Nuclear Spring

by Td Barnes

  “Colonel Bradley, please report to the Command Center.”

  In the mess hall area, all eyes turned to look at the commander’s table with a hint of concern and curiosity while watching Stacey and Tom tidied up before donning their Kevlar helmets in response to the paging message. The fears of the diners eased a bit when he said something to Stacey that made them laugh as they parted.

  Paging for the commander seldom occurred, so most everyone in the mess hall continued to watch with interest his exiting from the cubicle and into the central tunnel. Stacey hid her concern about the page by appearing nonchalant. She carried their food trays and utensils to the dirty dishes bench and refilled her coffee cup. All the while, her mind raced with concern about what the call this early in the morning might mean. She hid her fear beneath a display of calmness while sauntering across the alcove to join some other women.

  Bradley stepped out of the cubicle and into the tunnel where he passed a “Do Not Feed the Animals” sign, having almost to step over a cat and two Guinea hens begging for a food scrap. He smiled in amusement at Sarge, his adopted poodle following at his heels, ignoring the annoying animals as if they rated lower than his station in life.

  Meanwhile, the paging continued its 24-hour community announcements throughout the tunnel, “Sergeant Gillespie, please return to sick call—you forgot your meds. Mrs. Bloomfield will conduct a class on water purification in Alcove Seven at 0800 hours, Mr. Vining, please bring a block of livestock salt when you come to the animal kingdom.”

  Everyone noted Bradley, though older than most in the tunnel, for his setting kinetic standards for physical conditioning. He was the epitome of productivity: a well-organized, reliable, and thorough leader. He stood at 5-foot-10 inch, 175-pounds with a dark tan that he once attributed to his outdoor equestrian activities.

  With him still having the tan after years in the tunnel, he now attributed it to a Cherokee Indian heritage that genealogy on his father’s side traced back to the Trail of Tears. His posture and mannerism spoke of total confidence and fearlessness. His piercing eyes, 1000-yard stare, and battle wound scarring told of hell seen and experienced during his military career.

  “Ride, sir?”

  Bradley looked at the teenage boy performing volunteer handcar duty. He smiled at what appeared to be the kid’s first attempt to grow a mustache. “Sure, why not?” He said, swinging his rump onto the handcar.

  “What about Sarge?”

  “Let the little fat ass run. Sarge needs the exercise.” Both laughed at the dog already running ahead of them and looking back to hurry them up. They rode up the slight incline and around a small turn of the tunnel. During the trip, Bradley returned greetings from residents headed to the medical clinic on sick call or otherwise going for a walk. All, military and civilian alike, wore the military desert ACU combat uniform that included a Kevlar helmet for head protection in the tunnel. The military stood out because they also carried firearms, something that started with the siege three years earlier. The soldiers saluted Bradley as though they were outdoors.

  Armed soldiers and gas masks hanging from strategic locations for quick access all along the tunnel demonstrated the preparedness of the mountain for an attack. Depicting the seriousness of the military presence within the mountain, even more, was the extent that even after close confinement to the mountain for four years, the military, and civilians alike showed Bradley pronounced recognition as their leader.

  The handcar wheels made a rumbling sound. The weak squeaking sound of the pumping motion warned the pedestrians as it rounded the gradual curve in the tunnel. It passed a soldier, and two civilians who were cleaning up rock fragments from a stone sloughed off the ceiling of the tunnel.

  At the entrance to the Command Center alcove, the duty officer and the armed soldiers performing defense duty greeted Bradley with rigid salutes of respect. The gesture validated Bradley’s policy of not fraternizing with the military ranks or people under his command. He felt this enhanced the occasion when he granted one his attention and greeting.

  “As you were,” he commanded, entering the Command Center and heading towards the radio room annexed to the Command Center cathedral-like alcove. From his motions and air of self-confidence, one did not need to see the insignia of his rank to recognize his being the boss.

  He glanced at the outdoor camera monitor and the radiation level reading before nodding recognition to the XO, Lt. Col. Jane Barlow, and SMG Barry Marshall. They relaxed from the position of attention and made room for Bradley to enter the radio room where SP5 Charlene Dawson was tuning one of a large rack full of military radios, all operating on a different band.

  “Sir, the magnetic interference is less today. We are picking up some skip radio traffic,” the XO explained.

  Thirty-seven-year-old Barlow, born in San Diego, grew up in Henderson, Nevada, where she attended ROTC at both the Basic High School and during her four years at UNLV majoring in political science. She joined the Nevada Army National Guard a second lieutenant where she deployed on three tours of Southeast Asia with an assignment to the 422nd Expeditionary Signal Battalion. Barlow rated high in her Army OERs, Officer Efficiency Reports, and maintained an excellent physical condition, short styled hair, and appearance that complemented a quiet air of knowledge, authority, and sophistication.

  “What do you have, Sparks?”

  Twenty-six-year-old SP5 Charlene Dawson, a 5-foot, 6-inch, brown hair, 130-pound native of Las Vegas known as Sparks was in the mid-stages of pregnancy.

  Bradley liked Dawson. She was a smart soldier with mischievous eyes who ignored his potty mouth and was not intimidated by his rank.

  He considered her most dependable and liked it that she never quibbled when asked something that she did not know. He found her a bit outspoken at times but thought it an asset her telling it like it is. He respected that.

  “Good morning, sir. We have some skip traffic on the AN/PRC-150C.” She frowned and looked up at him. “Sir, we are receiving it on our military HF frequency. It is in Arabic.” She resumed tuning until she regained the signal having amplitude significant enough to break squelch. Again, the audio sounded Arabic.

  Bradley frowned and rubbed his eyebrow in thought.

  “Sir, I’ll locate an Arabic-speaking soldier,” the Sergeant Major volunteered. Sergeant Major Barry Marshall, a quiet, reflective, and contemplative 36-year old, balding man served Bradley more as an aide-de-camp or advisor than the leader of the enlisted men. Like his dog Sarge, the Sergeant Major accompanied Bradley wherever he went.

  Bradley thanked him with a glance and stood in a relaxed military parade rest position beside Barlow while they watched Dawson working the radio.”

  “Sir, it looks like we will see the sun again today. You noticed the drop in the radiation level?” The XO asked to make conversation while they waited for the interpreter. She knew he checked the level because that was something that they all did like checking their watch for the time.

  “The magnetic interference has declined as well,” Dawson added without looking up. She felt extra concerned about the radiation levels on the outside with her being six months pregnant with her second child. Her husband was also military working as a mechanic in the motor pool. She glanced towards their two-year-old son playing in a child containment structure in the corner of the radio room with Sarge on the outside playing with his little friend through the sidebars.

  “Yes, it looks like the jet stream is carrying the fallout away. I imagine our natives will be restless again—all wondering if they get to leave the mountain for a few minutes,” Bradley commented, also making frivolous conversation while they watched Dawson working the radio, all feeling enthralled with hope, but refusing to let it show for fear of jinxing the moment.

  The residents over the years adapted to living three separate shifts depending upon their circadian rhythm, a lifestyle that made them oblivious to occurrences outside the mountain unless seen on a camera monitor.

&nbs
p; For some, morning became evening or night being morning, and those on a day shift considered it an ordinary time. They knew that this would all change with the return of daylight and once the radiation level lowered enough that they could go outdoors.

  The Sergeant Major returned with an Arabic-speaking soldier and waited with the others while Dawson waited for another transmission. After several minutes of waiting, another brief broadcast occurred. Everyone looked to the soldier for translation.

  The soldier interpreted, “Landing KDMA.”

  Bradley frowned and looked at the others with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “KDMA is the International Civil Aviation Organization airport code for Davis–Monthan Air Force Base near Tucson, Arizona,” the Sergeant Major uttered in disbelief with a puzzled expression on his face.

  Dawson looked at the digitized frequency readout as though to verify her settings. “The United States Uniform reserved this spectrum for tactical flight,” she added skeptically.

  Barlow looked at Bradley. “Sir, it appears some Arabs are flying planes in Arizona.”

  Bradley’s face reflected his concern. He said nothing for a moment. “Dawson, with the lessening of magnetic interference, have we resumed seeking radio contact with EMP survivors?”

  “No, sir. It was a waste of time until now. I plan to continue today now that the decrease in atmospheric magnetic interference makes it feasible.” She looked up at Bradley in case he a response.

  He, in his usual quick and decisive manner, frowned and shook his head before saying, “Let’s not do that, Sparks. We are not seeking rescue and we ought to be thinking of us being a very high-value target since we are sitting in the most technically advanced place on the planet. Until we know who all is out there, and their intentions, I think we should keep quiet and monitor the situation. You know the cliché used in the surveillance world—in God, we trust--all others we monitor.”

  “I concur, sir,” Barlow said, nodding her head in thoughtful approval. “We know that several of our ships, submarines, and planes most likely escaped the EMP and nuclear attacks.” She frowned in concern. “What we do not know is where they are now and who is controlling them. In four years—a lot could have happened.”

  This new and unexpected development soaked in. Bradley sighed. “It never stops, does it XO? We survived the last war and are already looking at a new war, even with the clouds of the latest one still on the horizon.”

  Both grew quiet with their minds drifting back to circumstances and events bringing them to the mountain four years ago to survive a nuclear winter.

  He watched his radio operator scanning for another transmission. It brought his thoughts back to the night the EMP struck, a time when he headed a department within the United States Defense Intelligence Agency.

  He just returned from Israel, where clouds of war swirled over the Middle East. American submarines in the Indian Ocean tailed freighters carrying Chinese nukes to Iran in exchange for oil. He delivered secret DIA missile defense technology to the Israelis to defend against these missiles, returning home to Alabama only days before coming to Nevada to witness the kinetic impact and detonation of the GPS-guided GBU-57A/B bunker buster bomb by the Air Force at Tonopah, Nevada.

  The occasion afforded Stacey and him the opportunity to come to Nevada to spend some time with their kids. Their son, Jerry, was in his junior year studying medicine at UNLV, and daughter, Samantha, or Sammie, a recent UNLV graduate worked for the Homeland Security Agency at the Nevada National Security Site.

  The EMP attack occurred during the night with Stacey and him staying over in the El Portal Motel in Beatty, a small desert mining and ranching town known for its once hosting World’s Championship Wild Burro Races. They picked Beatty to enjoy a frontier experience like what Stacey and he enjoyed in their ranching childhood.

  Bradley went to sleep concentrating on events happening in the Middle East, never dreaming of a Chinese 094 Jin class submarine launching a CSS-NX-5 missile as an intimidating show of power.

  Bradley’s group at DIA had designed the missile defense that redirected the missile to Beijing. We suspect that a high-ranking government official panicked in the seconds before China’s warhead vaporized him as he transmitted an order to all weapons officers on duty to initiate the doomsday command to their orbiting EMP devices.

  Israel survived the Chinese missiles launched against it by Iran, Syria, and Lebanon by also using this missile defense technology only to be bombed into oblivion during the worldwide nuclear exchange occurring a few days later.

  Everything, the launch of the Chinese missile, the Iranian missile attack, and the EMP attack happened while the Bradleys slept. The Bradleys awoke along with the residents of Beatty to see electrical transformers burning on their poles; there is no electricity, no radio, television, the Internet, or phone service.

  Being the nation’s expert in electromagnetic pulse effects, his background, and coincidental presence in Beatty made him a logical choice to assume command of a pre-chosen group of the nation’s intellectuals and specialists participating in various black projects occurring in Nevada.

  Four days later, at the Jackass Flats Yucca Mountain refuge, he taken command of select Nevada National Guard military personnel from within the Las Vegas area to protect the military dependents, preselected VIPs also in the area, and selected refugees less than 35-years old evacuated from the small mining and ranching town of Beatty.

  The Yucca complex, 22 years in the making, lay inside the long volcanic ridge lay in a U-shaped tunnel a little over five miles long and 25 feet wide excavated deep beneath the mountain.

  The tunnel into the mountain could have well passed for a railroad tunnel. The north portal was level on the floor of the desert with a vertical wall of exposed volcanic Tuff rock where the excavation created a 25-foot wide entrance. Massive air transport ducts exited out of the mountain at the top of the tunnel where they turned and extended upward to draw air into the tube.

  A massive explosion-proof door molded into the entrance beside an air duct pipe molded to ensure the security of the entry against explosive devices and even gas.

  Railway tracks for underground train transportation entered the tunnel where they extended the entire length to exit at the south portal.

  The rock cathedral-like alcoves encased inside the mountain branched from the central tunnel where several remained equipped for scientific experiments. Much of the scientific equipment remained usable as if someone expected a restart of the project, and was now invaluable to the residents preparing to rebuild the technical world that existed before the EMP.

  Smaller emplacement drifts extended towards the middle of the U-shaped central tunnel constructed for the storage of nuclear waste.

  The entire facility sat above a deep aquifer that provided a source of drinking water and a water source for irrigating crops and watering of livestock that might commence now with the jet stream moving the fallout elsewhere on the planet.

  Following the EMP attack, the activity at Yucca Mountain inside Jackass Flats resembled mobilization for a major war as the plan kicked in to protect the United States’ technological leaders.

  Of all the government emergency retreats in the United States, none provided the remoteness and security of this mountain. The site lay inside the atomic testing grounds that now served as the Nevada National Security Site, home to numerous top-secret government projects inside Area 25 at Jackass Flats. These included a nuclear reactor and engine projects by the AEC, NASA’s Space Nuclear Propulsion, and the infamous high-tech flight-test laboratories of nearby Area 51.

  He recalled his arrival at the mountain where a powered handcar sat parked on a short mine railway spur outside the north portal. The mine railway track branched from the rails extending out of the tunnel to various loading docks.

  He remembered the deafening roar of military trucks of the Nevada National Guard’s 593rd Transportation Company arriving at a receiving area, a disp
atcher coordinating their entrance into the mountain depending on where in the tunnel they needed to offload and the time necessary to discard their cargo. Those loads requiring specialized equipment to unload them went to one area while those requiring only manual labor went to another.

  A lot happened on the fourth day following the EMP attack while the National Guard was evacuating Beatty. Crops harvested at the nearby Amargosa Valley agriculture center arrived at the mountain for canning and storage. Also coming were over 500 head of cattle for slaughter.

  Beneath his stone-cold posture of command, Bradley’s heartbroken during the four hours that it took to get the townspeople at Beatty organized and on the road.

  He would never forget the families crying while they split up, leaving the sickly and behind, yet his responsibility to his people demanded that he remain firm on the issue of eligibility, knowing that with each rejection he imposed a death sentence.

  Some of those rejected resorted to wailing and begging while others made Herculean sacrifices where parents insisted their children evacuate while they stayed behind so others could take their place.

  Unable to bear a weeping mother tugging on his arm while begging him to protect her children while she stayed behind, he removed himself from the equation so those assembling the people could excuse themselves with not having any say and blame him for the selection of those who went and those left behind.

  Bradley watched Dawson work as he tried to dismiss these dark thoughts to resume thinking ahead to what these latest developments meant. He found this to be impossible while waiting for Dawson to acquire another transmission to learn what they faced when able to leave the mountain.

  The latest uncertainty reminded him of how everyone felt it was an escape when the convoy headed south on Highway 95. The convoy was under the protection of the Nevada National Guard, who forced their way through an angry crowd of desperate refugees at the gap outside of Beatty. An estimated 3,500 refuge packed at a roadblock of Nye County sheriff deputies stopping them from entering the town.