Nuclear Winter First Strike: Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

by Bobby Akart

  With that being her focus, she started giving things to Tucker to pack into the back of the Expedition. After the Bronco was affixed to the tow dolly and the hitch of the Expedition, they’d fill it with their most essential gear.

  “Mom!” yelled Tucker from the garage. His disaster app had issued an incoming ballistic missile alert.

  Lacey heard it as well, and the television screen was filled with the warning. She ran down the hallway toward him as he raced back inside. They nearly collided but spontaneously hugged one another instead. She gripped her son by the shoulders and looked up to the taller young man.

  “No panicking. Okay.”

  Tucker nodded. “What about Dad?”

  “Let’s see where he is. Try calling him on both your cell and our landline in case you can’t get through. Let me check the app.”

  The McDowells’ cell plan enabled them to link their locations together. At any given time, they could check on each other. Lacey thought that was an essential feature with a teenage boy in the house. She opened the map and searched for Owen. It showed him on the Dumbarton Bridge, moving slowly in the direction of the Nimitz Freeway.

  “Anything?” she hollered at Tucker in the kitchen.

  “Circuits are busy!” he yelled his response. “I’ll try to text!”

  Lacey ran into the living room and located her laptop. In all her preparations, with the assumption they’d immediately be leaving town when the warnings were issued, she hadn’t bothered to locate the nearest fallout shelter.

  She searched nuclear fallout shelters near me and viewed the results.

  Besides Ready.gov, which was essentially worthless because the advice it gave was to hide under your bed, the other results were survivalist websites trying to sell products or backyard buried shelters.

  She drilled down in her search, using fallout shelters near San Francisco. Her mouth fell open as she viewed the results. The words abandoned, thing of the past, and no plan were common. She shook her head in disgust as she ran her fingers through her hair.

  Tucker joined her in the living room. “Mom, what are we gonna do? We have to wait for Dad.”

  Lacey closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe the words that came out of her mouth. “It’ll be too late.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tuesday, October 22

  Driftwood Key

  Although Hank was exhausted by the end of the day, he was having difficulty finding sleep. He’d started before dawn at just after five that morning, resulting in a fast-paced, seventeen-hour day. He tossed and turned as a myriad of scenarios ran through his head. He questioned himself several times as he tried to determine whether he was overreacting. However, Peter had been so convincing, and when the nuclear skirmish in the Middle East transitioned into an all-out war between India and Pakistan, Hank began to believe the potential threat to the U.S. was real.

  But which threat should he prepare for? Would America be subjected to a nuclear detonation on her soil? Or would it simply be subjected to the aftermath of these other conflicts—nuclear winter?

  The best-case scenario, of course, was that nothing happened. Certainly, the concept of nuclear winter was largely theoretical, based upon the works of Carl Sagan many decades ago. Comparing the global environmental implications to the eruption of the Yellowstone supervolcano, he thought, might be a little too much. Then again, would it have to be that bad to throw the world into a period of rapid cooling and famine as plant material died off?

  If nothing happened, then he’d sent his guests home for no reason and he’d cancelled reservations that would have to be rebooked. It would cost the inn revenue, but he had sufficient savings to cover the losses.

  In his restless state, his mind chased several scenarios. When would it be safe to say all clear? Or the threat has passed. The modern-day equivalent of the Cuban Missile Crisis is over.

  Hank’s planning had relied on Peter’s inside information and judgment. He would not take the advice of the talking heads on the news networks. They’d lost his trust and confidence years ago.

  He worried about Peter, who was a headstrong risk-taker. Peter was not one to shy away from a fight or danger, as his career had proven. His son was prepared to stay in Washington, an obvious nuclear target, until the end so he could cover the story. While Hank admired his dedication, he’d feel a whole lot better if Peter were settled in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs.

  Then there was Lacey. His adorable baby girl who’d grown up, left the nest for college, and was hustled off to Northern California to start a family. He didn’t begrudge her choices in life. In fact, Hank truly admired Owen and enjoyed his company on the rare occasions they traveled back to the Keys. And Tucker was a heckuva young man. Polite. Smart. Head screwed on right. A model teen, if that was possible nowadays.

  It was impossible to ask a parent who their favorite child was. Their intense feeling of guilt in choosing one or the other would result in a response full of equivocation and caveats. The same was true for Hank although there was a special bond he’d had with Lacey.

  From the beginning, he could look into his baby girl’s eyes and see his wife, Megan. Megan created a mini-me as she raised Lacey, something that thrilled Hank. He loved his wife, and the thought of Lacey growing up in her image comforted him. When Megan died, Lacey had been there for Hank more than anyone else that summer in between her junior and senior years.

  When she was a child, the two had a classic hero dad–princess daughter relationship. Hank included her in all of his activities, and Lacey found a love for the outdoors just like Hank. To be sure, she was the darling little princess although she was more Ariel, the Little Mermaid, than she was Cinderella.

  Hank was there for her, teaching her to be self-reliant and a problem-solver. Megan believed Hank’s time spent with Lacey as a young child boosted her self-confidence and encouraged her to overcome her inhibitions. She was fearless, much like her brother, Peter.

  Lacey’s teen years were different. Well, they actually started at twelve. The eye roll became a commonly used response to Hank’s attempts to employ the same parenting tactics he’d used when she was younger.

  Hank hung in there and persevered. The phase passed, and Lacey’s relationship with her dad grew, especially after the death of Megan. They helped one another through it, and now the bond between the two of them was as strong as ever.

  It was for that reason that Hank bolted upright in his bed that evening as he struggled for sleep. Something sent chills up his spine, and his forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He fumbled to turn the light on, and he retrieved his cell phone from its charger. In the moment, Hank was incredibly lucid, and worried.

  He tried to dial Lacey’s number first and got no answer. He moved on to the home phone and received a fast-busy signal. When he tried again, the fast-busy signal was replaced in the earpiece by dead, staticky silence. He checked his watch. It was barely seven o’clock on the west coast. He navigated through his address book to call Owen’s and Tucker’s cell phones.

  No answer.

  Hank cursed himself as his mind went there. The worst-case scenario. A nuclear strike on American soil, with the West Coast being the first of many targets. He jerked open the nightstand drawer to find the television remote that was rarely used. The entire drawer and its contents spilled out onto the floor. Hank rolled out of bed and searched for the remote, which had found its way under the bed.

  The expletives were being hurled at this point. He took a deep breath to regain his composure. He powered on the monitor and struggled to switch from the Weather Channel to any of the cable news networks.

  He finally found CNN. His eyes grew wide as the words BREAKING NEWS were splattered across the screen together with a graphic depicting California, Oregon, and Washington, with several red dots flashing on the screen. Along the chyron, the words Ballistic Missile Alert issued.

  Tears poured out of Hank’s eyes as he turned up the volume.

  Chapter T
hirty-Seven

  Tuesday, October 22

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Peter had flopped on the sofa with a beer. He’d spent the bulk of the afternoon at the State Department, attempting to confirm the information he’d received from his sources. He didn’t have sufficient corroboration to satisfy his editor, so a story for the print edition of the Times didn’t have a chance. Their journalistic standards also applied to the digital edition online. Peter planned on settling in with his MacBook to review statements made by the president during past electoral campaigns to determine if he’d tipped his hand unknowingly. As was his practice, he watched his television with the volume muted and the closed captioning turned on so he could monitor events around the world.

  Fox News was airing a commercial, so he perused his social media accounts before getting started. He moved from the new platforms, MeWe and Gab, to the dinosaurs, Facebook and then Twitter. By the time he scrolled through his Twitter feed, the digital media world had exploded.

  “Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he jumped off the sofa, spilling his beer in the process. He grabbed the bottle off the floor and set it on the coffee table as the foamy head spilled out. He quickly turned his laptop sideways so the droplets of beer slid off the screen.

  Peter grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the television. Breaking News was emblazoned across the screen. He turned up the volume to listen as he studied the tweets. The news opinion host stuttered at first. She was normally level-headed, but the magnitude of the event had clearly rattled her.

  Laura Ingram read from a printed page instead of a teleprompter. “We have received reports from KTTV, the Fox affiliate in Los Angeles, that the California State Warning Center, Office of Emergency Services in Sacramento has issued a digital warning to all residents of California that an incoming ballistic missile has been detected. This is unconfirmed as of yet.”

  Ingram paused as someone spoke to her off camera. Then she continued. “I’ve also been told that as is their protocol, Oregon and Washington state have issued similar warnings. According to this, the alerts took place in the last seven minutes. From my recollection, America’s west coast is thirty to thirty-five minutes away from a nuclear strike from our nearest adversaries, North Korea and China.”

  She took a deep breath and looked into the camera. “Everyone needs to seek shelter immediately. Don’t hesitate. Go now. Your life depends on it.”

  Peter’s first instinct was to call Lacey. He tried twice on her cell phone and got no answer. He scowled as he paced the floor. He called Jess. She’d been at the Pentagon late that evening and had bailed on a previously scheduled dinner with him.

  Her phone rang and rang.

  “Come on, Jess, pick up.”

  Peter paced the floor, glancing twice at the beer as he resisted the urge to drink it. He needed to keep his head clear.

  He returned to his phone and tried Lacey again. No answer. He was mad at himself for not having Owen’s number, or Tucker’s, for that matter.

  The Fox coverage switched to live shots of panicked partiers in West Hollywood and motorists who were rushing away from the city. A traffic helicopter hovered over Interstate 210 through Pasadena as cars traveling east away from the city had taken over one of the westbound lanes.

  He called Jess again. It rang twice, and she picked up.

  “Peter! We’ve got nothing inbound.”

  “What? Say that again.”

  “Initially, they went into a full-blown panic over here. There are no missiles inbound. They’ve called USCENTCOM and confirmed with Pacific Command. There are no ballistic missiles in the air. I know for a fact they reached out to the governor of California and his OES people to shut the damn warning alerts off.”

  Peter said nothing for a long moment. Fox was still reporting on the mayhem and had done nothing to retract their initial reporting.

  “Jess, I’m watching reaction on the news. They’ve got to tell people. There are reports of people jumping from high-rise balconies to commit suicide. Cars are crashing head-on into one another along the freeways coming out of LA.”

  Jess was on edge and agitated. “The Pentagon is on it. We’re preparing a press release and a nationwide text alert now. It should go out any second.”

  The federal government had established a program to notify every cell phone user in the nation of emergency alerts sent by state and local public officials regarding severe weather, missing or abducted children, and silver alerts related to senior citizens who might suffer from deteriorating mental faculties. Through the Emergency Alert System, or EAS, the president can address the American people within ten minutes of a national emergency.

  “What about POTUS?” he asked.

  “They hustled him off to Mount Weather already in light of the South Asian conflict,” Jess responded.

  “He, or someone, needs to issue a retraction. Every second that goes by could mean hundreds of people dying unnecessarily.”

  “They know, Peter. Listen, I gotta go.”

  “Okay, call me when you can,” he insisted, but she’d already disconnected the call.

  Peter’s hands were shaking when he reached down for his beer. It had become warm, but he didn’t care. He drained the bottle in three hard gulps.

  He tried to open SFGate.com, a well-known Bay Area website for local news, sports, and weather. The servers had crashed. His palms were sweaty as he dialed Lacey’s number again. He prayed they were home at this hour.

  The phone rang, and finally, Lacey picked up the phone. He could hear the blaring of car horns in the background. Lacey dropped the phone.

  “Watch out, Mom!” Tucker shouted in the background. Lacey slammed on her own horn in response to whatever Tucker had warned about. She finally came to the phone.

  “Owen? Are you okay?”

  “Lacey!” Peter shouted so she could hear him. “Listen to me. It’s a false alarm. Do you hear me? It’s a false alarm!”

  “What? Peter? They’ve been sending out these—”

  “Lacey, I know. I talked to the Pentagon. It’s a mistake. Somebody made a mistake.”

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Lacey shouted at the phone, her incredulity obvious in her tone of voice.

  “I confirmed it. The president will be issuing an emergency alert notification withdrawing what California started. Get home. Get to safety. There is no missile threat.”

  “I’m gonna hand you off to Tucker.”

  “Uncle Peter?”

  “Yeah, big guy. Listen, I’m gonna hang up. Help your mom. There is no missile, okay?”

  “Stupid idiots,” Tucker groaned.

  “Yeah, for sure. Listen, I take it Owen isn’t with you?”

  “Right. We think he’s on the Dumbarton crossing the bay. I’d better try to call him again.”

  “Do that. Be careful and call me later.”

  Tucker hung up, and Peter collapsed onto his sofa. Seconds later, the president’s text message was disseminated through the emergency alert system, cancelling the alert.

  The nation breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Tuesday, October 22

  California State Warning Center

  Office of Emergency Services (Cal OES)

  Sacramento, California

  Alix Adams was a loyal soldier. She’d been hand-selected to join the Cal OES about six months ago. Prior to that, she’d worked on the president’s election campaign in the state. Her experience procuring signatures to initiate ballot referendums had landed her a lucrative position in Sacramento within the California State Warning Center.

  At first, she didn’t understand why she was offered the full-time position at just over fifty thousand a year but also given a consultant contract by the president’s campaign team that doubled that annual salary.

  The prior evening near the end of her shift, she’d received a text message to meet a campaign coworker at the Thai Bistro restaurant nearby for drinks
. Adams hadn’t heard from the man she’d casually dated during the campaign since the inauguration. She liked him and was willing to let him buy her a few drinks.

  Upon arrival, he got right down to business. He slid her an envelope with five thousand dollars in cash enclosed. His request was a simple one. Accidentally hit the wrong button. Nothing more. Nothing less. Afterwards, apologize profusely. Cry, if she felt compelled to do so. “Don’t worry about your job or your side gig,” he’d said to her. “Just push the wrong button when the time comes.”

  They shared one drink and made small talk about the new administration. He abruptly left, and she went home. The next night, as her shift was in its last hour, her supervisor advised her that during the shift change, he wanted to run an unscheduled drill to make sure everyone was on their toes, as he put it. He advised Adams that he was going to contact the emergency management team, pretending to be with U.S. Pacific Command. He just wanted to give Adams a heads-up so she would do the right thing when she was instructed by the team to act.

  Adams was thoroughly confused. Was her supervisor part of the subterfuge? When he said do the right thing, was he actually referring to pushing the wrong button, as she’d been instructed?

  Minutes later, as the emergency workers began filing out of their offices and cubicles, Adams remained at her post. About the time the room was cleared, she received a call.

  “This is not a drill. Activate incoming ballistic missile alert received via USPACOM. Exercise. Exercise. Exercise.”

  Adams froze. The first sentence indicated the instructions were valid and to be followed. The last three words were agency code to indicate a test rather than an actual emergency. She’d been paid to push the wrong button and given a heads-up about the drill by her supervisor. But which command should she follow?