to raise his voice above the dull roar from the press now. “The names… please, save your questions. The names of the Marines will be released as soon as their families have been notified.”
The general waited a moment until the noise died down again, and then he continued. “In the hours since the Nakhorov was detected we have identified multiple suspicious freighters sailing off the west coast of the Unite
d States. It is our belief that some or all of these ships may be carrying nuclear weapons of a similar type and yield to the weapon detonated on the Nakhorov, and we have reason to believe that these ships may be equipped with limited launch capabilities.”
The briefing room erupted into chaos. Every member of the press called out questions frantically. Reynolds stepped back from the podium and held out his hands, frustrated, appealing for silence. “Please,” he called out over the tumult. “Please, this is your final warning. If we can’t have quiet I’ll have to clear the room. Take your seats. Thank you.”
He returned to the podium, red faced and impatient. “I’m sure you can understand that for reasons of national security there are details about this situation we can’t yet make public, but we can tell you that we believe the detonation of the device aboard the MC Nakhorov was not planned. We believe it was initiated in response to the approach of our assault team, and we have reason to believe that any further attempts to secure or disable these ships may have an unpredictable outcome. We’re working to establish the identity and motives of our attackers, but until we know more we have to work under the assumption that the intention is to launch a nuclear assault on the United States.”
“We believe that the range of the missiles aboard these ships limits the threat to the west coast, and as such we have already begun a widespread evacuation of the western states. We implore the residents of California, Oregon and Washington state to proceed in a calm and orderly fashion no less than one hundred miles inland. All eastbound roads and highways have been cleared for one way traffic. All commercial flights have been grounded. The military is on hand to assist in the evacuation, and those without personal transportation are advised to proceed to their local bus terminal.” He cleared his throat and gripped the podium. “Now I’ll take a few brief questions. Sandy?”
