Never Again

by M. A. Rothman

  Margaret jabbed a finger in his direction to emphasize her point. “First, I want you to harden the remote access so that it would be impossible to override the system parameters from down here. I know artificial intelligence was your specialty, but you’ve written dozens of papers on computer security after that computer incident in LA. Doctor Patel insisted that if you’d stuck to the computer field and not buried it in your past, you’d have revolutionized the way we interact with computers. I tend to believe her.”

  Burt opened his mouth to object, but Margaret silenced him with a glare and shake of her head.

  “No arguments. If by some miracle Doctor Holmes manages to solve our power problem, we cannot risk some lunatic hacker taking remote control of the Moon and crashing it into us.

  And if for some reason Doctor Holmes fails and the Earth is doomed, I want the Moon available as an escape pod. This is beyond just my responsibility as the President of the United States; we cannot allow humanity to go extinct. Not if there is any available option. There’s enough space up there to house several hundred people and be self-sustained. You will be one of those people.”

  “Why me? I’d have thought you’d want someone younger, or someone with kids or—”

  “No.” Margaret shook her head emphatically. “I need you there, because I won’t be there. I’ve already decided that I will not take a place up there while I’m in charge. Not happening. You’ll be my designee.” The president leaned closer and pointed at the ceiling. “Those people up above ... they’ll need a leader, and you have an unflappable quality to you that screams leadership. Doctor Patel may be a fan of your academic accomplishments, but I’ve watched you over the last few months. There’s no doubt, you were born to lead. You don’t make enemies, and you’re considerate yet emphatic about doing what’s right. Burt, if things go to hell, I need you to be up there sailing that ship.”

  The president’s normally serious demeanor softened, and for just a moment, she looked worried. “Please say that you’ll do it.”

  Burt stared at the president, not sure what to say. The idea of being responsible for the last remnants of Earth’s population was almost too much to imagine. Yet something about the president’s sincere plea stiffened his resolve, and reluctantly, he nodded.

  “I’ll do it.”

  ###

  It was 5:00 a.m. when Stryker stood watch atop the thirty-foot tall concrete barrier surrounding the Indian Point Energy Center.

  A cool breeze blew across the Hudson River from the south, bringing with it the scent of the shore.

  Turning south, Stryker looked up into the pre-dawn darkness and felt a sense of awe as he spied the shimmering whitish-blue ribbon of light snaking across the southern horizon. A visible sign of DefenseNet.

  Sergeant Gutierrez, one of the men standing watch with him remarked, “It’s amazing, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem real.”

  Stryker nodded as the surreal sight dredged up memories from years ago. “It reminds me of when I was a kid and saw a total eclipse back in the summer of ’45. I remember like it was yesterday, staring up at the sky when totality hit.

  “The sun went dark and I saw that halo of light surrounding it. It made me wonder what ancient man would have thought seeing that. Their minds must have been blown by it all.”

  The sergeant snorted in the shadowy dusk of the early morning. “Shit, Lieutenant, I’m looking at that ribbon of light going from horizon to horizon, and even though I know what it is, I still don’t get it.”

  Peering through night-vision binoculars, Stryker panned his gaze across the four-kilometer perimeter, noting the dim glow along the horizon. That, coupled with the absence of the chirping of crickets, was a sure sign that dawn was imminent.

  The sergeant standing watch with him shifted nervously as he too peered through binoculars. “Sir, have we finished the evac of everyone from the coast?”

  Stryker turned to him and frowned. “Did you catch some movement?”

  “I’m not sure. It might have been some deer racing around the edge of the woods on the other side of the river.”

  “Well, as of yesterday at 1800 hours, the coastal evacuations were completed and all civilians within fifty miles of the coast have been brought inland. There shouldn’t be anyone out there, but keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Roger that.”

  Stryker’s platoon of MPs had been stationed at the nuclear energy facility along with two squads of Army Rangers. Members of the Army Corps of Engineers had been called in to run the plant.

  He hadn’t been given any intelligence on why this place was bristling with soldiers, aside from it being one of the plants feeding energy into DefenseNet’s power grid.

  Suddenly, one of the motion sensors activated, and the nearby spotlight on the wall panned slowly across the landscape to the west.

  A large buck was bathed in light and bolted back into the woods.

  Stryker’s radio beeped with an incoming call and he tapped his earpiece.

  “Indian Point, this is Major Carl Simpson of the Northeast Quadrant Air Support. Be aware that we’ve detected mechanized movement approaching your perimeter. Looks like a large group of trucks four klicks southwest of your location. They’re heading in your direction. Over.”

  The hair on the back of his neck stood as he panned his binoculars to the southwest. It was a heavily wooded area with one road cutting through it. “Roger that, air support. Appreciate the heads up.”

  He switched channels and his voice broadcasted through several key locations throughout the nuclear facility.

  “Alert, alert. We’ve got unknowns approaching from the southwest. Incoming vehicles.”

  Stryker glanced at Sergeant Gutierrez and even though they’d been manning the West Gate, he motioned toward the gate’s control panel. “Turn on all the spotlights. Make sure nothing gets by unnoticed.”

  Before Gutierrez could even respond, Stryker raced down the stairs and ran across the power plant toward the southwest entrance.

  Red lights flashed throughout the facility as soldiers who’d been off-shift rushed to their assigned locations.

  Stryker tapped on his radio and yelled, “Southwest Gate, report.”

  Silence greeted him as he raced across the half mile.

  “Southwest Gate, status report!”

  Somewhere in the distance shots were fired.

  A chill raced through Stryker as he put on a burst of speed.

  A voice yelled over the emergency channel, “God dammit, who’s opening the Southwest Gate?”

  Running past one of the reactor buildings, he saw the heavily-reinforced metal gate yawning open.

  Something whizzed just past his ear, and Stryker dove for cover behind a nearby dumpster.

  A three-round burst of weapons fire chased after him, ringing loudly against the steel container he’d ducked behind.

  Stryker charged his weapon and shifted his gaze to the top of the security wall. He peered through the scope on his rifle, and a burning anger bloomed inside him.

  It was one of his men.

  Lying motionless at the attacker’s feet was another MP. Stryker winced as the soldier took aim in another direction and fired a shot.

  The security gate clicked into the open position.

  With his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, Stryker trained his weapon on his attacker, who stood on top of the thirty-foot wall.

  Placing the crosshairs on his target, he focused on his breathing.

  With adrenaline racing through his system, he took a deep breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.

  He let the breath out as the man’s head jerked backward.

  A successful head shot.

  Stryker jumped up from his position, raced toward the stairs at the base of the gate and tapped on the radio. “We need MANPATS at the southwest gate, now!”

  Panting, he took the stairs two at a time, ran toward the gate control panel,
and felt his stomach drop as he saw the carnage of the control circuit for the gate.

  Someone had put a bullet in it.

  Another soldier clambered up the stairs and asked, “Sir, the gate—oh shit, let me work on this, I think I can jury rig the control.”

  Stryker stepped away as one of his men tore open the panel, exposing a rat’s nest of wires.

  Lying only ten feet away were two dead men wearing MP uniforms. One a patriot, the other a traitor.

  Stryker knelt by the man he’d been forced to shoot, drew a knife from his belt, and sliced open the man’s jacket and undershirt.

  He curled his lip up with disgust as he spied an hourglass tattoo on the left side of the man’s chest.

  Same markings he’d seen back in Washington State.

  A cold sense of concern washed over him as he glanced at the soldiers all around him.

  Were there any more?

  One man on the wall yelled as he peered through binoculars, “Sir, we’ve got visitors!”

  Someone fired a flare toward the southwest that bloomed like a full moon over the field and roadway.

  Speakers embedded in the outer perimeter of the power station began repeatedly broadcasting, “You have entered a restricted military zone. Do not approach or you will be fired upon.”

  Two Rangers yelled to clear the way as they raced up the stairs, both carrying long tubes that Stryker recognized as the latest version of the Army’s Carl Gustaf portable anti-tank weapon.

  Stryker pulled up his rifle, peered through the magnified sight, and watched as a large truck barreled toward them.

  One of the Rangers carrying the Gustaf turned to him. “Sir, we’ve got multiple vehicles incoming.”

  A large spark burst from the gate’s control panel and the MP yelled, “Got it! Sir, I’ve hotwired the control circuit.”

  The heavy metal gate creaked as it began to close.

  “Excellent, Corporal.”

  “Sir,” the nearest Ranger interjected. “We’ve got targets painted. Permission to call in an airstrike.”

  “Granted.”

  Stryker changed channels on the radio and heard one of the Rangers on the far side of the gate call in to the Direct Air Support Center.

  “Any station, any station, this is Indian Five Actual, need assistance. Over.”

  The radio crackled for a second, then a voice reverberated through his earpiece.

  “Indian Five Actual, this is Hawkeye 8, send it. Over.”

  “Hawkeye 8, request air support, we’ve got limited MANPAT rounds and multiple incoming. We have targets painted on the field, we’d appreciate an assist.”

  “Roger Indian, we’re scrambling some jets for you. ETA 11 minutes.”

  Just as the gate shut with a loud metal clang, Stryker switched channels. “Fire at will.”

  Another flare raced up into the sky, and when Stryker looked through his gun’s sight, the details of the truck became clearer.

  It was a tractor trailer. There didn’t seem to be anyone at the wheel.

  Remote controlled?

  Nervous energy raced through him as the truck crossed the one-kilometer markers on the sides of the road.

  He shifted the sight further away and spied other vehicles in the distance. Stryker gave the Ranger a sideways glance. “Make your shots count on the semi, those other trucks are hanging back for some reason.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Ranger adjusted his mic and yelled, “Hold fire until the first target crosses 500 meters. Quiñones, you take the first shot. If it’s a miss, Jenkins, and if there’s something left, I’ll take my shot.”

  Almost immediately, a burst of flame belched out of one of the Gustafs on the far side of the gate.

  An explosion rocked the dirt just behind the truck.

  A miss.

  “Firing,” someone yelled.

  Twenty feet to Stryker’s right, another Gustaf fired.

  The concussive force thudded in his chest as the projectile launched toward its target.

  The truck exploded with a blinding burst of white light.

  Despite having squeezed his eyes shut, the light was unbearably bright.

  A heartbeat later, a wave of explosive energy nearly knocked him off his feet.

  Stryker grunted with surprise as the heat from the fireball singed his eyebrows. For a moment, he wondered if there’d been a nuke in that truck.

  After all, the damned thing was a full quarter-mile away.

  With his ears ringing and sergeants yelling orders to their squads, Stryker shook his head and peered across the field as debris began raining down across the facility.

  One Ranger staggered as he got up from his firing position. “Holy crap! That thing had to have been fully loaded with C4 or something.”

  He blinked, trying to get the image of the fireball out of his vision. Its light had been so bright, that Stryker wondered if it had done some damage to his eyes.

  He trained his weapon toward where the truck had been, peered through the rifle’s optics, and his jaw dropped.

  There was a twenty-foot deep crater almost fifty-feet wide where the truck had been.

  “Sir, one of the trucks just outside the perimeter has peeled away from the rest and is accelerating in our direction. We’ve only got five more rounds for the Gustafs.”

  Stryker shifted his gaze, trying to make out the details of the incoming. “Another semi?”

  “Yes, sir. And it looks like there’s three more.”

  “Shit, what do they think they’re accomplishing?” Stryker muttered under his breath.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the nearest reactor building.

  If the gate had been open and it had smashed into that building....

  He changed channels on his radio. “Hawkeye 8, this is Indian 5, we’re under attack. Repeat, the Indian Point Nuclear facility is under attack. We need those jets.”

  Seconds passed as men scrambled into position and the anti-tank weapons were reloaded.

  “Roger Indian 5, we’ve got fast movers en route. They’ve gone supersonic. They’re five minutes from your location. Over.”

  Pressing his lips together, Stryker breathed heavily through his nose as he focused. Five minutes.

  Switching back to the local channel, he barked loudly, “Folks, we have five minutes before air support arrives. Rangers, make whatever ammo you’ve got count.

  “Gutierrez, do we have any RPGs on site?”

  “Sir, I’ll check.”

  Stryker peered through the optics on his rifle and watched as the first truck passed the one kilometer marker. Another was moving toward them a good five hundred or more meters behind the first.

  “Better hurry, because we’re going to need them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As the plane descended, Dave’s ears popped. He leaned close to Bella and showed her his computer screen. “What do you make of that?”

  Pulling her hair back out of the way, she leaned close and stared at the schematic Frank had sent. It looked like a mesh ball with wire-wrapped connections spilling out the top. “It looks like a Faraday cage to me, but why have the wires coming out of it? Is that for grounding?”

  “That was my thought, but it doesn’t make any sense. A Faraday cage is used to keep something inside protected from the outside. This thing looks like he designed it to hold something in and route the electricity across the top.”

  Bella pointed at the wires on the top. “Didn’t he call it an engine? Maybe it’s holding something and venting the energy through the top. Did he say in his e-mail what it’s made of?”

  “Not in the e-mail, but one second.” Dave swiped his finger along the tablet’s touchscreen, flipping through several pages of detailed drawings, until he brought up the design prints for the controller, which plugged into the cage-like device. He pointed at some input wires and noted, “This says that the conductive lead is coming from something cal
led a HiMag wrapper. Maybe it’s some kind of magnesium alloy? I’ve got no clue. I remember the conversations Frank and I had about if we could trap the energy from explosives, but that wouldn’t do us much good right about now. We’d have a tremendous spike of energy, and then nothing. Maybe if there was a new battery charging capability alongside this....”

  The lights flickered in the cabin of the small passenger jet, and the pilot’s voice came on the loudspeaker. “Doctor and Mrs. Holmes, please ready yourselves for landing. We’ll be at Homey Airport in five minutes.

  “I’d also like to warn you that since this is a black site, we’ve got an unusual approach vector and we’ll be coming in hot and taxiing directly into a hangar. Agents will be there to escort you as soon as the hangar is sealed.”

  Dave fastened his seatbelt, gripped the arms of his seat, and warned Bella, “Make sure your seatbelt is on tight. If this guy is saying he’s coming in hot, that probably means it’s going to be a rough landing.”

  The engines of the jet whined, and as the angle of the plane shifted downward, Dave grunted. Everything inside him felt like it wanted to come up out of his mouth. The descent grew ever steeper, and he squeezed harder on the arms of the chair. For a moment, Dave felt sure that they’d wreck on some desolate salt bed in the middle of Utah. Yet, at the last second, he felt himself get slammed into his chair as the plane leveled off. Wheels screeched as they contacted the runway. In less than a minute, they pulled into an unmarked gray metal hangar in the middle of nowhere.

  Dave breathed a sigh of relief as he clumsily unbuckled his seatbelt. “Holy crap,” he glanced at Bella. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded as the military pilot exited the cockpit with a smile. “I love those approaches.”

  “You can keep them,” Dave remarked weakly as he stood, his legs feeling weak. As he helped Bella from her seat, the pilot pressed a button on the cabin wall and the nearby door unsealed and yawned open, just as a portable set of stairs were wheeled up against the jet’s fuselage.