Sol Survivors

by Ken Benton

  Sol

  Survivors

  Ken Benton

  © 2019 Survivaltales.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, religious bodies, corporate or governmental entities, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author is only telling a story. Neither he nor the publisher are experts in survival techniques and advise the reader to seek qualified resources before engaging in foraging, gardening, hunting, fishing, operation of firearms, first aid, medical care, or attempting to produce their own food. Any such activities described in this book are solely for entertainment purposes and should not be considered accurate or necessarily safe.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written consent of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Ninety-three Million Miles from Earth

  National Solar Observatory Headquarters, Boulder, CO

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  A Word from the Author

  Ninety-three Million Miles from Earth

  Something unusual occurred on the surface of the great fiery orb as it continued on its assigned orbit some 25,000 light years from the center of the beautiful spiral galaxy.

  Sudden high-energy bursts releasing directional flares were far from abnormal. They were, in fact, part of the natural cycle of the dense cauldron as it went about its function combusting the gradually depleting supply of hydrogen-helium fed to it by the power which governs the universe. Even the less-frequent larger bursts were regular and expected, spectacular as they may be to anyone watching who was not familiar with the orb’s mechanism and patterns.

  So when this burst emitted, it would not have been notable but for its timing and location.

  Most of the occupants in the orb’s neighborhood were used to being on the receiving end of these occasional surges of magnetized energy, from the eight distinguished members down to the chaotic tumbling rock belts. Except for the third distinguished member; the blue sphere. That one was special.

  The blue sphere teemed with life, and had always been a special focus for the power which governs the universe. It was so important that the fiery orb sensed its own purpose for existing might solely be to provide for that life. Interestingly, the life force of the blue sphere suffered from disunity. It was not at peace with itself. As that life force multiplied, so did the degree of disunity within it.

  At a certain point in the recent past, the power which governs the universe had placed a restraint on the fiery orb. Its largest surges were restricted from emitting in a way that would overly upset the balance of the blue sphere. That is why this current event was so unusual. The power which governs the universe relaxed its grip. The fiery orb felt itself react as if in obedience, releasing a tremendous burst in a location that had been building pressure from the convergence of multiple dark spots on its surface. The resulting eruption reached rare extents in magnitude and duration.

  A mix of energies ejected into, and tore straight through, the prevailing solar winds. The discharge would be more than powerful enough to significantly agitate the magnetic balance of any of the distinguished occupants of the orb’s neighborhood. The timing and location of this burst could send the storm no other place but to the blue sphere.

  The resulting new space weather conditions would deliver the storm in less than two of the blue sphere’s rotations.

  National Solar Observatory Headquarters, Boulder, CO

  The observatory lab stations should have been a welcome sanctuary from the typical university claptrap out on the surrounding campus. If it weren’t for Bonnie, they would have been. Even with her station now located at the far wall, she still managed to destroy Ted’s work atmosphere on a daily basis. Not that she spent much time at her station anyway.

  “You’re not actually converting all your data to the new format they want, are you?” Bonnie asked as she reinvaded his space stirring an obscene amount of sweetener into a cup of green tea. “Seeing as the new platform accepts it in the old format?”

  Ted shot her a cursory glance while studying a printout. “The boss wants it all converted, so yes, I’m converting it.”

  “Well, I’m not. It will take too many hours to complete, and it’s not needed. You’re such a yes man, always kowtowing doing every stupid thing they tell us.”

  Ted shook his head in disgust. “They have their reasons for wanting it done, probably so that it works with the next platform change already being planned. I like my job, Bonnie, and want to keep it. We’re on salary, so we are expected to do what is asked of us. If we don’t, we risk not only our jobs but the existence of the program itself, especially since it is partially funded by a government grant.”

  “That sure as heck isn’t selling me on it.” Bonnie’s voice was now elevated to an inappropriately high tone, but everyone was used to it. “Anything that dumbass wants, I will go out of my way to refuse.”

  “Who?” Ted asked, though he was certain of her reference.

  “You know who. The dumbass we have for a President.”

  “I doubt he has anything to do with it, or even any specific knowledge of the program. And how many times do I have to tell you not to come into my cubicle preaching your politics?”

  “This isn’t politics. It’s about having to live with a dumbass in the oval office.”

  “For you, it’s politics,” Ted replied. “It’s all the politics you have, in fact, and the only subject you seem capable of discussing. You somehow manage to convert everything, right down to comments on how someone’s lunch tastes, into an occasion to bash the current U.S. President. Even some coworkers who are in agreement with you are starting to get sick of your single dimension. To me it appears you no longer have any cause other than your hatred of that man.”

  Before Bonnie could reply, Leon’s voice mercifully boomed from the front of the room.

  “Looks like we have an eruption, folks! Putting our delayed feed from Sacramento Peaks on the main screen.”

  Heads peeked above cubicle walls. Even Bonnie deferred further comment while the large video screen displayed what uninformed bystanders may have mistaken for a volcano exploding. A streaming burst of fiery-orange substance shot away from the surface of the sun, surrounded by an immense expanding red cloud. Oohs and aahs filled the room.

  “Spectacular!” someone said.

  “Wow,” another voice chimed. “Big one.”

  “That’s gonna be a storm,” a more serious voice added. “Where’s it headed?”

  “It’s not in a good place,” Ted answered looking down at his monitor, where an image of three merging sunspots was now his wallpaper.

  “No,” his coworker from the next station over said. “When these sunspots started converging last month, we had a small ejection that cleared the neighborhood. Now eve
rything is lined up in just about the worst possible position, especially if wind speeds increase, which seems pretty likely after that.”

  Leon shouted again. “Run it through your model, Ted!”

  Ted’s fingers got busy accessing the data from the Sacramento Peaks observatory and feeding it into his simulator. The sound of other keyboards furiously doing the same filled the air around him, but Ted’s program was regarded as the best in the unit.

  Bonnie’s diversion, unfortunately, proved temporary.

  “The reason we have to constantly call out that embarrassing stooge of a President,” she said slurping her tea, “is so people like you, who claim to be uninterested in politics, will wise up enough not to reelect the horse’s ass.”

  Ted grimaced when he saw the initial projection output. He carefully rechecked his input parameters and ran it again as he absentmindedly answered her.

  “The reason he got elected was because voters who were too intimidated to say so publicly still did what they wanted once behind a private curtain. Shows what can happen when you try to bully people who get to cast anonymous ballots.”

  “He lost the popular vote!” Bonnie said. “And we need to make sure he loses the state vote next time. I can’t stand it every time I see that idiot on TV as President.”

  Ted’s simulator returned the same results. By the exasperated sounds others were making, he knew running it a third time would only be a desperate hope.

  “Well?” Leon’s voice rose above the muttering. “What have you got, Ted?”

  Instead of answering him, Ted turned to Bonnie.

  “I think you’re going to get your wish.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “If my projection model is accurate, after tomorrow you aren’t likely to see him on television as President again.”

  Ted took a long breath and added, “Even if he gets reelected.”

  Chapter One

  “Pull!”

  Joel McConnell knew he would miss his third consecutive shot even before he squeezed the trigger. Too distracted. Yep, low and left. This time the late-day sky appeared to flash brighter for a second, further throwing his concentration. The clay pigeon continued unimpeded in its flight to the grassy horizon.

  Why was he suddenly so aggravated? He arrived in a good mood. Hell, this was arguably Joel’s favorite place on Earth. Everyone else in the trapshooting line at the Quantico Shooting Club appeared to be relaxed and having fun, busting the clays like there was no tomorrow. Even the teenage girl on his left.

  Joel knew what it was—or rather, who. The shooter two places to his right, dammit. For some reason that guy’s presence disturbed him. It wasn’t just his oversized cowboy hat. Truth was, Joel still owned a similar hat, though it hadn’t seen daylight in years. And it wasn’t the 20-gauge pistol-grip the man was firing, as inappropriate as it may be to use when the range was busy. Knuckleheads showing off with pistol grips was something you learned to tolerate at ranges that didn’t post rules disallowing them. Somehow, Joel didn’t think the cowboy would respect any such sign anyway.

  Joel called for another bird. This one he obliterated before it fell from its apex. Now that was better.

  Not ten seconds later, the cowboy did the same thing, followed by a happy exclamation that sounded too much like yeehaw for Joel’s taste.

  Alan, Joel’s favorite range sergeant, strolled by in full fatigues as Joel pushed four new rounds in the loading tube of his Remington 870. But before he could get back into posture, a ruckus erupted from the cowboy. Different-sounding gunshots popped off as the man began shouting inanities.

  Joel looked over in time to see the fool firing a handgun at a clay pigeon in the air. Not a pistol-grip shotgun this time, but what looked and sounded a lot like Joel’s 9mm Glock.

  “Unreal,” Joel said.

  Alan obviously heard him, but offered no sympathy in his reaction. To make matters worse, the cowboy actually hit the target on his fourth or fifth shot. The ensuing celebration was not something that belongs on a public range this far north.

  “Alan,” Joel said with more than a little disdain, “can’t you do something about that?”

  Alan laughed. “Afraid not. He’s an army colonel.”

  “Oh.” Joel smiled and raised his firearm. He hit his next four birds.

  The revelation of the cowboy’s identity did magically make it all okay. Just something that goes with the territory when your shooting club is on a marine base. And then, surprisingly, the colonel came over and apologized to Joel. He must have realized he’d been disturbing him. Sure enough, the offending pistol turned out to be the same Glock 19 that Joel owned. They chatted a bit before Joel had to get going if he was to beat rush hour traffic to Fredericksburg.

  He didn’t quite beat it. Congestion on the southbound I-95 proved heavier than usual, and became worse as Joel neared Fredericksburg. But that was nothing compared to the street traffic on Plank Road after exiting. He felt his blood pressure rising again.

  “What in blazes is going on here?” Joel shouted over his favorite Merle Haggard song. “For crying out loud, I’m going to miss the next light, too, and I’m not four car lengths from the damn intersection!”

  The real problem, of course, wasn’t the traffic. Neither had it been the crazy colonel at the range. Joel didn’t usually sweat small stuff unless he was irritated over something else. The truth was he’d been dreading this evening, for no rational reason he could think of. It had been a dark cloud over his head all day. There were a hundred things he’d rather be doing than this. But he knew it was an inevitable part of being in a new relationship.

  Joel managed to make a right turn by blatantly cutting two cars off, throwing obligatory thank you waves at the drivers without making eye contact, and then driving his Chevy Silverado truck up the curb and down the sidewalk twenty yards before plopping back down to the asphalt of the cross-street. Now headed the opposite direction he needed to go, Joel began looking for a way to circle around. At least he escaped the gridlock. The heaviest traffic appeared to be associated with the Battlefield Visitor Center, so he gave that a wide berth in his rerouting endeavor.

  By the time Joel made it to the restaurant, he found he was the last to arrive. Jessie waved at him from a booth close to the entrance. So much for having a relaxing drink at the bar first.

  “Hi honey,” Jessie said squeaking her tight jeans across the vinyl to the inside seat. “You didn’t get off on Plank, did you?”

  “Yes, I did. Huge mistake. Huge!”

  Jessie giggled at the inside joke. “I should have warned you. There’s a protest going on. A bunch of my yoga students headed to it right after class.”

  “What kind of protest?” a pretty blonde in a plaid top asked from across the booth. A thin man in a yellow dress shirt buttoned to the neck sat next to her. She looked up at Joel and added, “Hello.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jessie said. “Joel, this is my best friend, Debra, and her boyfriend, Archer.”

  They exchanged the standard pleasantries as Joel sat down. Joel thought he detected a reaction on Debra’s face which lacked the usual enthusiasm of being referred to as a best friend. Or maybe she was less than thrilled at Archer receiving the boyfriend designation. Archer simply reached for his drink and acted oblivious.

  “Civil war statues,” Jessie explained. “You know, the ones glorifying slave owners as national heroes. About time those came down.”

  Joel signaled a nearby waitress in an effort to avoid commenting. Archer gave no visible reaction either, sipping at his cocktail. The best friend replied after it became clear no one else would.

  “Those who refuse to acknowledge the past are doomed to repeat it,” Debra said.

  “Exactly!” Jessie lifted her red hair up to adjust it in the clip. “Wait. What do you mean, girl?”

  Debra laughed. “It’s a saying. It means we can’t learn from history if we erase it, and then we’ll be doomed to repeat unnecessary mist
akes.”

  “I’m not talking about erasing history. I just don’t want to see monuments for racists standing tall and proud in my park. I’m fine with historical monuments for good people.”

  Archer spoke. “I never did understand why statues were built for people on the losing side of a war.”

  “They were all Americans,” Debra said. “Though times and the culture were radically different. Everyone lost in that war.”

  Jessie picked up her wine glass. “Everyone loses in every stupid war. Here’s to no more wars.”

  The three of them clinked. Joel was glad he didn’t have a drink yet, so he didn’t have to consent to the toast. Not that he wished for war any more than anyone else. But you can’t peacefully coexist with fanatics who have made it their mission to destroy you and your way of life.

  Joel managed to get a beer delivered from the waitress and began perusing the menu, which consisted of casual steakhouse fare at fine dining prices.

  “So Joel,” Debra said. “Jessie tells us you own an auto dealership in DC?”

  Joel lowered the menu. “If that’s what she said, I’m afraid she over-glamorized it. I run a used car lot.”

  “A big one,” Jessie quickly added.

  “Which?” Archer asked. “I may be in need of your services.”

  “McConnell Motors.”

  His face brightened. “I think I’ve seen your commercials.”

  “Then you must be a night owl.”

  Debra nodded. “Too much of one,” she said, “for someone who has to be at work early.”

  Archer rolled his eyes.

  “You in the market?” Joel asked.

  “Not to buy. I’m looking to unload my second car. Just want some fast cash for it.”

  “The faster the better,” Debra said. “Get rid of that loud thing, please.”

  It turned out he had a full-size diesel truck. Joel always liked to buy those. They did not usually sell fast, nor were they particularly profitable to flip. Joel just liked having a few around. He made an extra effort to be friendly to Archer after the dinner orders were placed, and asked about his profession.