by Bobby Akart
“You said something about the Keys?”
“Sir, the reports are that the wave washed over the Keys from Homestead to Key West. Key West and the island of Cuba took the brunt of the energy, virtually washing the buildings and any inhabitants into the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Dammit.” The president lashed out, slamming his hand on the conference table. “We warned people early on. Why didn’t they listen?”
Gower shook his head. “Many did, sir, but others chose to ride it out and take their chances. Plus, truthfully, the interstates out of Florida were clogged with traffic. Hotel rooms up and down both Interstates 75 and 95 were full. Reportedly, people were turning back out of frustration.”
“Is there any discernible pattern? I mean, can this not be predicted at all?” the president asked.
“Not really, sir,” replied Dr. Zahn from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, who had rarely left the battle cab since his arrival. “Which meteorites survive the trip through our atmosphere and where they strike is completely random. As the planet spins on its axis and makes its way around the sun, the meteors’ approach affects different parts of the planet. I will say this, as predicted by my analysis, Eurasia is facing a far greater number of impact events than we are. It’s hard to be more accurate in my assessment without the use of our orbiting satellites.”
An Air Force colonel entered the battle cab and handed Maggie Fielding several pages of a computer printout. She nodded to him and he quickly exited the battle cab.
“Mr. President, I’m afraid I have some grim news.”
“What is it, Maggie?”
“Sir.” She paused and gulped. “New York City was hit with several small meteorites in rapid succession. Part of the city has been obliterated, including areas of New Jersey across the Hudson River.”
“My god,” he mumbled, placing his right hand over his mouth.
“Mr. President, the top of the Statue of Liberty took a direct hit. It’s been destroyed, sir.”
A hush fell over the room as tears began to flow and heads were hung in despair. The three-hundred-foot symbol of American freedom, which had greeted immigrants for generations, had stood proudly on Liberty Island since it was constructed in 1875.
“This is tragic,” said the president, trying to contain his emotions.
“Sir, there’s more,” said Fielding as she flipped through the three-page report.
Unable to find his voice, he waved his arm at her, instructing her to continue.
“Another tsunami has caused massive amounts of damage along the Gulf Coast. A wall of water stretching from Galveston to New Orleans to parts of Florida’s Panhandle has caused flooding as much as fifty miles inland. Hundreds of thousands of coastal homes and residents have been caught up in the wave, sir.”
The president looked to Gower from FEMA. “What do you have on this?”
The FEMA deputy director was standing in the corner of the battle cab, holding his laptop, which was plugged into Cheyenne Mountain’s intranet servers. “My system is updating now, sir, but what I am seeing is consistent with Ms. Fielding’s data. I might add that the three large meteorite strikes in the New York City area has caused a collapse of the power grid throughout the ConEd system. There are also reports of seismic activity.”
“Earthquakes?” asked the president.
Dr. Zahn answered that question. “Yes, sir. As these meteorites punch a hole through our atmosphere, they’re hitting the ground at enormous speeds and energy. The multiple impacts could generate a massive elastic strain on Earth’s crust.”
Gower interrupted. “Mexico City is in shambles, sir, based upon these reports.”
“That’s not surprising,” continued Dr. Zahn. “The Cocos tectonic plate that forces its way beneath the continental edge of the North American plate may have been, well, um, aggravated.”
“Aggravated? By a meteorite?”
“Yes, sir. Granted, the earthquake may have been coincidental, but unlikely. These meteorites are impacting the planet with the force of nuclear explosions. It’s possible to cause small earthquakes and, in this case, a shifting of the tectonic plates.”
The president shook his head in disbelief. “Is FEMA prepared to respond?” the president asked the deputy administrator.
Gower set his laptop down and removed his glasses to address the question. “Sir, dealing with this catastrophe will take more than FEMA’s resources. We’ll need everyone in our military, state-level first responders, and volunteers to help those in need.”
The president paced the floor as the members of his disaster-preparedness team awaited his directives. He alternated between looking through the large plate glasses at the frenzied operations center, and back to the NASA feeds that provided updates of meteorite strikes.
Finally, he stopped, took a deep breath, and exhaled. “Maggie, take some notes, please. There’s nothing we can do to stop this catastrophe other than what our brave astronauts have done already. We can, however, undertake to protect those who are in need on the ground. We’ve told them how to stay safe and shelter in place, etcetera. Next, we have to be prepared to hit the ground running when this calamity is over.”
“I’m ready, Mr. President,” said Fielding.
President Watson turned to Dr. Zahn. “Based upon the limited data that you have, can you tell me when this damn thing ends and the rebuilding can begin?”
“Sir, other than a sporadic, wayward space rock that would be considered a straggler, I would safely say Monday afternoon.”
“Two more days of this?” asked the president.
Zahn furrowed his brow and nodded. “Yes, sir, at least.”
Chapter 16
Unknown Jungle Compound
South America
There were concussions and then there were concussions. Gunner knew the difference between the kind that put you out of commission in a nearly comatose state and those you got over after a week of rest coupled with some Tylenol.
Post-concussion syndrome was very real, and Gunner knew to protect his head after being injured. He also knew that, with his history, experiencing a second concussion in a short time frame, followed by a blow to the head before the symptoms of the first trauma had subsided, could result in rapid and sometimes fatal brain swelling.
The whack on the head he’d received as the Starhopper tumbled to a resting point in the jungle had knocked him out for many hours. The second blow he’d received when he fell into the pit could’ve easily resulted in the rapid onset of brain swelling, which is oftentimes fatal.
The final blow, the smack to the back of the head from the butt of a rifle, was the likely cause of his mind’s fogginess and fatigue. Gunner struggled to recall his whereabouts. He tried in vain to retrace the events that led to his being bound with his hands behind his back and his eyes covered with a dark blindfold.
To get his bearings, he remained completely still, allowing his mind to focus on the senses of smell and sound to give him a clue. Lying sideways on a damp, hard-packed dirt floor, Gunner fought off the head fog. He listened to the muffled voices and the faint sounds of whimpering. He wasn’t alone, and he didn’t dare move, as he needed time to avoid any interaction with his captors.
A slight, imperceptible breeze washed over him, carrying an odd combination of the smell of cheap perfume and the stench of urine. He scowled, trying to make sense of the odor, and immediately thought of a porta-potty at an outdoor concert.
Heavy footsteps were approaching, the sounds he imagined a jack-booted thug making as he made his rounds through an off-the-books Russian prison.
More voices. Hispanic.
It was coming back to him. South America, maybe Central America, but certainly not the jungles of Africa or Southeast Asia. I’m sure as hell not home, Toto, he thought, crudely twisting the words of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.
The sound of the heavy boots disappeared, and Gunner decided to take a chance. He moved his leg slightly to see if it drew a reaction from his c
aptors.
Nothing.
He tried it again, this time stretching out to gauge the size of his cell. Nobody was there, or they were biding their time for him to clearly show evidence that he was awake.
Finally, he went for it. He took a chance and wiggled around until he found the wall of his cell. Using his feet, he pushed himself upward until he was sitting on the floor with his back against the cold, rough cinder block. Using his knees that were tucked up to his chest, Gunner leaned forward, moaned from the pain as his brain reminded him it was concussed, and tried to work the blindfold up to his forehead.
He was only marginally successful, and his field of vision was only downward. However, the small amount of light that came in through the slits of windows caused more pain to shoot into his skull.
Gunner shook his head vigorously from side to side, somehow thinking that would make it better. He was wrong. The pounding continued, forcing his eyes closed despite his best efforts to open them.
He worked on the blindfold again and was able to push it up above his brows. Gradually, he allowed his eyes to adjust so that he could see his surroundings.
He was in a cell that was barely five feet square. A bucket of water with a ladle sat in one corner and another steel bucket, most likely a substitute for a toilet, sat in the other. One entire wall was made up of three-quarter-inch rebar welded together to form a gate and cage-like structure.
Gunner scooted over to the gate and spoke in a loud whisper. “Hey, can anybody hear me? Is there anybody else in here?”
No one answered.
He tried again, a little louder this time. “Hello. Can you hear me?”
Gunner had no time to defend himself as a muscular, heavy arm appeared from around the corner of his cell and rammed the sharp end of a cattle prod into his bare chest. The twin prongs of the high-voltage device seared into Gunner’s skin, causing him to scream in pain.
His sweaty skin began to burn as a result of the intense heat generated by the device. The smell of his burning flesh reached Gunner’s nostrils as he desperately pushed himself out of reach of the man administering the torture.
He spoke English with a heavy Hispanic accent. “Hallo, gringo! You are like the other DEA, weak. No?”
Gunner thought, No, asshole.
“Juan, step back from the cell,” ordered a man in Spanish.
Gunner curled into a ball and stayed as far away from the cell bars as he could.
A tall, broad-shouldered Hispanic man wearing a dark suit, white starched shirt, and no tie towered over Gunner. “Do you want water, DEA man?”
Gunner stared back at his captor but didn’t respond.
The man began to laugh. “Oh, maybe Juan is wrong. Maybe this DEA man is a tough guy, eh?”
Gunner could hear several other men laughing in the background.
“You want more juice, gringo?” asked the short, muscular man identified as Juan.
In the dark recesses of his jail cell, Gunner managed a wry smile, and then he raised his middle finger toward Juan.
“Excelente!” shouted the well-dressed man. “He is a tough guy. They are my favorite to break. Like a wild horse, my friend, you will break. Trust me. And when you do, I will simply kill you like the other DEA cabrón that come sniffing around.”
Gunner scowled and bit his tongue. He had plenty to say, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose yet. For now, he needed to study his captors. Learn their habits and their weaknesses. Identify what might trigger them to make a mistake.
He’d learned this the hard way, many years ago. He was a prisoner, again, and he knew what to do.
Chapter 17
Unknown Jungle Compound
South America
Gunner quickly recovered from the cattle prod puncture and set about loosening the wrist cuffs. The task of escaping the zip-tie wrist cuffs was made more difficult because his hands were bound behind his back. This was not insurmountable, as Gunner had practiced dealing with this form of restraint many times.
First, he crawled around so that he was kneeling in the center of the cell. Then he moved his hands under and forward of his butt so that his wrists were immediately behind his ankles. Having the wall as leverage made the next step easier.
He spun around and placed the balls of his feet against the wall so that his toes were extended upward. He inched forward as close to his feet as he could and worked his bound wrists under the soles of his shoes until they were clear of his toes.
Now, with his hands in front of him, he could use his strength to break the restraints. Had Gunner been conscious when the zip ties were applied, he could have made this final step easier. He knew to clinch his fists together with the palms facing down when the restraints were affixed to his wrists. By widening his bound wrists as much as possible, when he turned the wrists to face each other, enough slack was created for him to maneuver his arms later.
The restraints were very tight. His constant twisting and tugging against them to loosen the plastic had resulted in many bleeding cuts in his wrists. However, Gunner was determined, and the pain was slight compared to his still-throbbing headache.
He lifted his wrists to his mouth and used his teeth to position the lock so that it faced him with his palms together. Gunner took a deep breath. He was ready.
With his palms flat against one another, he brought his arms up and then quickly pulled them down toward his body, pulling them apart toward the end of the downward thrust. He continued this motion for several attempts, each time causing a weakness at the point where the restraints were locked. Then, with one final effort, he grunted and slammed it downward with all of his strength. The restraints snapped open and fell to the floor between Gunner’s knees.
He exhaled for the first time and looked down to examine his wrists. He rubbed them and wiped the blood off on his khakis. He sighed and was about to find his way to his feet when he saw the same young boy he’d observed by the lake, and later peering at him from the edge of the pit, standing emotionless a few feet in front of his cell door.
Gunner’s heart sank. He’d just broken free of his wrist cuffs and was prepared to break out of the jail cell; however the young boy who didn’t help him before was now in the way of his freedom.
He sighed and then decided to befriend the boy in the hope that he wouldn’t say anything about what he’d just witnessed. Rather than standing and towering over the kid, Gunner sat on the floor with his legs crossed in front of him, and pulled his arms behind his back to hide the fact he’d broken the cuffs.
“What’s your name? Um, nombre? Tu nombre?”
The boy’s eyes were dark, sad. Unresponsive. His jet-black hair was unkempt and fell over his forehead onto his eyebrows.
Gunner smiled, the universal signal of friendship, in most cases, anyway. He tried to exude body language that would allow the boy to feel comfortable in his presence. He needed an ally, and this kid might find a key to let him out or, at the very least, bring him his satellite phone.
“Mi nombre es, um, Fox.” Gunner leaned forward to get a better look at the boy. He smiled again. “Mi Fox. Tu nombre?”
No reaction.
Gunner could see the sadness in the boy’s face. He had nothing to live for. No place to play. The soccer shirt he was wearing didn’t necessarily mean he could play soccer anywhere. He, too, was a captive of the men who ran this compound, most likely a drug cartel outpost in the mountains of Colombia.
He decided to try a different tactic. While he wasn’t in a humorous mood, he needed to do something to get the boy’s attention. So he called on some of the things people do to make babies laugh, including funny faces. It required that he reveal his unbound hands, but the risk was worth it.
He started by puffing his cheeks out, bugging his eyes, and then he slapped both cheeks with the heels of his hands, causing the air to escape, thus creating a farting sound.
Nothing.
Gunner crossed his eyes and picked his nose with both hands at once. Whe
n this didn’t work, he scratched the top of his head and underneath one of his armpits to emulate a monkey.
Finally, a smile came across the boy’s face.
Gunner did it some more, inching closer to the door so that the boy could see him better. The boy managed a giggle. Gunner smiled and became more animated, emboldened by the progress he was making.
“Alerta!” shouted a woman’s voice.
Gunner froze, but the boy continued to look at him in wonderment. Gunner was captivated by the kid’s odd behavior and was therefore caught off guard when the cattle prod was shoved through the bars once again. This time, the amount of voltage used was much higher.
He screamed in pain and began to double over as he saw the boy being shoved to the floor by the guard. The guard maliciously threatened the boy with the cattle prod and then turned it on Gunner again, jabbing it into his tender ankles, where the last of the leeches had finally loosened their death grip on his flesh.
“Arrrgggh!”
Gunner was in agony. The open wound magnified the effects of the electricity making contact with his tender flesh.
Another jolt. This time, the muscular guard found Gunner’s throat.
He pushed away from the gate and curled up in a ball to avoid being struck again by the torturer. He caught a glimpse of the boy getting to his feet and running past the guard, receiving a slap in the back of the head as he left.
The guard jabbed the cattle prod into the cell, trying to make contact with Gunner’s body. He got ready, intending to grab the device on the next opportunity, but it never came.
A thunderous roar could be heard followed by an intense heat. Seconds later, he heard the explosion and felt the impact of a meteorite falling in their vicinity.
The guard fell to the floor and covered his head. Shrieks and screams, all female, filled the air. Gunner tried to process it all while looking for an opportunity to attack his captor.
He crawled on all fours and lunged for the cell door. He reached through the bars and grasped at the cattle prod, hoping to give the guard a good long dose of electricity.
