Nuclear Winter Whiteout

by Bobby Akart

  He studied his options through North Carolina. The cities of Charlotte, Greensboro, and Raleigh-Durham stretched from west to east like a trio of giant trolls waiting for an unsuspecting traveler to devour as they passed. He knew the cities had to be avoided, so he considered traveling farther away from the coast, just to the west of Charlotte. This would provide him lots of travel options through mostly rural farmland and away from the cities crowded along the coastal areas.

  Peter had told himself when he left that he wouldn’t think too far ahead. Originally, he’d told himself that he could walk home if need be. Then, after he’d obtained the bicycle from Jackie’s father, he thought he could make it in three weeks if he kept a steady, uneventful pace. Certainly, he couldn’t afford any more encounters like he’d had at the farmhouse.

  He plotted out his course along U.S. Highway 360 toward Danville, a small town on the North Carolina border. He wasn’t sure how far he could travel at night with temperatures approaching freezing, especially after the pummeling his body had endured. But he was determined to push himself so he could get to the North Carolina border by sunrise.

  After repacking his gear and reloading his weapon, he hit the road. Peter imagined the four-lane, divided highway was scenic, if he could see it. As he clicked off the miles, he began to question the decision to ride at night. He considered attaching one of his flashlights to the handlebars using duct tape to illuminate the road in front of him. He even held one of them in his hands for a while to see if that helped. If the beam of light happened to catch a reflector off a stalled vehicle, then he could manage to navigate toward it. Otherwise, he decided he’d end up burning through his batteries.

  For riding purposes, taking the federal highway was a far better option than pothole-filled county roads, where he could easily puncture a tire or bend a wheel. In this desolate part of Virginia, he hoped to avoid contact with others. But, eventually, major highways run through large cities, and that wasn’t a good idea, day or night.

  Peter rode for hours and was coming up on Danville, a sizable city of forty-five thousand people. Because it was just after four in the morning, he decided to continue riding until he made it to the North Carolina border. It would mean that he would travel eighty miles that night.

  Soon, it became a game to Peter. A competition as to how far he could travel in a given period of time. He’d study the map, calculate the time and distance, and pedal while trying not to think about the difficult task ahead.

  It was the thoughts of reuniting with his family that helped him push through the pain.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, November 1

  Driftwood Key

  “You know, Hank, I simply can’t remember how this happened to me,” lied the man who lived the life of a lie. Patrick was feeling better by that afternoon and was now able to prop himself up on the bed. Both Phoebe and Jessica routinely checked on him, as did Jimmy, the young man he seemed to enjoy the company of the most.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but my brother, Mike, is a detective.”

  “Yeah. He stopped by earlier when I was just coming out of the bathroom with Phoebe’s help.” Patrick paused and took a deep breath before he continued. The beatings administered to his ribs and back made the simple task very painful.

  “Oh, good. I’m sure he’ll do anything he can to catch these guys,” said Hank, trying to carry the load of the conversation, as he sensed the pain that talking caused Patrick.

  In actuality, Patrick was happy to be breathing again, and the pain was nothing more than a nuisance. He feigned difficulty when it suited him. If the conversation with anyone turned toward what had happened or what he could remember, he fed them a little information and then suddenly experienced difficulty breathing. The ploy worked every time.

  Hank apologized for intruding on his recovery and left the bungalow. He made a beeline for the dock as he saw Jimmy returning from a day of fishing. The barely noticeable shadows were growing long as he cut through the palm trees between bungalow three and the beachfront. He remembered that Jimmy had been fishing alone each day, so he jogged down the dock to assist him in tying off the Hatteras.

  “Thanks, Mr. Hank!” Jimmy said. The usually good-natured young man enjoyed life regardless of how difficult it had become after the attacks. He quickly tied off the aft line and briskly moved toward the bow to toss Hank a line. Hank, after many years of practice, expertly tied it off to a cleat.

  “How’d you do?” he asked Jimmy as he repositioned one of the yacht’s bumpers to align with the rubber edge of the dock.

  “I have to go farther out each day, Mr. Hank. The water is nothing like it used to be. Pockets, at depth, are cooler like always. In shallow areas, you’d think they’d be cooler, too. Between it being November and all these clouds, I’m surprised how warm it still is.”

  Hank stepped on board and stood with his hands on his hips as if he could get a better understanding of the water temperatures if he was standing in his boat. Jimmy directed Hank’s attention to one of the fish holds on the aft deck. With a grin, Jimmy continued.

  “However, you have to remember who you’re talking to,” he said as he opened the lid. It was full of snapper.

  “You are undoubtedly the second-best fisherman on Driftwood Key,” said Hank, drawing a laugh from the young man. “Say, did you see many boats out there?”

  “No, not really. A Coast Guard cutter passed me, heading north. It was pretty far offshore. I see a few pleasure boats like that one milling about. It was odd ’cause they weren’t fishing, which made me wonder why they were burnin’ up fuel.” Jimmy shrugged and went about preparing the Hatteras to close up for the night.

  Hank’s mind immediately recalled the night the three men had used the Wellcraft runabout on the other side of the dock in an attempt to steal fuel out of his boat. It hadn’t ended well for the three thieves, as Mike and Jessica had turned them into fish chum. It was yet another reminder of why he wished they’d stay closer to home, but he understood their position now.

  With the shoot-out over fuel fresh in his mind, Hank had a thought. “Maybe you shouldn’t go out alone? With all that’s going on, having somebody watching your back might be a good idea.”

  “I thought about that today when one of the boats got a little too close. I didn’t have anything on a hook, so I slowly picked up the Mossberg. When they saw I had a gun, they took off.”

  Hank decided at that point Jimmy should have someone go with him. The fact of the matter was, he lamented internally, they were short-handed, especially now that Patrick needed more of Phoebe’s and Jessica’s attention.

  He sighed and mumbled, “We’ll figure it out.”

  As they walked up the dock toward the main house with the snapper on a string in each hand, Jimmy brought up Patrick.

  “Um, Mr. Hank.” He hesitated.

  “Yeah.”

  “How long is Patrick gonna stay here?”

  “Why? Do you think he might be a good fishing companion? I’d have to talk with Mike about giving him a gun.”

  Jimmy’s eyes grew wide, and he shook his head rapidly from side to side. “No, nothing like that. Never mind.”

  “C’mon, Jimmy. What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hank. There’s something off about the guy. Mom asked me to check in on him a couple of times today. He just creeps me out, that’s all.”

  Hank was curious as to why. “Did he say something that upset you?”

  “No, not really. I’m just saying he was kinda clingy or something. He didn’t want me to leave. Wanted to ask questions about the inn and whether I went to college or had a girlfriend. You know. Stuff like that.”

  Hank slowed his pace, as he wanted to finish the conversation before they encountered Phoebe. “Small talk?”

  “I guess.”

  “And you saw him twice?”

  “Yes. First thing this morning and before I went fishing around noon.”

&n
bsp; “And you said he was talkative?” asked Hank. He stopped to study Jimmy’s demeanor.

  Jimmy kicked at the sand and turned over a small shell with his toe. He nervously rolled it around as he spoke. “Yeah. I mean, he’s probably bored or lonely. Also, um, a little scared, I guess?”

  Hank pressed the young man. “Talkative? Both times?”

  Jimmy nodded and began walking up the stairs to the porch. Hank lagged behind and glanced in the direction of bungalow three, which was nestled in the palm trees. It was slightly obscured from his view by a wall of tropical plants.

  Jimmy’s description of Patrick was far different from what Hank had observed just thirty minutes ago. He furrowed his brow and shrugged as he moved deliberately into the house, deep in thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday, November 1

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  Northern Virginia

  President Carter Helton was invigorated following the late-night presidential address and press conference two days ago. Outpourings of support from world leaders in Russia and China for his bold initiative bolstered his confidence. While certain members of his cabinet voiced their disapproval at what they deemed to be government overreach, others agreed to do everything within their power to implement his agenda. Plus, as he told his chief of staff, it gave him the opportunity to separate the wheat from the chaff, as they say. He was now able to differentiate his true loyalists from those who might undermine his administration.

  He was due to receive several updates with a full analysis on the profound impact nuclear winter had on the climate as well as the devastating effect the EMP had had on the nation’s critical infrastructure. Proposals from the DHS, Transportation, and Energy would all be submitted during the morning briefing.

  However, in the back of his mind, President Helton was considering leaving the protection of Mount Weather. He believed that hiding in the protection of the nuclear bunker lent an impression that he was a weak leader. He’d held extensive discussions with military leaders about relocating the government to a military base that had been hardened against the devastating effects of the EMP.

  Because Washington, DC, had been destroyed, the president, a native Pennsylvanian, was considering moving America’s capital back to Philadelphia, the seat of government during the Revolution. Geographically, a more centralized location like Kansas City made sense, but he was in the unique position to lead the nation into a new era. The choice of Philadelphia would allow him to give something back to the state that had launched his political career.

  The amount of government spending required to recreate the equivalent of Washington’s massive bureaucracy would be an enormous boost to Pennsylvanians during the recovery effort, as well as the local contractors who’d been longtime donors of the president.

  The interim facilities for the new location of government, the Carlisle Barracks, had been an immediate beneficiary of the Helton administration. He’d directed $85 million to build new facilities at the home of the U.S. Army War College after he took office. In addition to upgrading and expanding the second-oldest army installation dating back to 1745, the president had redirected funds from another base in Florida to Carlisle Barracks. The money had been earmarked to harden the base’s wiring and electronics from the crippling effects of an EMP.

  At the moment, the five-hundred-acre campus of the Army War College would suffice for the basic functions of the federal government. He envisioned Congress relocating to Carlisle temporarily so that the government could once again be together.

  Military bases around the country in close proximity to existing FEMA regional offices were used as part of the recovery process. Each cabinet secretary named an undersecretary for assignment to the ten FEMA regions. These undersecretaries coordinated with the military to ensure compliance with the declaration of martial law.

  It would take years to rebuild the American government, but at least he had the mechanism to do so. Now it was time to focus on those who would stand in the way of his recovery plan. He would hear first from Erin Bergmann, secretary of Agriculture.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Erin began. She’d been a regular at the president’s daily briefings. Behind her back, other cabinet members referred to her as the doomsayer, a person who often spoke of foreboding predictions of an impending calamity.

  “Good morning, Erin. Got any good news today?”

  The president’s jovial mood continued, albeit somewhat sarcastically. He, too, was tiring of the gloomy predictions. His overall demeanor was boosted in part from the power he’d gained by the martial law declaration and the antidepressants he was being fed by the White House physician.

  His insolent question created stifled chuckles by some members of the cabinet. He glanced at his most loyal advisors, who shared his opinion of Erin. In not so many words, he’d let it be known that Erin, who’d opposed martial law as inconsistent with the intent of the Constitution, would soon be returned to Florida when he relocated the government to Pennsylvania. For now, Erin, and her gloomy updates, were a necessary evil.

  Erin bristled at his question. She had no intention of sugarcoating the dire consequences of the nuclear conflict just to curry favor with the president, as most in the room had. If he wanted to replace her and kick her out of Mount Weather, so be it. She was certain she could find a bungalow on a tiny key in Florida, where she could live out her days. She thought about Hank Albright constantly, even asking military officials about how the Florida Keys had been affected by the environmental impact of nuclear war. Until she was no longer included in the briefings or kicked out of Mount Weather, she’d do her job, even if it wasn’t what the president wanted to hear.

  “Sir, the basic assumption during any nuclear conflict has been that the exploding nuclear warheads would create huge fires, resulting in soot from burning cities and forests. This toxic cloud of smoke is emitted in vast amounts and blends with our clean air.

  “Based upon climatology models, it was presumed the troposphere, which starts at the Earth’s surface and extends five to nine miles high, would bear the brunt of the pollution, if you will. Those prior models understated the effect.

  “The models considered only a limited nuclear conflict under the assumptions the warring nations would stand down before completely annihilating one another. None that I am aware of modeled multiple conflicts across the Northern Hemisphere.

  “NOAA has provided us evidence to the effect that the lower levels of the stratosphere have been permeated with the smoke and soot. Similar to the models associated with the eruption of a supervolcano, the Sun’s incoming radiation has been blocked from reaching the planet’s surface, causing a more rapid cooling of temperatures than ever imagined.

  “Due to their high temperatures, this rising smoke and soot have allowed the dirty air to drift at these high altitudes. It’s now settling in the mid-latitudes of the Northern Hemisphere as a black particle cloud belt, blocking sunshine for an indeterminate amount of time.”

  The president raised his hand to stop Erin from continuing. “There has to be a point at which the atmosphere clears. Have you run models to give us some kind of reasonable time frame?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. NASA and NOAA scientists have developed a predictive model that points to an eight-to-twelve-year time frame in which we get some relief.”

  “Not back to normal?” he asked.

  Erin nodded. She was expecting this line of questioning. Everyone wanted to know when it would be over. “No, sir. They wouldn’t commit to when our skies would resemble what we enjoyed pre-attack.”

  “Okay, Erin. If we don’t know when we can expect blue skies again, can you at least tell me when we’ll bottom out? When can we point to a date and tell the American people the worst of it is behind us?”

  Erin grimaced and glanced around the room. She was about to add to her reputation as the doomsayer. “Following the rapid series of attacks, the ensuing darkness and cold, co
mbined with nuclear fallout, have begun to kill much of the Earth’s vegetation in the Northern Hemisphere. We’re receiving reports of wildlife dying out either from starvation or hunters in search of food.”

  “We have a plan for the latter,” interrupted the president. “Soon, the reward in kind for reporting these poachers of our nation’s food resources will eliminate the practice of hunting. Please proceed.”

  “Sir, NOAA advises that the upper troposphere temperatures have risen to the point that a temperature inversion is developing,” she said. A temperature inversion was an atmospheric condition in which warm air traps cooler air near the Earth’s surface. As a result, pollutants were trapped below with the cooler air. Erin continued. “This keeps the smog and polluted air at surface levels. Coupled with the increased nitrogen oxides produced by the nuclear detonations, our ozone layer has been severely damaged. More ultraviolet radiation is hitting our planet, which will cause skin and eye damage to all animal life.”

  “Erin, when will we bottom out?”

  The president wanted her to give a certain date, which she couldn’t. She equivocated, not because she was trying to protect her reputation but because neither she, nor the scientific community, could provide a definitive answer.

  “We will experience freezing temperatures across most of the nation above thirty-degrees latitude until late summer of next year, at which time we’ll get a bit of a respite. The remainder of the nation, namely south-central Texas, New Orleans, and much of Florida, will be spared temps below freezing.