Nuclear Winter Devil Storm

by Bobby Akart

  Peter obliged, and the man grabbed his wrists. Peter wanted to complain about the brash treatment, but when he realized the guard was removing his handcuffs, he bit his tongue. Once he was free, he slowly pulled his cramped hands and arms in front of him, gingerly rubbing his wrists to massage away the pain.

  “Thanks,” mumbled Peter.

  The guard wasn’t interested in Peter’s appreciation. “Sit. Fill this out. Truthfully! Knock on the door when you’re done.”

  Peter sat back down at the table and turned the clipboard around so he could look at the document in front of him. He picked up the pencil and fiddled with it as he read.

  It was a prepared affidavit that the government wanted him to sign under penalty of perjury. It required him to list all of his addresses and contact information. Peter chuckled at the requirement that he list all available telephone numbers. This didn’t appear to be a standard form, as it contained statements he was required to affirm that dealt specifically with Jimmy and the Monroe County government officials’ alleged actions regarding the bridges.

  When it came to the address field, he hesitated. He didn’t want to list Driftwood Key, so he used an old girlfriend’s apartment address at Sunset Marina. By simply writing down 5555 College Road, Key West, without an apartment number, they’d never be able to confirm it one way or the other. It was a risk worth taking.

  However, it wasn’t the only half-truth he told. He had to confirm, under perjury, that he didn’t know Jimmy. Once again, to his relief, he noticed Jimmy’s last name wasn’t used. It gave him comfort in knowing the ruse had worked. As for the perjury part, the president had thrown the rule of law out the window with his martial law declaration. What difference would a perjury charge make when the government could detain him for no reason anyway?

  He completed the form and gently knocked on the door. The guard, who was sitting at a desk, thumbing through a stack of papers, made him wait for a couple of minutes before responding. Eventually, he let Peter out and reviewed his statement. After another minute, he turned to Peter.

  “Raise your right hand,” he said finally. After Peter did, the guard recited the affirmation of truth and veracity used so often in a court of law. “Do you swear that what you have provided us is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “Yes.”

  The guard tucked the clipboard under his armpit and tossed the pencil on his desk. He opened the door and yelled for another guard to come to the door. The two men whispered to one another, and then the clipboard was taken away. The guard turned his attention back to Peter.

  “Okay. Back in your cell. You’ve earned the privilege of remaining uncuffed. Don’t do anything that would cause the loss of that privilege and get shot as a result. Are we clear?”

  Peter nodded. “Yes.”

  A minute later, he was returned to his cell and given a paper bag with a bottle of water and some kind of freeze-dried trail mix. Peter was weak from physical and emotional exhaustion, as well as hunger. However, all he could think about was Jimmy’s fate. As soon as the guard locked the door separating the cells from the substation’s offices, he called out for his friend.

  In a loud whisper, he asked, “Jimmy, are you here?” Peter had to be careful. He couldn’t be certain whether his captors could hear him. He and Jimmy had been disciplined in not speaking to one another when they were initially locked up. Peter thought he’d successfully passed Lieutenant Robinson’s test and didn’t want to jeopardize his opportunity to be freed.

  Jimmy didn’t respond, so Peter tried a little louder this time. “Jimmy.”

  Still nothing.

  “Shit!” he said in frustration. He began to wander through his cell, wondering if he’d just hanged himself for treason by signing the perjured statement.

  He flopped on the concrete slab designed to be a bunk and buried his face in his hands. He needed sleep if he was going to be of any help to Jimmy when the time came to escape. At this point, there was nothing he could do but rest and imagine what his options were. It would be nearly fourteen hours before he got his chance, and the turn of events weren’t like anything he’d envisioned.

  Part II

  Day twenty-one, Thursday, November 7

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thursday, November 7

  Driftwood Key

  Hank missed his just-after-dawn, early morning walks along the beach. He tried to force himself multiple times to stroll along the calm shore as he mentally prepared for his day. Since the nuclear wars broke out, the inn’s guests were gone. The sun stopped gracing Driftwood Key, or any other place, with its presence. Everything around him seemed—dead.

  He stood at the water’s edge, mindlessly staring off into the distance, trying to determine where the gray skies ended and the water began. So many thoughts filled his mind. Mike’s recovery was at the forefront, but now he was concerned about Jimmy as well.

  When he’d arrived back at Driftwood Key late last night after securing a ride with an ambulance that was responding to a call in Marathon, his first sign of trouble was that nobody was manning the gate. After what he’d encountered on patrol one night and with Patrick’s rampage fresh on his mind, Hank broke out into a run to get to the house.

  Out of breath as he reached the stairs to the front porch of the main house, he immediately noticed shadows traversing the dining room and the main foyer. He rushed inside, where he found Sonny and Phoebe, who were still awake, pacing the floor. The dimly lit rooms were illuminated by candles and kerosene lanterns.

  As he entered, their worried faces touched his heart. After what they’d all been through, he tried not to assume the worst. However, the fact Jimmy wasn’t there took his mind to a dark place he didn’t want to be.

  They talked it through, and Hank promised to look into where Jimmy was assigned. He’d learned while at the hospital and through additional conversation with the ambulance driver on the way home that the decision had been made to blow up the bridges coming into the Florida Keys. He’d also learned from the ambulance driver, who regularly serviced medical care centers from Key Largo to Key West, that the president had ordered the military to cross into the Keys to restore order, as the driver put it.

  Hank was puzzled by the choice of words. Granted, he’d been spending all of his time on Driftwood Key, and his only information regarding what might be happening elsewhere came from Mike, Jessica, and Jimmy. However, none of them had mentioned rioting. Looting, yes. However, nothing that would warrant an incursion by the National Guard to restore order.

  He stepped onto the front lawn to think. As he was recalling the evening’s events, the wind picked up at his back. It was more than the winds that normally started to blow as the sun rose over the Atlantic as cooler surface air was greeted by the warmer air above it. This wind was sustained, not gusty. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, it stopped again. Hank had seen it before but was shocked at what it portended, especially under these atmospheric conditions.

  He put the thought out of his mind and returned to the house. After a quick bite to eat, he was gonna pack a change of clothing for Jessica and Mike along with toiletries. He wasn’t sure what Jessica’s plans were, but he suspected she’d want to stay with Mike during his recovery.

  His other reason to travel back to Key West was to question Mayor Lindsey Free, Sonny’s former sister-in-law. Hank would have to find a way to be diplomatic as he opened the conversation. Somehow, leading with the question what the hell are you thinking? wouldn’t be such a good idea.

  Sonny helped him pack the Wellcraft runabout and top off its fuel tanks. He hadn’t driven the boat since Mike had confiscated it the night the fuel thieves mistakenly messed with the wrong family. He didn’t want to take his Hatteras out with all the uncertainty around the Keys. If something were to happen, any would-be pirates could have the runabout.

  Hank donned a yellow Nautica jacket and khakis. He promised Sonny he’d find out about Jimmy, b
ut he felt the need to remind his old friend that the gate and the grounds needed to be patrolled. This would not be a good time to let their guard down.

  With a promise to hustle back, Hank was off as he followed the same route Jessica had taken previously. During the hour and a half ride, he encountered more unexpected gusts of wind. By the time he arrived at Sunset Marina in Key West, which was located in the vicinity of the hospital, the gusty winds became more frequent.

  He craned his neck to find a place to dock the boat. He was not surprised at what he saw as he idled through the No-Wake Zone. Armed men strolled along the floating docks nestled in the protective cove within Stock Island. Despite its proximity to the sheriff’s station, the operators of the marina—and the boat owners, Hank presumed—felt compelled to protect their boats and fuel. He couldn’t blame them.

  After seeing a familiar face and making small talk, he found an available slip and was then given a ride over to the hospital in a solar-powered golf cart, one of many on the island. Despite the cloudy skies, the small batteries necessary to run the vehicles were able to be charged although it took an extraordinarily long time.

  Hank entered the hospital and was thrilled to find Mike sitting upright and eating solid food. Jessica was standing by his side, stretching after another cramped night of sleep in the chair. Not that it bothered him, but Hank got the distinct impression she was happier to see the duffel bag of clothes and personal hygiene products than she was to see him. A minute after his arrival, she hustled off with the duffel, leaving Hank alone with his brother.

  “How’re ya doin’?” Hank asked.

  “It only hurts when I breathe,” Mike replied. He winced and swallowed hard before turning back to his Jell-O.

  “Well, you’re looking good,” he began. “But hey, Rocky Balboa was handsome in a punch-drunk, beat-all-to-hell sort of way.”

  Mike laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. Have you looked in the mirror? What’s your excuse?”

  Hank hadn’t looked in the mirror although he imagined the lack of sleep and worry about his family had taken its toll. He felt like he’d aged a decade or two.

  He sighed before responding, “I’m glad you’re okay. Mike, I’m really sorry. I should’ve never let that guy on the key.”

  “Nobody knew,” said Mike. “Jess and I started to notice how squirrely he was. When you spend your days around criminals, you start to pick up on things they all have in common. You can tell they have something to hide. Some, like Patrick, play the game better than others. We compared notes, and it started to make sense.”

  Hank hung his head. So much was weighing on him. He grimaced and nodded before making eye contact with his brother. He hesitated before broaching the subject.

  “There’s something else …” His voice trailed off, giving Mike time to anticipate what Hank was going to bring up.

  “I heard they blew the bridges. A few of the guys came by to check on me when the word got out. I understand it’s a pretty contentious subject between the commissioners and Lindsey.”

  “Yeah, I heard, too. I hope to corner Lindsey after I leave the hospital. But that’s not what I was referring to.”

  “Did something happen at Driftwood Key? I told Jess to go home and that I was in good hands.”

  Hank glanced into the hallway and then explained, “As you know, Jimmy has been assigned to man the checkpoint at Gilbert’s Resort. His shift was supposed to end yesterday morning.” Hank gulped.

  “What is it?” asked Mike, wincing as he pushed himself up in bed.

  “He’s twenty-four hours past due for coming home. Sonny and Phoebe are freaking out, and frankly, so am I.”

  “None of the detectives have said anything about Jimmy although most of them aren’t assigned to the sheriff’s border detail,” he said. He shook his head. “This had to be Lindsey’s idea to blow up the bridges. Now she can be Queen of the Keys.”

  “Well, I promised to get some answers. I think I’ll start with the sheriff.”

  Mike chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that. The guys tell me he stays holed up in his office. He meets with his undersheriff and his aide. That’s about it. He won’t even sit down with our two majors or the chief. It’s really bizarre.”

  “I have to try,” said Hank.

  Mike agreed but had a suggestion. “You might have better luck with Lindsey.”

  “Why?”

  “We have something she wants access to—food production.”

  “I’m not giving it up, Mike. And I’m damn sure not offering up the bungalows for people to sleep in. Been there, done that.”

  Mike felt compelled to caution his brother, who was in a difficult emotional place. “Tread lightly with Lindsey. She’s on a helluva power trip right now and couldn’t care less about what we’ve been through or where Jimmy is.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thursday, November 7

  U.S. Army War College

  Carlisle Barracks

  Carlisle, Pennsylvania

  Despite the fact the five-hundred-acre campus of the U.S. Army War College was nowhere near completion to house all of the major departments required to run the government, President Carter Helton insisted upon his administration making the transition above ground, as he liked to put it. Operating within the confines of the bunker at Mount Weather had been taxing on the president’s emotional state. He was ready for a fresh start and eager to tackle the nationwide recovery effort.

  For days, the Army had diverted considerable resources to securing Carlisle Barracks and the entire campus. The roads and highways leading into the small town of twenty thousand had been cordoned off during the preparations.

  At first, their activities were shrouded in mystery, especially to those who resided in nearby Harrisburg, Pennsylvania’s state capital. Many presumed, rightfully so, that the native Pennsylvanian would choose Philadelphia as the nation’s capital following the devastating war. Even if on a temporary basis. The activity at Carlisle Barracks surprised everyone.

  In the predawn hours that morning, the president had surreptitiously departed Mount Weather and was whisked away by Marine One to the temporary White House. By the time he was given a tour of his new offices and touched base with the members of his cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Chief of Staff Harrison Chandler was alerted by FEMA that a massive hurricane had formed in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Venezuela. He would be briefed on its path within the hour.

  President Helton spoke with his military advisors regarding the actions of the Florida Keys officials who’d ordered the destruction of the bridges. There had to be repercussions, but he was advised the only way to remove the government officials responsible for the destruction was to initiate some form of air and sea assault. Even as angry as the president was, he couldn’t imagine bringing the might of the United States military against the insubordinate inhabitants of the Florida Keys.

  He settled into a classroom within the complex that had been assigned to FEMA because its walls were completely covered in whiteboards. One of them provided data on the coming storm he’d been told about.

  HURRICANE MOVING NORTHWESTERLY AND ACCELERATING.

  DEVELOPING AND STRENGHTENING. WINDS SUSTAINED 55 KNOTS.

  SEAS 12 TO 22 FEET WITHIN 300 NAUTICAL MILES.

  982 MILLIBARS.

  The president furrowed his brow, and he read through it twice. He imagined it was the type of weather forecast no fisherman wanted to hear. An aide to the NOAA representative distributed printed reports detailing the storm. The president studied the satellite imagery.

  This monster appeared as a huge swirl stretching from Caracas on the northern coast of Venezuela to just below Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. A second page provided a computer model of the storm’s track and intensity. Under the circumstances, the National Hurricane Center did not have the multiple assets available to them to chart the hurricane’s path. Ordinarily, as many as forty computer models would be at their disposal to advise the president.
Today, there was only one.

  “Mr. President, all we can say is this hurricane is a scientific anomaly that defies explanation. Its characteristics certainly have all the earmarks of a hurricane, such as the fact that it’s a strengthening low-pressure system with its signature tight cyclonic spin. Like others that form in the Caribbean region, they can gain in strength when fueled by warm surface waters.

  “That’s where the anomaly comes in. To create and sustain a hurricane, you need warm water of at least eighty degrees. The second ingredient is moist air. Finally, you need the right combination of converging winds to create the cyclonic activity.

  “When the surface water is warm, even this late in the typical hurricane season, the counterclockwise rotation sucks up heat energy from the water very much like the way a straw sucks up liquid out of a glass.

  “This heat energy is the fuel of the storm. The warmer the water, the more moisture in the air, which results in a broader and stronger hurricane.”

  The president interrupted the scientist’s explanation. “All I’ve been told these last few weeks is that the fallout, or nuclear winter, is blocking the sun’s rays, resulting in rapidly cooling temperatures. Wouldn’t that apply to the ocean’s waters as well?”

  The NOAA representative nodded and referred to a stack of graphs stapled together. “Yes, sir, that is true. As you can imagine, data is not available from all of our resources, but I do have sufficient readings from buoys spread throughout the South Atlantic, the Caribbean Sea, and even into the Gulf of Mexico to provide a response.”

  He offered to provide the dozen pages or so to the president to review, but he waved his arm, declining. The president was interested in the bottom line and how this would impact the nation.

  “That’s okay. What does it reveal?”