Nuclear Spring

  EMP - NUCLEAR SPRING

  Book 2 of the EMP series

  By: TD Barnes

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2018 Thornton D. Barnes

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my descendants who could experience in real life the horrible challenges described herein.

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  Acknowledgments

  I wish to acknowledge all of you who read EMP-Nuclear Winter, the first in this sequel and encouraged me to continue the story about the insuperable hardships and challenges facing the survivors in my first book in the aftermath of nuclear war. I thank Shawn Dutton with Prepared Times Magazine, and James Talmage Stevens, a.k.a. Doctor Prepper with Be Prepared Radio and author of Making the Best of Basics. Both Dutton and Stevens supported the underlying reason for my wanting to write about the horrible effects of an Electromagnetic Pulse weapon, and the real likelihood that some rogue group or nation will someday use it. I commend them both for their dedication and efforts towards preparing the public for such an occurrence.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Preface

  Chapter 1-T-plus 4 years, 2 months

  Chapter 2-Exploitation of Groom Lake

  Chapter 3-Recon to Las Vegas

  Chapter 4-Revelations

  Chapter 5-Betrayal

  Chapter 6-Return of winter and Preparations for War

  Chapter 7-A New War

  Chapter 8- Return of Winter

  Author

  Other Books by Author

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  About Book 1 - EMP - Nuclear Winter

  The EMP series realistically depicts survival in the aftermath of an EMP attack and nuclear war that spreads over much of the world.

  In Book 1, survivors of an atmospheric EMP attack followed by a nuclear attack take refuge inside the Yucca Mountain underground complex in Nevada. This mismatch of personalities struggles to survive the resulting nuclear winter while living confined inside a mountain under siege by lethal radiation levels and other survivors fighting for water and food.

  Book One takes the reader through the attack and realistically addresses logistics, security, survivor selection, social, cultural, education, and other issues required to prepare a society capable of rebuilding a nation devoid of the technology upon which they once depended.

  Warning - you will find in this book that the aftermath of an EMP attack is not pretty.

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  Book Three is a continuation of the EMP series realistically depicting life post World War III. After four years, the EMP and nuclear winter survivors emerge from their underground shelter with expectations of resuming a life free of the restrictions imposed by martial law. They also expect a continuation of their battle with Islamic Jihadists commenced before the return of nuclear winter. The main body of survivors moves to Nellis AFB with Colonel Bradley and a select group of the military remaining at the mountain to protect the technology archived there and to protect the ranchers and farmers residing there with the livestock. The Islamic Brotherhood reappears to take control of Hoover Dam for its electrical production needed to support an Islamic State in neighboring Arizona. Sammie Bronson leads the survivors in battle again to deny the Islamic Brotherhood a foothold at the dam. The hardships continue with the survivors are again driven into shelters from El Nino winds carrying radiation carried aloft by the firestorms raging on the West Coast. The nuclear winter returns early, but not before the outpost at the mountain and base camp at Nellis AFB establishes visual communication. Colonel Barlow encounters unexpected opposition from survivors opposing the organizing of local governments that require many to find new occupations essential to the continued survival of the group.

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  Preface

  T plus four years-eight days

  The Mexico-United States border town of Nogales, Arizona, and Nogales, Sonora, the filming location for the 1955 motion picture musical, Oklahoma, lay dead—nothing stirring—man, beast, fowl, or rodent. The infamous constant shroud of dust from the Mexico side of the border was gone. Abandoned automobiles, pickup trucks, sat wherever the vehicle died from the EMP, electromagnetic pulse four years earlier.

  The name of the town, Nogales meant black walnuts in Spanish because of the walnut trees that once grew abundantly inside the mountain pass between the cities before the EMP attack, the bombs, and the ensuing nuclear winter. From the plane, today, the town resembled a ghost town—the walnut trees, burros, horses, goats, chickens, cattle, and humans that once thrived on the Mexico side of the border also long gone.

  From the plane, the crew saw the border with its patchwork of 15-foot tall steel and concrete fences, infrared cameras, sensors. They saw no sign of life along the boundary once patrolled by 20,000 US Border Patrol agents before the bombs. The now abandoned port of entry once controlled an annual estimated 350 million people crossing the border, with another 500,000 entering the United States. Today, there was none.

  From the plane above, the crew saw where the fence below stretched either side of the Nogales-Mariposa Port of Entry for miles on end to separate the two countries. Except for signs of more prosperous times in the past, the American side of the 1,969-mile border looked no different from its southern neighbor.

  For decades before the bombs, this fence, topped with razor-sharp wire, deprived those on the south side the prosperous life enjoyed north of the barrier. Gold prospectors once reached their shovels beneath the fence to the American side to scoop up dirt that they believed would contain more gold because it came from the American soil north of the border. The pilots in the plane that was now flying over the fence expected this immediate change to be the case as well.

  “Tawkalt ala Allah,” the bearded First Officer of the EgyptAir Airbus A300B4–200F muttered in Egyptian Arabic, the “I rely on God” translation having a meaning only to him as the plane crossed into United States airspace and out of Mexico.

  The absence of functioning airports since the bombs now rendered the aircraft’s navigation system useless for lack of ground support. This forced the crew to navigate by following the Mexico Federal Highway 15 that at the border became the CANAMEX Highway connecting Canada, the United States, and Mexico.

  The flight crew found it difficult to fathom the notable decrease of human and animal presence during the flight from Panama to the point that now they saw nothing moving.

  The extent of the devastation of the nuclear winter came to bear with their seeing no sign of life, even on the once traveled highway paralleling the Santa Cruz River.

  Neither spoke while they flew through the broad valley lying between the high mountain ranges of the dry, alkaline, alluvial plain in the Sonoran Desert where a ribbon of green vegetation once existed before enduring the harsh effects of nuclear winter.

  They focused their eyes on the towering 9,157 feet, Mount Lemmon, the highest peak of the Santa Catalina Mountains creating an impressive landmark for them to follow to their destination; Davis–Monthan Air Force Base located 5 miles south-southeast of downtown, Tucson, Arizona. Spotting Sentinel Peak just west of the city, the US aircraft boneyard for all excess military and government aircraft, he adjusted the engine throttles, and with a hand gesture, signaled the copilot to lower both elevators three degrees nose down.

  The pilot, Gameel Ahmad and the First Officer Youssef Al-Batouti each wore the uniform of EgyptAir whereas their passengers wore a mixture of Islamic jihad uniforms, some with headbands containing Arabic writing, and others wearing round, flattish Berets—all carrying arms.

  They realized this being the end of four years of struggling to survive in the harshest conditions and the beginning of a new life in America.

  They displayed their emotions in individual ways—some
silent in prayer to Allah while others numbly stared at the fuselage wall, nervously flinching at the noises typical of a cargo plane.

  They all one thing in common, the hatred of the United States and the unbreakable mission of conducting Ji war for the Muslim Brotherhood against the infidels.

  This has been true with three of the warriors retained at the American prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba before the EMP that shut down the facility and released them to rejoin the jihad of the Muslim Brotherhood.

  This was the last of six planes on this mission, arriving with militant leaders behind the others providing security for the arrival of this flight carrying the leaders and trained pilots, most not flying since the bombs. The passengers on this flight brought with them an amalgam of skills and talents.

  One of them, a stern, brutal man before the bomb attended International Officers School at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama. One of them engaged in prayer attended Aerospace Medical School at Brooks Air Force Base in Texas, while the one next to him participated in the Defense Language Institute in Monterrey, California.

  The three members of the Pakistani Taliban stood out by their physical appearance and mannerism. One, Khan Fazillah, was a former leader of the South Waziristan wing of the TTP, Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan. The other passengers knew Fazillah as a fierce, experienced fighter from the Mehsub tribe in a tribal area of northwest Pakistan who fought to overthrow the Pakistani government and install a hardline form of Islamic law.

  Another, Mullah Sayed was a bearded activist noted for his once leading a wing for the northwest Swat Valley to spread fear among residents by forcing men to grow beards, preventing women from going to the market, and blowing up schools.

  The third member of the Taliban was Omar Khalid Khurasani, former head of a wing in the Mohmand tribal area with close ties to al-Qaida. He fought in Kashmir, a region claimed by both Pakistan and India and in Afghanistan against NATO troops.

  In Mohmand, he was most famous for seizing a Sufi shrine and renaming it in honor of the Red Mosque in Islamabad. He was a ruthless leader known for a deadly attack on a CIA base in Afghanistan and a bloody campaign that killed thousands of Pakistani civilians and security personnel.

  Five miles out and skimming over the desert; the plane crossed over a boneyard of more than 4,400 parked aircraft. This was formerly the second largest air force in the world where AMARG: the famous Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group stored aircraft retired at the end of their service life or mothballed until required on active duty by the US Armed Services.

  Like Nogales, the city of Tucson appeared deserted as the plane lined up for landing on the runway of the Davis–Monthan Air Force Base with A-10, EC-130, HH-60, and HC-130 combat-ready aircraft lined in rows. For the first time during the long flight from Panama, the pilot and first officer displayed emotion.

  They all showed relief and happiness of seeing the earlier planes identified by Arabic writing that delivered the small army of the Muslim Brotherhood now busily securing this American air base in preparation for jihad—Islamic supremacism of the United States and global dominance.

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  Chapter 1-T-plus 4 years, 2 months

  Light conversations of the diners, sounds of kitchen workers laughing, banging cooking utensils, running water, and the scraping of food into serving vessels expressed the mood inside the mountain. The constant low level, airflow sound of the large air duct circulating air through the tunnel complex went unnoticed, but the noise of a kitten begging for food caused more than one of the diners to look in its direction with amusement. Cats roamed free inside the mountain to prevent the presence of rodents.

  The clock on the rock wall indicated it was 0527 hours on the mountain. This odd time of the day explained the number of people seated in a mess. Morale was high among those having dinner along with the shift replacing them eating breakfast.

  Those eating their evening meal were livelier than the ones now enjoying their first coffee of the day.

  The couple sitting alone at a table segregated from the others belonged to the last shift. They concentrated on their meal, talking, yawning, while their minds articulated from their sleep mode. Sarge, the commander’s chocolate colored poodle napped at his feet.

  Movement! The monitor screen on the rock wall near the end of the serving line showed the sudden motion of the outside camera peering into the twilight, causing Colonel Thomas Bradley to stop talking in mid-sentence.

  His wife Stacey noticed the changing display as well and focused her attention on the monitor.

  Also, sitting in the cathedral-like rock alcove was a scattering of people, a mixture of military and civilian, all dressed in the Army-issue ACU combat uniform. They too stopped what they were doing upon observing the colonel, a man of towering intellect persona, and Stacey, a model of self-assurance, likewise attired, watching the monitor screen at their private wood, picnic-like table against the rock wall of the mess hall area.

  The Bradleys appeared relaxed, impervious to concern. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop and Stacey fingered her short hair. Both focused on different interests while the security detail panned the camera around the desert perimeter on the hourly check of areas not covered by the static cameras covering the access roads. The camera panned up the sides of the barren mountain to the west at ominous dark clouds that presaged the return of the radiation, leaving them to wonder with curiously if the firestorms from the bombs still raged along the West Coast.

  The camera circled its perimeter scan to the east and stopped to await a morning marvel that returned two days, ago. While everyone waited for a repeat performance, each wondered what lay in wait outside their mountain home.

  Stacey looked for a sign of animal life while her husband, Colonel Bradley looked for a sign of human life, both on the ground and airborne, friendly or hostile. A stern look on his face, the 1000-yard stare replaced his relaxed mood as thoughts flashed back to the last attack and siege on the mountain a little over three years, ago.

  Moments later, for the third day in a row, the rising sun peeked over the mountain bordering the eastern edge of Jackass Flats, suffusing the vegetated valley with sunlight.

  The low murmur replaced the amalgamated chit chat and noise from the kitchen when they noticed those in the mess hall marveling over the roseate sunlight succeeding four years of the haze and darkness of the harsh nuclear winter. All eyes watched the monitor as the rising sun created dark shadows behind the sparse desert vegetation in a desert devoid of bird or animal life.

  “The mess hall is a popular place this morning,” Stacey commented while looking over the residents scattered throughout the mess hall alcove. “Must be serving SOS again. That should make the guys happy.”

  “It is the sunrises. Even seeing the sun on the monitors is changing their circadian rhythm. Everyone will most likely switch back to day schedules now that they know of the return of daylight.”

  Stacey nodded, her eyes glued to the view on the monitor. “Yes, everyone is anxious for the radiation level to drop enough that they can venture outdoors for at least a few minutes.” Stacey’s eyes focused on the sunrise while she asked, “What do you have on your agenda today?” She turned to face him.

  Bradley shifted his gaze from the monitor screen to stare into the hazel-colored eyes of his wife of over 20 years, taking in her cute freckled nose, bobbed hairstyle, and strong jawline. Stacey was his support, his lover, his friend—his reason for being. “I would prefer a bit of morning caveman hanky-panky, a quickie behind a rock, but with the aurora gone and the magnetic interference lessened, I have to go to work. We hope to make radio contact with someone today. We hope to hear from some of our submarines and military units taking refuge in areas not hit by the EMP or bombs. You?”

  Stacey laughed, her eyes twinkling as she stroked the battle scar extending from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth from when a sniper bullet to his throat damaged his vocal cords and reduced his speech to a lo
ud whisper. “Make it a nooner caveboy, and we have a deal,” she seductively said in a husky tone. They both laughed. Turning serious, she said, “I thought I would drop by the clinic to see Jer. I cannot believe that we are going to have a doctor in the family. Sammie will be at the shooting range so I might drop in on her while I am out. After that, I’ll drop by the nursery to see how our grandson is doing and then head to the petting zoo. This afternoon the mayor, Lieutenant Jackson, and I are inspecting a few of the family alcoves. We are taking along some volunteers to do a bit of housekeeping for a couple of our young ladies in their late stages of pregnancy.” She laughed. “The volunteers are those who flunked our inspection of their quarters last week.”

  The residents of the mountain enjoyed their freedom and privacy, subject, however, to rules and regulations necessary to maintain order and well-being for everyone inside the mountain.

  Much like on a naval vessel or spacecraft, everyone was required to preserve their private resident subject to standards. The inhabitants of the mountain adopted rules early on that required neatness and cleanness.

  It started with requirements for everyone to make their beds and secure any trash or dirty clothes. The reasoning was personal hygiene prevented the spread of disease, preservation of their limited possessions and prevented infestation of insects.

  Everyone wearing the military combat uniform helped establish standards, much like those of the military. The military maintained high morale by cracking down on sloppy soldiers not wearing the uniform correctly or rendering appropriate customs and courtesies. The mountain maintained discipline by rules set by martial law.