Stone Age

by ML Banner

  She pulled her phone up to her face, trying to see if it was Dar calling or texting, but it was only a spam email, “You may qualify for low priced term insurance. Get a quote now before…” She ignored the rest, clicking the phone’s hibernate button. Her face and shoulders hung in disappointment.

  She expectedly scanned the throngs of people coming at her from all directions. Dar texted her an hour ago saying that she was running late and they'd see her at the gate. But her subsequent texts went unanswered. She tried calling Dar too, but she never picked up. "Where are you, Dar? I need you," she said to the crowd, who never acknowledged her pleas. The thought of flying without Dar to hold her hand brought her close to panicking. She wasn’t sure how she was going to fly, and even considered cancelling, but when Dar said she would be on the same flight, Stacy was ecstatic.

  "Last call for flight three-six-three to Dallas."

  "Oh no. What am I supposed to do now? Maybe I can get a later flight."

  "Stacy Jenkins, is that you?” An out of breath but familiar voice emerged from the crowds in front of her, dragging a little boy behind.

  A big grin broke out on Stacy's lips, "Thank God."

  30.

  ISS Dead to the World

  June 29, 1:20 A.M. E.S.T.

  In orbit, over Australia

  From a porthole, R.T. stood, arms tightly crossed, glaring at the auroras blanketing the Earth below. Those damned CMEs ruined everything, dooming his last mission in space. If it was possible to hate something inanimate and ethereal, he did. The ISS had gone dark for almost 24 hours now. He and the other astronauts onboard had tried everything they could think of to jumpstart their systems, but nothing worked. There was no help for them below, as the Earth had its own problems now. R.T. knew they were hours away from death if they did nothing further. The only unknown was whether they would freeze to death, run out of oxygen, or burn in a fire. His money was on freezing to death. For warmth, each wore every layer of clothing brought on board; perhaps four total and their suits, without helmets. Regardless, deprived of any electronics, there was no way to heat what was left of the ISS.

  What else could they do? Electromagnetic pulses from the sun’s coronal mass ejections had taken out their communications and then fried everything, including all their other electronics, in spite of their shielding. R.T. figured that the induced currents, still found their way inside to the electronics all connected and integrated into each module. Their handheld electronics and most importantly, their suits unconnected to the modules’ structure, were protected and still worked, but would only sustain each man or woman for a couple of hours. It was kicking the can down death’s road of inevitability.

  He supposed he should feel lucky, because only ten minutes earlier they almost lost the whole space station to fire, manually casting off several modules to save the whole. The CME’s induced electrostatic charges ignited the fire. These particular modules were older and didn’t have very much shielding, as they were built by the Russians. Enough said. R.T. figured the next CME, due any moment, was probably large enough that it would have the same effect on the remaining, better shielded modules. He wanted to change his vote now, definitely fire.

  It was cold. They were huddled together in Melanie’s research module in hopes of creating a little more warmth. They were tired, spent; most wearing a thin layer of blackness from fighting the fires minutes ago. They silently stared at each other or out the aft porthole of their module, counting the seconds until the next sunrise, which would heat their module up just enough to take the sting out of the cold. Then darkness, and with it the bitter cold of space would soon follow.

  The escape modules were out because someone would have to stay behind to release each manually. Even then, there was still very little chance of survival, because each module had to manually deploy their chutes at the right time, something normally done automatically by computers at the correct altitude. Then there was the little matter of running out of oxygen before they could escape their modules.

  “I think we all know the situation we are in,” R.T. broke the silence, speaking as their Mission Commander. “Best I can figure, we have only one shot for any of us coming out of this alive. We draw straws for someone to stay behind. The rest of us split up into the two escape modules, and the winner will manually release each of the modules. As you know, each escape module’s occupants will have to guess correctly at the exact moment to pull their chute. If wrong, either you’ll burn up during re-entry or you’ll crash to Earth at 10,000 miles per hour. Further, you’ll have to set your suit’s O2 on a barely passible setting, and then have enough left to be able to pop your helmets off before passing out and then suffocating. Any of you surviving that long will probably still die of hypercarbia. Any questions?”

  Everyone was silent, their highly intelligent and educated brains already deducing the same scenario long before their commander spoke.

  R.T. held out eight strips of paper, the bottoms covered by the palm of his hand, waiting for someone to start their lottery of death.

  Melanie reached first. “I guess I’ll get us started.” She drew a long strip of paper, but held back any outward sign of her happiness. No one but R.T., who watched her response, could see it. R.T.’s resolve was strengthened, knowing she would have a chance.

  Each participant’s strip of paper drawn appeared long. Their reactions were similar, not as reserved as Melanie’s, breathing a long release of air upon realization, and then taking in oxygen and momentary relief into their lungs. When the last participant waited an extended measure of time to choose from what was believed to be a fifty percent chance at death or a remote possibility of life, he too breathed a long sigh of relief. Then, all looked at their commander, all but one of their knowing faces full of acceptance, and relieve it wasn’t them. Tears filled Melanie’s eyes.

  R.T. held onto the last long strip of paper. To complete his shell game, he stealthily folded the bottom portion of his strip of paper in half with his other hand and presented the now shortened ‘straw’ to the group quickly, then he thrust it into his suit pocket. “It’s on me then. Let’s head to the modules,” he announced deadpan.

  31.

  The Kill Order

  4:05 A.M.

  Rocky Point, Mexico

  “Si mi padre” Rodrigo said very animated over his cell phone. “I will do as you say. Gracias papi.” He pulled the phone from his ear and pressed the end button. His father, Felix “El Chorro” Menendez just gave him the “orden de muerte” or the kill order. It was his first one, although he had killed before, but never as a result of a kill order. The Death Squad always handled these, but after Ortega Inzunza was taken out by the Mexican government’s gunships on the beach a few months ago, he knew his day would soon come. He couldn’t have imagined a better kill order than Max Thompson.

  Ever since the day he saved Miguel, Max Thompson has been a thorn in his side. If it weren’t for Max’s own stupidity, he may have never gotten the chance. Hard to believe he would sell guns to the Ochoas. He dug his own hole, and he would be buried in it soon.

  He imagined the moment he would point his nicked 45 Colt Commander at Max’s face and then pull the trigger. He was relishing this moment, when he realized there were three faces staring intently at him.

  “Puto, stop staring at me,” Rodrigo yelled at all three at once. “What are you, a bunch of dogs? Get everyone. We have our order to kill Señor Max and take his guns and drugs. We meet outside in cinquento minutos.”

  With orders given, one of the three henchmen, tasked with additional orders ran outside the office to another room and announced in Spanish to the other men to get their weapons and meet outside in fifty minutes. The other two called the remaining assassins not at the compound, demanding their immediate return.

  “Ernesto “El Papá” Fernandez, so named because he was the father of 18 children, was also the oldest of Rodrigo’s henchmen. More importantly at this moment, he was a friend of Maxwell Thomp
son long before Rodrigo’s feud with Max started. He knew the reason for Rodrigo’s hatred for the man, and so he kept his friendship with Max a secret. Rodrigo also didn’t know that their last load of guns actually came from Max. Again, no need to tell Rodrigo. He was a loyal lieutenant to Rodrigo, but a kill order for Max? He couldn’t stand by without helping Max. While standing by the Tahoe waiting for the rest of his team, he discretely pulled out his phone and texted Max, warning him of what was coming his way.

  “Donde Julio and Pacco?” One of the group of asinos asked from the vehicle behind El Papá. “El Hefe already sent them out yesterday to watch Señor Max and to make sure he didn’t run when we go there,” he answered in Spanish.

  Ernesto hoped that he would reach his friend in time.

  Less than fifty minutes after the order was given, Rodrigo walked out to find thirteen of his fifteen men in five vehicles idling and ready to pull out.

  “Let’s kill ourselves a gringo,” he yelled jubilantly as he climbed into the second vehicle, a shiny black Cadillac Esplanade SUV. His men cheered back at their leader as the caravan of killers drove out of the compound.

  32.

  Over Middle Illinois

  Nothing went right with John & Steve Parkington’s flight. Besides the amazing, but unnerving aurora displays, all their equipment was barely functional. Their radio returned mostly static. The Garmin GPS with XM Weather was inoperable, displaying a fluttering green-red screen. Even the old VOR system, didn’t really work. Only one piece of navigational equipment was functional. An old compass, providing the only bearing they felt comfortable following. They were, however, blessed with minimal air traffic, due to the early hour and the problems grounding most planes. For the last two hours, the airport closures and diversions caused their greatest concerns. All were from the same problems they were experiencing; geomagnetic storms which laid waste to the satellites on which their equipment depended. After being turned away from Denver Airport because of communications issues, they returned east to attempt landing at a regional outside of Lawrence, Kansas. There, they were planning to refill and get more intel on the problems plaguing all pilots. But they were diverted from there as well. Finally, they hoped to make it to the private airport outside of Kansas City, since MCI was closed, but were once again diverted.

  Now, fuel was their chief problem. Even with the extended tanks John had installed, they were on fumes.

  While John and Steve discussed their very limited options, someplace over a rural area west of Ottawa Illinois, their engine stopped, along with their radio, and all other instruments. All the lights in the cockpit flashed once and then went out. It was as if someone just unplugged an invisible power cord.

  The cockpit of even a pressurized Cessna is loud, so much so that the pilot and co-pilot wear headphones to both hear the radio and to speak to each other via intercom. The sudden absence of engine noise was deafening. Both John and Steve, almost in unison, tugged at one side of their headsets, exposing an ear to confirm what their now frozen propeller and all their other impulses screamed. They were in trouble. A whistling sound from the rushing air displaced by the plane’s fuselage and a forward sensation being communicated by their inner ears, were the only stimuli telling their senses they were still moving. Otherwise, because the dark of early morning, only slightly illuminated by the green spectral display above, it appeared that they had stopped dead in the air.

  “We are dead stick,” John announced.

  Steve heard his dad’s muffled voice, unable to see much of his face beside him. The blackness inside the cockpit was thick and unnerving. He ripped off his headphones.

  “- confirm. Son, please confirm that you have no readings on your side?” John yelled louder.

  “Dad, I have nothing. You too?”

  “Affirmative. I have no electronics, but I have full controls.”

  “How can we not have even lights? Could our batteries die at the same time as the engine?”

  “We have bigger issues. We should be close to a small regional around here…” Their eyes struggled to see through the blanket of darkness that covered them, looking for lights, any lights. But they were in a rural and somewhat rugged part of Illinois. It seemed the lights were off below as well.

  They glided past a light and a whoosh-whoosh sound, just barely missing some structure… a windmill? Then, in the distance was a clearing and a cluster of lights.

  “There.” John pointed to a patch of lights assembled together on the ground, a small town of probably a few hundred, and the faintly lit long line of a rural highway leading to it. Steve craned forward to see it

  “That’s a highway, not an airport,” hoping he was looking at the wrong lights.

  “Flying beggars can’t be choosy. That will have to do.” John pushed his invisible hands forward and turned the plane’s wheel counterclockwise, while his feet pushed the pedals to counter. The ailerons, flaps and rudder worked in harmony to bank the plane left and on a downward slope.

  They could both feel their air speed dropping a couple of knots every few seconds. Steve pushed the wheel forward more to keep their speed up at the expense of a quicker rate of decent.

  The new quiet and somber darkness around them lulled their senses into a false calmness that belied the real danger that waited below. The Earth was going to come at them fast. They passed a single light of a large house in the hills, but otherwise, it was dark below them. The town’s fast approaching lights beckoned them from just below the cowling, growing in strength with each passing second, as their distance closed.

  Then the town’s lights went out. It was as if the blanket of darkness that followed them in the air was thrown over the town as well covering all the lights below.

  Now panicked, John and Steve spun their heads wildly, searching for anything, glad they could not see the fear in each other’s faces.

  “How will we see the street now?” Steve asked feeling stupid for asking a question, he already knew the answer to.

  “At this point, I’ll be happy to see anything,” John answered.

  Breathing slowly, Steve tried to think like a pilot, considering what he would want to know, based on the forty or so hours he’d flown. “What do you think our altitude is right now?” He finally asked.

  “Around 1000?” John guessed, “Maybe less.” He popped open his window and the scary peace was broken by the cool 120 knot air rushing into their cockpit.

  Steve understood without asking. John was flying by his senses now, and he needed to hear as well as see anything he could to keep from going in nose first, or crashing into a structure or trees on the ground.

  Their eyes appeared to be adjusting to the darkness. It was the auroras. They came to the same realization at once. The ground was bathed in a bright green light, enough now that they could see the trees and the fast approaching ground

  “I see a road,” John announced triumphantly. He banked the plane slightly, but then reality sunk in, with only two hundred feet of altitude, they were too far away to make it.

  “Steve, prepare for a crash landing. At that last moment, you need to tuck forward. You got that?”

  John leveled the plane and searched for the cleanest line and a solid tree or structure to take some of their inertial energy away. He was thankful that he attended the workshop on crash landing at Oshkosh last year. At least, with little fuel in their tanks, they wouldn’t burn.

  “I hear you, Dad. I’m not scared.”

  There. He found his flight line between two tall oaks. Every second a loud whoosh sound, announced a passing tree. Any second now.

  “I love you, son.”

  “Me too,” Steve’s voice rose in pitch, unconsciously bracing for the impact the moment it happened.

  Over Texas

  The intercom and then the pilot’s voice broke through the loud hum of the plane’s engines which were working hard, still pushing to keep them upward, “This is your captain speaking. I’m sure you have already noticed t
he rare occurrence outside your windows. For the same reasons we left O’Hare so late, if you look out now, you will probably never see an aurora display this far south in your lifetimes.” Most of the passengers craned and contorted themselves to see the green ribbons of light spread out all over the horizon, so close they felt they could reach up and touch these heavenly objects.

  “Soooo beautiful,” Stacy exclaimed, momentarily forgetting her fear, which had been constant throughout their flight.

  The captain continued, “Because of recent solar activity, we have the pleasure of -”

  The lights flickered and the intercom crackled, cutting off the captain mid-sentence. Every head that had been craning to see the beautiful light show, turned to regard the cockpit door, hoping their gaze would somehow pierce the door and yield some sort of confirmation that the plane’s captain was not as concerned as they were. The engines started to stumble as did the plane’s lights, as if some unknown force was sucking up the plane’s energy. It was the opposite.

  All at once, the engines stopped and the lights were extinguished. The passengers were bathed in silence and an eerie green darkness. They held their collective breaths, as if the plane would now float, using the combined air in their lungs.

  Stacy’s eyes, slightly illuminated by the green glow of the aurora outside, were filled with terror. Her right hand reflexively reached, grabbed, and squeezed a vice-grip hold on a hand in the seat next to hers. The silence, and the shock of the last few seconds was broken by a sheer wave of panic that washed over everyone from the front to the back of the plane like a tsunami. “Oh, my God!” and “The engines!” screamed out of the cabin’s green haze.