Emil stood from the table and moved to the kitchen window. He could see the eight cooling towers, lit from below, and ringed with blinking red lights to keep wayward planes from crashing into them. Steam still billowed from the towers, but no klaxons had sounded. Tremors weren’t a problem.
Thumbs moving quickly, Emil tapped out a reply.
Need me there now?
He waited, watching the plant.
The phone buzzed.
Stay on schedule. Will be here for duration.
The plant’s on-duty security chief was required to stay on until a crisis was contained, even if his replacement reported for duty. It ensured that nothing was missed, that no detail was lost in the shuffle.
Will do, Emil replied, and he put the phone on the counter. Leaning on the kitchen sink, he watched the plant.
Too little, too late, he thought. It took days for reactors to fully shut down and cool off. They were not like light bulbs. You couldn’t just switch them off. The control rods might be able to absorb neutrons and stop the fission process, but the highly radioactive atoms already produced would still be present. Protons, electrons, neutrons, positrons, gamma rays, helium nuclei, burning with energy, would turn the water into a radioactive swill that would take years to break down. A nuclear power plant doesn’t need to fully melt down to be dangerous, and a serious earthquake could introduce radioactive liquid into the water table.
The coffee cup rattled and bumped across the counter as another quake struck. The mug slid off the counter and shattered on the floor, splashing Emil’s bare feet with steaming liquid.
He barely noticed.
He clutched the sink, keeping himself upright while dishes and pans clattered and fell around him. The shaking pulse of energy rose and fell, rolling beneath the house and dissipating in seconds. Fast, but powerful.
Phone in hand again, he accessed the plant’s emergency system, which monitored geological events throughout the region.
4.4 magnitude.
Nearly twice as strong as the last. The sequence was still escalating.
If it continues...
Emil closed the app and opened the text program. He tapped out a message to his wife.
Don’t come home. If I don’t make it to you, don’t look for me. Too dangerous. Love all of you.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
He waited.
Breathing.
Like a sprinter on the starting line, he focused, seeing the race before him, seeing each step, craving the finish line.
But he didn’t want to run this race.
Mostly because the gun firing at the race’s start was loaded with a radioactive cloud.
The phone buzzed.
It was Bohumil.
Trouble. Hurry.
Emil flicked the message away. His course had been reset. The car. The road. The highway. Austria. Italy. In the perpetual darkness provided by the ash cloud, he felt sure he could find a way through, a way south to his family, who was his primary concern. His job at the plant was serious. Crucial even. But there was nothing he could do against an earthquake, and if another came, stronger than the last, even running might not be enough.
I should go now, he thought. But if nothing happens, I’ll be fired. I’ll be jailed.
Wait, he told himself.
His stomach seized as something moved in the sky. It was like the night itself had come to life, shifting darkness within darkness, hovering like a massive specter over the power plant.
What is that? He leaned forward, trying to see through the black.
A klaxon sounded. He’d never heard it before, but he knew what it meant. The race had begun.
But he didn’t move.
He stood transfixed, as the sky itself seemed to descend on the plant.
Cooling towers crumbled, crushed from above.
The lights at the tower bases illuminated a rough textured, dark gray surface, like the moon itself had fallen from the sky. Then, all at once, they winked out. The entire facility was there once more, and then it was crushed beneath something massive.
Emil’s eyes widened.
He tapped the send button on his phone, then dove to the floor.
Scrambled under the kitchen table.
A pressure wave slammed into the side of the house, shattering the windows, blasting glass into the kitchen from where he stood just a moment ago. The kitchen cabinets disgorged their contents, shattering ceramic, glass and china on the floor, and on the tabletop protecting Emil. An earthquake far stronger than the last rolled beneath the house. Emil heard the foundation snap and crack. The house canted to the side.
“Do prdele!” Emil yelled, using language he’d removed from his vocabulary after having kids. He fought against the shaking and shifting floor, pulling himself out from under the table. Glass cut into his feet as he sprinted across the kitchen. Some pulled free when he reached the living room rug. The rest was pushed in deeper.
Running through the pain, he paused at the front door to snatch the car keys out of a bowl. Outside, the weather was warm and breezy, but there was a stench in the air, unlike anything he’d smelled before. Wincing as the firm paved driveway pushed the glass deeper into his feet, he hobbled toward the car. Yellow lights blinked as he unlocked the doors. But he didn’t climb inside. The view from the power plant, from where the power plant used to be, pulled his attention again.
The massive object lifted up and away, lit from below by orange light that plumed brighter as the flat, craggy surface rose. A series of dull whumps sounded from the flattened plant, and they were quickly followed by the sharp report of multiple explosions. Fire and smoke billowed from the power plant’s remains, like four volcanoes.
Or four melting down reactors.
Screaming in horror, Emil leapt into the car and fumbled with the keys, desperate to start the car.
The engine hummed to life and then screeched as he held the turned key too long. He slammed the car into gear and screamed again as he crushed his glass-pierced foot against the pedal. Tires screeched, replacing the foul stench in the air with burning rubber. Then he was on the road and moving, racing an unseen enemy.
When he reached the middle of the now powerless town, his headlights revealed bleary-eyed residents, many of whom worked for the plant. They gathered on the sidewalks, no doubt trying to understand the strange sequence of events that had roused them from bed. He honked his horn and screamed at them to flee, but he didn’t look back to see if they listened. Tires shrieked as he wove through the town’s center, heading east, charting a mental course to where he could turn south.
The wheel became slick in his hands.
He was sweating.
Drops rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes.
No, he thought. God, no!
His body quivered.
It’s anxiety, he told himself.
But he didn’t believe it.
And a moment later, his body confirmed it. His head swirled. The road ahead blurred. Vomit burst from his mouth, coating the front window and the steering wheel. The severity and rapid onset of ARS—Acute Radiation Syndrome—symptoms told him that he had already been exposed to a lethal dose. Even if he cleared the area and reached a hospital, there was nothing anyone could do for him. He pulled to the side of the road as the skin on his forearms turned bright red, blistered and popped, covering his skin in hot liquid.
He felt his pants pocket for his phone, hoping to send one last message to his family, but it was missing.
But a moment later, it didn’t matter. His vision went black.
He vomited again.
He didn’t notice that the car was still moving, speeding up as it rolled down a slight incline. He didn’t feel his bowels vacate. He felt burning. Confusion. And then he understood nothing. Forgot who he was.
Suffering from the final stages of rapid onset ARS, the mega dose of radiation affected his neurology, erasing the mind so he was incapable of sensing or processing
his own death.
The radioactive cloud climbed into the atmosphere, mixing with volcanic ash and adding its unleashed energy to the dozens of other reactors melting down across the continent, flowing steadily east in the wake of something monstrous.
16
Abraham
“Check your line!” the soldier at the back of the plane shouts. I’m not sure about his name or rank, but he’s dressed for war, even though he’s not one of the men about to jump. He’s not wearing the air filtration mask, goggles or radiation detectors, but the black BDUs, body armor, helmet and sunglasses make him look just as deadly.
“Line secure!” The men around me shout. Each and every one of them is part of the 75th Army Ranger Regiment. Not only are they the best of the best, but they’re the most rapidly deployable unit in the Army. When the United States declares war, the Rangers aren’t just the first soldiers on the ground, they’re already there. They’re a no-brainer for a last minute mission on the far side of the world.
I, on the other hand, am not a no-brainer choice. I’m a science writer. Sure, I do know a lot about a lot. I’ve been on rigorous expeditions before, saved the team in Iceland and proved myself to the President, but I am in way over my head. I’m like a Chihuahua running with a pack of wolves.
The man behind me, Master Sergeant David Graham, tugs on the line dangling above my head. The carabiner connecting me to a metal cord running down the length of the ceiling jangles and remains secure. “Science Guy, secure!”
The Rangers gave me the callsign: Science Guy, after Bill Nye, who represents the highest level of science education these guys received. Graham is called Supernatural, on account of his skill level. I think five syllables is a bit of a mouthful, but these things have meaning to the Rangers, and I’m not about to point out nickname flaws to the men assigned to keep me alive.
“Check your equipment!” the soldier at the back shouts, motioning to his chest with the flats of his hands. The men around me check straps, gear and weapons with well-rehearsed efficiency. One by one they sound off, shouting, “Good to go.”
Graham takes me by the shoulders and spins me around. He shakes my helmet and goggles. Both are tight. He looks over the facemask covering my nose and mouth. It will filter the air I’m breathing, so I won’t have to worry about ash. And if things get bad, I have an hour’s worth of air in a small bottle strapped to my hip. He checks the zippers, buttons and clips of my clothing and body armor, which is lined with a thin weave of lead. It adds a lot of weight to the uniform, but it’s better than having your insides melted. It’s not perfect protection, but it can reduce the effect of what would normally be a mortal dose of radiation and give the wearer—me—more time to get to a safe distance.
If there is such a thing, I think.
The ‘aberration’ seems determined to melt down every reactor between Hamburg and Russia. Following the seismic trail, it seems to be headed toward Rivne, Ukraine, where the Rivne Nuclear Power Plant’s four reactors pump out 2800 megawatts of energy. And we’re on course to intercept it, sometime before it reaches the plant during the late morning hours. We have no specific times or locations to go by, because the seismic data is vague—and moving. The GPS trackers we have will let us track it precisely, but until then, it’s whereabouts are all guesstimation.
And since we’re getting ready to hurl ourselves out of the back of a C-130 Hercules cargo plane, someone is guesstimating that we’re closing in on our very large target. I’ve leaped out of planes before, for work and for fun—before I was married—but I’ve never done a Low Altitude Low Opening (LALO) jump. While being closer to the ground sounds like a good thing, LALO jumps are often more dangerous. By the time you figure out that something has gone wrong, you’re already a pancake.
Graham taps my radiation detector with a single knuckle, like he’s a shy, door-to-door, insurance salesman. The green power light remains lit and steady. I’m not sure what that was supposed to check—loose battery maybe—but he seems satisfied. If we come across radiation, which seems likely, the devices will sound alarms via the earbuds we’re all wearing. They’ll then identify the radioisotope, its source and level. And if that weren’t enough, if the level requires action, the devices will identify local shelters using GPS and will supply us Google maps-style directions on the go. Sounds like super science fiction, but I already use the same technology to arrive at every meeting on time.
I’m spun back around toward the rear of the plane and given two firm pats on the shoulder. I would never admit it in current company, but the pats hurt. A lot.
“Science guy is good to go!” Graham shouts.
And I’m not sure why they’re all shouting. The comm system we’re all wearing lets us hear each other clearly over the C-130’s buzzing engines and the rush of wind through the plane’s open rear hatch.
When nothing happens, I look back at Graham and start to speak, but I manage only a single syllable before he thrusts two fingers at the open hatch. “Eyes forward, Science Guy!”
I turn forward again and say, “Graham, how—”
“Callsigns,” Graham says. “We’re crashing the party.”
I glance at the soldier standing in the back of the plane. Not only is he concealed in armor, but there is no sign of a name, rank or even country on his uniform. We don’t exist, I think. That’s why they had me turn in my IDs.
“Supernatural,” I say. “How do we know when to jump?”
“When the light turns green,” he says. “And when I shove your ass out the door.”
I hear light chuckles from the men around us. So far, they’ve all been professional and polite, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t getting a kick out of me.
“Question for you,” Graham says. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“You know…”
I do know, but if he’s going to make me talk about this over an open comm with the nine members of the Reapers, made up of Graham, the squad leader, and two four-man fire teams, not to mention whoever is listening in from the situation room, I’m going to make him say the words.
“Having two wives.”
I’ve never backed down from the conversation, and if I’m honest, I’d rather focus on my family than jumping out of this plane, so I answer honestly. “I’m only married to one of them.”
“So the other one is what, like a concubine?”
“That’s awesome,” I hear one of the other men say.
“No way, man,” someone else says. “One woman telling me what to do is enough.”
Chuckles fill the comms. And it’s a good point. My strange relationship is only possible because we’re oddly compatible.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I bet. You—” Graham pauses as a loud shhh fills the cabin. Through the open rear hatch, I see a cloud of ash fill the sky around us, blotting out the Ukrainian landscape below. When nothing horrible happens and the plane remains on course, he continues. “You ever get tired of the questions? I imagine you all get strange looks when you’re out and about.”
It’s a fairly sensitive question for a soldier, but then, maybe I’m judging these guys as quickly as people judge my family.
“Only when people bring the kids into it, and really, they’re what we’re all about. I didn’t intend to have two kids at the same time by two different women, but I wasn’t about to choose one over the other. It was an easy call for me. Harder for my wife, for obvious reasons, and for my partner, for religious reasons, but it was still the right call.”
“Hardcore dedication, man,” someone says. “Right on.”
I smile and am about to offer my thanks, when someone manages to verbally sucker punch me. “If it’s so great, how come you’re out here with us?”
“Uh. I was ordered to—”
“You’re a civvy,” the unseen soldier says. “You could have said ‘no.’ You could have stayed home with your family. Your two women. But instead you’re fl
ying half way around the world into a war zone. Now, the rest of us, we’re single and have no children. This is what we do. You? You’re a writer. I read your file. And from what I can see, you travel the world far more than you’re at home.”
“You have a point, Wheeler?” Graham asks.
“I’m just saying, he might be overestimating how much he enjoys having a weird family. Seems like he spends most of his time running from them.”
The men fall silent, perhaps waiting for me to reply, or knowing that Wheeler has shifted the conversation from friendly ribbing to uncomfortable truth. And I kind of hate him for it. Not for being rude or an asshole, but because he might be right. And I don’t think I would have come to the realization on my own. When I’m away from home, I tell myself there is no place I’d rather be than with my family, and there is some truth to that. I do love them. More than anything else. But I’m also uncomfortable. And afraid. So I keep on taking assignments that require travel, and a lot of it.
Wheeler isn’t the asshole. I am.
“Listen,” Graham says, his tone sympathetic to my plight. “Let’s focus on—”
The plane angles upward so sharply that I’m pushed to the floor. I’m caught under one arm and hauled to the side of the plane, where I grasp hold of a metal handhold.
Engines scream.
The angle increases. I reach for the soldier at the back of the plane—the one not jumping. He leans forward, taking one step at a time, fingers stretching for mine. He's wearing a parachute, and is clipped into a nylon strap attached to the floor, but falling would still hurt. Or worse. The strap is attached at his waist, designed to keep from stumbling out of the plane, but I don't think the designers planned for a near vertical plummet.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, over the roar and chaos, I hear someone, probably one of the pilots, shouting, “Pull up! Pull up!”
The plane's nose tilts up at a ridiculous angle, the engines straining against the vehicle's incredible weight. The soldier’s hand, just inches from mine, falls back with the rest of him as gravity tugs him down. He's in a free fall. I don't see any way out of a broken back for the soldier. He'll either be dead or paralyzed the moment that line snaps taut. Concealed in armor and sunglasses, he looks fearless as he falls. Maybe he is. Men like these, who face life and death situations for a job, must make peace with their possible demise, early on.
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