First Strike

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sunday, October 20

White House

Washington was in a frenzy. Staffers working at the White House, the State Department, the DOD, and Homeland Security were all called in on a Sunday as the world reeled from the nuclear war that had broken out between Israel and Iran. Years later, it would be known as the Six-Day War although for all intents and purposes, it was over in six hours.

The delusional Iranians still had a lot of fight in them. Despite Tehran being leveled from the twin nuclear detonations delivered by Israel, the Iranians had planned a ground attack coupled with naval activity in the Persian Gulf. They were seemingly prepared to do battle in the region regardless of the consequences for the Iranian people, who never had a chance.

The Iran Navy, led by Commodore Hossein Mohammed, was a small but formidable force. They’d war-gamed a blockade of the Strait of Hormuz as the cruise missiles began to fly. This action was consistent with their prior threats of stopping the flow of oil out of the Middle East and permanently forcing the U.S. out of the region.

Had the attack occurred a day later, the USS Georgia would’ve been positioned in the middle of the Persian Gulf and ready to join the fight. The Nimitz Carrier Strike Group, steaming toward the region, was still a day away. Had it been in position, there would no longer be an Iranian Navy, assuming the president gave the order to join the fray.

The level of stress in the White House was at its highest since the days of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The Kennedy administration had engaged in a thirteen-day political and military standoff with Nikita Khrushchev and the Soviet Union in October of 1962.

The U.S.S.R. had attempted to deliver nukes to Cuba, but not in the same manner of delivery as Iran and Israel exchanged. As Soviet ships steamed toward the tiny island nation just ninety miles from the Florida Keys, the U.S. moved into position to initiate a blockade in their path. The world held its breath as the nations came to the brink of all-out nuclear war. The standoff ended, in that instance, with diplomacy.

It was a different world now. In 1962, only two nations maintained nuclear stockpiles. Today, there were ten countries—the U.S., the UK, Russia, France, China, Pakistan, India, Israel, North Korea, and, with help from its allies, Iran.

In theory, any nation with the technology, intelligence, and facilities could develop nuclear weapons. Nations like Russia, China, and North Korea had been accused of facilitating the development of nuclear programs in Iran and, most recently, in Syria. It had also been rumored that China and Russia had worked with Venezuelan dictators to position nuclear warheads on the South American continent.

A new arms race had begun as the mid-twenty-first century approached. Nonproliferation agreements designed to prevent the spread of nuclear weapons and promote disarmament had been mothballed. The illusion of a world free of nuclear weapons had faded of late. Now the hope of them never being used had been dashed.

President Carter Helton had a concerned look on his face as he was ushered by Secret Service personnel through the bowels of the East Wing of the White House into the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, more widely known by its acronym—PEOC.

In the early years of the Cold War, beginning in the 1950s and continuing through the Reagan administration of the ’80s, America’s defense warning system evolved from duck-and-cover protocols to advanced computerized responses being initiated to defend the nation’s citizens and prepare the military for an attack.

The wholly underground facility, initially constructed during the Roosevelt administration, had undergone substantial changes over many decades so that it was impenetrable to any form of nuclear missile threat.

The president glanced up at the low-hanging ceilings and the elaborate network of pipe that contained hardened wiring designed to protect the facility’s electronics from an electromagnetic pulse attack. In the event of a nuclear-delivered electromagnetic pulse, the PEOC’s communications and mechanical equipment wouldn’t be destroyed by a massive burst of energy known to destroy or disable anything electronic.

The president was escorted through the final stretch of tile-covered hallways into a reception area. Several members of his national defense team had gathered in the small conference room near the entryway. He nodded his head toward them and managed a slight wave, but was abruptly pulled away by Secret Service toward a large room that adjoined the main command and control center of the PEOC.

Harrison Chandler, his chief of staff, and several aides and uniformed members of the military were huddled around the long rectangular table. He was the first to notice President Helton enter the room.

“Mr. President!”

Everyone came to attention and stood to the side so the president could make direct contact with his chief of staff.

“Talk to me, Harrison. What the hell happened?”

Chandler gestured toward a chair at the head of the conference room table, but the president didn’t move. He glanced through the large one-way mirror that overlooked the PEOC’s nerve center, the equivalent of the Situation Room that was located below the Oval Office in the West Wing, only much larger.

He folded his arms and stared at his chief of staff, which was his nature, a posture that often intimidated those locked in the president’s dark eyes.

“Mr. President, we are still awaiting details from our recon satellites. We’ve analyzed video obtained from the news networks, as well as footage provided to us by Israel. It’s apparent that in revenge for the killings at Isfahan, Iran chose to retaliate with several nuclear warheads attached to their Russian-designed ballistic missiles.”

“They had no proof Israel was behind that attack! You solve these matters through diplomacy, not firing off nukes.” The president was incensed.

Chandler moved on with his explanation. “Israel’s defenses worked, although parts of Tel Aviv and Haifa to the north were both struck. We have reports of extensive damage and mass casualties.”

“Israel retaliated?” the president asked.

“In a big way, sir. Tehran was mostly leveled.”

“I take it they’ve stopped.”

“Yes, sir. At least with respect to the nukes. Iran is still active military. If I may, please let me defer to the Pentagon on this.” Chandler motioned to the Pentagon’s representative to brief the president on Iran’s naval blockade and other troop movements.

After he finished his portion of the briefing, Chandler brought the White House communications team into the conversation.

“Mr. President,” the communications director began, “we’re under tremendous pressure to comment on our response.”

President Helton, who’d stood for the entire briefing with his arms crossed, nodded and spread his hands apart. “Of course. Of course. Naturally, we’re saddened by the loss of life, and we strongly condemn the actions of the Iranian regime. There is no place in our civilized world for the use of nuclear weapons.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. However, the pressure relates to what actions we plan on taking to defend our closest ally in the Middle East—Israel. The media wants to know whether we are going to declare war on Iran and enter the Persian Gulf to restore order. Also, they want to know if we’re willing to state unequivocally that our use of nuclear weapons in response is off the table.”

The president shook his head in disbelief. Only hours ago, two nations had devastated one another with nuclear missiles, and the media wanted to know if America was prepared to fire off a few more. This was going to be a long day.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sunday, October 20

Washington Times

Washington, DC

Every young person who dreamed of becoming a journalist enjoyed seeing a vintage, yellowing photograph of the city desk of a newsroom from the mid-twentieth century. Scrambling to put together the afternoon paper, a once-grand tradition in America, had gone the way of manual typewriters and carbon paper. Gone were the tape recorders and spiral notebooks. Editing consisted of retyping whole paragraphs and pasting them on top of the material to be deleted. There were no computers or internet or smartphones to record news in real time.

Newsrooms were filled with furnishings that looked like they’d been picked up at a garage sale. Scarred wooden desks were covered with papers and perhaps a nondescript desk lamp. To the side, perched on a rolling table, was a manual typewriter made by companies like Royal and Smith-Corona. Reporters who were assigned to the field or to travel with a high-ranking government official were assigned a Remington Portable, which was basically a typewriter in a box.

What hadn’t changed over the years was the journalists’ zest for reporting the news. The desire to use their intuition, or hustle, as necessary to seek out the facts considered newsworthy and to break the story was the same today as it was in 1950.

The newsrooms, therefore, had a similar sense of urgency and excitement as decades past, only the furnishings and tools used by journalists had advanced in the twenty-first century. Telephone desk sets were gone. Typewriter keys clacking coupled with the ding of the return handle being engaged disappeared. Calls for the copy boys were no longer necessary. Everything was digital.

But the feeding frenzy during a breaking news story remained the same. Back in the day, the news came in mostly by telephone, called in by legmen, reporters who scoured the town for stories. Their calls were rerouted to one of the city editors, who, depending on the urgency or sexiness of the story, would reassign it to a rewrite man. He was the guy who got the byline, credit for the article, even though it had been scooped by someone else.

All of this had changed with technology.

Peter had scheduled two interviews that morning to discuss what he’d experienced in Abu Dhabi. However, that, as they say, was yesterday’s news. In today’s twenty-four-hour news cycle, an ordinarily newsworthy event just a few hours ago could easily be forgotten and displaced with a much sexier story in the present. Such was the case as the mutual nuclear attacks between Iran and Israel overtook any other story the reporters at the Washington Times were working on.

Every desk in the Washington Times newsroom was filled. The energy was at a fever-pitch as reporters called sources and others banged away on their computers, conducting research. These were the hired guns who continued to work tirelessly to produce the second largest newspaper by circulation in Washington. Only the Washington Post had a larger subscriber base. The journalists who occupied these desks were irreverent, brash, and above all, competitive, even with one another. It was all about making a name for themselves, a direct result of the success of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein’s notoriety achieved during their investigation of President Richard Nixon.

All of their cutthroat tactics were designed to become known. Every attempt to break the news was in furtherance of their insatiable desire to pursue a Pulitzer. None of their tactics gave them the notoriety and respect Peter Albright had achieved by being at ground zero of the terrorist attack in Abu Dhabi. However, fame was fleeting, and his fifteen minutes had burned up quickly.

Because the secretary of state was involved in White House discussions all day, Peter was able to touch base with his boss at the Times.

“Peter, grab a seat,” Doug Beasley said without looking away from his computer monitor. “Glad you’re back in one piece.”

That’s it? Peter had been hoping for a little better pat on the back for his efforts in Abu Dhabi than the one Beasley was offering.

“Thanks,” was all Peter could think to say in response.

“Peter, things are developing rapidly after the nukes started flying. There’s an angle I want you to run down for me.”

“Um, I’ll do my best, but the secretary is expected to be at the White House all—”

“It doesn’t involve your coverage of her movements. It has to do with her political ideology.”

Peter was genuinely puzzled. “Um, sure. But shouldn’t I focus on the Middle East picture rather than her future political aspirations?”

Beasley looked away from his monitor for the first time. He peered over his glasses at Peter, who was casually dressed in a long-sleeve, striped polo shirt and khakis. It was his uniform of choice when not in the State Department press room representing the Times.

“I’m talking about her political ideology as it pertains to the use of nuclear weapons. She’s been known to be a dove in these respects, always pushing the president in a direction that does not involve military conflict.”

Since the founding of the American republic, doves were often associated with a political ideology promoting peace and pacifism. Politicians of this ilk were opposite of the hawks, who favored war and a continuation of any existing conflicts as opposed to other, nonmilitary solutions.

“Sir, her opinions are well known and in line with the president’s. I can’t imagine he’d bring her into his cabinet if it were otherwise.”

Beasley continued. “I’m hearing there is an exception.”

“An exception as in they’re doves ninety-nine percent of the time except for…?” Peter allowed his question to dangle in the air.

“The DPRK,” Beasley replied flatly. “There is something in both of their backgrounds that indicates they might take a different approach toward North Korea than Iran, in the present circumstances.”

“Why would they have a hard-on for Kim? Are you thinking it’s something personal? Since Helton’s election, the Hermit Kingdom has been very quiet.”

“Too quiet, don’t you think?” asked Beasley. “Lying low to the point of being obvious. Like they’re scared.”

“I suppose, sir,” said Peter. He didn’t want to argue with his boss. He was getting the impression he was being assigned busywork as some form of punishment. Regardless, he’d do as instructed.

Beasley removed his glasses and leaned forward so his elbows rested on his desk. “Listen, Peter. This is a hunch of mine that doesn’t need to be shared with anyone else in the newsroom. I’ve tasked you with it because you have connections at State, the Pentagon, and the White House.

“Something in my gut is screaming at me regarding the administration’s treatment of North Korea. The whole dynamic is off-kilter. Will you look into it and see what you uncover?”

Peter sat a little taller in his chair now that he realized he wasn’t being sidelined and relegated to the bench. “I’ll jump on it right now.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sunday, October 20

Driftwood Key

Hank walked onto the beach that morning, as was customary. He was in a pensive mood as he strolled along the water’s edge, where the calm, gently lapping waves barely rose up the slight incline. He followed footsteps that had been left in the sand by another early riser. His bare feet were larger than the other beach walker that morning. He picked up the pace to see who it was.

Up ahead, he caught a glimpse of Erin Bergman. She was wearing her swimsuit and her white linen coverup. He hadn’t seen her the day before, even assuming, until later told otherwise, that she’d returned to Washington. He was anxious to speak with her about the nuclear exchange.

Hank glanced ahead of her as he approached. He didn’t mean to startle her, but she was about to encounter a rarity in the Keys, one that might shock her.

“Erin, wait,” he announced with a tone of caution.

She swung around. “Um, hi, Hank. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, just don’t move.”

Erin stopped in her tracks and tilted her head with a puzzled look on her face. He caught up to her with his hands spread apart, waving them up and down as if he wanted her to remain calm.

“Slowly. Back away from where you’re standing,” he instructed as he held his hand out to her. She took it and carefully picked up her feet, which had sunk somewhat in the wet sand. Her first instinct was to look around her feet, presuming there was something dangerous nearby. She couldn’t see it, but she followed Hank’s suggestion nonetheless.

Still holding her hand, he led her up the slope a few feet away from the water’s edge. “This is your lucky day,” he said with a smile. He hesitated to let go of her hand. It was soft and warm. It felt right. But he did and walked just to where the wave line was created in the wet sand.

“Is it a jellyfish?” she asked.

“No, better. Let me introduce you to a stargazer.”

“Where?” Erin asked as she gingerly inched forward and bent over to see what he was referring to.

Hank knelt down and drew a semicircle in the sand when the water receded. Erin looked closer until the water lapped over the space again. He redrew the line in the sand.

“Do you see it?” he asked as he waved for her to come closer.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and bent over at the waist. “Well, I’ll be damned. It is a fish.”

“A stargazer. It’s very unusual, but we happen to get them all the time on this desolate stretch of beach. Look closer. You can see that its eyes, gill slits, nostrils and most of its mouth are on top of its body.”

Erin studied the twenty-inch-long fish that was half-submerged. It’s dark blackish-brown body blended in perfectly with the wet sand.

“How did you see it from back there?”

“After living here for all my life, you notice slight variations in the sand. Most people might think it’s a rock or something under the surface. Until, of course, they step on it. These guys are stout, and they have a special organ just behind their eyes that produces an electric shock for anyone who unknowingly grabs it.”

“Or steps on it,” added Erin.

Hank nodded, and the two of them stood upright to study the unusual creature. “May I join you? I usually walk along the beach in the mornings, you know, just to get ready to do battle with hostile and ornery hotel guests.”

Erin let out a hearty laugh. “You mean like my sisters?”

Hank had no intention of his joking remark to be associated with her three older sisters. “No, not at all. And I was just kidding. Only rarely do we have a guest we simply cannot please. It happens. Not everybody gives out five-star reviews.”

“Don’t I know it. I’m in politics, remember. You piss off half your constituents. Initially, you please the other half until at some point you piss most of them off as well. By the time your career in public service is over, most everybody is mad at you, making you wonder why you bothered.”

“Why did you? Bother, I mean.”

They continued to study the interesting stargazer.

“It wasn’t my idea,” she replied casually. “My ex was politically connected, but he made too much money as a personal injury lawyer to seek public office. He made a living out of suing the wrong people, corporate giants, for example. Therefore, he had a résumé that was easy to shoot at. Instead, at a dinner party one night, he offered me up as a better candidate.”

“Were you surprised?”

Erin laughed. “Well, we’d discussed it, but nothing serious. Because of my degree in public administration, I had an aptitude for the operations of government. My minor in transportation and work with Florida’s highway commission as a lobbyist made me an ideal candidate for a transportation position.”

“Not agriculture?” Hank asked a logical question considering her current position.

“Well, that came later. The governor appointed me to head the Florida Department of Transportation. When the commissioner of agriculture became embroiled in a sex scandal, the governor looked to a familiar face with no skeletons in the closet to fill the post. As a result, with only a year of public service under my belt, I became one of four members of the Florida cabinet behind the lieutenant governor, attorney general, and the state’s chief financial officer.”

“Wow. You moved fast.”

Erin looked down shyly and smiled. “Well, the temporary appointment was easy. Running in the special election is what got me put on the so-called political radar as a proverbial up-and-comer.”

Hank shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I don’t follow politics, really. I vote for president, and that’s about it.”

“That’s okay. Ordinarily, I would’ve been one of those down-ballot candidates that folks fill in the circle next to because it was on a certain side of the page. As it happened, my first campaign was in an off-year election cycle where the race was the most prominent in the state. Hell, we had debates. Mudslinging. Outside money pouring in. All the hallmarks of a gubernatorial race except it was for Ag commissioner.”

“And you won.”

“Decidedly so in an evenly divided state.”

“I bet your husband was proud of you.”

Erin laughed and ran her fingers through her hair. She glanced up at the cloudless sky and smiled. “One would think, but alas, no. It led to our divorce.”

“Why?” asked Hank, hesitating to pry but doing so anyway.

“He became jealous of my success and notoriety. He tried to take credit for my win until one day, during a press conference, a reporter set him straight. He took his anger out on me, and our marriage was over.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hank.

Erin shrugged and smiled nervously. “You know, it probably should’ve happened long before. He never supported me or encouraged me to pursue my goals and dreams. He wanted me on his arm at social gatherings or as a smiling face for his television commercials.”

Erin was talkative, and Hank enjoyed listening to her, so he decided to take the conversation further. “How long were you in Tallahassee? You must’ve impressed some important people to reach the top of the totem pole.”

“Well, I actually did a lot of things for Florida farmers and orange growers in particular. But more importantly, I built coalitions with both parties to get things done. I won my second election by a landslide. When the president began his campaign a couple of years ago, I pledged my support even though we were in opposite parties.”

“I bet that was awkward,” said Hank with a smile. “Didn’t you piss off your side of the aisle?”

“Like I said, eventually you make everyone mad.”

“Obviously, that bold step was appreciated by the president.”

“Okay. I’m gonna toot my own horn for a moment. The fact is, I practically delivered Florida for him on election day. My statewide campaign team worked tirelessly to get out the vote for the president. Without Florida, he couldn’t have been elected. Anyway, our efforts didn’t go unnoticed, so he rewarded me with secretary of agriculture. I’m the only one in the cabinet who isn’t in the president’s party.”

Hank was impressed. She was a politician, yet she wasn’t. She was a straight talker, a rarity in Washington, Tallahassee, or the Florida Keys, for that matter. He still sensed she was troubled.

“I didn’t see you yesterday, so I thought you’d returned to Washington.”

“No. Sadly, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, they don’t need me up there. If I were leading transportation, then certainly. That was the job I really wanted, but the president had to offer it to someone more acceptable to unions.”

“You’re still a cabinet member,” said Hank. “Wouldn’t you be involved in the national security meetings?”

She shook her head side to side. “I have the requisite security clearance but would have little to offer from the agriculture side, or at least that’s what they probably think.”

Hank glanced at her face to make eye contact. “I take it you disagree.”

There was a fallen palm tree ahead, and Erin pointed toward it, indicating what she had to say was worthy of sitting down to explain. Hank followed her lead and took her hand to help her up the slope through the soft sand. Once they’d settled in to watch a fishing boat meander out toward a reef, Erin dropped a bomb of her own.

“If we were to be attacked with nuclear warheads, the transportation secretary would have to deal with the threat of an EMP. However, the aftermath of what happened between two nuclear powers, even on the other side of the world, will bring a plague on our planet that could be much worse—nuclear winter.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sunday, October 20

Driftwood Key

Hank was not completely unaware of the terms—EMP and nuclear winter. He’d heard them mentioned in movies, news documentaries, and books he’d read in the past. However, he’d never bothered to study or research what they meant. Erin was about to enlighten him and open his eyes to the very real threats their nation faced from nuclear war.

“There are many aspects to the use of nuclear weapons most of the public is unaware of. They all can visualize the massive mushroom cloud full of debris and fire because they’ve seen the videos from testing decades ago or how it is digitally portrayed in movies.

“That part is certainly accurate. The tremendous amount of energy that is released at the impact site annihilates virtually everything within the blast radius, depending on the size of the warhead.

“World powers, namely the U.S.S.R. and the U.S., learned through a series of nuclear tests in the late fifties there was an unexpected side effect to atomic bomb detonations. In 1958, testing at the Pacific Proving Grounds located in the Marshall Islands, known as the Starfish Prime project, revealed the energy generated also had the ability to destroy the tiny vulnerable wiring of electronic devices. This side effect, as they initially called it, is known as an EMP, or electromagnetic pulse.

“The government began to experiment with warhead detonations at different altitudes. The higher above ground the nuclear warhead was detonated, the broader the reach of the energy waves and the highly charged particles released into the atmosphere. Ground detonation, while releasing the same types of particles, had a significantly smaller EMP effect because its particles were not launched into the atmosphere but were thwarted by geographic features like mountains.”

Hank was aware of EMPs and what they were capable of, but he did not know the altitude of the detonation made a difference on the area it impacted. He looked for clarity. “Let’s use an example. The Russians nuke St. Louis. I don’t know why they would, but it’s the center of the country. Now, if the nuke hits the city, how far out will the electronics be impacted?”

“Again, keep in mind that the size of the weapon and the altitude are very important variables. Low-yield nukes coupled with a ground-level detonation will have less of an EMP effect. High-yield, high-altitude detonations could potentially place the entirety of the continental U.S. in the dark.

“Now, a caveat. Our power grid is tied together from coast to coast, except for Texas, which I’ll explain in a moment. The Eastern and Western Interconnection grids rely upon one another to maintain the continuous flow of power to the highest-demand users. For example, electricity generated by hydroelectric dams in Tennessee might not need to send as much energy to the rural parts of the state, but they transfer it to major cities like Atlanta and Memphis in the region.

“If the nuclear blast produces a large enough EMP to impact an entire region, like the West Coast, then the other power grids will work overtime to supplement the needs of areas outside the impact area. This may result in a cascading failure of the entire Eastern and Western Interconnection power grids.”

“But not Texas?” Hank asked.

“Right. They have their own grid separate and distinct from the rest of the country, operated by ERCOT, their power company.”

Hank stood to stretch his legs but also to absorb what Erin had relayed to him. “This is a real problem for the rest of us who aren’t directly in the line of fire of a nuke that might hit LA or…” His voice trailed off as he avoided identifying the most obvious East Coast target—Washington.

“Correct. Don’t get me wrong. A targeted EMP attack designed to destroy our grid would be devastating and result in the deaths of nearly ninety percent of Americans, according to some reports. However, with a herculean effort and international cooperation, power grids can be rebuilt. That’s not the case with problem number two.”

Hank sat down again. He’d begun contemplating selling the inn and moving to Texas. “So the power grid crashes. Electronics won’t work. Does that mean cars, too?”

“Yes, depending on the nature of the energy release. Trust me, Hank, our scientists have run as many simulations as there are warhead yields, targets, and altitude scenarios. We won’t know until it happens.”

“God forbid.”

“I agree,” she said before moving on to the concept of nuclear winter. “During my years in Tallahassee and even in the first hundred days as secretary of agriculture, the concept of nuclear winter has often come up in our policy meetings.”

Hank interrupted as he sought clarification as to whether this would impact their tiny part of the world. “Is the potential for nuclear winter serious for those of us who live away from obvious nuclear targets?”

Erin sighed and swallowed hard. “Electromagnetic pulses may be the last thing we need to worry about in the event of a nuclear attack. Not just on our soil, but anywhere in the world.”

“Whadya mean?”

“Nuclear war would spawn a climate catastrophe, including a global nuclear El Niño.”

Hank stood and began pacing again. He looked around to see if any other guests were approaching. He’d hoped for the opportunity to be alone with Erin. He enjoyed her company, and he’d visualized them having a conversation filled with laughs and even, perhaps, flirting. Instead, he found his palms getting sweaty from anxiety.

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a lot of fun,” he said, hoping to find a way to inject humor into a subject that wasn’t funny.

“Hank, I’m sorry,” she apologized, hanging her head. Then she made eye contact with him. “My sister told me that you’d asked where I was yesterday. I was coming to grips with all of this stuff myself. The fact is the entire world suffers in a nuclear war, even if it’s regional in nature in places far away from America.

“Nuclear explosions bring radioactive fallout as well as an unrelenting winter as it kicks off the most intense, longest El Niño the planet has experienced since the last eruption of the Yellowstone supervolcano.

“Last month, I attended an ocean sciences meeting in San Diego suggesting global cooling from a nuclear conflict would disrupt normal upper-level wind circulation, leading to severe changes in the atmosphere above the Pacific Ocean.

“Their studies were conclusive. A limited, regional nuclear war in the Middle East like the other day, or in South Asia between Pakistan and India, would provoke a cascade of changes to the Pacific Ocean, the world’s largest ocean basin. Trade winds will reverse direction. The height of the sea surface on either side of the Pacific will adjust, bringing more water to South America’s shores than Australia’s, for example. With this profound change in the normal sea levels near the equator, the volume of nutrient-rich waters made available to marine life will become depleted. In essence, there’s the potential for a total reversal of ocean circulation.”

“Geez,” said Hank as he suddenly turned to the calm waters of the Gulf.

“The thing is,” she began before pausing. “These nuclear detonations represent a pretty big hammer slapping the planet’s climate. Depending on the number of nuclear weapons exchanged, the unusual nuclear El Niño could last up to ten years.”

“During which time, what happens?” asked Hank.

“A massive die-off of the marine food population, especially in the Pacific. The disruption in the weather patterns coupled with substantially less light due to the fallout circumnavigating the planet results in less food resources for fish.”

“What about our coast?”

“Well, there haven’t been many peer-reviewed studies of the impact to the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. The Pacific is an ecosystem in and of itself. However, the limited light resulting from nuclear fallout, nuclear winter, if you will, would severely hamper food production around the globe.

“Without natural grown foods for wildlife, animals can’t eat. Without adequate sunlight and rainfall, crops can’t grow. Without food from animal and plant sources, humans can’t eat. If nothing eats, famine is the natural result.”

“Are we talking about the end of civilization? I mean, surely the people who press the buttons know this is a really bad idea, right?”

Erin stood to join Hank and dusted off the back of her coverup. She took him by the arm, a touching gesture that prompted Hank to smile for the first time since this whole nuclear-aftermath conversation started.

“Hank, imagine a room where the walls and floors are soaked with gasoline. Inside, you have two bitter enemies facing each other. One has a thousand matches, and the other has only nine hundred. Both enemies want to show their firepower is superior to the other’s.

“That’s where we are today. We have an enormous stockpile of nukes, as does China to our west and Russia to our east. There is this unsteady understanding that none of us win in an all-out nuclear war.

“Now, consider this. Iran and Israel were on equal par with one another thanks to a recent surge in Iran’s stockpiles. They thought it was a fair fight, but it wasn’t because Israel had planned for this eventuality many years ago. Its defensive capabilities were far superior.”

The results were obvious.

Erin stopped and began to draw in the sand with her toes. Hank stood back to give her plenty of room. She drew a big circle and reached out to take his hand.

“You stand here, Captain America.” She smiled and sent him a wink. He eagerly stepped into the circle.

She stood to the side and made a circle representing China. Then she walked around Hank to create another one for Russia.

“China and Russia, okay?” She furrowed her brow as she identified the circles. Hank gave her a thumbs-up.

Then, below China toward the left, near the water’s edge, she drew another circle and looked up to Hank.

“This is Pakistan and India. Now, they’ve been in their own gasoline-soaked room for a while now. They don’t have a thousand matches, but they have more than enough to incinerate the room. If they were to light their matches, the billowing smoke and ash would flow upwards into the atmosphere and, within four days, spread around the globe.

“We would experience nuclear winter, albeit on a lesser scale at first. This will gradually become worse as the days go on. Naturally, if the nukes were dropped on top of us, the results would be immediate.”

“I see,” said Hank. He began to step toward her, and she raised her hand, indicating she wasn’t finished.

She walked to the opposite side of the China circle, closer to Hank, and drew an oblong shape from the water’s edge to the upper side of China. She stood off to the side and put her hands on her hips to survey her work.

“This represents the Korean peninsula. Now, there’s a whole lot of gasoline here, but only one side has matches, and they’re held by a ruthless dictator.”

Hank chuckled. “I call him Little Un.”

Erin laughed with him but cautioned, “Short on stature but tall on threat. You see, if the balance of power between you, China, and Russia over there were to stay the same, Little Un, as you call him, might do something stupid because these big guns have his back. Likewise, these guys who are facing off in their own gas-filled room might decide to have at it.” She walked across China and pointed to India and Pakistan.

“What would trigger all of this?” asked Hank, sweeping his arm across the map in the sand. “Surely that whole mutually assured destruction thing would apply, right?”

“One would hope,” she replied. “But if it doesn’t, the consequences would be dire for all of us regardless of whether we were at ground zero of the nuclear strike.”

Hank shook his head in disbelief. He wondered how politicians could sleep at night knowing that nuclear Armageddon hung over us all like a mighty sword. He stepped out of his circle and motioned for Erin to walk back to the hotel. They shared casual conversation in an effort to get their minds off the prospect of somebody else striking a match in a gasoline-filled room that could result in their extinction.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sunday, October 20

Oval Office

The White House

“Clear the room, everyone. Please.” President Helton had spent the entire day with advisors and analysts and staffers chirping in his ear for one reason or another. He needed some peace and quiet. Especially the peace half of the equation.

After the Oval Office was empty, he removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He made his way to a small cabinet located to the right of the Resolute Desk. It was perched below a painting of Lady Liberty holding the torch high above her head.

He retrieved a leaded crystal glass and the bottle of Glenfiddich scotch whisky. After pouring his glass half full, he returned to his desk and flopped in the chair. He mindlessly spun back and forth, taking in his surroundings.

He realized how rare it was for him to be left alone in his sanctuary. As president, he was afforded precious little free time. Once in a while, he was left alone to peruse briefing documents for a meeting before the ever-present Chandler would have a need to return to his office.

In addition to the briefings he received from all parts of government, he had figurehead functions to perform, ranging from meeting with world leaders to hosting the Little League World champions. As of this morning, his entire schedule had been cleared for the next several days as the nation’s vast intelligence apparatus kept him apprised of events in the Middle East.

It was nice, for a change, to set other matters aside to focus on one thing and make sure he got it right. As a former senator, he hadn’t run a government like a governor runs a state. Governors, like presidents, were the chief executive officer of a massive financial operation that dealt directly with the well-being of its citizens. Matters of health, finance, and national defense all had to be taken into account.

The Oval Office had hosted seventeen presidents before him since it was constructed by President Franklin Roosevelt in 1934. The president turned in his chair and stared into the darkness that had engulfed the District as nightfall set in. Lights twinkled off in the distance. He stood from the chair and casually strolled up to the three eleven-foot-tall windows overlooking the South Lawn.

The president was philosophical as he spoke to the empty room. In his mind, he was speaking to the American people. “This office comes with great responsibility. There is no perfect decision on any subject. I can support Israel, but I cannot fight their battles.

“I refuse to go to war over the free flow of oil. Past administrations have done that already. Any decision I make is gonna be met with criticism. That comes with the job.”

He stopped speaking, but his thoughts continued. So let the media pitch a fit. We’re gonna sit on the sidelines for now.

These were similar to the words he’d just spoken to his chief of staff, with instructions to forward them to Pentagon officials. He was certain to receive pushback, but he was firm in his resolve.

Their argument was that their failure to defend their ally Israel, and engage Iran, forcing them to open the Strait of Hormuz, was a sign of weakness. It would embolden their enemies and create doubt in the minds of their allies as to whether the U.S. would back them up in a similar conflict as had been pledged in the past.

Maybe those arguments were valid, but the president didn’t believe any nation was going to test his mettle based upon a limited nuclear strike in the Middle East. For now, he’d continue to study his intelligence briefings and allow the military to keep him abreast. If, and when, a threat of this type directly impacted the U.S., then he’d act accordingly.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sunday, October 20

Zen Bistro & Wine Bar

Pentagon Row

Arlington, Virginia

Peter called Jenna and invited her to a late lunch at their favorite Asian restaurant, Zen Bistro. Located at Pentagon Row, it was a blend of unique retail stores and restaurants on the south side of the Henry Shirley Memorial Highway across from the Pentagon. He also called upon another acquaintance of theirs, Brian Stephens, an assistant to the White House director of political affairs, or DPA.

Peter felt guilty about failing to disclose the real purpose of calling the three friends together. He actually missed Jenna and could tell in her voice during the phone call that she was under considerable stress. Brian dealt with foreign policy matters on behalf of the DPA and might have some insight into the president’s opinion of North Korea.

Zen was referred to in the restaurant business as Asian fusion, a mix of several different Asian dishes and ingredients. Chefs served up sushi, Korean cuisine, Thai foods, and Chinese delicacies. The trio, who’d been frequenting Zen for years during happy hour, opted for sushi. After their tea was served and each of them snatched a piece of the red dragon roll, their favorite, the conversation turned to the president’s response to the nuclear attack.

“We’re all off the record, pinky sworn to secrecy and all of that, right?” asked Brian.

“Of course, man,” replied Peter. He might pinky swear, but he certainly would second-source whatever was about to be shared if he planned on revealing it to Beasley. “What are you thinkin’?”

“There’s a real concern in the White House that this thing could expand to a much larger, extra-regional conflict.”

“I can echo that,” added Jenna as she munched on a piece from her crunchy shrimp roll. “The Pentagon believes the president needs to act decisively to show the world America won’t stand down to despot rulers.”

Peter turned to Brian. “Whadya mean by extra-regional? Are you saying beyond the Middle East? Like Europe?”

Brian shook his head vigorously from side to side as he swallowed the hot tea. “No. South Asia. There’s chatter.”

Peter’s eyes darted from Jenna to Brian. He then fixed his gaze on his friend with benefits, although they hadn’t been friendly in a few weeks due to Peter’s travel schedule. “Do you know about this?”

She shrugged and looked guilty. “Vaguely. Echoes of conversations in the halls. You know how that goes. The Pentagon is a big place with a lot of conversations, if you know what I mean.”

Peter shook his head in disbelief. “Why would Pakistan and India go at it now? In the midst of what just happened? Didn’t they see the visuals out of Tehran and Tel Aviv. Nuclear war sucks.”

When he woke up that morning, he’d hungrily, yet with trepidation, scoured the internet for video clips and photographs of the devastation. Human beings, if not obliterated altogether, were left maimed and twisted. Buildings were incinerated. The entire landscape was covered with gray soot and ash. The sun was blocked out by the debris floating overhead. It was as if the world had turned whitish gray except for the raging fires all around.

“It’s complicated,” replied Brian.

Peter pressed them. “Pakistan and India seemed to have a working, albeit tenuous peace, for decades. Sure, their nuclear programs have advanced greatly during that time, but they’re next-door neighbors, for God’s sake. They’re not gonna shoot at each other, right?”

Jenna replied, “I never thought the Iranians would have the balls to fire on Israel.”

Peter chuckled. He liked when Jenna used locker-room talk. His mom had been the same way.

He shook his head and used his chopsticks to pluck a piece of sushi. “Well, it was stupid. Look how it turned out for those fools. I just can’t imagine Pakistan and India going after each other.”

Brian felt the need to defend the information he’d shared. “Actually, Peter, it isn’t that surprising. Listen, there’s a war going on in the White House between the Helton faction, who is adamantly opposed to war, and the longtime advisors to administrations, who see it as a necessary evil. The president sees America’s defense of its ally Israel as initiating an act of war on Iran. Others see it as a promise kept, one that has endured for decades.”

Peter looked over his drink to Jenna. “Is the Pentagon thinking this way as well?”

She nodded. “From what I’m hearing, the defense secretary firmly believes that bad actors like Pakistan will see the president’s inaction as a sign of weakness. They’re willing to take their chances on a head-to-head war with India if they believe Washington will stand down.”

Here was Peter’s opening. “Well, hell. If the administration’s opinion is to stand down in a nuclear conflict between two equally matched adversaries, what’ll they do if Kim fires off nukes at Seoul and Tokyo, two nations with no nukes of their own?”

Brian leaned back and sighed. “Personal opinion?” he said inquisitively.

“Sure,” replied Peter.

“That’s a different scenario. He’d defend South Korea and Japan.”

“With nukes?”

Jenna and Brian replied simultaneously, “Yes.”

Peter continued with his questions. “And this is because of the balance of nuclear power differential?”

“I think so,” replied Jenna. “At least from the Pentagon’s perspective.”

Peter looked to Brian. “Same from the White House?” He intently studied his friend’s facial expression, searching for clues.

Brian squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow. He looked around at the mostly empty restaurant. Most people were home tuned into the cable news stations. The nuclear showdown in the Middle East was high drama for most Americans. He leaned in to reply.

“Okay. This is totally water cooler talk, understand? This has never come out of the mouth of my boss and is strictly passed around the Eisenhower and EOB cafeterias.” There were two cafeterias open to White House staff. One was located in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, and the other was in the New Executive Office Building, both of which were part of the White House complex.

Brian continued after both Jenna and Peter nodded in agreement. “There is something personal between the president and Kim. Nobody knows what it is and where it originated. Did you notice during the campaign the subject of North Korea rarely came up?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” replied Jenna.

“Are you saying he and Kim are best pals or something?” asked Peter.

“I don’t know,” Brian quickly answered. “There is some kind of unwritten understanding between the two that none of us can put our finger on. It isn’t discussed much because, frankly, Kim has toned down his rhetoric since the election, and the president hasn’t found a need to address this particular foreign policy matter.”

“Well, I’m gonna throw this out there,” began Jenna. “Regardless of what the North Koreans are up to, I can say that Pakistanis are certainly on a war footing. That didn’t come from me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sunday, October 20

McDowell Residence

Hayward, California

Lacey, Owen, and their son, Tucker, were not unlike millions of other American families gathered around the dinner table that night as they discussed the nuclear attack. They’d grimaced when, despite the warnings of the media that the following images were graphic in nature, they couldn’t look away from the devastation wrought by the nuclear bombs.

Lacey cried when she saw orphaned children, maimed and burned, crying for their parents while they clutched a doll or toy. Owen set his jaw in anger as the pundits explained why Iran thought they had a right to attack Israel. Tucker scowled in disbelief when some reporters warned a nuclear war could be brought to American soil.

The solemn news overshadowed what should’ve been a celebration for the family when Owen broke the news that he got the promotion together with a substantial raise. He was even rewarded with a few days off at the end of the upcoming week.

“Okay. Enough of this,” began Lacey as she turned off the television that had been playing in the background as they ate. “We’ve heard it all, and now they’re just regurgitating and speculating, their favorite pastime.” She and Peter had vastly different opinions of the role of the media in America. Lacey’s was more closely aligned with her father—why can’t they just tell the truth from all sides. Peter’s perspective was different since it was his passion and job.

“I agree, Mom. I’ve been thinking about a way to spend Dad’s extra days off besides him doing chores around the house.”

“How do you know that’s what I had in mind?” asked Owen.

“’Cause that’s what you do lately, Dad. The three of us haven’t been hiking and camping since last spring.”

“You and your mom have gone,” said Owen with a tinge of guilt in his voice. He knew his son was right. He’d been far too focused on his career at Yahoo, promotion and raise notwithstanding. He needed to live in the present with his family.

“As luck would have it,” interjected Lacey, “there are no honey-dos on the hubby’s to-do list. We can all just chillax or—”

“You can pull me out of school for a few days, and we can head to the mountains,” said Tucker, finishing his mom’s sentence in a manner she hadn’t planned. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

Owen chuckled and leaned back in his chair. He and Lacey exchanged subtle smiles and encouraged their son to continue.

“Have you guys checked out the weather forecast for the Sierra Nevadas?”

Lacey started to laugh and shrugged. “Um, can’t say that I have. How about you, Owen?”

“Nope. What did I miss?”

“Snow, you guys. No cap. The forecast is calling for snow at the end of next week.”

Owen and Lacey burst out laughing. They tried not to show their age when talking with their fifteen-year-old son, especially since they were in their late thirties and hardly ancient. Phrases like no cap, the new-and-improved version of for real or no lie used often in their younger years, required evening internet research sessions to decipher.

Once Tucker had entered high school, new words were introduced into his vocabulary. While playing football one afternoon, Lacey heard Tucker and his buddies shout yeet from time to time. She learned yeet was an expression used by teens instead of bam or boom, with the presumed accompanying explanation point, of course.

Lacey recalled laughing so hard she was in tears that evening as she relayed her observations to Owen. Without a word, he’d hustled off to the kitchen, returning with a stockpot and a wooden spoon. Then he retrieved a white dinner jacket out of his closet and a pair of tighty-whitey underwear. He pulled the drawers on top of his head and adjusted them just so in the mirror. Then he put on the white jacket and turned to Lacey with pot and spoon in hand.

“Who am I?” he asked nonchalantly, starting the guessing game they played often, along with would you rather?

“More clues, please,” asked Lacey as she laughed, already amused by his antics.

Owen smacked the pot with the wooden spoon, held it high over his head, and yelled, “Yeet!”

Lacey immediately picked up on the reference to Chef Emeril Lagasse, who was known to throw out the word bam during his food presentations. She laughed and cried so hard she couldn’t manage to get out the words.

This did not deter Owen from beginning round two of the who am I? game. He dropped all of his props and rustled through the closet. He located an orange and black soft-shelled jacket bearing the San Francisco Giants logo on the back. Then he retrieved a wooden baseball bat out of the closet that had been autographed by Barry Bonds at a Yahoo corporate event he’d attended.

He rushed into the bathroom, found some hair gel, and worked with his sandy blond locks to get the raggedy surfer-dude look. Then he emerged, donning the orange and black jacket, with bat in hand.

“Who am I?” he asked with a straight face. He pulled the bat up and rested it on his right shoulder and struck a pose with his chest puffed out.

Lacey struggled to reply. Her sleeves were already covered with mucus mixed with tears that continued to stream down her cheeks. She waved her arms and tried to reply but couldn’t. Owen was glad to help her out.

“More clues?”

She nodded.

Owen proceeded to hop around the bedroom, slamming the bat toward the floor, yelling, “Yeet! Yeet!”

“Bam! Bam!” she joined in the shouting and nearly peed herself as she lost any semblance of composure.

Tucker’s voice invaded her subconscious. “Whadya think, Mom?”

“Um, about what?”

“The plan. Are you in?”

Lacey glanced at Owen, who nodded. She shrugged. “Yeah, let’s do it. But, um, can we go over it again?” She started to laugh to herself. It felt good.

“Go ahead, Tuck,” said Owen. “I’m gonna pour us a glass of wine.”

“Make it three,” said his son. “Sooo lit.” Cool, in teen-speak.

“Not a chance, pal.”

Tucker frowned and then explained what was happening with the cold front that had swept through the mountains and the other one that was approaching.

“They had a record snowfall in Lake Tahoe overnight. It kinda got lost in the news with all that’s happening over there, but some of my friends who are farmers are pretty stoked.”

Lacey was surprised. “Snow in October? I can’t even remember the last time that happened.”

“More than just snow, Mom. I’m talking GOAT levels.” GOAT was an acronym used for greatest of all time. It was often overused, but in the case of the unusual winter precipitation that was ongoing, it was the truth. The snowmelt to follow was much needed by Northern California farmers.

The horrific drought conditions had made it difficult for farmers to make ends meet. Pressured by banks to pay their notes despite the lack of crop production, many of them took to growing grapes to supply local wineries. Others in the higher elevations converted their lands to grow hemp and marijuana like so many others in California.

The drought had another significant impact. Wildfires had devastated hundreds of thousands of acres across the state. The drought conditions and high winds at that time of year created a worst-case scenario in the event a negligent camper or a careless smoker started what might ordinarily be a harmless flame. The fires had been burning since September but were largely contained.

“So you’re thinking South Lake Tahoe for snowboarding?”

“You name it, Mom. Wouldn’t it be great to get away? Heck, we can even unplug the television in the room so we don’t have to listen to that crap anymore.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

Lacey glanced into the living room. She was tempted to turn it back on and see if there were any new developments. It was like watching a train wreck that you couldn’t take your eyes off of. Only it was much larger.