Bobby Akart - First Strike

Tucker joined her in the living room. “Mom, what are we gonna do? We have to wait for Dad.”

Lacey closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe the words that came out of her mouth. “It’ll be too late.”

Tuesday, October 22

Driftwood Key

Although Hank was exhausted by the end of the day, he was having difficulty finding sleep. He’d started before dawn at just after five that morning, resulting in a fast-paced, seventeen-hour day. He tossed and turned as a myriad of scenarios ran through his head. He questioned himself several times as he tried to determine whether he was overreacting. However, Peter had been so convincing, and when the nuclear skirmish in the Middle East transitioned into an all-out war between India and Pakistan, Hank began to believe the potential threat to the U.S. was real.

But which threat should he prepare for? Would America be subjected to a nuclear detonation on her soil? Or would it simply be subjected to the aftermath of these other conflicts—nuclear winter?

The best-case scenario, of course, was that nothing happened. Certainly, the concept of nuclear winter was largely theoretical, based upon the works of Carl Sagan many decades ago. Comparing the global environmental implications to the eruption of the Yellowstone supervolcano, he thought, might be a little too much. Then again, would it have to be that bad to throw the world into a period of rapid cooling and famine as plant material died off?

If nothing happened, then he’d sent his guests home for no reason and he’d cancelled reservations that would have to be rebooked. It would cost the inn revenue, but he had sufficient savings to cover the losses.

In his restless state, his mind chased several scenarios. When would it be safe to say all clear ? Or the threat has passed . The modern-day equivalent of the Cuban Missile Crisis is over .

Hank’s planning had relied on Peter’s inside information and judgment. He would not take the advice of the talking heads on the news networks. They’d lost his trust and confidence years ago.

He worried about Peter, who was a headstrong risk-taker. Peter was not one to shy away from a fight or danger, as his career had proven. His son was prepared to stay in Washington, an obvious nuclear target, until the end so he could cover the story. While Hank admired his dedication, he’d feel a whole lot better if Peter were settled in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs.

Then there was Lacey. His adorable baby girl who’d grown up, left the nest for college, and was hustled off to Northern California to start a family. He didn’t begrudge her choices in life. In fact, Hank truly admired Owen and enjoyed his company on the rare occasions they traveled back to the Keys. And Tucker was a heckuva young man. Polite. Smart. Head screwed on right. A model teen, if that was possible nowadays.

It was impossible to ask a parent who their favorite child was. Their intense feeling of guilt in choosing one or the other would result in a response full of equivocation and caveats. The same was true for Hank although there was a special bond he’d had with Lacey.

From the beginning, he could look into his baby girl’s eyes and see his wife, Megan. Megan created a mini-me as she raised Lacey, something that thrilled Hank. He loved his wife, and the thought of Lacey growing up in her image comforted him. When Megan died, Lacey had been there for Hank more than anyone else that summer in between her junior and senior years.

When she was a child, the two had a classic hero dad–princess daughter relationship. Hank included her in all of his activities, and Lacey found a love for the outdoors just like Hank. To be sure, she was the darling little princess although she was more Ariel, the Little Mermaid, than she was Cinderella.

Hank was there for her, teaching her to be self-reliant and a problem-solver. Megan believed Hank’s time spent with Lacey as a young child boosted her self-confidence and encouraged her to overcome her inhibitions. She was fearless, much like her brother, Peter.

Lacey’s teen years were different. Well, they actually started at twelve. The eye roll became a commonly used response to Hank’s attempts to employ the same parenting tactics he’d used when she was younger.

Hank hung in there and persevered. The phase passed, and Lacey’s relationship with her dad grew, especially after the death of Megan. They helped one another through it, and now the bond between the two of them was as strong as ever.

It was for that reason that Hank bolted upright in his bed that evening as he struggled for sleep. Something sent chills up his spine, and his forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He fumbled to turn the light on, and he retrieved his cell phone from its charger. In the moment, Hank was incredibly lucid, and worried.

He tried to dial Lacey’s number first and got no answer. He moved on to the home phone and received a fast-busy signal. When he tried again, the fast-busy signal was replaced in the earpiece by dead, staticky silence. He checked his watch. It was barely seven o’clock on the west coast. He navigated through his address book to call Owen’s and Tucker’s cell phones.

No answer.

Hank cursed himself as his mind went there. The worst-case scenario. A nuclear strike on American soil, with the West Coast being the first of many targets. He jerked open the nightstand drawer to find the television remote that was rarely used. The entire drawer and its contents spilled out onto the floor. Hank rolled out of bed and searched for the remote, which had found its way under the bed.

The expletives were being hurled at this point. He took a deep breath to regain his composure. He powered on the monitor and struggled to switch from the Weather Channel to any of the cable news networks.

He finally found CNN. His eyes grew wide as the words BREAKING NEWS were splattered across the screen together with a graphic depicting California, Oregon, and Washington, with several red dots flashing on the screen. Along the chyron, the words Ballistic Missile Alert issued.

Tears poured out of Hank’s eyes as he turned up the volume.

Tuesday, October 22

Falls Church, Virginia

Peter had flopped on the sofa with a beer. He’d spent the bulk of the afternoon at the State Department, attempting to confirm the information he’d received from his sources. He didn’t have sufficient corroboration to satisfy his editor, so a story for the print edition of the Times didn’t have a chance. Their journalistic standards also applied to the digital edition online. Peter planned on settling in with his MacBook to review statements made by the president during past electoral campaigns to determine if he’d tipped his hand unknowingly. As was his practice, he watched his television with the volume muted and the closed captioning turned on so he could monitor events around the world.

Fox News was airing a commercial, so he perused his social media accounts before getting started. He moved from the new platforms, MeWe and Gab, to the dinosaurs, Facebook and then Twitter. By the time he scrolled through his Twitter feed, the digital media world had exploded.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he jumped off the sofa, spilling his beer in the process. He grabbed the bottle off the floor and set it on the coffee table as the foamy head spilled out. He quickly turned his laptop sideways so the droplets of beer slid off the screen.

Peter grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the television. Breaking News was emblazoned across the screen. He turned up the volume to listen as he studied the tweets. The news opinion host stuttered at first. She was normally level-headed, but the magnitude of the event had clearly rattled her.