The Perseid Collapse

Chapter 1

EVENT -04:56 Hours

^{Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region}

^{People’s Republic of China}

Liang Zhen approached the shiny steel door and swiped his keycard, activating the biometric scanner. He pressed a shaky hand to the glass panel and waited for the system to verify his identity. He started to look over his shoulder, but stopped. They would read it on his face. The station’s endgame rapidly approached, and he had no intention of going down with his ship.

The pneumatic door opened, and he stepped into a new atmosphere—filtered of rank coffee breath and body odor. His sanctuary. The door hissed shut, and he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees.

Breathe deeply. Get control.

He straightened up and cinched his tie. Loyalty be damned! His destiny did not include dying 450 feet underground, and he strongly suspected that Station Three would not survive the morning.

Station Three had served a single purpose since he arrived two years earlier: to prevent the world’s discovery of “ME8192019.” Working in shifts, the men and women of his station held a constant vigil over the vast digital fraud and network manipulation required for Operation Red Dragon to succeed.

Now that the operation had entered the terminal phase, his station remained the only loose end, and he wasn’t naïve enough to exclude the likelihood that Beijing would “close the loop” on Red Dragon.

He walked swiftly toward a stainless-steel door at the end of the hallway and entered the daily code into the keypad. Green light. Beijing suspected nothing. He opened the door to a brightly lit concrete stairwell, which rose several levels to a private elevator lobby. From there, Liang could summon one of Station Three’s elevators and escape the facility.

He felt like a traitor leaving everyone behind, but someone had to survive, and he was the only member of the crew authorized to leave the station. Any attempt at an unauthorized mass exodus would trigger an immediate response. He couldn’t wait to see the Directorate’s sour faces when he resurfaced. Shock would eventually yield to relief that the genius behind China’s recovery had survived.

Liang Zhen, then second director of the Cyber Warfare Recovery Directorate, had been the first to propose the Republic of China wage a more active, silent war against the West, with the ultimate goal of destabilizing European and North American economies. Liang oversaw the program from 2014 until 2017, when the Future Vulnerabilities Group discovered an “event” with the potential to do far more than temporarily destabilize the United States.

They immediately sent Liang Zhen to Cyber Warfare Station Three to oversee Operation Red Dragon and fulfill China’s destiny. He was simply taking measures to ensure that the chief architect of that destiny still had a seat at the table when the dust settled. Thick dust.

Liang reached the ground lobby and scurried up three stories of metal stairs to the surface. The wide stairs ended at a thick iron door, which opened into the center of a vast, empty warehouse. Gusts of wind buffeted the building’s thin metal walls as he walked rapidly through the roasting heat toward the door.

The driver better be there.

The station was located in one of the most isolated sections of the former Lop Nur Nuclear Test Range, over sixty kilometers from the nearest inhabited post. He had little chance of surviving an escape on foot, and he had brought nothing to the surface with him, aside from his wallet and identification card.

The door swung open, propelled by a burst of stifling hot wind. Squinting through his fingers, he spotted the SUV. Perfect timing.

He struggled against the gale, pausing once to look behind him at the lone warehouse situated between two windswept ridges. One hundred and eleven Chinese citizens had worked on Red Dragon for twenty months, buried deep below the surface. Dead and buried from the start. They just hadn’t known it. None of them had—until recently.

Would they cut the power and let it die slowly? Poison the air supply? Did the station already have some kind of self-destruct failsafe installed? Whatever happened, he planned to be as far away as possible.

Halfway to the vehicle, he shook his head. The damn driver was asleep! He had better be resting for the marathon drive ahead. He found the front passenger door locked and knocked on the dust-caked window. The driver didn’t move. He banged on the side of the door. Just his shitty luck. The executive service sent an incompetent fool! He wiped the thick layer of dust off the passenger window and stumbled backward, falling to the hardened clay surface.

How could they know?

He turned on his stomach and scanned the horizon. Several figures sprinted toward him from the left side of the warehouse. He was a dead man. How long had they waited for him? The lead figure penetrated the sandstorm. Chinese Special Forces. Death would be a luxury.

“Director, I need you to return to your post immediately,” stated the soldier, extending his hand.

He nodded eagerly. It made sense to him now. If killing everyone had been the plan, they wouldn’t send him back down alive. He kept his eyes focused on the soldier’s feet. What a fool he had been. He’d flushed away everything. The Special Forces team would report his escape attempt, and the career he had cultivated for the past forty years would be finished. Acceptable in light of his irrational behavior. How could he face Tin and the rest of his deputies below? He would have to come up with an excuse.

An emergency meeting at the surface!

“Please, there is little time,” said the soldier, helping Director Zhen to his feet.

Chapter 2

EVENT -04:48 Hours

^{Jewell Island, Maine}

The wind rose gently, nudging the campfire’s spectral plume toward Alex. He squirmed in the collapsible aluminum chair and turned his head as heated exhaust from the dying fire washed over him. The gust intensified, focusing the column of sparks and gases in his direction for a sudden, uncomfortable moment. Just as suddenly, the smoke drifted skyward on the confused breeze.

The mosquitos returned within seconds, causing Kate to mumble a few obscenities and wave a futile hand above her head to disperse the pests. He took her other hand and squeezed, finally catching her gaze. The soft firelight illuminated her gentle face and exposed the first genuine smile he’d seen since they left Boston yesterday.

“He’s really not that far away. We can visit him any time we want,” Alex said comfortingly, kissing her hand.

“I know. He’s just really on his own now,” said Kate, returning her eyes to the fire.

They had dropped Ryan at Boston University in the middle of the afternoon, after dining al fresco in Winthrop Square, a late-summer tradition they had enjoyed since Ryan and Emily were in grade school. The definition of al fresco dining had changed over the years, as the children matured. Lounging as a family, on blankets spread over the trampled grass, had inevitably yielded to scarfing down pizza and subs on the outskirts of the park. Still, they never failed to take time out of their annual Boston pilgrimage to visit the iconic Harvard Square gathering place and its eclectic assortment of musicians and vendors.

This year’s visit had been slightly awkward, if not tense for the family. Ryan had been anxious to be ferried across the Charles River, but Kate was in no hurry to surrender her firstborn. She prolonged the stroll through Cambridge, pushing Ryan’s barely tested patience to dangerous levels. Alex could sense the strain, and had spent most of the day implementing one subtle intervention after another to keep them from exploding before the inevitable outburst at the foot of Ryan’s dormitory building.

Kate remained silent for most of the drive back, punctuated by Alex’s occasional failed attempt to distract her from the significance of the afternoon’s farewell. Ryan was truly on his own, free to follow the path of his choosing. Every phone call that flashed his name would flood them with a mix of joy, apprehension and ultimately relief. Any conversation from this point forward could instantly morph into a defining moment for Ryan. Anything was possible. He had taken the first steps toward escaping his parents’ gravitational pull this afternoon. Ryan couldn’t understand this yet, but Kate and Alex had effectively released him, which is why Kate’s somber mood was nearly impenetrable.

“He’s a smart, cautious kid. Just like his mother,” said Alex.

“He has a wild side that worries me,” she whispered.

She was right to a certain degree. The events surrounding their experience during the Jakarta Pandemic had drawn out aspects of his personality that might have lain dormant for years, fueling a confidence that more resembled recklessness at such a young age. He didn’t have the maturity to temper the confidence that came with saving his father from a brutal psychopath at age twelve and standing guard over their house as the world recovered from the pandemic. He never crossed any lines that landed him in trouble with the school or police, but he was far too comfortable walking the line. Ryan was destined for something important. Kate just wanted to make sure he survived until that point.

“ROTC will keep him in line. There’s only so much crazy shit you can get away with enrolled in that kind of program,” he whispered back.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? We’ll be at war with Iran by the time he graduates.”

“We were supposed to be at war with Iran last year—and the year before that. Nobody’s going into battle any time soon. He’s Navy ROTC anyway,” said Alex.

“He’ll switch to Marine-Option the first chance he gets. He was placating me with that song and dance about the navy. So were you.”

“Why are you guys whispering?” interrupted Emily.

“No reason. Has anyone seen a meteorite? We shall remain at the mercy of these mosquitos until everyone has spotted at least one. That’s the tradition,” said Alex.

“It’s meteor, Dad,” said Emily.

“What is?”

“A meteorite is a meteor that lands on Earth. Up in the sky, they are called meteors.”

“It could be a meteorite,” Alex argued.

“Maybe, but not until it officially hits the earth,” Emily insisted. “That’s why they call this a meteor shower.”

“Ethan, do you agree with Emily’s scientific assessment?” said Alex, trying to draw him into the conversation.

“She’s rarely wrong about anything,” said Ethan, with a hint of humor.

“I know someone else that is rarely wrong,” said Alex, glancing at Kate.

“Rarely? More like never,” said Kate.

Ethan laughed at their exchange, which comforted Alex. This had been the first year that they had been able to convince Ethan to join them on the sailboat, or any family trip for that matter. The idea to adopt his brother’s children quickly fizzled when Ethan and Kevin had arrived in Maine. The sudden death of their parents during the pandemic had firmly attached them to Alex’s parents. The situation was complicated, especially in the aftermath of the pandemic, and the Fletchers didn’t see any reason to disturb what little stability and family dynamic the children had left. Alex’s parents remained the legal guardians, eventually adopting Ethan and Kevin in 2015, when they could finally obtain the proper paperwork and affidavits from the State of Colorado.

They lived with Tim and Amy Fletcher on an isolated farm near Limerick, Maine, thirty-two miles west of Scarborough. Alex had purchased a large parcel of lakefront property and built a custom-designed, sustainable home for them, with the idea that the farm would serve as the Fletcher family stronghold if another disaster or pandemic ever hit Maine. Alex and his clan spent at least two days a week at the farm in the summer, helping with the massive garden, which required constant attention. Over the course of five years, the two families had turned the twenty-acre parcel of land into a self-sustainable family compound.

“Is Kevin looking forward to starting middle school?” Kate asked.

“He seems pretty excited,” said Ethan.

Alex met her glance, but didn’t hold it. Their relationship with Kevin had been strained since he arrived with his brother in Maine, playing a major role in the decision to abandon the original plan to adopt their orphaned nephews. Kevin had been openly hostile toward them from the start, which had been an understandable reaction to the loss of his parents. Alex didn’t need to read the latest “post-pandemic” psychology articles to understand what Kevin might be experiencing. He was well versed in the broad spectrum of emotions and symptoms related to post-traumatic stress disorder.

A brilliant streak flashed across the dark blue sky, just above the tree line to the northeast.

“There’s the first one!” said Alex.

“Where?” Kate snapped. “You’re full of shit. I was watching the whole time.”

“You see, kids, that’s why you shouldn’t drink underage. You lose your ability to see meteors,” said Alex.

Emily looked at Alex. “Mom isn’t underage.”

“Really? She doesn’t look a day over twenty to me,” said Alex.

Kate slapped his shoulder. “Your dad—Uncle Alex, is truly full of—”

“Don’t say it, Mom!” yelled Emily and Ethan at the same time.

“I meant twenty years old in the dark. In broad daylight you’re clearly thirty.”

“Nice recovery. You were about to get a stale beer hat,” she said, lifting one of the empty beer bottles over his head. “There’s one!” she said, pointing. “Move your chairs, kids. They come out of Perseus Constellation. You can barely see it above the trees. The quicker we each spot one, the sooner we can get away from these mosquitos.”

“We’re catching the tail end of the shower, so it might take a while,” said Alex.

Just as he finished his sentence, two near simultaneous flashes traversed the sky, appearing to head west over the coast of Maine. He was surprised that they had seen this many in such a short period of time. The Perseids typically peaked one week earlier, as the earth passed through the densest part of a debris field left by the comet Swift-Tuttle, on its 133-year orbital journey around the sun.

“That’s it for me. You can watch the rest of the show from the boat if you don’t mind being eaten alive,” said Kate, putting an end to the land portion of their evening.

“It just started,” said Alex.

Kate shook her head. “It’s past midnight, and I’m done. We’ll have to get out a week earlier next year.”

Ten minutes later, they plied the calm, moonlit waters on an eight-foot, inflatable rubber dinghy, pushed through the silky black cove by a four-horsepower, outboard motor kept at low throttle. Alex loved navigating the dinghy at night, relying on little more than instinct to bring them back to their sailboat, a dark mass anchored in the middle of the tight cove.

They never bothered to display their anchor light in this snug harbor. Aside from the occasional late arrival in the anchorage, the cove in the northwest corner of the island was protected from marine traffic on all sides, except for its entrance. Any boats entering the cove at night would proceed cautiously enough to spot a boat anchored in these waters. Nine boats now lay at anchor within it, and only the two larger sailboats near the entrance displayed mast lights.

Alex pulled the motor’s tiller into his body, taking the dinghy to the right of an illuminated luxury powerboat. They slid past the boat at a distance of fifty feet, giving the occupants as much privacy as possible. Inside the topside cabin, Alex could see four adults watching television. As they pulled astern of the monstrous cabin cruiser, he heard raucous laughter ripple across the water.

They came all this way to watch a stupid sitcom. What a waste.

Watching television or movies was not on the Fletchers’ list of permitted activities once they left the mooring field back in South Portland. The boat’s digital navigation plotter was the only screen onboard, and it didn’t stream a damn thing other than their current GPS coordinates. Kate and Alex insisted that everyone unplug on these trips, with the exception of e-readers. Reading, in any offline format, was highly encouraged. Card games were unavoidable. And conversation was compulsory. Sailing had little to do with the destination for the Fletchers, and everything to do with reconnecting as a family in a natural environment. Sparsely inhabited islands, pristine beaches, quiet coves and mesmerizing sunsets took them all down a notch, closer to their true nature, which was quickly obscured by the multitude of electronic devices and distractions that ruled their lives back on land.

He eased the dinghy alongside the Katelyn Ann and placed the throttle in neutral, grabbing the nearest rail to keep them from drifting away. Ethan stood up and gripped the toe rail with both hands, walking the dinghy back to the fixed swim platform a few feet away along the boat’s stern. He helped Alex keep the dinghy in place as Kate and Emily stepped on the swim deck and entered the cockpit area.

“Thanks, Ethan. I appreciate the help,” said Alex warmly. “I’m glad you decided to come along on the trip.”

“I’m glad I came too. This is really cool. Kevin would really like this,” said Ethan, stepping onto the platform.

“We’ll get everyone out next year, before college starts,” said Alex.

He tied the dinghy’s bow line to one of the cleats attached to the stern of the boat and climbed onboard, surprisingly tired from a day of leisure. Being out on the water always drained a good portion of his energy, especially during the first few days of any trip. Even in calm weather, the constant movement of the boat took its toll, readying him for bed at sunset. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was at least an hour past his nautical bedtime. He turned and stared into the northeast sky, hoping to catch another meteor. Nothing.

“Who’s planning to sleep under the stars and watch the Perseids?” Alex asked.

“Not me,” said Kate. “The mosquitos got enough of my blood tonight. Wake me if the meteors really pick up, and I might watch from inside the cabin.”

“Emily?”

“No way. Your mosquito net contraption doesn’t work,” said Emily.

“Ethan?”

“Don’t let him talk you into it, Ethan,” Emily said. “You’ll be eaten alive unless you bury yourself in the bag. Then you’ll overheat. It’s a lose-lose situation. Seriously.”

“It’s really not that bad. The net covers your face, and as long as you stay tucked in the sleeping ba—”

“I think I’ll trust the women on this one,” said Ethan, stepping into the cabin.

“Smart man. The earlier you start listening to them, the better,” said Alex, swatting at the swarm that had already found them.

“I heard that,” said Kate. “Close the hatch, Ethan. If he wants to sleep outside, he can keep the mosquitos to himself.”

Alex stared into the sky. “The love is gone.”

A few moments later, the screen door opened, and his sleeping bag was dumped into the cockpit, along with a water bottle and a can of bug spray.

“The netting is inside the bag. How can you say the love is gone?” she said, quickly closing the screen door.

“Don’t I get a kiss?”

Kate pressed her lips against the screen, and he gave her a quick kiss through the thin plastic mesh. He turned his head and pushed his cheek against the barrier, feeling the warmth of her face.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you more,” she replied.

They held their faces together for a few moments before Kate pulled away from the cabin door.

“I can see the mosquitos swarming your head. Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna miss the show,” he protested, swatting at his arms.

“Not worth the price of admission. Holler if you need anything else, like a blood transfusion,” she said, eliciting laughter from the cabin.

“I’ll be fine. I have a plan.”

“Just don’t fall overboard, okay? I do not feel like taking a midnight swim.”

He smiled and went to work. A few minutes later, he nestled into a sleeping bag suspended over the cockpit by a hammock. He lay still for a moment, trying to gauge whether the contraption would work. Previous attempts to hang the hammock had resulted in a series of spectacularly embarrassing failures he didn’t care to repeat. Suddenly striking the fiberglass deck at two in the morning was guaranteed to provoke laughter and a well-deserved string of “I told you so’s.” He’d tested the new hammock arrangement at their club mooring with a few mid-afternoon naps and felt that tonight would mark a new era in sleeping comfort aboard the Katelyn Ann.

He adjusted his arms inside the sleeping bag and contemplated the empty cockpit. This would be the first time he had slept out here alone. Ryan never turned down an opportunity to sleep outdoors, especially on the boat. Before the hammock idea took hold, they slept opposite each other on the cockpit benches, watching the stars and talking for hours, mosquitos be damned. He was going to miss having Ryan around.

The faint red strobe light of a high-altitude aircraft distracted him from the thought. Travelling in a northeasterly direction, he assumed it was a red-eye flight bound for Europe. Alex could barely separate the aircraft’s lights from the growing field of stars superimposed against the velvety black sky.

Through his peripheral vision, he could tell that the western horizon held stubbornly to a thin cerulean blue aura. He resisted the temptation to look, instead keeping his eyes focused on the Perseid radiant rising above the shadowy rock cliffs that formed the eastern side of the cove. Later in the night, the Perseid radiant would drift over the mouth of the cove and continue west, remaining in full view from their anchorage. As long as the evening’s prevailing winds continued to blow from the southeast, the boat’s position in the water would afford him with a continuous, unobstructed view of the meteor shower.

The sound of a distant motorboat competed with the lapping water, growing stronger until the ugly racket dominated the cove. Sound travelled deceptively far across the water, with surprisingly little deterioration. The deep rumble reached its peak and faded south, as the fast-moving vessel navigated the narrow pass between Jewell and Cliff Islands and sped toward Portland.

An arc of light raced across the sky, burning brilliantly for the briefest moment. He counted two more streaks of light before the distant hum of the motorboat evaporated, enveloping Alex in the absolute silence he would enjoy for the rest of the night. His hammock rocked gently in the light breeze as he waited patiently for the next piece of cosmic dust to strike Earth’s atmosphere, unaware that his breathing had slowed and his eyes had drifted shut.

Chapter 3

EVENT -02:53 Hours

^{Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region}

^{People’s Republic of China}

Deputy Station Director Tin Jianyu raced his fingers over the plasma keyboard, pausing only to swipe at images on the 65-inch, paper-thin, curved OLED-T screen wrapped halfway around his station. He added a few more strings of code and raised his hand a few inches away from the screen, hesitant to drag the folder to its cyber destination in his centralized directory. He’d run out of ideas, and if this didn’t work, nothing would. He “hooked” the folder and moved it. Gone. A few more keystrokes and—nothing.

“Damn it. They must have physically separated the controls,” said Tin.

“How could they have done that? The whole station is connected,” said Fan Huning, his direct subordinate within the cyber warfare section.

“They must have designed the station like this. I haven’t found a single connection to Zhen’s office,” said Tin.

“How did we miss this?”

“We never looked for it. Zhen played us like a sheet of music to the very end.”

“And there’s no way to override the elevator controls?” said Fan.

“Same problem. I can’t find a single outgoing connection that gives me access to the elevator system root directory,” said Tin.

“The security station? They have direct feeds to the cameras in the elevator. I’ve seen them panning the cameras. There has to be a connection that can be exploited.”

Tin shook his head. He had already thought of this. The security camera feeds were wirelessly linked to the security station servers, and presumably Zhen’s private office, but attempts to piggyback the wireless signal only led back to the security servers. Either Zhen wasn’t watching the camera feeds, or he had his own camera feeds from a separate hardwire connection to the elevator. Either way, Tin had exhausted all options to access the elevators at this point.

They were trapped four hundred and fifty feet below the surface, with no way to escape. All they could do at this point was hope for mercy from the lunatics that had dreamed up Red Dragon. He wasn’t optimistic. The information he discovered, while sifting through ultrasecret, highest-level government communiqués, painted a very bleak picture of their survival.

A brief “eyes only” message to the Centralized Military Commission from a Second Artillery Corp liaison embedded in the National Space Agency had piqued his attention. The message itself was purely administrative, containing nothing suspicious; however, reference to Red Dragon in a Second Artillery Corps communiqué seemed out of place.

The Second Artillery Corps controlled China’s nuclear arsenal, and had never been connected to Red Dragon in any of the ultrasecret meetings he had attended with Director Zhen. With his curiosity raised, he dug deeper within the Second Artillery Corps servers, discovering that a ten-kiloton nuclear device had been delivered to the National Space Agency several months ago. More untraceable snooping yielded a nasty secret that had effectively doomed them from the beginning. Cyber Station Three’s two-year mission wasn’t the most insidious aspect of Red Dragon.

“We could package up what we’ve found and bury copies on multiple outside servers, with time-release instructions. We force them to let us out of here, or their secret will be exposed,” said Fan.

“They’ve already shut us down. We’re cut off from the surface,” said Tin.

“What are you talking about? They’re still doing their jobs,” said Fan, motioning his hand toward the concentric circle of frantic workstations.

“I think we’ve been interacting with mimic servers for the past twenty-four hours. Cases continue to stream in at the same rate, but we haven’t interacted with a new network or server since yesterday around this same time,” said Tin.

“When were you planning to let me in on this discovery? We could have forced Zhen to take us out of here,” hissed Fan.

“I discovered it accidentally about ten minutes ago, when I tried to access a private server used by some hackers I know. These guys can design code that makes my stuff look amateur. I thought I might turn to them for ideas. I couldn’t reach the server—or any new server.”

“What about taking control of the mimic servers? Look for something there? They have to be talking to the outside world,” said Fan.

“I doubt it. For all we know, the mimic server farm could be located right above us, hardwired to the station—or connected by satellite to another cyber warfare station thousands of miles away. Either way, it will be isolated from the real Internet.”

“So that’s it? We just wait for them to pull the plug on this place?” said Fan.

“Unless we can force open the elevator doors and try to climb out of here. I don’t think the security section will react very well to that plan.”

“Maybe it’s time we told everyone the truth about this place, including security. Let them make up their own minds. The security people have families too. Nobody wants to wait around here to die.”

Tin touched the screen and tapped a code into the window to unlock its contents.

“According to security protocols, any individual, unauthorized attempt to leave the station will be stopped using a combination of lethal and nonlethal measures. Any attempts to leave the station involving more than one person will be immediately met with lethal force. If any single attempt, or combination of attempts, creates an unresolvable evacuation caucus among station personnel, release of a nonpersistent, lethal nerve agent is authorized at the discretion of the security chief,” recited Tin from the screen. “They’ve planned for this.”

“We killed ourselves by sharing this with Zhen.”

“We were dead as soon as we stepped off the elevator two years ago,” said Tin.

Before Fan could respond, a screen activated in the bottom left corner of his wraparound screen. Tin quickly dragged it into the middle.

“Security feed for the elevator?” asked Fan.

“Yes. Looks like Zhen is returning to the station.”

“Maybe we let our imaginations get the best of us.”

“We’ll know shortly,” Tin said resolutely.

They watched the screen for several seconds, observing Director Zhen’s impassive, unchanging face as the elevator descended. From his workstation, Tin could hear the elevator machinery humming from the doors located in a small vestibule next to the security room.

“Maybe this is a fake feed too,” said Fan.

“He always looks like that,” responded Tin.

Tin’s hopes faded when he heard the elevator doors open in the vestibule. Zhen had never directly accessed the cyber-operations level using the elevator. It was against security protocol. Expecting a tight formation of black-clad commandos to fan out from the hallway, he was surprised to see Zhen emerge alone. The director lumbered toward them, carrying something dark and heavy on his back. Olive-drab shoulder straps tugged mercilessly against Zhen’s dust-coated, black suit jacket. Second Artillery Corps had contributed heavily to Operation Red Dragon. Tin relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath before asking his last question.

“Did you know from the beginning?”

Zhen shook his head slowly and raised his right hand, which held a gray “dead man” trigger mechanism.

“I should have known. I’m sorry, Tin,” said Zhen, opening his right hand.

Chapter 4

EVENT -02:49 Hours

^{Comprehensive Nuclear-Test-Ban Treaty Organization Headquarters}

^{Vienna, Austria}

Romy Nadel took a sip of steaming coffee and leaned back in her chair. As the International Data Centre’s (IDC) lead analyst, one of her primary duties entailed preparing the previous day’s Reviewed Event Bulletin (REB), which compiled all of the IDC’s confirmed and corrected seismic or acoustic events for distribution to member states. Once approved, data from the Reviewed Event Bulletin was automatically screened by the IDC’s mainframe system to determine whether the event was natural or manmade.

The automated criteria used to differentiate events had been agreed upon by member states during the ratification phase of the treaty, eliminating any possible accusation of bias against the organization should a violation occur. The IDC simply collected, compiled and disseminated raw data. What the member states did with the information was their own business.

She was seconds away from approving the weekend’s report when an “Event Alert” window appeared in the lower right-hand corner of her flat-screen monitor. Events meeting the criteria for immediate review were extremely rare, usually the result of an isolated meteorite strike or massive earthquake with unusual characteristics. The software classifying worldwide events kept these intrusions to a minimum. Her videoconferencing software activated less than a second later, opening another window. Walter Bikel’s caustic, angular face appeared in the upper left corner of her screen.

“Romy, have you seen the alert data?” he asked.

“No. It just popped up on my screen,” she replied, opening the alert window.

“Magnitude 4.7. Estimated 4-5 kiloton explosion at Lop Nur,” he said.

“Hold on. Let me take a look.”

Nadel saw several other videoconference requests appear on her screen below the initial data assessment. She ignored them and concentrated on the neatly packaged seismic information. The data screen showed initial waveform patterns with a software generated assessment of the cause. Walter was right. China had apparently violated the nuclear-test-ban treaty.

Fast moving P-waves were off the chart compared to the slower moving S-waves, indicating an explosion or sudden detonation of some kind. They couldn’t officially rule out a large meteorite strike, but the geographic epicenter left little doubt in her mind as to the cause of the explosion. Lop Nur had served as China’s only nuclear testing facility for nearly forty years. The Chinese government issued a formal moratorium on nuclear testing in 1996, the day after conducting their forty-fifth and supposedly final nuclear test. The site had been quiet for twenty-three years, which struck her as odd. They had no intelligence to suggest the Chinese were in the process of renewing their nuclear testing program. Why would they suddenly detonate a nuclear device?

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Nadel said. “Maybe they had an accidental detonation. The Chinese keep a sizeable weapons stockpile at Lop Nur.”

“Seismic data suggests that the explosion occurred deep underground. They don’t keep their stockpiled weapons underground. Nobody does,” said Bikel.

“I know; I’m being optimistic. Sorry to cut you off, but I need to make a few calls,” said Nadel.

“I imagine you do. Good luck.”

Romy Nadel disconnected the videoconference and dialed the International Data Centre’s direct line, bracing herself for a busy day.

Chapter 5

EVENT: -00:04 Hours

^{USS Gravely (DDG107)}

^{Norfolk Naval Base, Virginia}

Chief Fire Controlman Warren Jeffries took a long swig of bitter coffee from a worn USS Gravely travel mug and stared at the unchanging console screen. Three hours until one of Destroyer Squadron Twenty-Two’s teams arrived and resumed responsibility for this watch, allowing his sailors a much-needed break before the start of the work week. As Atlantic Fleet’s designated Launch On Remote (LOR) Homeland Ballistic Missile Defense (HBMD) platform, Gravely maintained a continuous state of readiness to fire her RIM-161 Standard Missile Three (SM-3) shipboard missiles at ballistic missile threats to key infrastructure assets in Washington, D.C. With an operational range of three hundred miles, the Block IIB version carried onboard Gravely could conceivably protect New York City.

Chief Jeffries stepped away from the console manned by Fire Controlman Clark and sat down at a deactivated console station several feet away to rest his eyes for a few seconds. The watch required two qualified fire controlmen, who would conduct last-minute checks and sound the appropriate shipboard alarms in the unlikely event that Gravely’s weapons and sensors were remotely co-opted by the Missile Defense Agency. Aside from running system diagnostic checks every two hours, they did little more than keep each other awake. Jeffries settled into a deeply relaxing state, letting the hum of the Combat Information Center’s active equipment lull him perilously close to sleep.

“Chief, I think we have something,” said Petty Officer Clark from the designated C2BMC console.

“What is it? Another system-wide test? Always at five in the goddamned morning,” said Jeffries, opening his eyes and reaching for his coffee mug.

“No. This looks—holy shit! Missiles away in thirty seconds!”

“Bullshit. Get out of that chair,” said Jeffries.

He barely waited for Clark to vacate the seat before jamming his slightly oversized body into the fixed chair to scan the display.

“Son of a mother! Activate the general alarm and read this over the 1-MC,” he said, unclipping a laminated card from the console and handing it to the petty officer.

“When you’re done with that, get over to the VLS console and make sure the birds are ready. I’ll take care of the Aegis array. Go!”

Missiles started to cycle out of the forward Vertical Launch System before either of them had completed their diagnostic checks, shaking the ship’s superstructure. Buried deep within the ship, inside the Combat Information Center, they barely heard each successive launch over the piercing shrill of the ship’s general alarm. Jeffries ran back to the console to see if the C2BMC system had given them any further information regarding the threat that continued to drain his ship’s SM3 missiles. Glancing at the screen, his first thought was that somebody or something had fucked up big time.

None of the data made sense. The missiles would arc into a western trajectory to intercept a target identified by the PAVE PAWS (Phased Array Warning System) station at Beale Air Force Base in California. Not a typical threat trajectory for the East Coast. One target parameter stood out as terminally flawed. Target speed. His Mach 7.88 missiles had been sent to intercept a target moving at Mach 58. This had to be a mistake. Russian’s most updated ICBMs topped out at Mach 23. He wasn’t even sure if Gravely’s AEGIS system could provide terminal guidance to intercept a target moving this fast. It really didn’t matter, because it was out of his hands.

The missiles stopped firing, and he ran to the active AEGIS tracking console, still shocked to see the digital representations of his missiles streaking west over Virginia to intercept a track originating from the southwest. Not a single BMD training scenario had involved a missile threat from that direction.

Thirteen missiles had been fired without “skin on track” by Gravely’s AN/SPY-1D phased array radar, meaning that the ship’s radar had not acquired the target. The C2BMC system would guide the missiles until Gravely’s powerful sensors picked up the track. At that point, the ship’s fire control system would provide terminal guidance to ensure that each missile’s Light Exo-Atmospheric Projectile (LEAP) collided with the threat.

The entry hatch to CIC flew open, spilling a panicked contingent of crewmembers into the dimly lit space. Dressed in the digital blue camouflage-patterned navy working uniform, Gravely’s command duty officer, Lieutenant Mosely, pushed the first sailors out of the way and ran to Jeffries.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Our ship remote launched thirteen SM-3s at an inbound target identified by C2. It’s moving Mach fifty-eight out of the southwest. That’s all I know, sir,” said Chief Jeffries.

“You mean Mach five point eight,” corrected the officer.

“No, Lieutenant. Fifty-eight. Have you called the captain?”

The lieutenant glanced around for a second, clearly confused by the entire situation. Jeffries could understand the officer’s hesitation. Less than a minute ago, the ship had been quiet. Within the span of forty-five seconds, Gravely had autofired thirteen antiballistic missiles, and they had very little information. For all any of them knew, they could be on the verge of a full-scale nuclear war.

“I’ll call him right now. Are you talking to anyone at IMD?”

“Not yet. We barely got our checks done before the missiles launched,” said Jeffries, turning to type into the BMD console.

“Get IMD on the line. They’re running the show.”

“I’m on it, sir. Petty Officer Clark, start making calls to the Integrated Missile Defense command. Get me anyone that knows what’s going on. Numbers are on the card,” said the chief.

He stood up from his chair and turned to the half-dozen sailors hovering near the hatch. “The rest of you get out of here!”

Two minutes later, Chief Jeffries and Fire Controlman Ben Clark watched the AEGIS display in horror as Gravely’s missiles disappeared one by one over central Virginia. Gravely’s fire control system acquired and tracked the target for nine seconds before it vanished in the vicinity of Richmond, Virginia.

“That wasn’t a missile, sir,” said the chief.

“What are you saying, Chief? Hold on, Captain,” said the lieutenant, covering the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Radar cross section was ninety-six thousand,” he said, his voice trailing off in disbelief.

He still couldn’t process his emotions. Everything had happened too fast. Repeating the radar cross section brought a single emotion to the surface. Fear. His family lived ten miles from here, in the direction of Richmond. His vision narrowed, and he barely heard the lieutenant’s reply.

“Meters? That can’t be right,” said the officer, walking toward the AEGIS console. He glanced at the data over the chief’s shoulder and shook his head.

“We have to get IMD on the line, Chief!” yelled Lieutenant Mosely.

“Captain, Chief Jeffries just confirmed that the target had a radar cross section over ninety thousand. Something has to be wrong. That would put the diameter over three hundred meters!”

Jeffries waited for the lieutenant to continue, but heard nothing. He looked up at the officer, who pressed his ear against the receiver and squinted.

“Captain? Can you hear me? Chief, I think my call—”

He was interrupted by a complete and sudden darkness. The Combat Information Center went dead for a second before bulkhead-mounted, battery-powered LED “battle lanterns” started to provide illumination. The eerie silence continued.

“Shore power’s out. We should get power from one of the generators in a few seconds,” said the lieutenant.

Ten seconds elapsed, yielding no change to the eerie silence.

“I think we lost more than shore power,” said the chief, starting to get out of his seat to help Petty Officer Clark with the communications console.

Before he reached Clark, the entire ship slid laterally, knocking everyone inside to the metal grated deck. A severe rumbling enveloped CIC for several seconds, followed by silence. Jeffries grabbed onto Clark’s seat and began to pull himself to his feet when a panicked voice filled the darkened space.

“CDO, they need you on the quarterdeck!”

Chief Jeffries stood up and walked with Lieutenant Mosely toward the hatch, but stopped when the metal beneath his feet shuddered again. Once the ship settled, he unsheathed a powerful LED flashlight from his belt and illuminated the doorway, finding a wide-eyed Hispanic woman in dark blue Gravely sweatpants and a white T-shirt. She wore an expression of terror.

“What happened?” asked Mosely.

“Norfolk Naval Base is on fire—and the ship broke free of the pier.”

Chief Jeffries stared at her with disbelief. All he could think about was his wife and two teenagers.

Chapter 6

EVENT 00:00 Hours

^{Jewell Island, Maine}

Alex buried his head in the sleeping bag.

Now what?

He peeked out of the bag, expecting to find Kate standing over him with a flashlight. It wouldn’t be the first time. The island reflected a rich, sunset-orange hue. Long shadows extended from the trees and clumps of rocks along the granite walls. A strange tingling sensation enveloped him.

Lightning!

He rolled out of the hammock, still encased in the sleeping bag, striking the fiberglass deck. He ripped frantically at the zipper, unable to get out of the polyester body bag. A glimpse of the sky eased his panic. The sky bristled with stars, hardly a meteorological condition conducive to lightning. He lay there for a few moments.

More nightmares? Shit. Back to counseling.

He took a deep breath and gave the zipper another try. When it didn’t move, he tore it open.

“Problem fucking solved,” he muttered, slipping out of the bag and kicking it aft.

He stood up on the cockpit bench and squinted.

What the hell?

Either the sun had risen in the wrong place, or the fall from the hammock had knocked him silly. Alex had spent enough time at anchor in this cove to orient himself without a compass. He scanned his surroundings one more time to be sure.

His boat pointed southeast, pulling lazily against the anchor line. A typical early morning setup at Jewell Island. The cove’s narrow opening lay directly off the port side, and the Katelyn Ann faced directly into a tree-lined, rocky cliff. The sun always rose over that cliff, but today it appeared due south, hidden behind the tallest part of the island. He watched as the distant light rapidly faded to reveal something more ominous.

A brilliant, undulating reddish glow appeared in the southwestern sky, high above the visible horizon. He closed his eyes and shook his head, seriously wondering if he might have a head injury. Nothing he had felt or seen since opening his eyes this morning seemed normal. Of course, he assumed it was still morning.

He checked his watch: 5:01 AM. Sunrise was at 5:50. Morning Nautical Twilight began twenty minutes ago. He looked over his shoulder toward the east and could see a slight difference between the blackness above and the sky showing between the trees. The sun was rising where it should.

That’s a good start.

He turned back to the surreal lightshow to the west. The reddish-purple spectacle changed shape and appeared to pulse over the entire southwest horizon. He’d seen this before. He shook his head.

“No way,” he said, knowing there was only one way to find out.

Alex stepped aft, positioning himself behind the wheel where he could see the boat’s magnetic compass dial. He pressed a button on the center console to illuminate the compass, and pressed it again.

Shit.

He took a small LED flashlight out of his pocket and jabbed at the on/off control. A shaky light bathed the compass, bringing the nightmare to life. The compass direction moved slowly from the direction of the fading, red aurora toward what he knew to be the right cardinal settings.

Not good at all.

He fumbled to activate the digital chart plotter and navigation system mounted above the wheel. Nothing. He thought about calling out to Kate, but reached for the engine ignition panel instead. He turned the key, not sure what would happen. The engine sputtered for a moment and started.

“All right. All right. That’s a good sign,” he mumbled.

The forty-horsepower Yanmar diesel engine hummed, vibrating the cockpit and shattering the cove’s tranquility. He pulled the kill lever, secure in the knowledge that they could reach the Portland Harbor without getting wet.

A light from the forward berth illuminated the cabin, flickering back and forth as the source drew closer to the cabin door. He stepped forward in the tight cockpit to intercept Kate at the screen door. Woken by the unexpected engine start, she would no doubt be in a hurry to investigate. The door slid open just as he arrived.

“Why did you start—”

“Shhhh,” he said, putting a hand out to stop her. “Let’s talk out here.”

“Did we slip anchor?” she asked, shining the light in his face.

“Not in my face, please. We’re right where we should—”

“Something is wrong with the lights.”

She was in rapid-fire mode, no doubt brought on by her sudden maritime wake up. Kate was a notoriously deep sleeper at home, who did not respond well to being jarred awake. On the boat she was an entirely different person. She understood the fluid nature of boating, which required quick decisions and immediate action. Boats slipped anchorages, storms arrived unannounced, and equipment failed—often in the middle of the night, and always at the least opportune time.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“You haven’t really answered any of my questions,” she said.

Alex pulled Kate through the cockpit door and pointed to the bright red and purple aura to the west.

“What do you think that is?” he asked.

She stared off into the distance, shaking her head slowly before finally shrugging her shoulders. “Looks like the northern lights, but the wrong color. But that’s not north, is it?” she asked, finally rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Southwest,” he stated, gripping her hand.

“Why did you start the diesel?” she insisted, her gaze captivated by the lights dancing playfully above the southwestern horizon.

“Because I didn’t think it would start. I’ve seen pictures like that at Quantico. Looks a lot like the atmospheric nuclear tests they did out in the Pacific,” he said.

“You don’t think that was a nuke, do you?” she asked sharply, stepping off the cockpit bench.

“I don’t know, but I saw a massive flash of light from the south,” he said, pointing to the island off the starboard side, “then I felt a strange tingling, like I was about to get hit by lightning. Now none of our electronics work. I’d say we were hit by an EMP.”

Kate pushed his hand away and descended the cabin steps. Alex heard her try to activate the VHF marine radio at the navigation table.

“The radio is dead. So is everything else at the nav station.”

“All of the navigation gear is either connected to the radio antenna or the GPS receiver—all located at the top of our mast. An EMP wave would travel right down the wire and fry everything,” he said.

Kate directed the flashlight at his face.

“Will you stop blinding me with that damn light?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Kate said. “Have you checked the portable electronics?”

“Not yet. I’m going to see if I can restore electrical power to the lights and a few other systems.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the lights. It’s almost dawn. Get the water pumps and the head working. What about the bilge pump?” Kate said.

“It’s hardwired to the battery bank, like the engine. Should be fine, but let’s check.”

Alex waited for Kate to gather the handheld electronics from a cabinet above the navigation table and move to the small couch across from Emily’s bed. Their daughter had begun to stir, but still remained asleep. He really hoped she would stay asleep until they figured out what was going on. They needed a little more time to think before adding a panicky teenager to the mix.

He illuminated the electrical panel and noticed that all of the breaker switches had been tripped. No surprise there. He flipped all of the switches and tried the light mounted to the navigation table. Nothing. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The electrical surge generated by an EMP didn’t give surge protectors or breakers time to react to the change in current.

Beyond the microwave oven, radio and the navigation equipment, most of the gear connected to the boat’s electrical system didn’t contain any of the sensitive microchips susceptible to an amplified EMP wave. If the breaker mechanism itself had been damaged, they would have to do without the electrical system on the return trip to Portland.

“I’m pretty sure the breaker is fried. We’ll have to use the manual pumps to draw water. As for the head, I’m not sure what we can do. I don’t think it works without electricity,” he whispered.

“Not a big deal. We’re not that far from Portland. The handheld stuff seems to work fine. Can you tell if we are getting a signal?” she said, holding up the illuminated GPS plotter screen toward him.

“Let’s see,” he said, taking the unit.

The small satellite icon in the upper right corner of the screen indicated that the unit was receiving a satellite signal. He navigated through a series of onscreen menus to get more information.

“It says we’re tracking six satellites. That’s good news. See if you can pick up anything on the radio. Let’s take this topside so we don’t wake the kids,” he said.

Kate followed Alex up the steps and into the cockpit, where a refreshingly cool sea breeze greeted them, evaporating the small beads of sweat that had formed on Alex’s forehead in defiance of the chilly, coastal air. Despite his demeanor, he was terrified by the prospect of what might lie ahead for them. If something big had indeed gone wrong, he had little doubt that society would quickly collapse. Confidence in the government’s ability to handle a major crisis was at an all-time low.

The 2013 flu pandemic had exposed the nation’s essential service infrastructure to a slow burn, which caused a rapid, critical failure across the board, launching the country into chaos. While the northernmost states and the upper Midwest had added freezing temperatures and winter storms to the disaster already unfolding, the warmer regions were hit the hardest. The harsh winter weather dampened and eventually extinguished the widespread rioting, looting and violence that continued unabated in cities like Atlanta, Dallas, and Los Angeles. Even the Mid-Atlantic cities saw their share of the devastating civil unrest that ultimately claimed just as many lives as the H16N1 virus.

Not much had changed on Capitol Hill. The likelihood of another pandemic virus striking in our lifetime was a statistical impossibility claimed the epidemiologists—and they were probably right. Funding for national emergency preparedness remained level and consistent with pre-2013 levels, with few politicians willing to suggest cuts, especially with over twenty-six million deaths attributable to the inadequate pandemic preparedness budget authorized by Congress in the years leading to the Jakarta Pandemic. Of course, with the U.S. economy making slow but steady gains, even fewer politicians were eager to increase disaster preparedness funding or spend money on infrastructure improvement programs. Major natural disasters had been shrugged off for decades, given a flurry of attention for a month and pushed to the sidelines.

Alex and Kate understood that the United States could not weather another nationwide disaster, and had taken the appropriate precautions to ensure the safety of family and friends. They would all converge on the isolated farm in Limerick, Maine, where they could live off the grid indefinitely, until society settled back into a routine.

Alex considered the flash of light. It had come from a different direction than the red aura. Was it possible that the United States had been attacked with nuclear weapons? One flash. That was all he had seen. He expanded the scale on the handheld GPS plotter to make a quick calculation. He created a waypoint over Boston and started the navigation function. The system plotted a straight course from the boat to the waypoint.

Standing in the open cockpit of their boat, staring at the blood-red aura, his vision narrowed. He sat down next to Kate and took a deep breath.

“We have to get back fast. I give it two, maybe three days before all hell breaks loose in Boston. We need to get Ryan out of there,” said Alex.

Kate sighed. “If it hasn’t been nuked.”

He stood up and compared what he saw on the GPS chart to their physical orientation in the cove.

“The flash was centered there,” he said, pointing his entire hand directly south. “Boston is almost twenty-five degrees to the right of that. A nuke would go off directly over the city. This is somewhere pretty far off Cape Cod,” he said, not completely convinced by his logic.

Alex placed the GPS receiver on the top of the cabin and pulled Kate off the bench. He embraced her tightly, but kissed her neck gently. He drew his face even with hers.

“I’m just as scared as you about Ryan. He’s going to be fine. We’ll get this boat back to Portland, and I’ll bring him home, I promise,” he said.

She nodded and met his lips for a brief moment, then laid her head on his shoulder.

“I know it’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” she said, sitting back down and rubbing her face.

“I think we should wait until there’s enough light to see the lobster pots on the water. The last thing we need is to tangle the prop and kill the engine. It’s 5:09 right now. Sunrise is at 5:50. We get underway fifteen minutes after that. That gives us plenty of time to get our shit together, secure for sea—maybe try to raise someone on the handheld radio. I wish we had one of the satellite phones. If the GPS satellites are still working, maybe the satphone network is still intact,” said Alex.

“Remind me why we don’t bring a satphone out on the water?” she said.

“Because we don’t go far enough out to need one. We never leave Casco Bay.”

“I think we need to add that to the required equipment list,” Kate said.

“If we take another sailing trip, I’ll make sure to throw one in the bag.”

Kate stood up. “I’ll wake the kids and start tidying up below.”

The wind picked up, and the boat started to swing on the anchor line to face due south. Alex heard a few trees snap in the distance.

“Get below!” he yelled. “Now!”

Through the clear vinyl window of the dodger, he saw the leading edge of a powerful blast wave explode through the trees. He pushed Kate down the stairs and ducked his head below the cabin overhead moments before a dark wave of rocks and tree limbs pounded the sailboat. The boat lurched sideways with the initial blast, knocking Alex into the galley, where he tumbled to the deck and smashed his elbow against the counter. Within seconds, the debris shower abated, leaving them in absolute silence. The sailboat’s hull creaked against something in the water.

“Ethan! You all right back there?” he yelled through the open hatch a few feet away behind the galley.

“I’m fine. What happened? The lights don’t work,” said Ethan.

“Grab your flashlight and get dressed. I need you out here in thirty seconds. Emily, change in the vee-berth. All hands on deck immediately,” Alex ordered. “We have a problem.”

“You think?” said Kate.

“You have no idea. We need to go topside to clear the mess and assess damage. We don’t have much time.”

Kate looked at him quizzically. “I thought we weren’t leaving for another hour?”

“I don’t think that’s an option anymore. Talk about this topside?” he said, pointing at the open hatch at the top of the stairs.

When Alex’s head emerged through the cabin hatch, the first thing he noticed was a half-inch-thick layer of dirt covering every horizontal surface in the open cockpit. Rising further, he scraped his head on something solid. He directed his flashlight upward to see a jagged, two-inch-diameter branch protruding above his head, blocking him from climbing the rest of the ladder. He pushed the branch to the right and squeezed through the opening.

“Be careful coming up,” he called behind him to Kate.

The branch had speared the left vinyl window of their dodger, stopped by the thick tangle of smaller branches that struck the dodger’s dense, aluminum frame. If he hadn’t pushed Kate out of the way to get down the ladder, the shredded edge of the branch could have impaled him. He felt dizzy and wanted to take a seat, but there was no time for it. He pushed the near death experience out of his head and stood on the cockpit bench to assess the situation.

His flashlight revealed the rest of the fifteen-foot branch hanging over the starboard side of the boat, straining the sailboat’s lifelines. Kate’s flashlight probed the port side of the boat.

“I see a few branches and rocks, but nothing else. How’s your side?” he asked.

“Same. This branch is the worst of it,” she said, directing her light at the torn end protruding through the dodger window. “Jesus,” she whispered, touching the sharp edge of the branch.

“Jesus is right,” he said, moving quickly aft to the back of the cockpit.

Their gray inflatable dinghy bobbed in the water along the stern, apparently undamaged. He stepped out of the cabin and onto the swim deck, pulling the dinghy next to the boat.

“Can you clear that branch? I need to check the dinghy and start the motor,” he called.

“Got it.”

He stepped into the dinghy and pressed down on each side of the craft with both hands. The cold plastic exterior gave slightly to the pressure applied, consistent with early morning inflation levels. The boat was undamaged.

“Now for the fun part…” he mumbled, staring at the motor.

He had battled off and on for nearly four years with the four-horsepower, gasoline-fueled contraption, having consigned it to a watery grave on more than one occasion. It should be simple. Open the air vent. Open the fuel valve. Open the choke. Start the engine. That easy. In four years, he could count the number of times it started without incident on his middle finger, which he often lifted to protest the manufacturer. Alex ran through his mental checklist and took a deep breath.

He pulled the starter cord, and the motor caught, puttering quietly at idle. He revved the throttle for a moment, letting the engine warm, before pushing in the choke. The motor continued to idle.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Everything had worked perfectly, which meant that he had wasted his one good start of the year on a test. Brilliant. He stopped the motor, leaving everything in position for a quick start. He heard the branch fall away, followed by a quick scream. He flashed his light forward, searching for Kate, but couldn’t immediately find her on the deck.

She fell overboard.

Alex jumped onto the swim deck and reached for the Lifesling preserver attached to the starboard rails, when Kate appeared from behind the mast.

“Fucking thing almost took me in with it!” she yelled.

“You all right?” he said.

“I’m fine. A few scratches,” she said, starting to walk back along the deck.

“Stay there. I need to check the anchorage,” he said.

He made his way forward and met her at the bow.

“We need to talk while I do this,” he said, reaching through the forward rails to grip the nylon line stretched into the water several feet below. “That air blast came from the same direction as the flash of light. Took eight minutes to arrive. Only a massive explosion could create something like—”

“Boston,” she muttered.

“I’m pretty certain that’s not the case. The wind came from the direction of the flash, which puts the explosion in the Gulf of Maine,” he said, tugging on the anchor line.

“I hope so.”

“Me too, but if the explosion was over water, we could be hit by a tsunami. We need to decide whether to stay onboard and ride out whatever crests the island, or abandon the boat for the concrete lookout tower near the cove.”

“I don’t think we should leave the boat,” Kate decided. “If it gets swept away, we’re stuck here.”

“I agree, but we have no idea how big the wave will be. Remember those videos of the tsunamis in Thailand and Japan? Solid walls of water travelled inland for miles.”

“How long do we have?” Kate asked.

“I’m not sure. If it took the wind eight minutes to get here, I’d guess we have at least another hour? I have no idea. Could be thirty minutes. The anchor feels fine,” he said, standing up on the bow. “We might not have a problem at all, honey. From what I remember reading, tsunami waves are barely noticeable out at sea. The problem occurs when the wave hits shallow water. We’re several miles from the mainland, and this is a small island. A tiny blip in the ocean for a tsunami. It might not rise up enough to mess with us.”

“Then I say we stay on the boat,” she said.

“We’ll keep the engine running in case we break free of the anchorage,” said Alex, starting toward the cockpit.

“If a wave makes it over the island, I don’t think the anchor will matter. It might cause a problem for us if it gets snagged on the rocks,” she said.

He flashed his light at the anchor line tied to the forward cleat. He couldn’t imagine climbing forward to cut the anchor line while the boat pitched violently. They needed a way to detach the anchor if necessary.

“Start securing the boat for heavy seas. I’ll run the anchor line back to the cockpit. We can cut it from here. I’m glad you thought of that,” he said.

“I’m good for an idea or two,” she said, brushing against him on her way back.

“That’s one more than I’m good for,” he said, grabbing her hand. “We’ll be fine, hon. I’ll be in Boston tomorrow, picking up Ryan. Nothing to it. We’ve been through worse.”

“I know. I’m just scared for him. He’s alone in a new place. No friends. Nothing.”

“He knows what to do. Ryan’s the least of our worries. He’ll probably be waiting for us at the house when we get back,” he said.

She buried her head in his chest and didn’t respond. The sound of rustling leaves raised her head, and he let go of her to grab the nearest deck-mounted handrail. They wouldn’t have time to get into the cabin if another blast wave hit them. A stiff gust of wind buffeted them for a few seconds, swinging the boat on its mooring to face an easterly direction. No flash preceded the airwave, which told Alex that the explosion had occurred over the visible horizon. The only thing due east of Jewell Island was Nova Scotia. When the wind completely died, he stared in the direction of the first explosion, wondering if his plan to stay on the boat would send them to a watery grave.

Chapter 7

EVENT +00:15 Hours

^{International Space Station}

Commander David Stull, United States Navy, drifted away from the Harmony node to the adjoining Destiny Laboratory, using his fingertips to guide him. He was several minutes behind the rigid daily schedule imposed by NASA mission controllers, though his effortless flight down the equipment-packed passageway betrayed no sense of urgency. The draconian NASA itinerary served a purpose: to regulate the astronauts’ natural biorhythms in the face of a ninety-minute cycle of light and darkness experienced by the station’s low earth orbit.

An unresolved communications glitch had put him behind schedule today. The station’s connection to NASA had been interrupted during the final moments of their morning briefing and could not be reestablished. His initial diagnostics check indicated no obvious issues with the communications equipment onboard the station. Of course, he wouldn’t know for sure unless he inspected the radio link equipment directly, running a series of sophisticated checks on the transmitters. To do that, he would need to enter an unpressurized section of the Z1 Truss structure above the Unite node. This simple thirty-minute voyage into unpressurized space would require an entire day of planning.

He glided into the Destiny node, where Cosmonaut Sergei Moryakov waited. Moryakov’s permanent, good-natured smirk was gone. Something was wrong.

“Roscosmos station in Moscow lost all communications with NASA fifteen minutes ago,” said the cosmonaut, in perfectly structured Russian-accented English.

“So it’s on their end. Saves us the hassle of accessing Z1,” said Stull.

“It’s more complicated than that. You need to see something,” he said, gesturing for Stull to follow him.

Before either of them moved, the lights in the Destiny node flickered. Moryakov’s ice-blue eyes darted around the crowded laboratory compartment. In seventy-two days onboard the station, he had never seen the lights flicker—and he’d certainly never seen the Russian exhibit nervous behavior.

He floated behind Moryakov to the Tranquility node berthing connection, tapping the walls to propel his body through the cramped corridor. The short trip ended over the Cupola, the station’s seven-window observatory. A pair of legs dressed in a royal-blue jumper extended into the berthing node.

“Take a look. Then we need to talk. We don’t have much time,” said the Russian.

Commander Stull pushed off the floor with the tip of his boot and flipped upside-down, squeezing into the Cupola next to Cosmonaut Viktor Belekin, who stared through a spotting scope aimed through the center window.

“What the—”

A thick, orange-black smoke trail stretched from the outer stratosphere to the east coast of the United States. From four hundred and sixteen kilometers above the earth’s surface, the smoke trail appeared to penetrate a pulsing red magnetic aura that blanketed the Midwest.

He felt nauseous. His wife and children had flown to Boston on Friday, staying with friends for few days until joining his parents on Cape Cod for their annual vacation. The smoke trail ended in New England. His vision narrowed, and he squinted, shaking his head. He was overreacting. Larger meteorites always left massive trails of smoke when they traveled through the atmosphere, even if they were only a few meters in diameter.

“Can I take a look?” asked Stull.

“This is bad, my friend. Very sorry,” said Belekin, handing him the powerful scope.

Stull followed the magnified trail across Mexico into the United States. The single inbound object had separated high over northern Georgia, splitting into four tightly packed, but distinctly separate reentry signatures. The smoke trails terminated in a narrow elliptical pattern beginning in Virginia and ending in Nova Scotia. He couldn’t pinpoint the two additional impact points through the atmospheric reentry stream.

He hoped his wife had decided to spend an extra day with friends in Braintree. The Cape was too exposed. Who was he kidding? All they could talk about last week was getting to Cape Cod. How could Spaceguard have missed something this big? Something else bothered him about the scene below him.

“Where are the lights?” he asked.

“I can’t believe I missed that,” the Russian murmured. “Most of North America is pitch black.”

“That’s the real problem,” interjected Moryakov, hovering above them.

Commander Stull backed out of the Cupola, along with Belekin.

“Our mission control registered a massive radiation flux on the station-based monitors. X-ray levels spiked, causing a minor system-generated EMP. Everything appears to function as it should, so latch-up must have been minimal.” Moryakov ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll have to run our own diagnostics, of course, and we’ll have to go outside to inspect the solar array coatings. Moscow isn’t optimistic about the long-term survival of the station.”

Stull shook his head. “What do they think happened?”

“All evidence indicates that a thermonuclear device was detonated in low orbit over the United States, causing a massive EMP event. Most of the United States is dark, consistent with this theory,” said Moryakov.

Commander Stull stared back into the Cupola, noting the eerie, reddish, spectral glow in the atmosphere over the Midwest.

“The aura,” he whispered. “Could it have been caused by whatever passed through the atmosphere?”

Moryakov shook his head. “Radiation readings were highest on the sensors aimed toward the ground. Moscow strongly suspects the radiation is from a manmade source.”

“The arrays?”

“Bad timing. All arrays were in Night Glider mode, pointed straight at the earth when the readings spiked. Another eighty-two seconds and they would have been aimed away from the blast, at the sunrise,” Moryakov explained.

“We’ll have to inspect the coatings for thermomechanical damage,” said Stull. “We can’t stay up here if the arrays fail.”

“That was Moscow’s assessment.”

“Is everything all right down there?” asked Stull.

“For now,” said the Russian.

He didn’t like Moryakov’s answer.

Chapter 8

EVENT +01:08 Hours

^{Jewell Island, Maine}

Alex sat on the starboard side stern rail and stared at the thick stand of trees lining the island’s ledge wall. The damage caused by the air blast was fully visible in the crisp, dawn light, mostly confined to broken tree limbs and flattened grass. The cove remained awash with leaves, stirred only by large severed branches that occasionally bumped up against the hull of the Katelyn Ann. He listened intently, trying to pick up any sounds beyond the distant, piercing cries of seagulls.

Only the constant, muffled drum of the sailboat’s engine competed with the birds, but he had already filtered this sound out. Alex had no idea what he might hear when the tsunami hit, but with two thousand feet of tightly packed island to cross, he figured they would have plenty of warning.

The large cabin cruiser anchored off their starboard side roared to life, causing Alex to jump up from his seat. The overpowered engine steadied into a deafening growl that masked every natural sound in the cove. He hoped they were getting underway. Compared to his forty-horsepower engine, the cabin cruiser’s three-to four-hundred-horsepower engine sounded like a commercial jet liner revving for takeoff. He couldn’t blame them for running the engine. He was doing the same thing, in case something went terribly wrong at their anchorage, but with the cruiser’s engine drowning out his thoughts, he would have to pay close attention to the island and rely on visual cues. They might lose a few seconds of warning, but it shouldn’t matter. All he needed to do was get below and shut the cabin door.

Once the wave hit, they would assess and react accordingly. The decision to stay with the boat hadn’t been an easy one. The safest course of action would have been to pack up as much gear and food as possible and ride the dinghy to the cove’s southwestern shore. From there, a ten-minute walk would put them in one of the island’s towering concrete World War Two lookout posts. While assuring their short-term safety, this option almost guaranteed they would lose their transportation off the island. He had considered putting Kate and the kids in the tower and taking his chances alone on the boat, but he had a feeling that the tsunami wasn’t going to give him the option to return.

He planned to ride out the initial impact below deck, scrambling topside when the boat settled. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late to react at that point to save the boat. If the boat were dashed against the rocks before he could take control and engage the engine, they would be at the mercy of the elements, forced to swim back to the island.

Alex looked through the cabin hatchway at Kate, who stared back at him, waiting for any sign that the wave was inbound. She wore one of the boat’s self-inflating life jackets over khaki pants and a waterproof sailing jacket. Next to her, on the starboard settee, sat a digital camouflage-patterned rucksack tied to an orange type two life preserver. The kids, wearing custom-fit vest preservers, sat across from her in the portside lounge, hugging their own life preserver wrapped backpacks.

They had stuffed most of their food, medical supplies and survival-related gear in five backpacks, affixing the cheap life preservers to keep them afloat. If they had to jump into the water, the packs would be connected to their respective owner by a ten-foot length of parachute cord. They were prepared for the worst-case scenario, which involved losing the boat right in the cove. All of their essential gear was either attached to their bodies or buried in the packs.

He patted his hand against the drop-leg holster on his right hip, making sure that the pistol was tightly secured under two layers of nylon and Velcro straps. Kate hadn’t given him a second look when he removed the pistol and holster rig from his rucksack. Before the Jakarta Pandemic, Kate would have ceaselessly berated him for bringing a firearm on a family trip. Now she understood better than anyone that preparation without security was meaningless, especially in the face of a widespread disaster.

The cabin cruiser’s engine throttled higher, drawing his attention away from the island one hundred feet away. He watched the thirty-foot boat pull forward while the anchor line retracted, breaking free of the mud surface below the water. A man dressed in white shorts and a red polo shirt steered the craft toward the mouth of the cove, picking up speed before the anchor appeared. He puffed on a fresh cigar from his perch on the boat’s flying bridge, saluting Alex as he passed.

The anchor emerged from the surface and banged against the boat’s fiberglass hull before snapping into place on the bow-mounted anchor arm. The cabin cruiser increased speed, reaching the mouth of the cove and turning into the narrow confines of the pass between Cliff and Jewell Islands. Alex watched him take the red navigational marker to port and turn sharply. A few seconds later, the cruiser lurched forward at full throttle, leaving a sizeable wake behind as they rocketed southwest, in the direction of Portland Harbor.

Alex was both surprised and relieved that the cruiser’s engine started. His sailboat’s diesel engine was directly wired to the battery bank and didn’t rely on any type of electronics to operate. The cruiser’s gas-powered engine was more complicated, and judging by the relatively new look of the boat, he figured that the engine was connected to a series of microprocessors designed to optimize performance. The fact that the gas engine started gave him hope that recent government-sponsored EMP research and assessment efforts hadn’t been bullshit.

The EMP Commission’s Critical National Infrastructures (CNI) Revised Report released in 2016 took into account the newer, more sensitive technologies present in nearly every electronic device reliant upon a semiconductor. CNI’s 2008 report predicted a 10% failure rate for automobiles, which stood in direct contrast to previous predictions by independent researchers and caused considerable outrage. The revised report admitted the difficulty of predicting the effects of an EMP, and raised the failure rate to 60%—still a rosy picture compared to earliest predictions.

Alex, along with preppers everywhere, cast a suspicious eye on the sudden change, wondering if the whole thing was a government ruse to ease fear in the aftermath of their spectacular failure during the Jakarta Pandemic. Trust in the U.S. government reached an all-time low in 2014, and hadn’t improved much since.

Jealous of the cruiser’s speed through the water, Alex kept his attention fixed on the boat’s rapid escape from the cove. They would probably reach Portland in twenty minutes, maybe less. He wondered if they wouldn’t be better off doing the same thing. Tsunamis generated most of their power when they arrived in shallow water. Maybe their chances would be better in open water, and not behind an island. He and Kate had studied the nautical charts closely, noting that the depth in Casco Bay didn’t vary much from the water off Cape Cod. The depth decreased gradually on the approach to Casco Bay, but not enough to trigger a plunging wave over open water—or so they theorized. Still, they’d decided to stay in place, not really trusting their Google-powered theories enough to risk an open water transit with a possible tsunami inbound. Maybe nothing would happen at all, and they were wasting precious time.

Alex heard a sharp crack, which drew his attention back to the island. He stood up slowly, scanning the trees. Another snap caused him to take a few steps toward the cabin hatch. Staring through the thick foliage at the edge of the island, he saw the tops of tall pines waver and collapse in the distance.

“It’s coming,” he said, calmly taking position in the hatchway.

“Get inside, Alex,” said Kate.

“Hold on…”

He wanted to see what they were up against before dropping below. A cacophony of snaps rapidly approached, followed by an advancing line of fallen treetops.

Any second now.

“Alex!” yelled Kate.

He stole one more glance at the tree line.

A wall of water crashed through the thick pine forest, reaching one-quarter of the way up several mature trees. Alex dropped below and slammed the hatch shut, quickly sitting next to Kate on the starboard settee. A deafening roar filled the cabin, and the boat pitched aft, rising. The kids screamed, and Kate locked her hands around his arm. The sudden wild motion stabilized for a moment; then Alex felt the boat twist to the right. He knew what would happen next.

“Hang on!” he yelled.

The boat heeled more than forty-five degrees to starboard, launching Emily across the cabin into Alex and Kate. Ethan had managed to grip the wooden handrail above him and dangled in mid-air for a moment, before the boat violently heeled to port in response to the sudden change in the craft’s stability. He dropped safely onto the cushions below him. Everybody else was unceremoniously tossed onto the wooden deck in a tangle of life preservers and flailing limbs. Alex pulled his way out of the pile, feeling the boat continue to spin while drifting rapidly through the water. He needed to cut the anchor line and take control of the boat immediately.

“I’m going topside! Grab the handrails like Ethan!” he said, stabilizing himself between the kitchen and the navigation table.

He held the side of the wooden steps tightly with one hand and opened the hatch with the other, preparing for the worst. A solid wall of seawater struck the rear of the boat and continued over the stern, filling the spacious cockpit like a bathtub. Alex pushed against the water pouring through the hatch and reached to the right, pulling a serrated diving knife from the hard plastic sheath he had tied to the cleat holding the anchor line. He swept the razor-sharp knife across the taut line. The line snapped through the hole in the dodger made by the tree branch and disappeared over the bow before he could sheath the knife.

Alex slugged through the waist-high water to reach the wheel, praying that the massive intake of water hadn’t somehow killed the engine. Salt water stung his eyes as he tried to gain his bearings. He had seen nothing but forest through the hatch initially, which indicated they had been turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face west. He gripped the wheel and scanned his surroundings, shocked to see the roof of the small cottage on the western side of the cove almost directly off his port beam. As soon as his eyes focused on the object, the roof pitched upward and disappeared under the swiftly moving water.

He engaged the transmission and shoved the throttle forward, feeling the boat respond. He unlocked the rudder and attempted to steer the boat, which turned out to be a mistake. Powerful currents jammed the rudder hard to port, once again twisting the boat parallel to the onrushing water. Alex tried to turn the wheel but couldn’t budge it. Realizing the impending consequences of the mistake he had made, he used the last available moment to clip his harness to the rail behind him. The D-ring snapped shut a fraction of a second before the boat heeled drastically to starboard, breaking his wet grip on the rail and flinging him against the lifelines.

An incredible, jolting pain surged through his neck and upper body, radiating down into his left arm. He couldn’t tell if he had been thrown overboard, just that he was no longer in control of his body. The D-ring had been attached to a twenty-foot line. Long enough to prevent him from hanging uselessly over the side, but short enough to keep him floating close to the boat. Alex dropped into the cockpit, choking on a mouthful of pungent water, which kept him planted in the water while he coughed uncontrollably. The boat lurched forward and stabilized, giving him a chance to drag himself up by the center console. His first mission was to straighten the rudder and lock it.

While the boat drifted parallel to the wave, he turned the helm and managed to center the rudder. Once it was locked into place, he reduced the throttle to idle and put the engine in neutral. In a few moments, they would clear the cove and reach open water, where the force of the wave would dissipate, giving him the opportunity to maneuver.

“Kate!” he yelled at the open hatch.

“We’re fine! We have at least a foot of water!” she shouted back.

Kate appeared in the hatchway and flashed him an uneasy look.

“Your head is bleeding! Holy shit…” she muttered, looking beyond the boat at the wave slamming into Cliff Island to the west.

Before Alex could turn to look, the boat shuddered and rolled starboard, stopping dead in the water, but continuing to heel at a dangerous angle as water slammed the port side of the hull. Kate disappeared from sight, falling back into the cabin. He squeezed the stainless-steel handrails mounted to the center console, bracing his feet against the cockpit seat in an attempt to remain on the boat.

Water poured over the starboard deck while the boat teetered. Just when Alex became convinced that the boat would tip over, the Katelyn Ann slipped sideways and returned to a normal angle, turning with the rushing water. They had broken free of whatever had struck their keel. He hoped it had only been the keel, and not the rudder or hull. Damage to the latter would severely jeopardize their chances of reaching Portland Harbor.

His best guess was that they struck the western side of the cove, which was solid ledge, and drifted beyond it into open water. Barring critical damage to the steering or hull, they were in good shape to escape the tsunami relatively unscathed. The Katelyn Ann was in open water with a functional engine, which was a start. If their rudder were intact, they would be in business. As the boat settled on the same course as the surging water, the southern shoals of Cliff Island swung into view, rapidly approaching.

Alex put the engine in gear and jammed the throttle forward, deciding to take a chance. He had just added eight knots (9 MPH) of speed to the boat’s already ridiculous rate of closure with the island. He needed the propeller wash to steer the boat, not wanting to send them into another uncontrolled spin. Holding the wheel in a death grip, he eased the rudder gently to the left, painfully aware that he may not get another shot at this. They had already crossed more than half of the 1000-foot distance between islands.

The Katelyn Ann responded to the change in rudder angle, and he watched the bow start to swing left, pointing the boat into safe water beyond the visible rock barrier. Afraid to spin the rudder any further and lose control, Alex watched helplessly as the turn stalled, and the boat drifted back in the direction of the tsunami. Alex straightened the rudder and let the water carry them, building up speed for the next turn. The short period of time the boat had spent drifting to port had made a difference, and they were lined up a little further south along the island.

He waited a few seconds and eased the wheel a quarter of a turn more than before. He felt the rudder tugging at the helm, trying to wrench it out of his grip. He wrapped his right arm through the thick metal spokes and piled his body against the wheel, knowing that his bones were no match against the force of the current pushing against the rudder. He felt the metal bar press tightly against his right tricep, just above the elbow, creating a pressure that caused him to moan. He just needed a few more seconds before the pain stopped.

The boat eased to port, fighting against the continuous volume of water pouring over Jewell Island into the pass. The pressure on the wheel eased when the boat stopped turning, having reached the limit of its rudder-induced maneuver against the current. He untangled his throbbing arm from the wheel and stared at the approaching shore for a moment.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he hissed. The Katelyn Ann faced the rocks, unable to break free from the tsunami’s grasp.

He centered the rudder, careful to hold the wheel tight as the boat careened toward the ocean-sprayed ledge barricade seemingly obsessed with claiming the boat as a victim.

“One, two—move you son of a bitch!” he said, yanking the wheel left and sliding his arm between the spokes.

The thirty-eight-foot sailboat executed another strong turn to port, causing him to bite his lower lip as the metal spoke exerted a nearly unendurable pressure against his arm and shoulder. He growled at the wheel, biting his lip as it dug into his humerus, grinding muscle against bone. The pressure eased, and he struggled to his feet. The bow was pointed into safe water, and the visible end of the island drifted rapidly to starboard, less than one hundred feet away. He still wasn’t convinced that they would clear the island. Alex had always been good with angles, especially at sea. He did the math, comparing the tsunami direction with their position and shook his head.

“Kate! Get everyone on the starboard side! Heads down! I don’t know if we’re going to make it!”

He heard a flurry of activity below, accompanied by crying he hadn’t noticed during their violent journey out of the cove. He wished they had a more powerful engine. Sailboats were so damn underpowered for their size. A forty-horsepower engine in a sixteen-thousand-pound, thirty-eight-foot-long vessel. Utterly ridiculous. At the last possible moment, Alex put the engine in neutral to keep the propeller from fouling, and straightened the rudder with his left hand. The bow cleared the leading edge of the rocks with thirty feet to go, still turning with the current.

“Brace for impact!” he screamed.

He squeezed the wheel as the ledge disappeared beneath the starboard rail next to him. The massive jolt that would shipwreck them on Cliff Island never came.

“That’s right! You don’t fuck with the Katelyn Ann!” he screamed at the jagged obstacle, putting her back into gear and increasing the throttle to three-quarters.

He turned the rudder to port and eased the boat away from the southern shore, with plenty of safe water to maneuver ahead of him. The tsunami’s energy had faded quickly, allowing him to steer further port without being pushed back. A mile away, off the starboard bow, he watched the leading edge of the tsunami strike the lowlying, western half of Cliff Island, sending geysers of foamy seawater fifty feet into the air. The water swallowed the inhabited stretch of the island whole, sweeping away homes and dropping wooden utility poles. Everything disappeared. Gone.

“What’s going on!” yelled Kate.

“We made it. You have to see this.”

Kate emerged hesitantly, scanning around to gain her bearings. Her gaze once again settled on Alex.

“What happened to you?” she said, rushing over to help him.

“I decided to punch myself in the mouth for agreeing to buy a sailboat,” he said.

“It was your idea,” she said, reaching out to touch his lip.

“How are the kids?”

“Shaken up. Emily has a few bumps and bruises. I think we got lucky.”

“You have no idea,” he said, nodding behind the boat at the rocks.

Kate stared aft for a few moments, no doubt examining the boat’s wake through the water.

“You almost crashed us,” she remarked.

For the briefest moment, he thought she might be serious. He could tell she was trying desperately to suppress a grin, which in Alex’s mind saved her from being pushed overboard. Without warning, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, causing him to wince. She released the hug immediately.

“What happened?”

“I think my arm is broken. I used it to keep the wheel from turning with the wave. No lectures, please.”

She looked at Cliff Island and turned to him. “I’ll give you a pass this time. Where’s the dinghy?”

Alex scanned the water behind them, quickly turning his attention back to the open water ahead of the boat.

“Shit. I didn’t notice it was missing. I was a little preoccupied.”

Kate reached over the stern safety rail and pulled on the orange line tied to the stern cleat. The line flopped onto the swim deck, frayed at the end.

“I hope the pier is still intact back at the club,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a feeling we’re in for a little swim,” Alex said. “Maybe sooner than later. Our stern hit those rocks. We need to check for leaks.”

“I’ll inspect the aft berth for damage. We still have a foot of standing water in the cabin. The bilge pump light is on, so I assume it’s working,” she said and waded through the knee-level water in the cockpit.

Alex leaned back and examined the stern. He saw a steady stream of water pump from the hull into the bay. “I see water coming out of the discharge. If we don’t have any serious leaks, the cabin should be dry in a few minutes.”

He didn’t know the specific output capacity of his bilge pump, but based on talk around the club, he figured the boat had been equipped with a pump that could remove up to twelve hundred gallons per hour. A sizeable hull breach could easily overtake that capacity. All they needed to do was keep the boat afloat for another ninety minutes. They had buckets and a few handheld pumps if the situation became dire. Kate reached the hatchway and turned her head to face him.

“Nobody fucks with the Katelyn Ann?” she said.

“Nobody,” he said to the boat’s namesake.

Chapter 9

EVENT +01:10 Hours

^{The Walker Residence}

^{Scarborough, Maine}

Ed Walker poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee and turned his head to look at the clock on the microwave, confirming the same thought he’d expressed minutes earlier, when he started to pull the toaster out of the cabinet next to the stove.

I’m an idiot.

A sudden, massive blast of wind had knocked out the power, along with most of the neighborhood’s south-facing windows, roughly an hour ago. This hadn’t stopped him from repeatedly flipping light switches and trying to activate every electronic device in the house.

His wife, Samantha, had salvaged their two-burner propane camping stove and aluminum coffee set from the garage after they had finished cleaning up the glass. The microburst had shattered every backyard-facing window in their house. They spent at least thirty minutes picking up the visible pieces, relying on flashlights and the rising sun to identify the most noticeable shards. Without the use of their central vacuum system, they would have to wear shoes.

They still had no idea what had happened. The sky was clear, except for the odd reddish glow that had persisted over the southwestern horizon for twenty minutes. Sarah Quinn insisted that she and her husband had seen a brilliant flash while stretching out on the deck for their daily run. By the time they had walked around the house to investigate, the glow had vanished. She thought it had come from the south, but her husband, George, contended that the light had shone from the east. Ed more or less thought they were full of shit. Who knew? He did know that Sarah and George had gotten lucky. Whatever they saw had delayed the start of their run, keeping them sheltered behind their house when the gust hit.

Ed lifted the mug and took a sip of hot coffee, his eyes spotting something shiny among the apples piled into a bowl on the table. They would have to be really careful around the house. He walked to the sliding patio door, noting its absence. The screen door had been severely warped by the blast, but it remained intact like most of the screens in the house. At least they would be spared the mosquitos. A cool breeze poured through the opening, providing a brief respite from the miserable day that lay ahead. Samantha walked into the kitchen from the mudroom.

“No cell phone signal yet. I’m worried about Chloe. The same thing might have hit Boston,” she said.

“This was some kind of microburst. They’re usually very localized. Probably knocked out power to the cell towers,” said Ed.

“I thought the towers had their own backup generators?”

“Most of them should,” he admitted. “If we can’t reach her by eight, we’ll leave the kids with Charlie and head to Boston. We can bring her back if there’s a problem down there.”

Ed had a sinking feeling that there was more to the morning’s power outage than strange weather. He’d retrieved their emergency radio from a box of camping supplies in the garage and taken it out on the deck, hoping to gain some basic information regarding the wind gust. Instead of the choppy, digital NOAA broadcast, he heard static. He anxiously cycled through the AM and FM bands, still unable to located a signal. Ed checked and rechecked the radio, cranking the hand-power generator for at least a minute before trying again. The radio’s LED burned brilliantly green throughout the process, telling him what he already suspected. The radio wasn’t the problem.

A sharp knock at the front door caused him to jump, spilling coffee on his hand.

“Damn it. Who the hell…?” he mumbled, setting the mug on the table.

He opened the door to find Charlie Thornton panting on his stoop. Charlie glanced over his shoulder twice, looking at the sky.

“They EMP’d our asses. Both of my cars are dead, and nothing works in my house. We’re sitting ducks,” said Charlie.

“Who EMP’d us?”

“The Chinese! Who else? They’ll probably start landing paratroopers within the hour, like Red Dawn!”

Ed regarded his neighbor for a moment, hesitating to invite him inside. Charlie stood there barefoot, dressed in faded jeans and an oversized white Red Sox T-shirt. He clung nervously to a black, AR-style rifle fitted with some kind of scope. Ed wasn’t keen on letting him inside, especially given the fact that Charlie had chosen a rifle over shoes.

“You gonna let me in or what? It won’t be long before we’re under direct attack,” he said, looking past Ed. “My guess is we’ll be hit by drones first.”

“Is the safety engaged on that thing?” Ed asked.

“Do I look like some kind of idiot?”

Ed glanced down at his bare feet and gave him a pained look.

“The safety’s on, for shit’s sake,” grunted Charlie.

Ed let Charlie in, closed the door and followed him to the kitchen.

“What did you mean about the cars?” he asked.

“Oh hey, Samantha,” Charlie said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this. Damn. Still glass everywhere,” he said, lifting a small piece off the kitchen island.

“The cars, Charlie?” Ed prompted.

“Oh yeah. Both of them are dead. The batteries turn over, but the engine won’t start. EMP fried the electronics. Have you tried yo—”

“What EMP?” interrupted Samantha.

“There’s no EMP, honey. I’m sure the cars are fine,” Ed said.

“You need to check them now,” Charlie insisted.

“I’m not running out there to—”

Charlie grabbed Ed’s T-shirt, pulling him toward the garage, but something caught his attention through the kitchen window.

“What the hell is that?” he said, releasing Ed’s shirt to run to the screen door.

Ed heard the problem a few seconds before he saw it. A thunderous crescendo of sharp cracks approached, violently shaking the tops of the largest trees visible over the row of houses directly behind them. At first he thought it was another wind burst, but the loud snaps sounded more like entire trees falling. The burst of wind that had knocked out their windows was powerful, but it had left little more than leaves and branches strewn across the yard. This was different. Something slower and more deliberate.

Before he fully digested the thought, the top of a young maple tree shook and dropped out of sight beyond his backyard neighbor’s six-foot privacy fence. By the time the sound of the tree’s death reached Ed’s ears, he had figured out what they were up against.

“Get upstairs right now!” he barked at his wife, who reacted immediately, dashing past him for the center hallway.

Charlie glanced at him with a seriously puzzled look. Beyond Charlie, Ed saw the wooden privacy fence disappear, replaced by a solid wall of water. He didn’t stick around long enough to see Charlie’s reaction, but based on the steady stream of profanities catching up to him in the hallway, he figured that his friend had never moved faster.

Ed caught the banister and swung himself onto the stairway, making room for Charlie, who had closed the gap quicker than Ed had thought possible. Both of them paused to look over the railing just as the wall of water hammered the back of Ed’s house, snapping the railings on his deck and exploding through the screen door.

“Get out of there!” said Charlie, pulling him by the arm up the stairs.

A powerful torrent of muddy, debris-filled water slammed against the front door and quickly filled the foyer in a swirling eddy of dirty foam that lapped against the bottom stairs. The volume and speed of the water terrified Ed. In the next five seconds, he watched the water rise halfway up the door, showing no signs of slowing down. Two of his kitchen chairs rushed down the hallway half-submerged, piling up against the door momentarily before breaking loose and spilling through the foyer. The rest of his kitchen furniture had already streamed past in the initial onslaught. Somewhere below, he heard glass shatter over the incredible roar of the unending flood plowing through his house. His wife appeared from his son Daniel’s bedroom next to the stairs.

“You have to see this!” she said, with a look of sheer disbelief.

Ed hesitated, not wanting to take his eyes off the rising water below him. Half of the staircase was submerged.

“Dad! The whole neighborhood is flooded!” yelled Daniel from the same room.

Ed stood up, feeling slightly unsteady. “I’m sure Linda and the twins are fine,” he said to Charlie.

Charlie continued to stare at the floodwaters below. “They were still sleeping when I left,” he replied, nodding absently.

Ed joined his wife and two children at the rightmost, front window of his son’s room, nearly falling to his knees again. A surging mass of murky brown water covered the ground as far as he could see, carrying large branches, pieces of fencing, plastic garbage bins—anything that had crossed its path since striking the shoreline. The maple tree that normally blocked his view of the Sheppards’ house had been knocked into the street, providing his only direct view of the tsunami’s effects.

The Sheppards’ front door had been blown inward by the force of the wave. Water poured into the previously shattered front windows, likely creating the same effect he’d seen inside his own home. A quick, nearly inescapable flood. Water continued to push up against the house, creating incredible pressure along fifty feet of solid frontage, but he didn’t detect any obvious signs of structural failure. He estimated the tsunami’s height to be between five and six feet.

Over a mile and a half inland, the initial wave had retained enough energy to topple young trees and pound open doors, but lacked the punch to collapse homes—so far. Water continued to rush through the neighborhood at an alarming rate, and Ed remembered reading that tsunami waves rarely traveled alone, and the first wave wasn’t always the largest.

“What do you think?” asked Samantha.

“I think we’re lucky we don’t live on the water. I can’t imagine what happened to Higgins Beach,” said Ed.

“Good God,” she mumbled.

“Is my house still there?” asked Charlie from the bedroom doorway.

“I can still see the roof. Take a look. It’s un-fucking-believable,” said Ed, backing away to make room at the window.

“Language,” Samantha warned.

“Sorry about that.”

“I don’t care,” said Daniel.

His daughter Abby, who had moved to another window, said, “Neither do I.”

“Well, I do,” insisted his wife.

“Sounds like you’ve been outvoted,” said Charlie, turning his attention to the scene beyond the window.

Samantha glared at Charlie. “This isn’t a democracy.”

“Neither is my house—holy shhhh—moley!” said Charlie. “The whole fu—farping neighborhood is fu—fragged to shhhhmeg. Damn it. Can’t they just plug their ears?”

Both of the teenagers laughed nervously.

“Can’t you complete a sentence without ten expletives?” said Samantha.

“Not under these circumstances,” he said, turning to face them.

“Look at that,” Ed said, pointing out of a window on the other side of the room. “Water is gushing out of the Fletchers’ windows.”

“The water’s coming out of the top of the windows,” said Samantha.

They looked fearfully at each other and nearly collided running for the bedroom door.

“Shit,” Samantha mumbled, peering around the corner of the door.

The swirling water had climbed three-quarters of the stairway, passing the first floor ceiling level by a few inches. The volume of water pouring into their house through the wide opening created by the shattered slider door couldn’t empty quickly enough through the windows. Ed wondered how high the water would rise within the house. He knew logically that the house couldn’t fill up to the attic like a container, but seeing this frightened him on an instinctual level.

“Shit, indeed,” he said.

“I’d throw a few f-bombs in there for good measure, but the good lady strictly forbids it,” mused Charlie.

“I think the language restrictions have been temporarily lifted,” said Samantha. “Are we safe in the house, Ed?”

“As long as it doesn’t collapse, we’re totally fine—not that we have any other options. The water will start to go down in a few minutes. You’ll see. I bet your house is doing a lot better, Charlie. Only the right side was exposed directly to the surge. Probably pouring in the windows, but not sweeping through like a freight train,” said Ed.

“I hope you’re right, not that it really matters,” Charlie said ruefully. “We’re all totally screwed.”

“How does a tsunami fit into your EMP theory? Can’t offshore earthquakes cause wind gusts?” asked Ed.

“I don’t think so. Maybe the Chinese threw a nuke at Boston and missed, blew up Cape Cod instead. Everything’s coming at us from the south. I think a ten-megaton bomb could cause a tsunami like this,” said Charlie.

Ed shook his head. “You totally just made that up.”

“It’s an educated guess. Sarah Quinn swears she saw a flash, then the wind. Now we have a tsunami? Something big hit us.”

Ed had to admit that none of this added up. A sudden gust of wind powerful enough to knock out windows; electronics on the fritz; tsunami; possible flashes of light bright enough to turn night into day? Charlie was right about one thing: Whatever this turned out to be, they were most definitely screwed. And that was the least of their immediate concerns. Their daughter Chloe had just moved into an apartment on the outskirts of Boston College, with three other sophomores. Boston College was several miles from the coastline, which eased his fear of a tsunami reaching her, but now they had no way of reaching Boston.

“I hope you’re wrong,” said Samantha.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that she had started to walk toward the master bedroom. He caught up with her, and she stopped. He could hear her sniffling, trying to stifle the need to cry. He wrapped his arms around her stomach and pressed his chest into her back, kissing her ear.

“It’s going to be fine, honey. We’ll figure out a way to get down there and bring her back,” said Ed, nuzzling his forehead into the back of his wife’s neck.

“What if it’s not fine? What if Charlie’s right and the cars are dead? Shit. They’re probably flooded and useless anyway.”

“She’ll be fine. Alex’s son is a few miles away at BU. Ryan’s like a mini-Alex. They’ll find each other and survive until we can get them back. Ryan has her address, and unless I’ve read all of the signals wrong, the kid is still crazy about her. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but he’s probably on his way to her apartment right now,” Ed whispered.

Samantha relaxed infinitesimally and nodded, which was a start.

“The water’s receding!” Charlie announced.

Everyone piled into the hallway to verify Charlie’s dubious report. Daniel pushed past them and walked down the stairs to the waterline.

“This is unreal,” he said, plucking their wooden napkin holder out of the water.

“Careful, Danny,” cautioned Ed.

The water’s retreat was barely noticeable, but Charlie was right. The water sat an inch below the ceiling line and appeared to lower another inch while they watched.

“Samantha?” Charlie called.

They all looked back at their red-faced, crew-cut neighbor.

“You don’t worry one bit about Chloe. I’ll help you get her back safe. You can count on me for that. If we have to push a shopping cart to Boston to get her, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Thank you, Charlie. I really don’t know what to say,” said Samantha. Her eyes moistened, but she held back the tears.

“You don’t have to say anything. I consider you guys family. That’s just what we do,” he said. Ed opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Charlie interrupted. “Don’t get all feminine on me, Ed. One thank you from the family is all I can handle,” he said, slapping Ed on the shoulder.

“Thanks anyway. That means more than you know. One question, though. Why the hell would we need to push a shopping cart to Boston?”

“I don’t know. That’s what they do in all the apocalypse movies and books.”

Chapter 10

EVENT +03:42 Hours

^{Portland Harbor}

^{Portland, Maine}

The Katelyn Ann cut through the debris-clogged water off Portland’s Eastern Promenade at five knots, as Alex did his best to steer between the larger obstacles, ignoring the smaller ones. His real concern was the quality of the water. Whatever had reached the outer harbor through Portland’s main shipping channel had churned up the bottom, dragging along an incredible amount of seaweed and mud. The seaweed tended to wrap around the propeller shaft, putting an additional load on the engine. The muddy water congested the filter supplying seawater to the engine’s cooling system.

He felt a solid thump against the hull, which activated his “boat preservation” instinct. He dropped the throttle and put the engine in neutral, hoping to save the propeller if something large scraped along the boat’s hull. He glanced over the side and saw a partially submerged, overturned motorboat, roughly half the size of the Katelyn Ann, pass astern.

“That’s the kind of shit you need to call out!” he yelled to Kate, reengaging the propeller.

“I didn’t think you could miss that!”

“Well, I did miss it! I’m watching the gauges!”

Kate nodded, mumbling under her breath. No doubt a few caustic words, fueled by the tension of their approach to the harbor. Kate had been stationed on the bow for nearly an hour. The hour and a half transit turned into two and half hours when they decided to avoid the main shipping channel, opting to navigate the Hussey Sound between Long Island and Peak’s Island.

Studying the charts below deck, Kate had made a sobering observation about the geographic orientation of the channel. The channel ran north to south, partially obscured from direct southern exposure by a long stretch of shoreline off Cape Elizabeth and South Portland. If a second wave arrived, it would no doubt slow down when it swept along the shoreline, piling an incredible amount of energy into the relatively narrow lane. The shipping channel would become the least desirable place to be caught in a thirty-eight-foot sailboat.

They had opted to put a few of Casco Bay’s islands between their boat and the next tsunami, which cost them an extra hour of time. If the engine continued to overheat, it might cost them more than an hour. South Portland Yacht Club was a mile away, on the other side of the harbor. Alex tucked the boat as close to the Portland side as possible in case the engine died.

Raising the sails and trying to harness the wind for the rest of the trip wasn’t really an option. As usual, the winds were dead in Casco Bay at eight in the morning. If the harbor’s surface hadn’t been covered with a thick layer of brown foam and trash, the water would resemble glass, interrupted only by the wake of an early morning harbor ferry or returning lobster boat. The harbor was eerily devoid of activity as he approached Portland’s first commercial marina along the Eastern Promenade. It didn’t take him long to figure out why. The tsunami struck the steep southeastern face of the Eastern Promenade, diverting north over East End Beach and southwest into Portland, sparing stately homes along the edge of Munjoy Hill.

The mooring field off East End Beach was in complete disarray. Most of the boats had been flipped, either sinking in the shallow water or floating overturned nearby, still attached to their mooring balls. A dark blue-hulled sailboat stood defiantly at its mooring, appearing untouched by the morning’s disaster, while a similar boat lay on its side, keel exposed on the beach. Off his starboard bow, Portland Boat Service’s mooring field and docks looked the same. Devastated. None of the business’s shore structures had survived the wave, and nearly every boat littered the flat expanse of ground that previously held the Portland Boat Service’s massive storage warehouse. Everything was gone, including the century-old brick buildings that marked the beginning of the Eastern Promenade Trail.

Kate looked back at him from the bow and mouthed, holy shit, shaking her head. The wave had continued unopposed, sweeping through Portland’s tightly packed “Old Port” commercial district. Many of the older, historical buildings on the outskirts of the Old Port between India Street and Franklin Street had been toppled, but the visible damage stopped there. The taller, more venerable brick buildings and hotels in the same area still dominated the cityscape like nothing had happened. Alex knew differently.

Without warning, a wall of water had washed down Commercial Street and Fore Street, at an unimaginable speed, taking parked cars with it. Anything or anyone caught in the open would have been swept down the streets and dashed against the concrete structures. Fortunately, the tsunami struck at roughly six in the morning on a Monday. Dozens of people had been tragically killed going about their early morning routines, but the casualty numbers would have jumped twenty-fold if the wave had struck an hour or so later, when the Old Port was filled with thousands of employees.

Kate pointed at the water a hundred meters ahead of the boat and signaled for him to turn to port. He eased the rudder over until she gave him a thumbs-up. He never saw the obstacle she had detected.

Alex had been so focused on dodging obstacles and gawking at the Eastern Promenade that he nearly missed the most obvious damage caused by the tsunami. A massive oil tanker sat high and dry with its propellers and rudder exposed, one hundred feet west of the Maine Oil pier. Listing forty-five degrees on its starboard side, the vessel had been ripped from the concrete pier and stranded in shallow water. He recalled seeing the tanker when they passed by the pier on their way to Jewell Island yesterday morning, which gave him hope that the tanker had offloaded its payload of crude prior to grounding. His next observation rendered the thought irrelevant.

The fuel farm normally visible just beyond the pier, which consisted of several white crude oil storage tanks, had disappeared—swept into Portland Harbor by the force of the tsunami. Their yacht club sat less than two thousand feet away along the same South Portland waterfront, the distance casting serious doubt on his ability to approach their mooring. Each tanker pulling into the pier discharged hundreds of thousands of barrels destined for oil refineries at the end of the pipeline in Canada. If the tanker had already offloaded its payload into the nearby tank farm, a thick layer of crude oil would blanket Portland’s inner harbor.

Kate pointed toward the grounded tanker and shook her head. He simply nodded. There wasn’t much to say. Portland Harbor was ruined. Every nook and cranny would reek of crude oil for years to come. Given the deeper disaster scenario unfolding, he couldn’t imagine the harbormaster or Coast Guard engaging in efforts to contain the spill to the harbor. All of Casco Bay would be contaminated in short order.

He reduced the throttle as they approached the most congested part of the inner harbor and did his best to avoid larger objects that could foul the boat’s propeller. An incredible amount of debris had been swept into the water from Portland’s commercial district, mostly wood from flattened buildings and plastic patio furniture from dozens of waterfront bars and restaurants. The marinas on the Portland side had fared decently well, spared a direct hit by several major commercial and industrial piers staged along the waterfront.

Most of the boats within the marinas had been ripped from their pier lines, left floating within the protected wooden coves, jammed against each other in one place. Dozens of pleasure boats had broken free from their wooden corrals, set adrift in the calm harbor. Alex passed an exquisitely maintained picnic boat with a deep green hull and considered towing it back to SPYC. If he could start the boat, they could put the Katelyn Ann on their mooring, reserving it for future use, and utilize the picnic boat to go ashore. The plan was too complicated, so he continued to motor past the derelict craft.

The next time Kate turned her head to confirm that he received her hand signal, he yelled out to her, “Can you tell if we’re cruising through oil!”

The surface of the water was thick with mud, silt and foam, making it difficult for him to determine if they were pushing through petroleum. The engine temperature had spiked into the red zone over the past few minutes. Lowering the throttle hadn’t lowered the temperature. Kate lowered herself to the deck and pushed half of her body through the bow rail, examining the boat’s waterline along the bow. She sat back on the deck, facing him, and nodded.

“We have a thick layer of oil running down the side of the boat!” she replied.

Shit.

Now he wasn’t sure what to do. Reduce speed further to delay the inevitable? Speed up and get there faster? Pull right into Portland and deal with the walk across the bridge? Was the bridge even safe? He envisioned the engine’s cooling system circulating oil at this point. How much longer would the engine run?

He decided to go for the club or Coast Guard station. He didn’t want to deal with the mess in Portland and the trek to find a passable bridge. The Casco Bay Bridge looked intact, but looks could be deceiving. Bridges further down the harbor would be better options, but would put them miles off track and drag them through some heavily congested industrial and residential areas. If there was one thing Alex knew from previous experiences, it was best to avoid crowded areas in a crisis or disaster—and this qualified as both.

“I’m taking us in! Look for a pier on the other side!” he said.

As soon as she nodded, he turned the wheel, pointing the boat at a tangle of wooden piers and pilings across the harbor. Reluctantly, he increased the throttle, accelerating the boat toward its final destination.

“Kids, I need you topside to help. We might only get one chance at bringing the boat alongside,” said Alex.

Emily tumbled into the cockpit first, her auburn hair pulled back tightly by a black scrunchie.

“Do you have makeup on?” he asked.

“Yeah. Why? It’s not like I didn’t have the time,” she said, looking at him like he was an idiot.

He couldn’t really argue with her logic, though in the context of their situation, he could have said, Are you out of your friggin mind? and satisfied most adults with his response. He let it go, marveling as the “center of the universe” stepped onto the deck and walked carefully toward the bow. He couldn’t wait to see Kate’s reaction. The two of them had been battling each other like gladiators for the past year. Ethan stepped through the hatchway with his backpack firmly strapped to his back, distracting him from the potential melee between Kate and Emily.

“Ethan, you don’t want to have that on your back for this. You might have to jump James Bond style from the boat to the pier,” said Alex.

Ethan removed the pack from his thin frame, placing it on the starboard cockpit bench. He adjusted his hunter green ball cap, tucking his hair under the brim, and surveyed the harbor.

“Where do you need me, Uncle Alex? Stern line?” he asked, noting Kate and Emily on the bow.

“Exactly. Why don’t you take down the lifelines on both sides and get ready to make the jump when we pull up. I’m taking us wherever we can get alongside a solid-looking pier. Could be either side.” Alex peered through the chaotic mooring field ahead. “And make sure to run the lines outside of the stanchions and rails.”

“Like this?” asked Ethan.

Alex risked a quick glance and saw that Ethan had run the lines over and along the rails, placing them in a neat coil at the opening on each side. All Ethan would have to do was grab one of the coils, depending on which side Alex would expose to the pier, and jump onto the dock, pulling the stern in for a quick tie off.

“Perfect. Just remember, don’t sweat a perfect tie up. Just get the line secured quickly and head down the pier to grab Aunt Kate’s line.”

“I got it,” said Ethan, staring ahead with a serious look. “Are you going to be able to get us in?”

“I don’t know. It’s not looking good,” Alex said, as his view unfolded.

The term “not looking good” was an understatement. Only Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant vernacular could do the scene true justice. Calling it “a regular shit show” would have been more accurate. Astoria Marina’s vast floating pier system had been swept across the mooring field and sat pinned against what used to be South Portland Yacht Club’s dock. Boats from Astoria were scattered everywhere, some still floating, attached to the dock, most sunk in the shallow water, their masts or flying bridges standing useless vigil, scattered haphazardly across the waterfront. Thick streaks of black oil were evident on every waterline surface, confirming his decision to seek a solid pier.

At sea level from this distance, it was nearly impossible to determine if any of Astoria’s docks were still connected to land. Many of the pier sections had flipped upside down, exposing the massive, petroleum-covered floats underneath the wood, giving him few obvious options for his boat. The eastern half of SPYC’s mooring field had been cleared by the long dock, pushed perpendicular to the rock wall by the tsunami. A combination of roughly forty sailboats and motorboats had been pushed into the shallow water between the rock wall and the dock. A few of the shallow draft motorboats bobbed in the water, while most of the craft lay marooned at odd angles. The smaller marina to the left of Astoria Marina had suffered a similar fate, leaving him with zero options along the entire length of waterfront—aside from the Coast Guard station. He slowed as the Katelyn Ann entered the empty half of the mooring field.

At least the clubhouse beyond SPYC’s rock wall looked intact, along with most of the houses and structures along the shore. The wave that had cleared the petroleum tank farm had been limited to the northeastern tip of South Portland, which made sense given the geography of the peninsula. The tsunami wave released by the blast would strike the southern-facing shoreline, causing the biggest pileups of water along the beaches in Cape Elizabeth and Scarborough, miles away, closer to their house.

“What do you think?” he yelled to Kate.

“You might be able to pull into one of those slips,” she said, pointing at Astoria’s mangled dock, “but I can’t tell if it’s connected to land. I can see at least a dozen boats under the water and a ton of other shit! Go to the Coast Guard station!”

Alex steered the boat to port, passing by several empty mooring balls, and increased his speed. A few minutes later, they approached the seemingly undamaged station, which stood on a raised concrete platform that jutted six hundred feet into the harbor. Coast Guard personnel on the easternmost concrete pier waved urgently at him. Oddly, their gestures didn’t appear welcoming to Alex. It almost seemed like they were trying to wave him off.

Fuck that. Their job is to help vessels in distress, and this is about as distressful as it gets.

He slowed to bare steerageway and searched for a place along the fifteen-foot-high pier that had a ladder or an access dock lower to the water.

A large Buoy Tender occupied much of the water between the eastern and western piers, blocking his view of the inner pier area. He knew that the station boasted a forty-five-foot Patriot Class Medium Response Boat (RB-M), in addition to at least two twenty-five-foot Defender Class Small Response Boats (RB-S), so it made sense that they would have a lower pier to accommodate the craft, maybe on the outside of the western pier. He altered his course to starboard and edged closer to the station. At this point, he could clearly tell that the station personnel did not want him to approach any closer. Dressed in dark blue uniforms with body armor, at least two of them carried carbines slung across their chests. As soon as he saw the rifles, his mind flashed to the drop-leg holster snugged against his upper right thigh.

The holster faced away from the pier, which gave him hope that it hadn’t been spotted. He couldn’t imagine that they would be happy to see someone openly carrying a firearm on the water. The state of Maine had no prohibitions against openly carrying a firearm, and he was licensed to carry a concealed weapon in the state, but he had no idea if bringing a firearm on the boat in coastal waters was legal. He’d never given it a second thought. He decided that this wasn’t the time to push his luck, so he reached down to start the process of removing the holster.

Before he could pull the first Velcro latch from his belt, one of the Defenders roared into view from behind the western pier. Alex moved his hands away from the holster and placed them at the top of the boat’s steering wheel. The Defender’s forward-mounted M-240B machine gun remained trained on the Katelyn Ann as it closed in on the sailboat’s starboard side. Kate raised her hands, which set off a chain reaction of hands-raising throughout the boat. The Defender’s roof-mounted loudspeaker roared.

“Put your engine in neutral, and place your hands on your head!”

Alex quickly complied as the Defender came alongside, facing aft, disgorging its armed boarding team onto the sailboat’s deck. Dressed in blue digital camouflage uniforms and full ballistic body armor, the four-member team split up. One group moved toward the bow, approaching Kate and Emily, pointing their weapons at them. The second group immediately secured Alex and Ethan, removing Alex’s pistol and pushing the two of them into the portside cockpit seat. The petty officer manning the M-240B kept it trained on Alex the entire time. When the boarding officer was satisfied that the boat was in neutral and that everything appeared under control, she signaled for the crew of the Defender to lash the sailboat securely to their craft. Without glancing in Alex’s direction, she tossed the pistol over the stern.

“Was that really necessary?” asked Alex.

“None of this would be necessary if you hadn’t insisted on approaching the station. You were warned repeatedly,” she replied.

“My car is over at the yacht club. We couldn’t go pier side anywhere but here. I apologize for putting you in this position. I imagine the station is dealing with a lot of shit right now. Do you know what’s happening? I’m pretty sure we were hit by an EMP.”

The boarding officer glanced at the other petty officer, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

“Boarding team, stand down! We’ll tow them back to the station. Let’s go!” she announced, turning her attention back to Alex.

“We don’t know what’s happening, but the National Terrorist Advisory System issued an imminent warning, with no threat specifics. The station went dark at about 0500, damage to the systems onshore and onboard our vessels was consistent with your assessment of an EMP. We have our hands full, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to bring you pier side for two minutes to offload. After that, I’m putting her on the nearest mooring.”

“So I guess a harbor cleanup isn’t high on your priority list?” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“We have some buckets and a row boat if you’re volunteering,” she said.

“Don’t piss her off, honey. Please. We’re very grateful for your help,” said Kate, approaching them along the portside deck.

The petty officer nodded and turned to board the Defender, stopping briefly to address Alex.

“Sorry about the pistol, but the NTAS warning came with orders to disarm civilians on sight. I think it’s bullshit, but not everyone agrees with me. Either way, you weren’t getting on the station with that pistol. I’d be a little more discreet next time,” she said.

“Disarming civilians is a little strange, don’t you think?”

“I have the distinct feeling that we haven’t seen the beginning of strange yet,” she said.

Chapter 11

EVENT +04:38 Hours

^{South Portland, Maine}

Kate stood facing the chain-link gate, staring at the water-swept, gravel parking lot. The cars had been rearranged, and damage to the clubhouse appeared more extensive than they had observed from several hundred feet away on the water. Structurally, the one-story building looked intact, but all of the windows had been shattered, and part of the steward’s shack had been swept off its foundation. The small wooden shack sat teetering on the edge of the rock wall facing west toward the Coast Guard station. She peered through the fence, scanning the parking lot one more time. They would have to walk home.

Alex removed his backpack and grabbed the fence with both hands, gauging its steadiness.

“I don’t think there’s any point,” Kate said.

She didn’t want to waste any more time getting back to their house. The car had been parked along the seawall, several feet from the edge, along with the rest of the cars that were either missing or sitting ass-up in the water. The cars in the lot had all been shifted at least twenty feet by the water, which would put their SUV in the oily soup mixture that now constituted Portland Harbor. She didn’t even see its tailgate, so there was no reason for Alex to climb the fence and confirm the obvious.

Just their luck, too. Finding a spot for their SUV in the less cramped, outer edge of the parking lot on a clear Sunday morning had been a stroke of fortune yesterday. Now they faced a wonderful five-mile walk with overstuffed backpacks in the stifling heat that would only get worse as the day progressed. Alex either didn’t hear her or was purposefully ignoring her. Neither possibility pleased her.

He’d already put them more than an hour behind schedule by confronting the Coast Guard station’s commanding officer about the lost pistol and the fact that they were treated like terrorists while approaching the station in a “sailboat.” It didn’t matter anymore, but he couldn’t let it go.

Under normal circumstances, she appreciated his proactive approach to sticking up for the family, but this was far from an ordinary dilemma. They could have walked right from the pier to the front gate in five minutes, but he kept pushing, and they were detained while their credentials were verified. It was pure harassment, infuriating and unnecessary, but Alex should have known better than to push their buttons.

Now it was hotter outside, and her last vestige of patience was about to be completely erased by Alex’s Spiderman routine. The quicker they got home, the sooner they could figure out how to get Ryan out of Boston. They needed to stay focused on that goal. Climbing a fence to confirm the obvious wasn’t on her list of shit to do right now.

“The car’s gone. We’re heading out,” she stated, signaling for Ethan and Emily to follow.

She took several steps down the road before hearing Alex’s footfalls approach from behind.

“Take it easy, Kate. We’re on the same page here. I just thought we might be able to salvage something from the car if it was sticking up from the water like some of the others,” said Alex.

She softened the look on her face and turned her head. “We can’t carry any more crap. It’s hot, it’s humid, and I want to get home so we can come up with a plan to get Ryan. We have everything we need at home.”

“If our house is still there. These packs might be it. We have to think worst-case scenario,” he said.

“Every house is still standing. Even the clubhouse on the edge of the water. I’m sure our house is intact,” said Kate, picking up the pace.

“You’re going too fast for the kids. A regular walking pace would be best, especially with the heat. These packs will feel twice as heavy by the time we reach Highland Avenue.”

Kate sensed that he didn’t want to fight, so she accepted his suggestion and slowed the pace. He could have argued the physics of how the tsunami might have reached their house with more force, or continued on the all-or-nothing survivor mentality track, but he had opted for more constructive counsel. After more than twenty years of marriage, subtle shifts in tone and commentary often carried more meaning and significance than an obvious, outward expression. In this case, she interpreted it as a temporary concession. She’d take it. They needed to work together from this point forward.

“Yep. I can feel this damn thing digging into my shoulder already. They’re not exactly the most comfortable packs. How long do you think it will take us to get home?” she asked, slowing down to fall into step beside him.

“Five miles? I’d say two to three hours, depending on the burden of these packs and the temperature. That’s assuming we can follow the usual roads, which is a fair assumption. Even if the water made it that far inland, we shouldn’t be looking at anything more than an occasional downed tree or power line—maybe some debris. We should be home before the day gets ridiculously hot.”

“Sounds like fun. This isn’t exactly the weight-loss plan I had in mind, but I’ll take what I can get,” Kate said, adjusting the pack on her shoulders.

Kate wished she had taken the time to pick out a more suitable backpack. Alex had given her the opportunity to look through options, but she had deferred the decision to his judgment. Working through the different choices presented by Alex could occupy most of her waking hours if she allowed it—and it never ended. Out of necessity, she gradually took on more of an observational role and let him run the show. Once Alex formed an idea, he could be relentless and impatient about getting it done. She had decided to go back to work at her accounting firm, and the last thing she needed at the end of each day was another deadline. Less than a quarter of a mile into their trek, she regretted not taking a little more interest in the backpack he had chosen.

He had selected the same design for everyone, opting for an OD green, military-style, three-day assault pack. From a purely practical standpoint, the assault pack met their requirements on every level. The “three-day” designation referred to sustained combat operations, where a soldier would carry large quantities of additional ammunition, radio batteries, and other squad-or platoon-based items, in addition to food and water, taking up most of their “personal” space. Alex had chosen the assault pack for its large cargo-carrying capacity and unique interior arrangement.

Internally, the pack contained over a dozen zippered or snapped compartments, making it easy to organize and access the different categories of gear required for an effective bug-out bag. They had bought two backpacks for each member of the family. One for the house and one for travel.

For the boat, Alex staged each backpack with an imbedded three-liter CamelBak hydration bladder, three stainless-steel one-liter bottles, three full MREs (Meals Ready to Eat), a folding knife, one LED flashlight and a basic first aid kit. Everyone was required to add two full changes of clothing and a pair of running shoes, in a sealed three-gallon Ziploc bag, to the bottom of their pack. The rest of the space belonged to the owner, which left more than enough room to pack clothing, toiletries and other essentials for a week-long trip, if you didn’t mind wearing the same items for a couple of days in a row. Kate always brought another bag for trips over three days on the sailboat.

Alex always loaded his own pack with additional survival gear. Fire-starting equipment, signaling gear, a pair of handheld radios, an enhanced first aid kit, water purification tablets and a number of items she had already forgotten. His pack always looked like it was about to burst apart at the seams and had to weigh at least fifteen pounds heavier than the other packs. He purposely loaded his own pack with more of the group items, acknowledging the fact that he was asking enough of them to carry basic survival supplies on every local vacation.

Not many families travelled like the Fletchers. Whenever they journeyed by car as a family, four of these backpacks, filled with the required basics, would be stuffed into the vehicle next to their regular suitcases and luggage. Alex didn’t expect the family to walk into a hotel or ski lodge with matching, military-style backpacks, but they had the option of retrieving them for a rapid departure in the unlikely event of a disaster. He had become obsessed with the idea of “bugging out” of every possible situation—an obsession that had paid off handsomely this morning.

“Honey, you should tighten the waist belt a little more. It’ll take some of the load off your shoulders. The straps are padded decently enough, but I’d guess that the pack was generally designed to go over body armor or some kind of load-bearing vest system. Kids, if you feel like the pack is rubbing your shoulders too much, tighten the waist belt as much as you can stand. It’ll make a big difference an hour from now,” said Alex.

Several feet in front of them, Ethan and Emily hiked their packs higher on their shoulders and made the adjustment. Kate did the same, tightening her own waist strap as much as she could stand, which significantly lessened the pressure on her shoulders.

“That’s much better, until the straps start digging into my stomach,” she remarked.

“Wait until you’re drenched with sweat. Once your shirt is soaked, the chafing is ten times worse,” said Alex.

“Wonderful. Any other good news?”

“We’ll all probably have blisters or a hot spot on our feet within the hour, most likely on the dominant foot. The extra weight on your back changes the friction coefficient between your sock and shoe. We’ll stop every forty-five minutes and check, make some adjustments—maybe change socks.”

“I don’t think we should stop,” Kate said.

“Trust me, you’ll be glad to stop. We did it during road marches in the Marine Corps. Marines would check their feet and drink water, while the corpsmen ran up and down the column repairing blisters and checking on guys who looked like they were about to pass out. We savored those breaks,” said Alex.

“You didn’t have a son trapped in Boston, waiting to be rescued.”

“Good point, though I have a feeling he’s not lying in bed sucking his thumb,” Alex said.

“That boy needs his mom,” Kate insisted.

“He is sort of a momma’s boy,” Alex joked. “Kids, make sure you keep sipping water! Don’t be afraid to stick that hose in your mouth.”

“That didn’t sound right,” whispered Kate.

“That was the G-rated version of what my gunny would have said.”

Chapter 12

EVENT +05:07 Hours

^{South Portland, Maine}

A lone car approached from behind, causing Alex to stop on the sidewalk. He stood with his family in the shadow of the three-story, red-brick middle school situated on the southeast corner of the intersection at Broadway and Ocean Street. Since turning onto Broadway, Alex had counted four cars of various makes and models. There was no discernible pattern to what type of car survived the EMP, or whatever disturbance had caused the electrical grid to fail. He had expected to see more cars based on the Critical National Infrastructure’s (CNI) revised report findings. Three cars in thirty minutes on a major road didn’t support the assertion that forty percent of all cars would remain drivable.

They all watched a gray Subaru Outback pass them and stop at the intersection, which was occupied by a functional South Portland Police Department cruiser and three police officers. The Subaru edged forward, but the officers signaled for the driver to stop the car. Alex was pretty sure that he heard them tell the driver to turn off the engine.

“Keep moving. Cut the corner and keep going down Ocean toward Highland. I’ll catch up,” said Alex.

He kept walking along the curved sidewalk and stood behind a tree, while his family moved along the front of the school in the shade cast by the tall building. Satisfied that they were leaving the scene, he turned all of his attention back to the unfolding drama. Since there was no other vehicle traffic, or any background noise for that matter, he heard the entire exchange.

“Sir, I need you to step out of the car,” said the officer by the driver’s-side window.

The second officer had taken position on the front passenger side, while the third officer circled the hatchback, examining the back seat and cargo area of the vehicle, before joining the first officer.

“Did I do something wrong?” asked the driver. “I stopped where I normally would, even though there’s no light.”

“Can you please just step out of the car? You’re not in any trouble,” said the officer.

“Well, I don’t see why I need to get out of my car. I have my license and registration right here,” said the driver, holding up the documents for the officer to see.

The officer calmly retrieved the man’s driver’s license, barely examining it before continuing.

“Mr. Reynolds, the Department of Homeland Security has declared a national state of emergency. We need to replace vehicles that were knocked out by the EMP. I’m sorry, Mr. Reynolds, but this vehicle temporarily belongs to the South Portland Police Department. Please step out of your car.”

The officer standing next to him took a few steps back and rested her hand on her service pistol. The driver saw this subtle shift and received the message, opening the door and stepping onto the pavement. He was dressed in khaki shorts with cargo pockets and a gray T-shirt. Nothing about him raised any alarms or gave Alex concern that this might end badly.

“Officer Harker will drive you home. We’re really sorry about this, but we have to get the rest of our officers out on patrol. You’re better off at your house anyway,” said the officer.

“I need to fill a prescription for my daughter at Shaw’s and try to find things—like food. I don’t suppose Officer Harker will be on loan for the next hour or so to drive me around?” asked the driver, staring down the police officer.

The police officer shook his head and held up the license, which the driver deftly snapped out of his hand. The driver kept both hands in the air, one holding the plastic license, and walked backward, shaking his head, and Alex knew there was far more to the unassuming man in shorts and a T-shirt than met the casual eye. Based on the speed and dexterity of the man’s movement, Alex had little doubt that he could have “repossessed” his car and left the three officers on the pavement in a tangle of limbs.

He had to remember this critical lesson for his own upcoming trek. Make no assumptions based on appearance. There were plenty of people out there who were quicker, stronger and craftier than he was.

“I’ll walk from here,” the man said and turned to head north on Ocean Street toward the supermarket.

He stopped several steps into his journey and turned to address the officers, who had already begun to set up for the next car that might amble into their trap.

“Hey! We forgot to fill out the paperwork! What, no paperwork? Imagine that. Enjoy the car, assholes!” he said and jogged away.

Alex slipped away from the tree and located Kate sitting in the shade of the furthest entrance stoop from the intersection. He headed in their direction, nervously looking over his shoulder. The police seemed cordial enough, but they didn’t hesitate to take away a citizen’s property in the name of emergency powers. They would have to be cautious around law enforcement. Within a few hours of the event, whatever it turned out to be, law enforcement agencies had started confiscating cars and disarming citizens.

Given the circumstances, neither of these actions qualified as a sudden decline into a “police state,” but Alex couldn’t shake distant thoughts about some of the theories popularized by Internet conspiracy pundits. “False flag” came to mind, but based on what he’d witnessed since the initial flash beyond Jewell Island, he quickly dismissed the idea as paranoia.

To conspiracy theorists, the term “false flag” implied an attack or hostile operation conducted by the U.S. government and subsequently blamed on a foreign or domestic enemy. The most common purpose cited for a false flag attack was the erosion or outright suspension of civil liberties. Conspiracy groups insisted that the United States had been repeatedly subjected to these attacks by the government over the course of three decades to soften the people’s tolerance of government intrusion.

Many of them believe that the 9/11 attacks were supported or “allowed to happen” by factions in the government looking to expand surveillance and detention powers, in the name of the “War on Terror.” Similarly, the pundits surmised that the Boston Bombing was perpetrated to test the citizens’ reaction to a martial-law-style lockdown of a major city. Would Boston’s population openly tolerate the presence of armored personnel carriers and heavily armed soldiers patrolling the streets, while teams of SWAT officers went door to door, pulling citizens out of their homes at gunpoint?

Even the Jakarta Pandemic had been linked to a “mystery faction’s” overall effort to condition the American people, desensitizing the population to situations that might result in mass casualties and essential services shortages. They claimed that all of these events would be linked to a singular, “mass event” that would tip the scales and invoke a permanent national police state, which we would welcome with open arms.

Alex imagined that the conspiracy pundits were going crazy with theories—made even worse by the fact that they had no Internet to propagate them. On a whole, he didn’t buy into these theories, but given what he had just witnessed, it couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on the big picture. He reached Kate, who sat on the first step of the doorway, and saw that the kids were hidden deeper in the alcove, seated against the building.

“Everything all right over there?” she asked him.

“I don’t know. The cops just seized that guy’s vehicle in the name of the federal government.”

“What?” said Emily. “They can’t do that.”

“Federal government? That doesn’t sound right,” said Kate.

“I agree, which is why I don’t know what to think. The officer cited Homeland Security and a state of national emergency. Said they needed working vehicles to get the rest of the police department out on patrol,” said Alex.

“That makes more sense,” Kate said with some relief. “I’m sure that’s all they were doing.”

Alex shook his head and checked his watch. “That’s the fifth car we’ve seen on Broadway in what—twenty or thirty minutes? How many cars does the department need to replace? If they just started seizing cars, it makes sense, but it’s been over three hours since the tsunami hit. I think we need to avoid any law enforcement roadblocks or checkpoints from this point forward.”

“How the hell are we going to get to Boston if the police are stealing cars?”

“Let’s get home first,” he said, extending his hand to Kate.

She lifted herself off the step and immediately hugged his sweaty frame, burying her head in his shoulder.

“We don’t even know if our other car will work,” she whispered, lifting her head.

“We’ll figure something out. I’ll ride a bike to Boston if I have to. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

Kate shook her head. “You can’t make a promise like that.”

“I can promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen. You know I’m good for that,” he said, kissing her moist forehead. “Let’s get moving. If we’re sweating like this at ten in the morning, I’d hate to see us at noon.”

They took a few moments to adjust their backpacks and CamelBak water hoses before stepping off on the rest of their two-to three-hour hike. They headed south along Ocean Street for less than a block, crossing the street at the end of the middle school’s athletic field. Alex kept his eyes on the police cruiser to the north, wondering how many cars they had added to the department’s inventory this morning. He couldn’t shake the deeply imbedded suspicion that nothing was as it seemed this morning—and the fear that nothing would ever be the same again.

Turning onto Highland Avenue a few minutes later filled him with a momentary sense of relief. Highland Avenue intersected with Harrison Road in Scarborough, at the Pleasant Hill firehouse located less than a third of a mile from their house. All they had to do at this point was follow Highland Avenue for three and a half miles to the firehouse, where they could pretty much stumble into their neighborhood. They had walked for less than a minute before hearing the distant sound of a vehicle. Alex quickly scanned his surroundings and made a decision that surprised him.

“Honey, take the kids and hide behind that car,” he said, pointing at an older model minivan in the adjacent parking lot.

“Are we hiding from cars now?” she snapped, grabbing Emily’s sleeve and pulling her toward the minivan.

“Maybe I’m being ridiculous,” he said, walking with them.

He barely spotted the white sedan rounding the bend on Highland before a clump of thick bushes blocked his view. He had managed to see that the driver had activated the left turn signal, which meant the car would turn north on Ocean Street, headed right into the police trap. He changed his mind about hiding and moved swiftly to the street, waving his hands over his head.

“What the fuck are you doing?” hissed Kate, holding her hands palms up in an annoyed gesture.

“Get behind the car!” he said over his shoulder.

The car slowed enough for him to yell at a blond woman through the open driver’s-side window.

“There’s a police roadblock at Broadway. They’re seizing cars!” yelled Alex.

The car screeched to a halt several feet before the intersection, and Alex jogged along the sidewalk, careful not to approach the car directly and possibly frighten the driver. The woman leaned her head out of the window. She had a laceration on her forehead above her right eyebrow, which had bled profusely at some point this morning given the amount of congealed blood plastered to the right side of her face. Her hair was matted to her head above the wound.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

Alex caught up with her, staying on the sidewalk to keep at least a car’s length distance between them.

“The police have a cruiser set up in the middle of the intersection at Broadway and Ocean. I watched them stop a car and force the driver out. Emergency seizure,” he said.

“What about further down at Cottage and Broadway?” asked the driver.

“We just came from there. It was clear fifteen minutes ago,” said Alex.

“Good. Did you notice if any of the stores are open?” she asked, glancing around nervously.

“The variety store on the corner of Broadway and Mussey was open, but they didn’t have power. Cash only. We saw a slow but steady stream of people walking down Cottage toward the shopping complex. What’s the situation like down Highland? We’re headed to Scarborough.”

“I heard that the water reached Highland across from Wainright Field, but I haven’t confirmed that. We live by the high school. There’s all kinds of weird talk out there. EMP, Chinese invasion, volcano erupting in Boston…”

“What happened to your forehead?” Alex asked.

He suddenly felt slightly exposed standing on the side of the road. If the water hadn’t reached her house, why did she look like she had been in a knife fight? What else did they face walking down Highland Avenue?

“One of my—neighbors—decided that I wasn’t entitled to one of the few working cars on the street,” she said, staring blankly through the front windshield.

Alex didn’t care to press the question. He knew what had likely played out in her driveway, and that the neighbor had lost the fight.

“I’d stash this thing as far from the Hannaford parking lot as possible and walk the rest of the way. You might be able to handle one asshole on your own, but every eye in the parking lot will be on your car.”

“There were three of them,” she said, “and only one of them wanted the car. Fucking savages.”

“Sorry. I assume you…” he paused.

“I took care of them,” she said, touching the crusted wound on her forehead. “Keep a tight eye on your family,” she added, nodding toward the minivan to the left of Alex.

The sedan pulled away and stopped at the intersection momentarily, while the driver undoubtedly confirmed the information he had passed. She accelerated the car down Highland and disappeared behind the chain-link fence that bordered the middle school’s athletic field.

“All right. Let’s go,” he announced.

Kate rose from her dubious hiding spot near the rear bumper of the minivan and walked toward the sidewalk, joined by Ethan and Emily.

“Ethan, turn around and let Emily grab the knife out of your backpack. Outer left pocket, Emily. Then Ethan gets the one out of your pack, sweetie. Turn around, honey, and I’ll get yours,” he said.

“What did she say?” Kate asked. “She looked like she’d been attacked.”

“She fought off three guys trying to steal her car,” he replied quietly.

“Keep the knife in your front pocket, out of sight, and keep sipping water. That CamelBak should be empty by the time we reach the high school,” he announced, then whispered the rest of what the woman had told him about the attack into Kate’s ear.

Kate’s expression instantly sharpened to an angry grimace.

“I really wish that Coastie hadn’t tossed my pistol,” he said.

“We’ll be fine,” she said, snapping open the three-inch serrated blade to examine his choice for their bug-out packs. “Just fine.” She closed the knife and put it into her front cargo pocket.

Chapter 13

EVENT +08:15

^{Scarborough, Maine}

Kate was starting to have irrational thoughts about ditching her backpack. They were less than a half mile from their neighborhood, and all she could think about was throwing the tan contraption into the bushes and coming back to get it later. The pack’s weight had nothing to do with the problem. She was in excellent physical condition and could hike for hours with one of the equally sized internal-frame backpacks they purchased from Eastern Mountain Sports. The pack Alex had chosen for the family bug-out bag simply sucked for walking long distances.

Unless you had grown accustomed to working with disgustingly uncomfortable gear, like most marines, the “three-day assault pack” was a killer. It lacked any kind of rigid frame, rendering proper weight distribution nearly impossible, which had the unfortunate effect of rubbing her shoulders raw. Mercifully, she had consumed most of her water by this point, which, according to Alex, had reduced the pack’s weight by more than ten pounds. Small consolation.

Of course, by the time she had significantly reduced the water weight, the damage to her shoulders and psyche had been done. She wanted to lay into him for defaulting to military equipment, but didn’t see any purpose to picking a fight. The kids weren’t complaining, and Alex wouldn’t admit the pack was uncomfortable if his shoulders were visibly bleeding. She didn’t want to be the only one to bitch about their predicament. They were almost home, where she could toss the pack in the house and lay on the floor for as long as she wanted. If they still had a house.

The first signs of tsunami damage appeared a few blocks from the Wainright athletic fields. The pattern of damage made sense based on what they had observed during their trek along Highland Avenue, which had ascended gradually from the center of South Portland near the middle school. Roughly a mile from the police roadblock, standing on the sidewalk overlooking South Portland High School’s football field, they could see the green of Portland’s Western Promenade, which towered above Portland’s inner harbor. They looked about even with Portland’s high ground, and Alex had guessed that they were at least a hundred feet above sea level.

She trusted his judgment when it came to navigation. Alex had an uncanny sense of direction and an infallible ability to get them to wherever they needed to go, often without the help of maps or GPS. After nearly twenty years of marriage, she was a believer. The man was never lost and could read terrain like the back of his hand.

Even the kids started to believe when another mapping prediction came true a half mile past the high school, near Fickett Street. Highland Avenue peaked and began a shallow descent into the neighborhoods along the South Portland/Scarborough border. Alex estimated that their house sat somewhere between thirty to forty feet above sea level. A fact he leveraged when everyone began to feel the effects of the two-mile uphill hike on their quads. Incredibly, none of them recalled Highland Avenue descending into Scarborough, but Alex insisted that they were very likely approaching the downhill portion of their trip. True to his word, the street leveled off and began to slope downward, ever so slightly. The difference was barely noticeable on their bodies, but mentally, it rejuvenated them. The temperature had climbed well into the high eighties by that point, and any factor working in their favor was entirely welcome.

When the mud and debris appeared on the streets and in the yards, they figured they had reached the bottom of the hill. Aside from the ever-present layer of muddy silt, it hadn’t looked nearly as bad as she had expected. Most of the wooden fences had been knocked down, but the high water mark hadn’t reached the first-floor windows. People they encountered along the road reported basement flooding as their worst damage from the tsunami, which had rolled through without any warning at around six in the morning. Roadside watersheds and ditches overflowed with dirty, foamy water, giving a good indication that the area’s natural water runoff system had been completely overwhelmed. No surprise there, along with the observation that all of the sewer grates visible from Highland gushed muddy water.

Alex had found this to be more alarming than the surface damage. With their sump pump out of commission due to the power outage and the town sewer system flooded past maximum capacity, the water in their basement wouldn’t drain. They still kept most of their supplies and equipment in the basement. As they continued along Highland Avenue, closing the distance to the shoreline, the high-water mark on the trees flanking the road rose significantly, along with the layer of mud covering the road and ground.

At first the sludge had been a minor inconvenience, preventing them from simply shuffling along the sidewalk and forcing them to step more deliberately to avoid filling their shoes with the slimy concoction of sand, dirt and sea foam. A few blocks into the tsunami zone, they quickly sank to their ankles, removing dry feet from the very short list of remaining comforts. Upon exiting the neighborhood and reaching the stretch of Highland Avenue flanked by the forest preserve, the mud had reached the middle of Kate’s shins, turning the hike into a nightmare.

With the midday sun beating down on her, the past three-quarters of a mile had been difficult physically and mentally. The stagnant sheet of thickening muck had grown deeper, sometimes reaching their knees. The closer they got to their neighborhood, the slower they moved toward their goal of getting to Ryan. Every mud-encrusted, strained footstep stood between Kate and her son.

Standing at the corner of Harrison Road and Highland Avenue, she was thankful to see that all of the houses in the Harrison Hill area appeared intact. With this positive thought in mind, she mentally shelved her grudge against the backpack and trudged forward through the knee-high slop toward their house a few blocks away.

Alex watched Kate stop and exhale at the intersection. She stepped off in the direction of their neighborhood, without bothering to glance at the lifeless fire station on the opposite side of the street. He knew what was bothering her, aside from the fact that their son was alone and over a hundred miles away in a heavily populated urban center. She was singly focused on throwing her backpack to the ground on their front steps. He should have known better, especially since he’d humped similar packs for hundreds of miles after 9/11. The assault pack had taken a toll on him as well. The pack he’d chosen had a reputation for extreme discomfort, which he had conveniently forgotten until heaving the contraption on his back at the Coast Guard station.

His shoulders had started to chafe several minutes into the hike, when his sweat-soaked cotton T-shirt ceased to provide any kind of useful barrier between his skin and the thick nylon shoulder straps. Three and a half hours later, he wouldn’t be surprised to see bone protruding from his shoulders, but he didn’t dare show the first sign of wincing or whining. Kate hadn’t complained at all, despite the fact that she looked utterly miserable. For her first “forced” road march, she’d exceeded all expectations, leaving Alex humbled. Kate was living proof that the Department of Defense’s decision to lift the Combat Exclusion Rules had been long overdue.

Amazingly, neither Emily nor Ethan had grumbled about the hike. He hadn’t heard much from them at all, which left him puzzled. They whispered back and forth, but beyond that, they had both gone silent early in the trip. He’d tried to get them talking, but it seemed futile. They appeared slightly catatonic, and their responses were delayed. He was worried that they might be dehydrated, but they’d both consumed nearly three liters of water before reaching the top of Highland Avenue. Kate was convinced they were in some mild form of shock from the morning’s events, which served to intensify their “teen distancing” syndrome. Whatever it was, they kept going, which was all he could ask from them at this point.

“Nobody at the fire station?” he asked.

“I guess not,” mumbled Kate. “How much water damage do you think we have?”

“Based on the high-water mark here and the fact that most small trees have been knocked down, I’d guess that our basement is completely flooded—and our first floor has been wiped clean.”

“There’s a lot more standing water here—and mud. It didn’t look this bad back up Highland,” she said.

“We’re almost a mile closer to the beach at this point,” he said.

“Everything’s been stripped away. This is unbelievable.”

He stared down Harrison Road and saw the proverbial “forest for the trees.” Aside from the houses, larger trees and utility poles, the landscape had been completely denuded by the tsunami, replaced by a foot and a half deep layer of mud and ubiquitous, randomly scattered piles of debris.

Across the street, he spotted another gray, Town of Scarborough trash bin. They’d seen several along Highland Ave over the past thirty minutes, where evidence of a stronger wave surge became evident. He knew the bins hadn’t originated from any of the neighborhoods in Harrison Hill. Trash day was Thursday for this part of town. He’d also seen roofing tiles and splintered sections of cedar siding buried in the mud or stuck in the lower branches of the trees of the forest preserve. A tattered lobster trap lay on the left side of the street, half buried in silt a few feet away from an overturned neon green plastic bucket. The entire landscape was littered with these bizarrely juxtaposed confirmations that humanity had been violently upended further down the line. The tsunami must have obliterated the beach communities.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, they had reached Everett Lane, one street from Durham Road. Everett ran parallel to Durham and led to a small park nestled into the forest preserve abutting the neighborhoods. Alex wondered if a less conspicuous approach to their house might be a better idea under the circumstances. He didn’t feel like parading down the street, attracting everyone’s attention. Most of the neighbors would look to him for advice, and he couldn’t afford to get bogged down.

If his suspicions were correct, he faced an extremely tight timeframe to rescue his son. In less than a microsecond, this morning’s EMP burst had permanently disabled the United States’ essential services infrastructure, far exceeding the damage and impact caused by the slow burn of the Jakarta Pandemic. In 2013, it took several weeks of food and water shortages before the riots spiraled out of control, and most people still had electricity! Cities burned, and hundreds of thousands of deaths were attributed to the violence and chaos that ensued. For New England, the extreme winter weather had been a blessing and a curse. The cold undoubtedly killed thousands, but it drove all but the most hardcore to seek shelter, extinguishing the civil rampage that burned entire cities to the ground in the south.

He predicted a forty-eight to seventy-two hour lull in the tightly packed urban and city areas. The pandemic of 2013 had taught the population a thing or two about survival, which would delay the chaos long enough for him to execute a search-and-rescue mission deep into the heart of Boston. “Prepping” took off on an epic scale in the wake of the Jakarta Pandemic, but like every other morning-show-fueled craze, it faded from the greater public consciousness and vanished from the everyday lexicon of most Americans. Thirty-day food and water stashes were slowly incorporated into the household grocery regimen, and sealed buckets of dehydrated food were raided for family camping trips or backyard tenting adventures. Even with this erosion, nobody could deny the fact that the nation was collectively better prepared today than in 2013. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be enough to weather the storm gathering on the immediate horizon.

The “grab and go” survival buckets and two-week stockpiles were designed to alleviate the pressing demands on the food supply system. To bridge the gap, giving the government and food supply distributors time to reallocate current inventories and direct the release of strategic food reserves. Based on the fact that Alex had seen a grand total of five cars on the road in three hours, he wasn’t optimistic about the immediate future.

He gave it two days until the collective masses realized that nobody could flip the switch and turn America back on. When this realization took hold, memories of the suffering and misery endured during the darkest hours of the Jakarta Pandemic would flood to the surface, fueling the greatest breakdown in United States history. He wanted to be far from Boston, or any urban area, when that started.

“Honey, let’s turn on Everett and sneak in through backyards. We’ll pass fewer houses that way.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Kate said, taking a step forward and stopping.

“Mother ffffffuuuuh,” she hissed.

Alex saw that her left foot had emerged from the mud without the shoe. At least she couldn’t blame him for the shoe selection. He’d suggested packing waterproof hiking boots for the sailing trip, but she’d overruled his decision, opting for more comfortable running or cross-training shoes. Her choice made sense, if you didn’t have to fight through knee-high mud. He took her right arm and steadied her while she dug through the muck for her shoe.

“These things are useless at this point,” she said, leaning against him to use both hands to retie the shoe.

“They’re protecting our feet from a puncture or cut. That’s about it. We’re almost there, my love. Twenty minutes,” he said.

“More like thirty at this rate,” she said, finishing with her shoe.

He kissed the back of her moist neck, tasting her salty sweat. “You’re doing an amazing job. If it weren’t for you, the kids would be sitting in the mud on the side of the road a mile back,” he whispered.

She turned and kissed him briefly on the lips. “That’s all I needed to hear to keep me going for the rest of the day,” she said, flashing the first genuine smile he’d seen from her all morning.

“All right then, let’s bring this crazy train home. Kids, I want you guys up here,” said Alex, motioning with his hands for them to fill the gap between him and Kate.

“Why?” said Emily.

“So I can watch over you. Come on. Let’s go.”

“It’s just our neighborhood,” she said, with a hint of teen condescension.

Alex faked a smile and mumbled under his breath, “Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about.”