“It’s more complicated than that. You need to see something,” he said, gesturing for Stull to follow him.
Before either of them moved, the lights in the Destiny node flickered. Moryakov’s ice-blue eyes darted around the crowded laboratory compartment. In seventy-two days onboard the station, he had never seen the lights flicker—and he’d certainly never seen the Russian exhibit nervous behavior.
He floated behind Moryakov to the Tranquility node berthing connection, tapping the walls to propel his body through the cramped corridor. The short trip ended over the Cupola, the station’s seven-window observatory. A pair of legs dressed in a royal-blue jumper extended into the berthing node.
“Take a look. Then we need to talk. We don’t have much time,” said the Russian.
Commander Stull pushed off the floor with the tip of his boot and flipped upside-down, squeezing into the Cupola next to Cosmonaut Viktor Belekin, who stared through a spotting scope aimed through the center window.
“What the—”
A thick, orange-black smoke trail stretched from the outer stratosphere to the east coast of the United States. From four hundred and sixteen kilometers above the earth’s surface, the smoke trail appeared to penetrate a pulsing red magnetic aura that blanketed the Midwest.
He felt nauseous. His wife and children had flown to Boston on Friday, staying with friends for few days until joining his parents on Cape Cod for their annual vacation. The smoke trail ended in New England. His vision narrowed, and he squinted, shaking his head. He was overreacting. Larger meteorites always left massive trails of smoke when they traveled through the atmosphere, even if they were only a few meters in diameter.
“Can I take a look?” asked Stull.
“This is bad, my friend. Very sorry,” said Belekin, handing him the powerful scope.
Stull followed the magnified trail across Mexico into the United States. The single inbound object had separated high over northern Georgia, splitting into four tightly packed, but distinctly separate reentry signatures. The smoke trails terminated in a narrow elliptical pattern beginning in Virginia and ending in Nova Scotia. He couldn’t pinpoint the two additional impact points through the atmospheric reentry stream.
He hoped his wife had decided to spend an extra day with friends in Braintree. The Cape was too exposed. Who was he kidding? All they could talk about last week was getting to Cape Cod. How could Spaceguard have missed something this big? Something else bothered him about the scene below him.
“Where are the lights?” he asked.
“I can’t believe I missed that,” the Russian murmured. “Most of North America is pitch black.”
“That’s the real problem,” interjected Moryakov, hovering above them.
Commander Stull backed out of the Cupola, along with Belekin.
“Our mission control registered a massive radiation flux on the station-based monitors. X-ray levels spiked, causing a minor system-generated EMP. Everything appears to function as it should, so latch-up must have been minimal.” Moryakov ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll have to run our own diagnostics, of course, and we’ll have to go outside to inspect the solar array coatings. Moscow isn’t optimistic about the long-term survival of the station.”
Stull shook his head. “What do they think happened?”
“All evidence indicates that a thermonuclear device was detonated in low orbit over the United States, causing a massive EMP event. Most of the United States is dark, consistent with this theory,” said Moryakov.
Commander Stull stared back into the Cupola, noting the eerie, reddish, spectral glow in the atmosphere over the Midwest.
“The aura,” he whispered. “Could it have been caused by whatever passed through the atmosphere?”
Moryakov shook his head. “Radiation readings were highest on the sensors aimed toward the ground. Moscow strongly suspects the radiation is from a manmade source.”
“The arrays?”
“Bad timing. All arrays were in Night Glider mode, pointed straight at the earth when the readings spiked. Another eighty-two seconds and they would have been aimed away from the blast, at the sunrise,” Moryakov explained.
“We’ll have to inspect the coatings for thermomechanical damage,” said Stull. “We can’t stay up here if the arrays fail.”
“That was Moscow’s assessment.”
“Is everything all right down there?” asked Stull.
“For now,” said the Russian.
He didn’t like Moryakov’s answer.
Chapter 8
EVENT +01:08 Hours
Jewell Island, Maine
Alex sat on the starboard side stern rail and stared at the thick stand of trees lining the island’s ledge wall. The damage caused by the air blast was fully visible in the crisp, dawn light, mostly confined to broken tree limbs and flattened grass. The cove remained awash with leaves, stirred only by large severed branches that occasionally bumped up against the hull of the Katelyn Ann. He listened intently, trying to pick up any sounds beyond the distant, piercing cries of seagulls.
Only the constant, muffled drum of the sailboat’s engine competed with the birds, but he had already filtered this sound out. Alex had no idea what he might hear when the tsunami hit, but with two thousand feet of tightly packed island to cross, he figured they would have plenty of warning.
The large cabin cruiser anchored off their starboard side roared to life, causing Alex to jump up from his seat. The overpowered engine steadied into a deafening growl that masked every natural sound in the cove. He hoped they were getting underway. Compared to his forty-horsepower engine, the cabin cruiser’s three-to four-hundred-horsepower engine sounded like a commercial jet liner revving for takeoff. He couldn’t blame them for running the engine. He was doing the same thing, in case something went terribly wrong at their anchorage, but with the cruiser’s engine drowning out his thoughts, he would have to pay close attention to the island and rely on visual cues. They might lose a few seconds of warning, but it shouldn’t matter. All he needed to do was get below and shut the cabin door.
Once the wave hit, they would assess and react accordingly. The decision to stay with the boat hadn’t been an easy one. The safest course of action would have been to pack up as much gear and food as possible and ride the dinghy to the cove’s southwestern shore. From there, a ten-minute walk would put them in one of the island’s towering concrete World War Two lookout posts. While assuring their short-term safety, this option almost guaranteed they would lose their transportation off the island. He had considered putting Kate and the kids in the tower and taking his chances alone on the boat, but he had a feeling that the tsunami wasn’t going to give him the option to return.
He planned to ride out the initial impact below deck, scrambling topside when the boat settled. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late to react at that point to save the boat. If the boat were dashed against the rocks before he could take control and engage the engine, they would be at the mercy of the elements, forced to swim back to the island.
Alex looked through the cabin hatchway at Kate, who stared back at him, waiting for any sign that the wave was inbound. She wore one of the boat’s self-inflating life jackets over khaki pants and a waterproof sailing jacket. Next to her, on the starboard settee, sat a digital camouflage-patterned rucksack tied to an orange type two life preserver. The kids, wearing custom-fit vest preservers, sat across from her in the portside lounge, hugging their own life preserver wrapped backpacks.
They had stuffed most of their food, medical supplies and survival-related gear in five backpacks, affixing the cheap life preservers to keep them afloat. If they had to jump into the water, the packs would be connected to their respective owner by a ten-foot length of parachute cord. They were prepared for the worst-case scenario, which involved losing the boat right in the cove. All of their essential gear was either attached to their bodies or buried in the packs.
He patted his hand against the drop-leg hol
ster on his right hip, making sure that the pistol was tightly secured under two layers of nylon and Velcro straps. Kate hadn’t given him a second look when he removed the pistol and holster rig from his rucksack. Before the Jakarta Pandemic, Kate would have ceaselessly berated him for bringing a firearm on a family trip. Now she understood better than anyone that preparation without security was meaningless, especially in the face of a widespread disaster.
The cabin cruiser’s engine throttled higher, drawing his attention away from the island one hundred feet away. He watched the thirty-foot boat pull forward while the anchor line retracted, breaking free of the mud surface below the water. A man dressed in white shorts and a red polo shirt steered the craft toward the mouth of the cove, picking up speed before the anchor appeared. He puffed on a fresh cigar from his perch on the boat’s flying bridge, saluting Alex as he passed.
The anchor emerged from the surface and banged against the boat’s fiberglass hull before snapping into place on the bow-mounted anchor arm. The cabin cruiser increased speed, reaching the mouth of the cove and turning into the narrow confines of the pass between Cliff and Jewell Islands. Alex watched him take the red navigational marker to port and turn sharply. A few seconds later, the cruiser lurched forward at full throttle, leaving a sizeable wake behind as they rocketed southwest, in the direction of Portland Harbor.
Alex was both surprised and relieved that the cruiser’s engine started. His sailboat’s diesel engine was directly wired to the battery bank and didn’t rely on any type of electronics to operate. The cruiser’s gas-powered engine was more complicated, and judging by the relatively new look of the boat, he figured that the engine was connected to a series of microprocessors designed to optimize performance. The fact that the gas engine started gave him hope that recent government-sponsored EMP research and assessment efforts hadn’t been bullshit.
The EMP Commission’s Critical National Infrastructures (CNI) Revised Report released in 2016 took into account the newer, more sensitive technologies present in nearly every electronic device reliant upon a semiconductor. CNI’s 2008 report predicted a 10% failure rate for automobiles, which stood in direct contrast to previous predictions by independent researchers and caused considerable outrage. The revised report admitted the difficulty of predicting the effects of an EMP, and raised the failure rate to 60%—still a rosy picture compared to earliest predictions.
Alex, along with preppers everywhere, cast a suspicious eye on the sudden change, wondering if the whole thing was a government ruse to ease fear in the aftermath of their spectacular failure during the Jakarta Pandemic. Trust in the U.S. government reached an all-time low in 2014, and hadn’t improved much since.
Jealous of the cruiser’s speed through the water, Alex kept his attention fixed on the boat’s rapid escape from the cove. They would probably reach Portland in twenty minutes, maybe less. He wondered if they wouldn’t be better off doing the same thing. Tsunamis generated most of their power when they arrived in shallow water. Maybe their chances would be better in open water, and not behind an island. He and Kate had studied the nautical charts closely, noting that the depth in Casco Bay didn’t vary much from the water off Cape Cod. The depth decreased gradually on the approach to Casco Bay, but not enough to trigger a plunging wave over open water—or so they theorized. Still, they’d decided to stay in place, not really trusting their Google-powered theories enough to risk an open water transit with a possible tsunami inbound. Maybe nothing would happen at all, and they were wasting precious time.
Alex heard a sharp crack, which drew his attention back to the island. He stood up slowly, scanning the trees. Another snap caused him to take a few steps toward the cabin hatch. Staring through the thick foliage at the edge of the island, he saw the tops of tall pines waver and collapse in the distance.
“It’s coming,” he said, calmly taking position in the hatchway.
“Get inside, Alex,” said Kate.
“Hold on…”
He wanted to see what they were up against before dropping below. A cacophony of snaps rapidly approached, followed by an advancing line of fallen treetops.
Any second now.
“Alex!” yelled Kate.
He stole one more glance at the tree line.
A wall of water crashed through the thick pine forest, reaching one-quarter of the way up several mature trees. Alex dropped below and slammed the hatch shut, quickly sitting next to Kate on the starboard settee. A deafening roar filled the cabin, and the boat pitched aft, rising. The kids screamed, and Kate locked her hands around his arm. The sudden wild motion stabilized for a moment; then Alex felt the boat twist to the right. He knew what would happen next.
“Hang on!” he yelled.
The boat heeled more than forty-five degrees to starboard, launching Emily across the cabin into Alex and Kate. Ethan had managed to grip the wooden handrail above him and dangled in mid-air for a moment, before the boat violently heeled to port in response to the sudden change in the craft’s stability. He dropped safely onto the cushions below him. Everybody else was unceremoniously tossed onto the wooden deck in a tangle of life preservers and flailing limbs. Alex pulled his way out of the pile, feeling the boat continue to spin while drifting rapidly through the water. He needed to cut the anchor line and take control of the boat immediately.
“I’m going topside! Grab the handrails like Ethan!” he said, stabilizing himself between the kitchen and the navigation table.
He held the side of the wooden steps tightly with one hand and opened the hatch with the other, preparing for the worst. A solid wall of seawater struck the rear of the boat and continued over the stern, filling the spacious cockpit like a bathtub. Alex pushed against the water pouring through the hatch and reached to the right, pulling a serrated diving knife from the hard plastic sheath he had tied to the cleat holding the anchor line. He swept the razor-sharp knife across the taut line. The line snapped through the hole in the dodger made by the tree branch and disappeared over the bow before he could sheath the knife.
Alex slugged through the waist-high water to reach the wheel, praying that the massive intake of water hadn’t somehow killed the engine. Salt water stung his eyes as he tried to gain his bearings. He had seen nothing but forest through the hatch initially, which indicated they had been turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face west. He gripped the wheel and scanned his surroundings, shocked to see the roof of the small cottage on the western side of the cove almost directly off his port beam. As soon as his eyes focused on the object, the roof pitched upward and disappeared under the swiftly moving water.
He engaged the transmission and shoved the throttle forward, feeling the boat respond. He unlocked the rudder and attempted to steer the boat, which turned out to be a mistake. Powerful currents jammed the rudder hard to port, once again twisting the boat parallel to the onrushing water. Alex tried to turn the wheel but couldn’t budge it. Realizing the impending consequences of the mistake he had made, he used the last available moment to clip his harness to the rail behind him. The D-ring snapped shut a fraction of a second before the boat heeled drastically to starboard, breaking his wet grip on the rail and flinging him against the lifelines.
An incredible, jolting pain surged through his neck and upper body, radiating down into his left arm. He couldn’t tell if he had been thrown overboard, just that he was no longer in control of his body. The D-ring had been attached to a twenty-foot line. Long enough to prevent him from hanging uselessly over the side, but short enough to keep him floating close to the boat. Alex dropped into the cockpit, choking on a mouthful of pungent water, which kept him planted in the water while he coughed uncontrollably. The boat lurched forward and stabilized, giving him a chance to drag himself up by the center console. His first mission was to straighten the rudder and lock it.
While the boat drifted parallel to the wave, he turned the helm and managed to center the rudder. Once it was locked into place, he reduced the throttle to idle and put
the engine in neutral. In a few moments, they would clear the cove and reach open water, where the force of the wave would dissipate, giving him the opportunity to maneuver.
“Kate!” he yelled at the open hatch.
“We’re fine! We have at least a foot of water!” she shouted back.
Kate appeared in the hatchway and flashed him an uneasy look.
“Your head is bleeding! Holy shit…” she muttered, looking beyond the boat at the wave slamming into Cliff Island to the west.
Before Alex could turn to look, the boat shuddered and rolled starboard, stopping dead in the water, but continuing to heel at a dangerous angle as water slammed the port side of the hull. Kate disappeared from sight, falling back into the cabin. He squeezed the stainless-steel handrails mounted to the center console, bracing his feet against the cockpit seat in an attempt to remain on the boat.
Water poured over the starboard deck while the boat teetered. Just when Alex became convinced that the boat would tip over, the Katelyn Ann slipped sideways and returned to a normal angle, turning with the rushing water. They had broken free of whatever had struck their keel. He hoped it had only been the keel, and not the rudder or hull. Damage to the latter would severely jeopardize their chances of reaching Portland Harbor.
His best guess was that they struck the western side of the cove, which was solid ledge, and drifted beyond it into open water. Barring critical damage to the steering or hull, they were in good shape to escape the tsunami relatively unscathed. The Katelyn Ann was in open water with a functional engine, which was a start. If their rudder were intact, they would be in business. As the boat settled on the same course as the surging water, the southern shoals of Cliff Island swung into view, rapidly approaching.
Alex put the engine in gear and jammed the throttle forward, deciding to take a chance. He had just added eight knots (9 MPH) of speed to the boat’s already ridiculous rate of closure with the island. He needed the propeller wash to steer the boat, not wanting to send them into another uncontrolled spin. Holding the wheel in a death grip, he eased the rudder gently to the left, painfully aware that he may not get another shot at this. They had already crossed more than half of the 1000-foot distance between islands.
The Perseid Collapse (The Perseid Collapse Series 1) Page 5
