by Bobby Akart
“Abbie!” exclaimed Drew as he pulled her to a stop. “Wait, look. Over there. The inmates are storming the chopper. The pilot must see them too. He’s started his engines to leave.” Panic set into Abbie.
“Does he see us? Father. Daddy! Over here!” Abbie was jumping up and down, waving her arms, trying to get her father’s attention.
“Keep running, Abbie. I’ll distract them!” Drew shoved her forward.
Abbie ran ahead as Drew began firing at the approaching inmates. She glanced to her left as Drew shot and killed one of them. She heard three more shots that apparently missed the mark. But the diversion was working. They were now running toward Drew. He fired two more rounds, and then his weapon jammed.
“Come on, Drew! Run!” shouted Abbie. She stopped and turned back towards him.
Her father climbed out of the helicopter and grabbed her arm.
“We must go, Abigail,” said Morgan. He began dragging her inside when Drew got overrun by the first three escaped inmates. He was fighting back with the butt of his gun. The other escaped prisoners joined in and tried to hold him down.
Drew slipped out of their grasp and managed to get onto his feet. Shortly after regaining his balance, he moved towards the helicopter again.
“Run, Drew! We have to help him!” Abbie tried to pull away from her father’s grasp. Morgan held her back. Abbie thought she saw Drew’s bloody face repeatedly mouthing the words love you.
A strong gust of wind shook the Sikorsky.
“Sir, the weather is becoming too severe for flight,” said the pilot. “We have a limited opportunity, sir. We must take off.”
Once again, Drew was running toward her, but they tackled him again. He was only twenty yards away. Abbie’s tear-soaked faced was pressed against the window. She was yelling, “Love you, love you.”
“Take off,” Morgan said dryly as he pulled the door closed.
“No, Father, please! They’ll kill him!”
As they lifted off, Abbie, still sobbing, pressed her face against the glass and said, “I love you too.”
Then, through her tears, she turned to her father and said, “How could you leave him?”
“Abbie, you’re my priority.”
Abbie stared at her father in stunned silence, not because he left Drew behind, but out of a sense of déjà vu. As the helicopter lifted off, she stared out into the howling wind-blown rain at Drew’s motionless body, and she understood.
PART TWO
Call of Duty
Chapter 20
Saturday, September 3, 2016
9:11 p.m.
100 Beacon
Boston, Massachusetts
The city of Boston was dependent upon six electricity substations operated by Eversource, formerly known as NStar. These substations were responsible for the delivery of electricity to nearly seven hundred thousand residents. In 2012, a fire at one of the substations located in West Boston on Scotia Street cut power to twenty-two thousand customers.
Investigators believed the mysterious fire at the facility might have been caused by a failed connection between a power line and a transformer. The connection sparked and ignited mineral oil that was used as a cooling agent in transmission lines. The flammable mineral oil fueled the fire, which found its way into the transformers at the Scotia Street substation. The transformers caught fire, imploded, and then melted down everything adjacent to them, including structural steel.
The fire was believed to have traveled ten miles toward the east along transmission lines to the South Charles Street substation, near Boston Common. This facility was also shut down, causing a cascade of power outages throughout Boston. By the next day, much of the electrical grid was offline until other substations were able to pick up the slack.
Electricity was delivered to the substations from the city’s main power plant located at Kendall Square in Cambridge. The Kendall Station was a natural gas-fired power plant that produced the vast majority of electricity in the metro Boston area. It relied upon a thirty-mile network of pipeline running beneath Cambridge and Boston.
As one city official proudly announced when Kendall Station came online:
It has become the beating heart and arteries of our system. We couldn’t operate the city without it.
Kendall Station was about to have a heart attack.
*****
Sarge sat quietly for a moment, contemplating Julia’s question. The township of Cambridge twinkled in the distance, and he followed the navigational lights of a boat traveling up the Charles River toward the yacht club.
He knew she wanted to get married, as did he. Nothing was preventing them from having a loving relationship for the rest of their lives. Of course, children would become part of the equation. He loved her, not the prospect of having children with her. But he enjoyed her company so much, why would they want to inject another person, or two, into their lives. Weren’t relationships complicated enough without the additional hurdles created by raising kids?
“Julia, I love you,” started Sarge. He caught his breath as he sat upright in his chair. The evening was beautiful, despite the unrest throughout the city. This conversation was long overdue. For now, they were in their world. He needed to tell her how he felt.
The first explosion rocked their building as the Scotia Street substation erupted into flames just one mile to their southwest. Julia spilled her wine, jumping out of her chair. Sarge got to his feet as the Mystic substation exploded into flames to their northeast in Everett. A dark hole appeared where the power grid collapsed. Within thirty seconds, similar sudden and violent detonations occurred in all directions.
Sarge and Julia instinctively ducked with each explosion. Methodically, Boston was thrust into darkness. As each substation became overloaded, power was rapidly transferred by predetermined computer protocols. The cascading overload of the transformers throughout the city resembled mortar rounds reaching their targets. The substation explosions sounded like bombs detonating.
“Sarge! Are we under attack?”
“I don’t know. Are you okay?”
“Yes, but what the hell?”
“I don’t know, but let’s get off this roof. Stay down and head for the stairwell.”
The lack of moonlight hindered Sarge and Julia’s ability to find their way to the rooftop entry door. Sarge’s first instinct was to get to safety. He had never experienced an adrenaline rush like this. Now he knew what Steven experienced when in a war zone. The unknown made his mind race. They reached the door and found darkness in the stairwell except for the faint glow of emergency lighting on each of the floors below.
“Julia, I have no idea what’s happening. But we don’t need to panic. We’ve prepared for something like this.”
“Like what? What is this?” asked Julia.
“We’ll find out as soon as we can. First, we have to secure the top three floors. Follow me downstairs and then get us some different clothes and temporary lighting. I’m going to make my way through the stairwell and put into place the reinforced door security bars.”
“Safety first, young man!” shouted Julia. Sarge laughed and was proud of Julia. She might have been apprehensive for a moment, but then she caught herself.
“Let’s take care of business first, and then we’ll figure out what happened. Okay?”
“Yes. Weapons too?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so. Not the heavy stuff. Just sidearms until we can conduct a better assessment.”
“Let’s go!” Julia pushed past him and bolted down the first flight of stairs, which led into the Great Hall near the pantry. She pressed the electronic keypad to gain entry. As she did so, Sarge patted himself on the back for insisting that the three floors he occupied at 100 Beacon be off the grid. There were many collapse scenarios anticipated by Sarge and the rest of the Loyal Nine, but all contemplated a grid-down scenario. Like this one?
Sarge quickly descended the remainder of the three flights of stairs to the security door inst
alled to prevent access to the roof by the other residents. When the Boston Brahmin led by John Morgan acquired 100 Beacon, they spared no expense in creating an inner-city fortress designed as a haven in the event of social unrest, or worse.
Sarge was first approached in 2009 about the concept of preparedness when Morgan was considering the purchase of 100 Beacon. The building was in need of renovation, but one of the conditions of the Board of Zoning Appeals was that it be architecturally restored in a manner consistent with its original construction—dating back nearly one hundred years. Morgan retained ownership of the top three floors. He immediately began putting together a team capable of protecting him and his fellow Boston Brahmin, in anticipation of a collapse event. He wanted Sarge to oversee the renovations and occupy the top-floor penthouse. Morgan had a vision, and now Sarge was implementing years of planning.
With the assistance of the local fire marshal and the building inspector, a private stairwell was allowed connecting the three floors occupied by Sarge—the eighth floor and the two penthouse floors above it. When Morgan advised Sarge to spare no expense, the three levels of 100 Beacon containing twelve thousand square feet was the first indication that he’d meant it.
The top floor, known as Penthouse I, consisted of Sarge’s master suite, the guest room suite occupied by his brother Steven, a study, and the Great Hall—a massive living and dining area overlooking the Charles River. Penthouse II, located on the ninth floor, had a similar floor plan except there were more bedrooms. This level was designed as a housing unit for long-term guests—under circumstances just like this one. The eighth floor was the most important part of the entire 100 Beacon project. All aspects of a comprehensive preparedness plan had been addressed—nutrition, security, medical, communications, and alternative energy.
Sarge reached the eighth floor and the steel security door connecting their three levels to the remainder of the building. This door had reinforced locks and a biometric keypad on both sides to grant entry. Sarge confirmed that the keypad was functional. He glanced up at the security cameras to confirm their operation. The flashing red light provided his answer.
The steel door was virtually impenetrable. Only several direct hits from a rocket-propelled grenade could breach the door frame, but the weapon’s operator would die trying in the close confines of the stairwell. An external door to the building’s fire escape was located here as well. The fire marshal refused to allow a reinforced steel door for this purpose. So, as an extra precaution, steel bars were available to Sarge to block entry from the outside. Every castle had a weak spot. This fire exit was their soft underbelly.
Chapter 21
September 3, 2016
9:22 p.m.
100 Beacon
Boston, Massachusetts
Boston was entirely dark except for fires burning throughout the city. Sarge returned to the penthouse and found Julia lighting candles in the Great Hall. The emergency lights of first responders could be seen scurrying back and forth on Storrow Drive and across the Longfellow Bridge to their north. There was no discernible pattern or priority for them. They were only reacting.
“There are some clothes for you on the kitchen island,” said Julia as she lit the last candle. “Was everything good downstairs?”
“No problem. I did hear some faint voices in the stairwell below, but that was it.” Sarge slipped out of his dress pants and polo shirt into khaki cargo pants and a black long-sleeve tee shirt Julia laid out for him. Forgetting the circumstances for a moment, he grabbed a bottled water out of the refrigerator. This simple act reminded him that decisions had to be made about the generator.
“Some of these fires appear to be out of control,” said Julia. “If there’s no electricity, the city’s fire departments won’t be able to keep up.” Sarge joined her at the window and hugged her around the waist. She took his water and finished it off.
“Did you pull out some of the communications gear?” he asked.
“Only your satellite phone. If this is EMP related, we should leave the other equipment in the Faraday cages for a while in the event there is another strike. But I’m beginning to doubt it was an electromagnetic pulse.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“After the hack on the Vegas power grid in February, I became very interested in what the potential threats are to the grid. As we discussed in the hotel that night, a solar flare provides us at least a modicum of warning. Usually, NOAA or NASA would detect an incoming coronal mass ejection a day in advance. No country has ever experienced a catastrophic nuclear-delivered EMP, so it’s hard to say what might happen. But the cell phones are operable, although the circuits are overloaded. Vehicles are operating. Our alarm and entry system is off the grid, but the small circuits that make up the systems might be fried by an EMP.”
“Are you thinking cyber attack?” asked Sarge.
“Yes. But to what extent—I don’t know.”
“Based on what we saw from the roof, Boston’s power grid has collapsed. Every substation and transformer for miles exploded or is on fire. What we don’t know is whether it’s localized or part of a larger attack. Either way, there’s work to be done.”
“Have you tried to connect to the Internet on the satphone?”
“Not yet. The standby battery life is one hundred hours. It’s down to an hour talk time now, so it needs to be charged. We have some calls to make first.” Julia walked into the kitchen to retrieve the Iridium handheld IsatPhone. It rang as she picked it up, startling her. “Damn!”
“Little jumpy, are ya?” asked Sarge in his best Mainah accent. He took the phone from her as it rang again. He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss. “Grab the broadband satellite so we can figure this thing out.”
Julia gave him a thumbs-up as she headed for the next floor down and the Faraday cages.
“Yes,” Sarge said into the receiver.
“Of course, Mr. Morgan, I was expecting your call.” Sarge took instruction from his benefactor without interrupting. He fumbled through the kitchen drawer, looking for pen and paper. “May I put you on speaker while I write this down? Okay, sir. I’m ready.”
“Henry, they’re waiting for you to contact them,” said Morgan. “I do not believe the cellular service will be operating much longer, so you will have to communicate with them soon to make the arrangements. I don’t know whether my associates kept their batteries charged on the satellite phones Mr. Quinn provided. You will know soon enough.”
Great. “Yes, sir,” said Sarge.
“These are my friends, Henry, and I trust you with their lives,” said Morgan as he provided the names of the Boston Brahmin executive council. “Cabot. Lowell. Lodge. Bradlee. Endicott. Winthrop. Peabody. Tudor.” Sarge scribbled the names on a lined notepad. He knew where some of them lived. Picking them up, and in what order, would require some thought.
“Okay, sir, I’ve got it. Do I keep them here?”
“Henry, this power outage is widespread and quite likely long-lasting. You will need to have them taken to Prescott Peninsula. A military escort will be available to you. Let me reiterate, I am entrusting you with the lives of my oldest and dearest friends. I know I can count on you.”
“Of course, sir. Travel safe and bring home your daughter, sir.”
“Thank you, Henry.” Morgan disconnected the call.
Sarge placed the phone on the counter. He picked up the notepad and looked at the names—the Boston Brahmin executive council. Sarge walked into his study to retrieve his address book from the safe. He took a moment to examine the collection of Thomas Cole reproductions given to him as a gift by the Loyal Nine. The collection, entitled The Course of Empire, was a five-part series of paintings created in the 1830s. In the paintings, Cole depicted the rise and fall of empires—from its savage, uninhabited state to destruction and then desolation. These paintings represented Sarge’s core beliefs about the future of America. His lectures reflected this central theme:
All Empires C
ollapse Eventually
Morgan’s words weighed heavily on his mind—widespread, long-lasting. Sarge believed he was groomed for this moment. After the death of his parents, John Morgan, as his godfather, became a big part of his life. His interest in the raising of Sarge and his brother, Steven, went beyond his role as their godfather. He had a plan for their lives. For the past seven years, somehow Sarge knew this moment would come. So did John Morgan.
Julia interrupted his thoughts. “I assume that was the boss?”
“Yes, indeed. We have our marching orders. But we need to sit down for a moment.”
Julia set the Hughes broadband antenna and the MacBook on the island. “That sounds ominous.”
“Yes. As usual, he was aloof and brief. In the face of collapse, he will always remain stoic.”
“Collapse?” asked Julia.
“Honey, the words he used were widespread and long-lasting.”
“How does he know?” she asked.
“He’s John Morgan.”
Chapter 22
September 3, 2016
9:47 p.m.
100 Beacon
Boston, Massachusetts
Julia set up the broadband satellite connection. When she and Donald Quinn researched the options available from Inmarsat, she looked for a system that made sense in an urban environment. Donald chose a system ideal for remote operations, like Prescott Peninsula. She chose the BGAN system that was designed for a temporary office environment. Plus, it met military and government requirements for encryption. You never knew who would be listening.
“Julia, I can’t find the Endicotts’ address. Did I send them a Christmas card last year?”
“I think so, but I don’t have that address book with me. Let me see what I can find.” Most Americans were frantic, seeking information about the power outage. Julia knew the nation was screwed. It was time to get used to this new way of living after the end of the world as we know it.
