Blackout (28 page)

Monday, September 14, 6:20 a.m. EDT

New York, New York

Four years ago, Keith Simmons had been up in his cabin near Silverthorne, Colorado. For most of the night he had been awake, glued to the news, watching as a wildfire gradually made its way toward him. Out in the driveway, his Range Rover was packed and ready to roll at a moment's notice.

When dawn arrived and the morning had just started to lighten, even before the sun made its appearance through the trees, Keith had gone outside to hose down his roof one more time. He had walked out the door and then stopped. There was an eerie silence—all the animals had fled; all the birds were gone. As he closed his eyes and focused his hearing, he faintly picked up the snapping and popping of the oncoming flames.

When he breathed in deeply, he experienced the deep, tangy smell of the smoke—wonderfully rich yet utterly unnerving. Then, in the brief window between the time he opened his eyes again and when they started to burn and water, he saw the most beautiful, frightening colors out to the east. The low blackness faded to pale brown, which gave birth to a burnt orange, which yielded itself to a dirty yellow, which finally lost itself in a rich, dark blue that spread seemingly forever above his head. That blue was what gave him hope that day—the promise of something bigger and better waiting for him if he could just survive.

This morning, in the heart of the city, as he followed the colors up the identical palette, he locked on to the patches of blue that managed to peek through the smoke.
Gotta try to remember that God is in His place. He's still on His throne and He hasn't forgotten about us. His mercies are new every single morning!

Yet even with that assurance, Keith found himself on edge. He was distracted, unable to focus or to concentrate on his prayer. The reason for that struggle was obvious to him.

The noise—complete, unceasing. Unlike back at his cabin when the eerie silence had lent the sunrise peace and focus, the din arising from the streets below made Keith dread the sun's appearance. He did not want clarity as to what was happening below.

Keith had grown up in the city, so noise was his default mode. Even after he had signed with the Mustangs and moved out to the suburbs, he always had to have a television or a radio going—something to satisfy his deep-rooted need for ambient noise.

But this noise was different. There was the low mumble of thousands of voices mixed with the screams of the injured and dying. Every now and again, a loud rumble would roll through the streets below and up to the freeway as another explosion rocked a neighborhood or another building collapsed in flames started by a downed aircraft. Together all these horrific musicians blended into a soul-draining symphony of hopelessness and despair.

In the first light, from his vantage on the elevated thoroughfare, he surveyed the damage to the city. The fire nearest them must have burned itself out sometime in the early morning hours because now it just smoked as the structures smoldered. But the same wasn't true other places. He could see fires everywhere through the towering high-rises around him.

The most disconcerting thing about the fires was that no one was doing anything about them. Here, in New York City, fires burned as if they were out in the most remote, inaccessible reaches of the Rocky Mountains. As far as his eye could see, smoke poured into the sky, eventually merging with the gray cloud that hovered over the city.

On the streets below, there was a mass of movement. It looked like many residents were already beginning their migration out of town. Many were loaded with backpacks; some pushed pilfered shopping carts. Others just milled about, unsure where to go or what to do. Many more seemed to still be sleeping, stretched out on the sidewalks, apparently afraid to remain in the dark confinement of their buildings.

Interspersed with these groups were bands of people carrying boxes and bags of items they had looted. Keith couldn't help but smile as he saw two teens struggling to carry an enormous plasma television box.
Serves the idiots right to be wasting all that energy on something that is already internally fried!

A shoe scuffing the pavement caught Keith's ear, and turning, he saw Coach Burton walking toward him. Without saying anything, the coach came and stood next to Keith, arms crossed, looking out over the city.

After what seemed like a long time, Coach said, “Thanks for last night.”

Keith assumed he meant for bringing him the information and helping to keep the team under control. “No problem.”

Again, silence.

“Sounds like we've got protein bars to last us the day and drinks if we really ration,
and
if we turn down all the people sleeping in the cars around us—something I'm not sure I can do. But either way, if we're still here tomorrow, we're going to have to go out looking for supplies like you suggested. I think you're the one who should coordinate that effort. Think you can do that?”

“Sure, Coach,” Keith said, feeling anything but sure.

“Good. Get together a team—make sure it's got both coaches and players—then figure out a plan so that you're ready to hit the ground running at first light tomorrow.”

“Got it.”

They stood there silent again. Gunfire rang out from somewhere down below them. As Keith watched, a young man ran out from an alley. People parted around him like the Red Sea, letting him pass through. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked around him. He waved the gun at a nearby couple, and a huge smile spread on his face as the woman screamed and the man cowered. Keith then saw the man taking the full backpack off of his shoulder and handing it to the gunman. The youth fanned his gun at the onlookers, causing them all to shrink back, and then he tucked the gun into the front of his pants and strutted away.

“Be careful down there,” Coach said.

“Will do.”

After another minute of silence, Coach Burton walked back to the first bus.

“What did Coach want?”

Keith turned to see Afshin walking up to him. He stopped next to Keith, put his hands into the small of his back, then leaned way over backward, sending audible pops rifling through his spine.

Considering how stiff he felt from sleeping on the bus, Keith felt a momentary twinge of spinal envy. “Wants me to prepare some foraging teams for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Afshin said with his eyebrows raised. “Don't you think that everything will be cleaned out by then? I think we need to go today to get what we can while it's still there.”

After what he had just seen on the street below, Keith wasn't so hot on going today
or
tomorrow. But he had to agree with Afshin's logic. “I'll go talk with Coach in a little bit. Then we've got to think about pairing guys up, Assistant Head Forager-Guy.”

“A title I aspired to my whole childhood. Now that I've achieved it at such a young age, what's left to strive for?”

Keith smiled. “Yeah, you truly are a shooting star, my friend.”

As the sun continued to rise, Keith was able to see the crowds below in more detail. From his vantage point, he could see people crying and holding on to each other. Others, surveying in the morning light the damage done to their neighborhood, began calling out curses—one man in particular was shaking his fist at the heavens, then at anyone who walked near him.

There were still bodies in the street, and people gave them a wide berth—obviously expecting the city or the department of sanitation to eventually come along and clean them up.

One thing that surprised Keith was the number of businesspeople who came out carrying their briefcases or their satchels, intent on a day down at the office. Whether it was denial or just the desperate need for normalcy, he couldn't tell. Either way, eventually they would have to face the reality that business and commerce were not important anymore. Survival was the one and only priority.

Keith could hear movement in the bus behind him and knew that soon it would empty out—the guys inside wanting food, drink, and a bathroom, not necessarily in that order.

Next to him, Afshin shook his head at what he saw. “I don't know, man. This is just insanity. What are we doing here? How did we get in this situation?”

When he saw that Keith wasn't responding to him, Afshin asked, “Dude, what's going through that brain of yours?”

Keith was silent a moment longer as he breathed deep the smoky morning air. “I hate road trips.”

Monday, September 14, 10:45 a.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

Tara passed out Starbucks cups to everyone around the table, ignoring the inevitable questions.

“Is mine skinny?”

“Do I have soy milk?”

“Did you remember the four extra shots?”

“Wasn't mine supposed to be a venti?”

“Come on, gang,” Scott said, coming to her rescue. “You guys are like a bunch of baby birds complaining that mama didn't regurgitate the right kind of worm.”

“Thanks for the visual,” Khadi said, checking her drink and then replacing the plastic cap on her cup with a disappointed look on her face.

“Don't mention it. Now, say thank you to Tara, everyone.”

“Thank you, Tara,” everyone around the table said together.

“You're welcome,” Tara answered with as much meaning as they had put into their thanks.

“But, seriously, did you remember my extra shots?” Joey Williamson asked, setting off a whole new round of questions.

“Knock it off, or I'm going to make you pass the drinks again!” Scott said, trying to get control.

“Oh, man, and I had to sit next to Evie today! I hate soy,” Virgil Hernandez said.

A week ago, the complaining about the drinks had gotten so bad that Scott had made them all pass their drinks to the person on their right. They were all so thrown off-kilter by not having their “usual,” the whining had stopped for several days.
Not that I can blame them for whining. How can someone as bright as Tara find a way to mess up the order every single stinkin' day of the week?
Scott thought, taking a sip of his and cringing at the latte's flavorless nonfat milk.

“Please don't make us pass our drinks again. We'll promise to be good, Scottybear,” Evie Cline said.

“I asked you not to call me that anymore. It's beyond creepy.”

Evie pretended to pout. “I can't help it. You're just so big and cute and cuddly. Don't you think so, Tara?”

Scott's face flushed, just as he saw Tara's do the same. “What I think is that we should get down to business,” Tara said, looking down and shuffling some papers.

Evie winked at Scott.

Okay, I've got to put an end to this whole Tara thing once and for all . . . although her face did flush too. I wonder what that means. Maybe I should let it ride out a little longer.

“Scott. Oh, Scott,” Khadi was saying. “We're in a meeting. Do you think it might be a good idea if we actually meet?”

“What? Oh yeah. Right. Let's get going. Khadi, can you give us an update on what's happening in New York beyond what the talking heads are saying on the screen?”

Pushing her untouched drink to the side, she began, “Not too much yet. Uncle Sam's still getting organized. They've begun a leaflet campaign, letting people know what's happened and assuring them that the government is still standing. Apparently, they're also asking people to stay put until someone comes to evacuate them. That way they can keep the roads clear for the buses.”

“We'll see how long that lasts,” Hernandez said. “Once food and water start getting low, everyone's going to be hightailing it out of there.”

Crumpling the top paper of her stack and throwing it over her shoulder, Khadi said, “Yeah, I kind of shook my head at that one too. Just another example of the boneheads at FEMA not thinking things all the way through.

“One thing they do seem to be getting right, though, is the start-up of the evacuations. They're beginning on the fringes and working their way in. They've got refugee camps already set up around Wilmington, Delaware; Middlesex County in Connecticut; and Lancaster County in Pennsylvania.”

“Lancaster?” Williamson said. “Isn't that where the Amish are?”

“It is. And most of them are opening up their homes and their barns, even allowing tents out in their fields.”

“You know, when you think about it, they could have been hit by an EMP and not even known it,” Williamson said.

“Exactly,” Hernandez said. “Some family'd hitch up the horse and buggy one day and ride into town. And when they saw all the cars abandoned and all the lights out, the dad'd be like, ‘
Ach
, Rebecca, finally the English are catching on!'”

“Guys, seriously, may I finish?” Khadi asked.

“Sure; sorry,” Hernandez said.

“Beyond that, they're starting food and water drops. By the way, Scott, I did put a call in to that girlfriend of mine who's involved in the supply distribution. She's going to make sure that Liberty Stadium is well taken care of.”

“Thanks, Khadi. Anything else?”

Khadi leveled her papers on the table, then laid them flat.

“I'll take that as a no. So let's get down to finding that second EMP. What's the latest?”

Here Tara stepped in. “We're absolutely clueless when it comes to the warhead. As for the delivery system, we know it's a rush job, so we don't expect it to be going by sea. That means air. Our friends at NORAD gave us the rundown of every flight that came out of North Korea into the Western Hemisphere over the last six days. Evie, you have the list?”

“Right here,” she answered, quickly shuffling through her papers and pulling one out. Scott had no doubt that she had everything on that paper memorized, but she was always very cautious against mistakes. “Because of flight restrictions, the number is very low. Pretty much anything of size that goes in and out is Air Koryo, the national airline of the DPRK. Used to be they had routes going as far west as Budapest and Prague, but those have all been terminated. They don't have anything regularly scheduled that goes outside of Asia-Pacific anymore. However, they do run charters. And in the last six days, there have been exactly three charters to the West—one to Caracas, one to Havana, and one to Mexico City.

“The one to Caracas was interesting because we all know how Chávez feels about America. But as soon as that plane landed, it spewed out enough people that there'd be no room left for a delivery system of any sort.

“The one to Mexico City seemed more unlikely because we still have a decent relationship with them. However, it suspiciously taxied directly into a hangar and hasn't been seen since. NORAD's keeping a bird above it, just to see what comes out.

“The last one was Havana. It came yesterday. The weird thing about this plane is that it was a big ol' Ilyushin Il-62. It can seat like 170 people. So it lands, and the next day on the front page of
Granma Internacional
is a picture of this little North Korean delegation deplaning and being met by some Cuban government reps.”

“So maybe they wanted some elbow room,” Scott said.

“You're jumping the gun. The point is that the event in the newspaper never happened. The picture's a fake—at least according to our aerospace defense friends. When they run the tape, they see the plane landing and pulling into a hangar just like the Mexico one.”

“And NORAD's sure about this?”

A mischievous grin spread across Evie's face. “Well, to make sure, we did a little experimenting ourselves. Gooey?”

Standing up and looking very professorial, Gooey said, “Let me put it this way; there ain't no Gooba down in Cooba.”

Gooey had a way about him that, no matter how much Scott told himself he wouldn't encourage him, he still ended up laughing. “Actually, Gooba, why don't you put it another way, because I have no idea what you just said.”

“Scotty, Scotty, Scotty, where's the poetry in your life?” Gooey said as he fanned copies of a photograph across the middle of the table.

Scott picked one up. In it were the same Cuban government reps. But this time the delegation they were meeting was made up of John F. Kennedy and J. Edgar Hoover, arm-in-arm.

Scott stared at the picture, amazed. It was better than the work Gooey had done on Operation Keep the Lie Alive. And it was a far sight better than what the Cuban newspaper had done. When he compared that farce with Gooey's pic, the blurred edges and incorrect depth lines were obvious.

“Nice touch on Hoover's wedding gown,” Scott said appreciatively.

“Yeah, I figured he'd go simple yet elegant. Nothing ostentatious,” Gooey said proudly.

“Excellent work, gang. So did something come to pick the Cuban cargo up?” Scott asked, getting a little excited.

“That's where the problem comes in, boss,” Evie answered. “There was a three-hour window when we didn't have a bird keeping an eye out. It had to have been unloaded at that time, because two hours ago, the plane took off back to Kim-land.”

Frustrated, Scott slammed his fist down onto the table, bouncing the coffee cups and causing Tara and Khadi to reach for theirs to keep them from tipping.
So close and still nothing!

“Sorry, guys,” Scott said, looking around at the wide eyes. “Wee bit stressed here and needing something other than Diet Code Red and lattes to keep me going. Let's talk about potential targets for both the Havana and Mexico City possibilities. Havana, you've got Miami and Orlando.”

“Not Miami,” Khadi said. “Not enough impact. Maybe Orlando—could be a big women and children toll. What about Atlanta?”

“Still probably not enough impact,” Tara answered. “I think East Coast, you've got to go all the way up to Washington, D.C. Or maybe they're going to truck it over to Chicago.”

Scott closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Chicago. I hadn't even thought of that.”

“I think we need to keep the Mexico City option open—there was an hour-long blind window there, too,” Hernandez said. “Besides, the Cubans are doing freaky stuff all the time, so the faked picture isn't that big of a deal. But imagine what an EMP would do to Southern California. You've got almost 25 million people down there—the same as you had with this first hit. Add to that the fact that it's a whole lot harder to get aid to. I really think we should keep an eye on the West Coast.”

“Okay,” Scott said. “Let's divide our efforts. Virgil, Evie, and Joey, you focus on the West Coast. Tara, you and Gooey take the East Coast. And let's all just pray that it's not Atlanta. The last thing Riley needs is to get hit with one of these a second time.”