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  EMP - NUCLEAR SUMMER

  Book 3 of the EMP series

  By:

  TD Barnes

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2018 Thornton D. Barnes

  Dedication

  I dedicate this third book of the EMP series to my fellow veterans and caretakers at the Mike O'Callaghan Federal Medical Center at Nellis AFB and the VA Southern Nevada Healthcare System. Thank you for your service and support.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE - Summer at last

  CHAPTER TWO - Looking for a new home

  CHAPTER THREE - The Brotherhood

  CHAPTER FOUR - The Plane

  CHAPTER FIVE - Civilian Challenges

  CHAPTER SIX - The Move

  CHAPTER SEVEN - CQ

  CHAPTER EIGHT - El Nino

  CHAPTER NINE - New Technology

  CHAPTER TEN - Contact

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - Trouble at Base Camp

  CHAPTER TWELVE - A new threat

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Recon to base camp

  Epilogue

  About Author

  Other Books by Author

  About Book 1 - EMP - Nuclear Winter

  Book One, EMP - Nuclear Winter of the EMP series is a work of fiction only because to date the world has yet to experience a terrorist group or rogue nation detonating an EMP, an electromagnetic pulse or a nuclear bomb to create a nuclear winter. However, it is merely a matter of time until it happens much as it does in the Book One of the EMP series.

  The scenario for this EMP story models after current world events and such an attack could occur at any time. Selecting the State of Nevada the venue makes the story more realistic by affiliating the characters with actual technological activities happening at the Nevada National Security Site and the Area 51 technical laboratories.

  In EMP - Nuclear Winter, Army Col. Thomas J. Bradley, assigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency has just returned from Israel and, is in Nevada on business with a couple of days vacation when a series of EMP denotations occur that strands him, and his wife, Stacey in a small town in Nevada.

  Bradley assumes command of selected Nevada National Guard first responder trained members to care for a government-selected group of VIPs in the extensive, 5-mile Yucca Mountain underground facility at Jackass Flats. He evacuates selected residents to supplement needed skills lacking within the military residents.

  While local military bases, the former atomic bomb testing range, and Area 51 rush massive amounts of necessities to the mountain, the evacuated local ranchers supply the refuge with food supplies just in time before a global nuclear war forces the survivors into the mountain to escape the lethal radiation of a nuclear winter.

  Book one takes the reader through the EMP and nuclear bomb attacks 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.

  While the aftermath of the two devastating events kills much of the world population, the mountain sustains sieges and attack by a renegade army of survivors using weapons obtained from the abandoned Nellis AFB and National Guard armories.

  Warning - you will find in this book that the aftermath of an EMP attack or nuclear winter is not pretty. The story continues in Book Two, EMP - Nuclear Spring

  In Book 2, EMP - Nuclear Spring, four years have passed, and the EMP survivors finally get to come out of the mountain only to find someone performing aerial reconnaissance of the area.

  Bradley desperately seeks to regain an intelligence capability to learn the identity of those performing the flights. Equally important to the survivors is obtaining a means of predicting the coming and going of the jet stream carrying deadly fallout from the nuclear bombs.

  The mountain is devastated when a sleeper Islamic Jihadist bombs the south portal, killing Bradley’s wife Stacey and some farmers and children. Bradley’s daughter Sammie defends the mountain during an attack by Jihadist soldiers of the Islamic Brotherhood based in South and Central America who are seeking to acquire control of Hoover Dam for a reason unknown.

  Using a new weapon system that Ray Bronson and she had developed at Area 51, Sammie avenges the death of her mother and drives the Islamic Brotherhood from the dam. Also from Area 51, those inside the mountain obtain a meteorology station that enables them to monitor the weather. The survivors are barely able to replenish their supplies before the return of nuclear winter that again drives them underground. The story continues in Book Three.

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  CHAPTER ONE - Summer at last

  T-Plus four years, eight months, 21 days.

  Something seemed different. Bradley opened his eyes and listened, his mind swiftly monitoring all his senses. He froze, staring up at the rock ceiling and more specifically, at the air duct above. “What is it,” his mind asked. It took a moment for him to awaken enough to recognize what woke him. It was the silence. His mind immediately switched from a state of sleep to full alert.

  The air circulation duct was never silent, but after four years of hearing it, he seldom noticed the sound of the mountain’s incoming air continuously hissing through the pipe above his cot. Listening carefully, he faintly heard the massive motor and fan sucking the air into the air duct, the sound of rushing air was the heartbeat of the mountain.

  He sat up and listened for the normal hissing and occasional banging noises that routinely traveled throughout the five miles of tunnel. The sounds seemed normal, as did the paging system almost continuously broadcasting pages and messages throughout the subterranean complex.

  It took a moment for him to realize that missing was the drumming sound of blowing sleet and whistling wind, sounds of a raging winter savagely attacking the air intake outside the mountain for the past week.

  Recognizing what woke him jerked him fully awake. He swung his feet out of the cot and stood up. His movement awakened Sarge, his poodle sleeping on a worn out Army combat uniform folded into a bed next to a saddle and a pair of cowboy boots, apparently for a female.

  Army Colonel Thomas J. Bradley was slightly older than most of the others inside the mountain. At 5-foot-10 inch, 175-pounds, he stood out from most others because of his kinetic agility and physical conditioning. He attributed a deep tan to his former equestrian outdoor activities, yet having spent four years in the tunnel, and still having a tan suggested the reason being his Cherokee Indian heritage that genealogy on his father’s side traced back to the Trail of Tears.

  Despite his a stubborn, precocious rejection of bureaucracy, he was the epitome of productivity: a well-organized, punctual, and thorough leader. His posture and mannerism spoke of total confidence and fearlessness. His piercing eyes, 1000-yard stare, and battle scarring told of hell seen and experienced during his military career.

  “Good morning, Sarge,” Bradley said to the poodle as he stood up and put on his military ACU combat uniform. He glanced back up at the duct pipe as though not believing he does not hear the winter sounds. Sarge sleepily climbed out of his bed, stretched, and took a waiting position at the alcove exit.

  Bradley quickly shaved, brushed his teeth, and hurriedly made his bunk, the latter being a strict requirement for everyone in the mountain. He strapped on his sidearm holster, grabbed his Kevlar helmet, and slung his weapon over his shoulder. Sarge recognized the moment and anxiously bound through the exit of the small alcove designated as the commander’s quarters.

  Bradley stopped at the entrance, turned, and scanned the small, solid rock alcove that he called home. His eyes paused when he saw the boots, a western hat, and the desk containing the photo of his wife, Stacey dressed western and sitting on a horse. His eyes settled
on the rock wall where she had jokingly drawn a window shape in chalk the day they moved in. A sad expression flashed on his face before he placed his Kevlar helmet on his head and stepped into the central tunnel.

  Bradley and Sarge followed the main tunnel a short distance to the latrine, which under the circumstances was relatively modern and clean. Sarge rushed to the doggie potty section while Bradley entered a stall. Before leaving, Bradley opened a water faucet in the animal section to fill the animal watering trough for the dogs, cats, and Guinea hens roaming free inside the mountain.

  Bradley washed his hands and waited for Sarge to finish drinking. He heard the paging system click of activation, and a female voice announced. “Attention, all personnel. Be advised that a minor earthquake during the night loosened some ceiling rock between alcoves 12 and 13. You are reminded to wear your helmets until further notice.” Before deactivating, the paging microphone picked up a fragment of youthful horseplay when the teenage female volunteer on duty giggled and said, “Stop it.”

  The announcement about falling rock focused Bradley’s attention to the tunnel ceiling while he and Sarge headed to the mess for his first coffee. At this early hour, they encountered only a few residents along the way. They also met a few cats on the prowl for rodents eliminated long ago. Sarge scattered two Guinea hens looking for insects to eat, spawning amused chuckles between Bradley and those witnessing Sarge clear passage for his master.

  The small poodle accompanying the commander had oddly begun shortly after they entered the mountain after the bombs when the dog’s owner, a cook in the mess, asked Bradley if he minded taking the dog on his morning jog. The two bonded and had remained a team ever since.

  The dreaded radiation storm’s unexpected departure now focused Bradley’s mind on little things to which he usually paid no attention. As he headed to the mess, he visually noticed changes in the tunnel’s walls, chemical lighting failures at various alcove entrances, cracks in the concrete flooring — human occupancy taking its toll on the mountain’s interior. It gave him pause to wonder about changes to the environment on the outside after four years of nuclear winter.

  All of this merely bolstered concerns harboring in his mind ever since the return of a storm bringing with it a returning radiation danger. Rising radiation levels had forced the residents back to safety in the mountain two weeks ago.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  The greeting repeated throughout the mess as Sarge, and he entered. The usual early risers sat scattered among the wood dining tables, some visiting with a young mess officer who had entered the mountain as a teenager, and the workers in the mess, mostly teenagers conducting their mandatory cross training duties under the supervision of a mess sergeant.

  Bradley smiled and nodded to everyone while continuing to his reserved table by the wall and the outside HD camera monitors, accepting along the way a cup of coffee rushed to him by the mess officer.

  The duct pipe did not lie — the storm and winds had moved out during the night, leaving a light blanket of snow. Compounding the good news — he noted the snow being a dirty white rather than the usual black and deadly.

  “Good morning, Colonel. It looks like the storm blew through.”

  Bradley looked at the voice and saw rancher Don Pierce.

  “Looks like it, Don. I can hardly wait to see what our weatherman says about it.”

  He knew the rancher expected more and glanced at the outside radiation reading before hoarsely whispering. “I give it a week, and we might be able to return outdoors on a limited basis,” The whisper associated with a battle scar extending from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. The scarring resulted from of a sniper bullet to his throat that damaged his vocal cords and permanently reduced his speech to a husky, laryngitic sounding whisper.

  Don always wore Levis and an old, beat-up, western hat rather than the military issue uniform and Kevlar helmet worn by the others. Bradley and everyone else recognized this being a lifelong rancher tradition and condoned it as being an exception and natural in his case.

  “I certainly hope so, Colonel. We have chores to get done before winter sets in.”

  Bradley held his cup to his lips while thoughtfully watching Don saunter back to his table. Having himself grown up on a West Texas ranch, he knew the farmers and ranchers’ natural urge to cultivate the land and raise their livestock. Also, being knowledgeable about the unpredictable world in which they now lived, he knew the days of seasonal life no longer existed. The jet streams now controlled Mother Nature and the world as they once knew it. The world still had its four seasons, but now it also had the sub-seasons of a nuclear winter wandering the planet at the jet stream’s whim.

  “May I bring you some breakfast, sir?” Bradley glanced up at a young girl that he had earlier noted working behind the chow line. He normally processed through the chow line like everyone else, but seeing no one in line, and the girl’s eagerness to please him, he decided to let her pamper him for a change. “Sure. Whatever you are serving will do.”

  It pleased him to see the mountain’s young survivors enjoying their work in the mess. During slack periods with few or no diners, they naturally engaged in horseplay tolerated to a point by the mess sergeant and mess officer. Seeing the mess sergeant looking his way, Bradley motioned for him.

  “Sir?”

  “Sergeant, didn’t that teenager work with Dr. Sanders in the photosynthesis garden?” Before the bombs, Dr. Sanders had worked as an aerospace botanist for Starquest, Inc., a North Las Vegas company contracting with NASA. Inside the mountain, she had started and operated the photosynthesis garden initially intended to supply the first space colony on either the moon or Mars. Four months ago, the detonation of a bomb planted at the south portal by a sleeper Islamic activist had killed Dr. Sanders, a rancher, and his wife, several children working in the photosynthesis garden, and Colonel Bradley’s wife, Stacey.

  “Yes, sir. Terre Scofield worked closely with Dr. Sanders.”

  “When she brings my breakfast, I would like to talk to her a bit.”

  “Yes, sir. I will tell her.”

  Terre placed Bradley’s breakfast tray on the table before him. “You wanted to speak to me, sir?” She asked.

  “Yes, please sit down. I understand you worked in the photosynthesis garden with Dr. Sanders. Did you learn enough to continue her work?”

  Terre did not flinch at the question. “Yes, sir. Dr. Sanders ensured that we knew what we did and why.” Bradley only needed this reply and show of confidence to supplement a thought brewing in his head.

  “Thank you, Terre. This is all I need to know for now.”

  Bradley hardly noticed his breakfast as he watched the camera monitor while the darkness of night turned to day, realizing now how a wild, raging, and the deadly nuclear storm could come and go away with the same sudden speed. He imagined this storm being what life on another planet or the moon might be like.

  This storm had arrived unexpectedly and looked to last into the annual return of winter. Awaking to find it had slipped away during the night just as fast as its arrival surprised Bradley enough to articulate his mindset entirely in the time span of eating his breakfast. The break in the nuclear weather meant his people could resume their desperately needed activities outside the mountain.

  He hurriedly finished his breakfast. Once completed, he carried his breakfast tray to the tray disposal area for cleaning. He looked concerned; determination showed in his stride. Nonetheless, he took time to refill his coffee cup to take with him as he left the mess.

  Bradley had two idiosyncrasies, coffee, and his poodle dog. His coffee addiction, his always having a cup of coffee, and having his dog, Sarge, accompanying him set him apart from the others.

  He claimed that once the coffee hit his stomach, it straightway caused a general commotion with ideas moving to his head like the battalions of the Grand Army of the battlefield.

  Another quirk of which he was not aware was his having a potty
mouth. Had he known, he would have attributed it to an elderly ranch foreman who first introduced him to bunkhouse coffee.

  He entered the central tunnel where Sarge automatically headed up the tunnel slope toward the War Room with Bradley in toll. Other than meeting a couple of soldiers headed to the mess, they encountered no one else at this early hour. At the entrance to the War Room alcove, Bradley stopped to look up at the collage of photos depicting those lost in the south portal bomb attack. He performed a hand-over-heart salute before continuing into the War Room where he automatically glanced at the outdoor camera monitors and the radiation level reading.

  Three large screens dominated the War Room alcove, monitoring systems delivered from the Nellis AFB Battle Staff Briefing Room to the mountain after the EMP. The three 12 x 12 feet etched and fogged glass rear projection screens now monitored the activities inside and outside the mountain, each screen displaying single or double viewgraph or 35 mm slide, or single, dual or quad computer or video display. The screens enabled zoom monitoring to provide security for 12 critical areas within the tunnel simultaneously, or any combination of such with enough memory to give a 3-D CAD capability to view details of any emergency.

  He nodded recognition to the radio operator sitting in the adjoining radio room and headed to the weather station at the alcove’s back wall. On the big screen, he confirmed that the jet stream was now whipping into northern Nevada, which meant good news.

  “Good morning, Charlie,” he greeted Charley Mitchell, the meteorologist who before the EMP provided weather forecasts for missions at the Groom Lake facility in Area 51 as well as those at Yucca Lake.

  Mitchell, a soft-spoken, 31-year-old single man, earned selection for shelter inside the mountain for his classified and highly specialized service. No one inside the mountain had known him to be a United States Air Force Special Operations Weather Officer. Nor did they know about his assignment with the Air Force Special Operations Command (AFSOC) at the CIA‘s secret Yucca Lake PRV piloted remote vehicle operation.