End Days Super Boxset (163 page)

When the power went out at the North Highlands Hydroelectric Plant in Columbus, Georgia, the oddest thing for Todd Broderick was that he instinctively thought to call Georgia Power, the very power company he worked for. He forgot for a moment, where he was. If the hydroelectric plant that provided hundreds of thousands of residents with electricity no longer had any juice, it was unlikely that power existed anywhere else in the area. Therefore, the question of whom to contact first became an issue in itself. The phone lines weren't working anyway. Neither were the cell phone towers, or cell phones for that matter. Everything was dead.

Todd stepped outside to examine the vast row of power lines running to the plant, not expecting that they would provide any answers to the scenario before him. He went back inside the plant, where not a single transformer, generator, computer, or light bulb was functioning. In ten years of working for Georgia Power, Todd, an electrical engineer, had never witnessed a sudden and complete shutdown of an entire power facility. At North Highlands, like most hydroelectric plants, river water is siphoned through water reservoirs and converted into electricity through turbine-powered generators and transformers.

The problem, as Todd would later discover, was that all the transformers had blown out at virtually the same time. There had to be a protocol in dealing with such a matter, and even if Todd had been told at some point what to do, his mind now drew a startling blank. It could have had something to do with his mental and physical state, for he had been counting on an uneventful day and a chance to sit back and nurse his hangover, free of worry or stress. He needed it. The crisis befalling the plant was the last thing he needed, and the thought of throwing in the towel, heading home and going back to sleep seemed most appealing of all.

Monday September 21, 2020 8:05 a.m. Columbus, Georgia

By the time Todd arrived to work that morning, the temperature was already nearing the nineties. He wore dark sunglasses to cover up his tired eyes and heavy bags. He wondered why he picked a Sunday, of all nights, to drink well into the early morning. However, he had learned his lesson. Sundays were a terrible night for poker. It wouldn't happen again. He couldn't even remember if he had won any money. His poker buddies had kept the game going well past four in the morning. He passed out on the host's living room couch around five, and woke up to the sounds of his friend's displeased wife making breakfast for their kids. After a moment of awkwardness, he scurried out the door like a lost puppy.

It was irresponsible of Todd to take it as far as he had; at least that's what he told himself. He had worked too long for Georgia Power to show up late dazed and swimming with alcohol from the night before. It was a risk not worth taking. As he drove past security and shuffled into the power plant, there was nothing he wanted more than to curl up at his desk and get some rest. The Advil kicked in, relieving some of the pain in his head, but he still felt dehydrated, weak, and tired. “Please let this be an easy day,” he thought, holding his forehead and squinting. Once inside and out of the heat, Todd went straight to the employee break room on the second floor and made himself a cup of coffee: black. He then went to his office, on the bottom floor, to pull himself together. He had a team to check on to ensure that the generator gauges throughout the plant were correctly ascertained and recorded for daily output and performance during peak usage hours. Before going on the main floor and meeting with the other technicians, Todd closed the door of his small, darkened office and slumped back in the swivel chair behind his desk. He opened the top drawer, pulled out a pink bottle of Pepto Bismol, and mixed it into his coffee. For some peculiar reason, he had no doubt that it was going to be a long day.

An hour later, Todd was getting back into the swing of things. His team of technicians monitored a series of generators the size of automobiles that produced up to 1,000 megawatts of electricity each. Personnel on the floor were required to wear hearing protection, due to the loud noise. Todd had donned a pair of red headphones, but they couldn’t muffle the hangover pounding in his head. Suddenly, a crew member holding up a clipboard shouted to him, looking concerned. As soon as Todd looked over to him, the entire room went quiet.

Each generator systematically winded down, as if someone had pulled a switch. Initially, Todd didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary. His mind was a little slow that morning. But as the room grew quieter, with little more than the faint whirring of motors, he focused on what was happening, and removed his headphones.

"What the hell's going on?" he asked his coworker.

"That’s what I was trying to tell you, the gauges went haywire. We're losing the generators. They've shorted out. Gone kaput!" the man replied. Stoic concern showed on the faces of every technician in the room as they witnessed an unimaginable event: a complete plant shutdown. Todd climbed the ladder leading to the top of one of the generators. He paced the circular walkway around the generator to understand what had happened, then stopped and called out to his team.

"We need to check everything, get some specialists out here. Let's move, people."

The team dutifully complied as they exited the room to inspect the rest of the plant. Wherever they looked, everything was much the same. Not a single transformer or generator left operating. Todd instinctively went for his cell phone to make a call, but the display screen was black as if the phone had been shut off. He tried to turn it on, but nothing happened. This wasn't too unusual since Todd hadn't charged it the night before. He went back to his office and picked up his landline phone but heard no dial tone. He reached for his computer mouse, moved it in circles on the pad, and was met with a blank monitor screen.

The bizarre lack of power seemed more like a bad dream that grew worse with each faulty device he encountered. It was something inconceivable. Whatever was going on had to be temporary. Any moment now his computer would turn back on, his phone would work, and most important of all, the generators would spring back to life again. Workers clustered in small groups, looking stunned and proposing different theories about what had caused the outage.

“We gotta tell the mayor or governor or somebody. This is a serious," one man urged excitedly.

"Could be a terrorist attack," another man suggested.

"Is someone going to take charge of this thing, or are we just going to fumble around all day?" a frustrated woman asked.

Todd avoided eye contact and questions from his crew, and continued past them, heading toward the plant manager's office, hoping to find him in. The woman was right; someone needed to take charge. Suddenly, another worker pushed through a set of double doors, frustrated and covered in sweat. His hair hung disheveled, and his eyes were filled with worry as he scanned the area looking for a familiar face.

"Hey, can someone give me a jump?" he asked. "It's hot as hell out there, I’m late, and I can't get my car to start."

Suddenly two words flashed ominously through Todd's head: Electromagnetic Pulse—EMP. A sneaking premonition, had surfaced, and the more he thought about it, the more the idea was beginning to make sense. What, other than an EMP, could have simultaneously taken out power, communications, and vehicles?

Straining to focus all his attention on the idea, he tried to recall everything he had read and learned about EMPs. There were two types: a man-made electromagnetic pulse, which had negative effects on electronic equipment. And a weaponized nuclear EMP that could have detrimental effects on all electronics. Anything with a circuit, chip, motherboard or voltage within the radius of such a weapon would no longer function and, in most cases, would be unrepairable.

A high-altitude nuclear EMP, or HEMP, deployed at nearly 100,000 feet, could have incredible range. Depending on size and mass, a HEMP could cover entire continent-size areas. Nuclear EMPs, he knew, were complex and multi-pulsed to varying degrees of intensity. The damaging electrical pulse had the capability of traveling distances of hundreds of miles in mere nanoseconds, causing electrical breakdowns and creating havoc.

Conventional EMP weaponry had existed for decades, going back to the Cold War. But few believed a credible threat possible in the early twenty-first century. The frightening scenario involving a disabled electrical grid that provided electricity for 300 million citizens drew serious congressional concern in 2001 when the U.S. created an Official EMP Commission. But priorities, and the country
,
for that matter, had changed through the years, and there was no going back.

Todd had been briefed about the effects of EMPs a few times during his tenure with Georgia Power. He had been taught several of the "myths" surrounding the aftermath of an HEMP detonation, including the fact that all cars would be dead in the water. Perhaps Johnson—the man who ran in asking for a jum
p—
had just left his headlights on for too long and killed the battery.

“Think, dammit,” Todd said as if scolding himself. What the hell else could it be?

He decided to bypass his boss's office and ran outside into the employee parking lot, which was baking under the Georgia summer sun. He opened the door to his Suzuki XL7 and sat at the wheel. Turning the key would settle, once and for all, whether the various power outages were linked. It would also confirm or disprove the myth surrounding EMPs and car engines. Todd stuck his key in the ignition, breathed in, and turned the switch. The ignition clicked, but the engine failed to start. Nothing happened. Todd tried again and again, but all he heard was clicking. He popped the hood and jumped out to examine the engine. Everything was intact.

"You need a jump too?" a voice asked behind him. Todd turned and was met by Johnson who had himself returned to his car, accompanied by a coworker holding jumper cables and wearing a yellow hard hat and sunglasses.

"I don't know yet," Todd replied in a daze.

"Not even lunch time and the day has already gone to shit," Johnson said.

Todd leaned against the front of his car and shook his head in frustration. He felt his hangover come back in full force. "I don't think this is routine," he said. "This means something. Could be an attack."

"Johnson, you want a jump or not? I don't have all day," the man with the hard hat said.

Johnson looked at the coworker with an annoyed expression. "Sorry, didn't know you had
so
many places to be. Let's give it a try." Johnson turned to Todd. "Let me know if you need any help."

Todd scratched his face and nodded. As the two men walked away, he slammed his hood down then shielded his face from the glowing sun blazing in the cloudless sky. A world without power, he thought. Is it even a possibility?

Sunday September 20, 8:05 a.m. Milledgeville, GA (The Day Before)

Deep in the forest near the Oconee River, up a hill of long and winding dirt roads, sat an obscure old-fashioned house overlooking the town of Milledgeville. The caretaker of the house, James, had been up since five in the morning, hunting. He was a reserved and serious man, with a head of thick, black hair and a graying beard. It was his Sunday routine since hunting season began. His preferred weapon for hunting game was a crossbow. But not just any crossbow; he was quite particular with the type he used. Size, weight, and range were important components, as was the reliability of the scope. He had named the crossbow Sydney, an affectionate tribute to his Uncle Sydney, to whom he had always been close. Name aside, he liked the crossbow, and it had long been broken in. Its force and distance were an adequate 350 feet per second. Generally, with crossbows, anything that fires less than 250 feet per second is ineffective for long-distance hunting. Because he liked to move around while hunting, he wanted nothing that weighed more than six to eight pounds. Anything over ten pounds was not practical for James. He usually hunted upwards of four to six hours.

Sound was also a big issue. Slow, careful movements while hunting were something James had understood ever since he was a child when his uncle would take him. James’s ideal crossbow had cocking and latching action that was dependable, quiet, and smooth. It was important to not scare potential game away. Wearing light camouflage pants and a jacket, James moved along the Oconee River looking for white-tailed deer. He cradled the crossbow while scanning the brush ahead as each step from his hunting boots crackled dry leaves below.

He stopped next to an oak tree and drew his binoculars, surveying the area intently for any signs of wildlife. It was slightly after dawn. Sunlight beamed through the looming pines and big-leafed magnolia trees. James adored the woods. It was his sanctuary. He reveled in the quietness of the early morning. Birds called to each other to signal the rise of a new day. Squirrels leaped and dived among the native Georgia pines. Witnessing nature's daily revival was a simple experience James cherished. Next to hunting.

James Cook, a Georgia native, was in his fifties, fifty-five to be exact. He had always been somewhat of a woodsman but had moved to Milledgeville following a divorce from his wife of twenty-five years. They had been separated for a little over six years now. Their split was mutual for the most part. They had a son, Cliff, who lived in California with his wife and kids. James was hard pressed to think that the rambunctious boy he once knew now had a wife and kids of his own.

Living in rural Milledgeville had created a rift between him and his son. They weren't estranged, but James rarely heard from Cliff lately. They both lived different lives. James was a college instructor who taught history at Georgia College in Milledgeville. Cliff worked in real estate development, selling land for high prices to businesses and corporations. Through it all, Cliff couldn't understand James' lifestyle any more than James could understand Cliff's. Cliff drove a Prius while James drove a pick-up truck. Cliff didn't know how to cook, whereas James killed and skinned his own game for food. Cliff liked the city and moved his family to San Diego, whereas James considered living in the city to be problematic on all accounts. He didn't like the tight spaces, the noise, the pollution, the population density, and the high taxes.

As a Marine and Gulf War Veteran, James had fought in Operation Desert Storm and Desert Shield in the early 1990s. He was eighteen when he joined as an infantry man and served for four years. When he returned home from active duty, he had been shaped him into a different person. He had made it to the rank of Sergeant and would probably have stayed in longer had not his wife, Anne, pressured him to come home and get out. They had married before he left, and James soon decided that a long-term military career was not what he wanted, for himself or their relationship, despite whatever positive qualities he had gained from his experiences. After returning home, James enrolled in college to earn the only degree that made sense to him: history. Though his parents said it was a worthless pursuit and Anne had her doubts, James stubbornly pursued the goal he wanted and didn't stop until he achieved it.

As a woodsman, James believed in the concept of self-sufficiency, so much so that he immersed himself in the lifestyle of a "prepper." The very nature of being a prepper was about being prepared. James foresaw a national breakdown on the horizon, the likes of which had not been seen in the history of the United States. He saw disaster in the future. By 2020, the national debt had reached—coincidentally enoug
h—
twenty trillion dollars. Unemployment was a staggering 25 percent, and a record number of 150 million people were not working. He believed that the nation's economy, one way or another, was destined to collapse; it was a matter of economic law. When the Federal Reserve could borrow no more, it would trigger the fall. And this was for starters.

An economic crash, as far as James was concerned, demanded careful rationing of all life's most basic necessities. James lived in a large four-bedroom house stocked with preserved food of all kinds. His stores included dried food, canned food, frozen food, and pickled food, enough to last for more than a year in the event of a food shortage. He had an impressive amount of fuel reserves locked in a pinewood shed that James built himself. The house ran on well water that could be pumped by hand if necessary. Solar panels aligned the roof generating a moderate amount of electricity—enough to power the lights if needed. The house also had two backup generators in the event of a major power outage. He drove a '75 Ford F-150 diesel pick-up truck, manufactured before computer components were installed in all modern vehicles.

Through the years, he had performed regular maintenance on the truck to keep it in the best condition possible. It was an antique as far as anyone else was concerned. The looks he got when driving the truck around town were worth the price of admission. For James, choosing that particular truck was a strategic decision. He had read that vehicles manufactured before the 1980s didn't have computer parts susceptible to EMPs. After doing some extensive research, James became a believer in the threat of EMPs and could think of nothing worse, aside from a nuclear attack. Nothing would push the country faster to the brink of collapse than the loss of power and electricity.

He was living in serious times, although most people he knew were oblivious. There was no silver lining in sight. James's plan was to live off the land the best he could in the event of the inevitable. But he wasn't the only one. James was one of a small group of individuals who had agreed to work together in the event of an economic meltdown or natural disaster. He was the caretaker of the bug-out house they had purchased together, chosen for its remote and tranquil location. They had all met through a local on-line chat group while trying to find answers to the unknown: how to survive the tide of uncertainty in 21
st—
century America. There was a young couple who lived in Savannah, a family who lived in Atlanta, and James. Together, they were part of a prepper group determined to make it through their once-vibrant and free nation's impending collapse.