M. Banner - Stone Age

What else could they do? Electromagnetic pulses from the sun’s coronal mass ejections had taken out their communications and then fried everything, including all their other electronics, in spite of their shielding. R.T. figured that the induced currents, still found their way inside to the electronics all connected and integrated into each module. Their handheld electronics and most importantly, their suits unconnected to the modules’ structure, were protected and still worked, but would only sustain each man or woman for a couple of hours. It was kicking the can down death’s road of inevitability.

He supposed he should feel lucky, because only ten minutes earlier they almost lost the whole space station to fire, manually casting off several modules to save the whole. The CME’s induced electrostatic charges ignited the fire. These particular modules were older and didn’t have very much shielding, as they were built by the Russians. Enough said . R.T. figured the next CME, due any moment, was probably large enough that it would have the same effect on the remaining, better shielded modules. He wanted to change his vote now, definitely fire .

It was cold. They were huddled together in Melanie’s research module in hopes of creating a little more warmth. They were tired, spent; most wearing a thin layer of blackness from fighting the fires minutes ago. They silently stared at each other or out the aft porthole of their module, counting the seconds until the next sunrise, which would heat their module up just enough to take the sting out of the cold. Then darkness, and with it the bitter cold of space would soon follow.

The escape modules were out because someone would have to stay behind to release each manually. Even then, there was still very little chance of survival, because each module had to manually deploy their chutes at the right time, something normally done automatically by computers at the correct altitude. Then there was the little matter of running out of oxygen before they could escape their modules.

“I think we all know the situation we are in,” R.T. broke the silence, speaking as their Mission Commander. “Best I can figure, we have only one shot for any of us coming out of this alive. We draw straws for someone to stay behind. The rest of us split up into the two escape modules, and the winner will manually release each of the modules. As you know, each escape module’s occupants will have to guess correctly at the exact moment to pull their chute. If wrong, either you’ll burn up during re-entry or you’ll crash to Earth at 10,000 miles per hour. Further, you’ll have to set your suit’s O 2on a barely passible setting, and then have enough left to be able to pop your helmets off before passing out and then suffocating. Any of you surviving that long will probably still die of hypercarbia. Any questions?”

Everyone was silent, their highly intelligent and educated brains already deducing the same scenario long before their commander spoke.

R.T. held out eight strips of paper, the bottoms covered by the palm of his hand, waiting for someone to start their lottery of death.

Melanie reached first. “I guess I’ll get us started.” She drew a long strip of paper, but held back any outward sign of her happiness. No one but R.T., who watched her response, could see it. R.T.’s resolve was strengthened, knowing she would have a chance.

Each participant’s strip of paper drawn appeared long. Their reactions were similar, not as reserved as Melanie’s, breathing a long release of air upon realization, and then taking in oxygen and momentary relief into their lungs. When the last participant waited an extended measure of time to choose from what was believed to be a fifty percent chance at death or a remote possibility of life, he too breathed a long sigh of relief. Then, all looked at their commander, all but one of their knowing faces full of acceptance, and relieve it wasn’t them. Tears filled Melanie’s eyes.

R.T. held onto the last long strip of paper. To complete his shell game, he stealthily folded the bottom portion of his strip of paper in half with his other hand and presented the now shortened ‘straw’ to the group quickly, then he thrust it into his suit pocket. “It’s on me then. Let’s head to the modules,” he announced deadpan.

“Si mi padre” Rodrigo said very animated over his cell phone. “I will do as you say. Gracias papi.” He pulled the phone from his ear and pressed the end button. His father, Felix “El Chorro” Menendez just gave him the “orden de muerte” or the kill order. It was his first one, although he had killed before, but never as a result of a kill order. The Death Squad always handled these, but after Ortega Inzunza was taken out by the Mexican government’s gunships on the beach a few months ago, he knew his day would soon come. He couldn’t have imagined a better kill order than Max Thompson.

Ever since the day he saved Miguel, Max Thompson has been a thorn in his side. If it weren’t for Max’s own stupidity, he may have never gotten the chance. Hard to believe he would sell guns to the Ochoas. He dug his own hole, and he would be buried in it soon.

He imagined the moment he would point his nicked 45 Colt Commander at Max’s face and then pull the trigger. He was relishing this moment, when he realized there were three faces staring intently at him.

“Puto, stop staring at me,” Rodrigo yelled at all three at once. “What are you, a bunch of dogs? Get everyone. We have our order to kill Señor Max and take his guns and drugs. We meet outside in cinquento minutos.”

With orders given, one of the three henchmen, tasked with additional orders ran outside the office to another room and announced in Spanish to the other men to get their weapons and meet outside in fifty minutes. The other two called the remaining assassins not at the compound, demanding their immediate return.

“Ernesto “El Papá” Fernandez, so named because he was the father of 18 children, was also the oldest of Rodrigo’s henchmen. More importantly at this moment, he was a friend of Maxwell Thompson long before Rodrigo’s feud with Max started. He knew the reason for Rodrigo’s hatred for the man, and so he kept his friendship with Max a secret. Rodrigo also didn’t know that their last load of guns actually came from Max. Again, no need to tell Rodrigo. He was a loyal lieutenant to Rodrigo, but a kill order for Max? He couldn’t stand by without helping Max. While standing by the Tahoe waiting for the rest of his team, he discretely pulled out his phone and texted Max, warning him of what was coming his way.

“Donde Julio and Pacco?” One of the group of asinos asked from the vehicle behind El Papá. “El Hefe already sent them out yesterday to watch Señor Max and to make sure he didn’t run when we go there,” he answered in Spanish.

Ernesto hoped that he would reach his friend in time.

Less than fifty minutes after the order was given, Rodrigo walked out to find thirteen of his fifteen men in five vehicles idling and ready to pull out.

“Let’s kill ourselves a gringo,” he yelled jubilantly as he climbed into the second vehicle, a shiny black Cadillac Esplanade SUV. His men cheered back at their leader as the caravan of killers drove out of the compound.

Nothing went right with John & Steve Parkington’s flight. Besides the amazing, but unnerving aurora displays, all their equipment was barely functional. Their radio returned mostly static. The Garmin GPS with XM Weather was inoperable, displaying a fluttering green-red screen. Even the old VOR system, didn’t really work. Only one piece of navigational equipment was functional. An old compass, providing the only bearing they felt comfortable following. They were, however, blessed with minimal air traffic, due to the early hour and the problems grounding most planes. For the last two hours, the airport closures and diversions caused their greatest concerns. All were from the same problems they were experiencing; geomagnetic storms which laid waste to the satellites on which their equipment depended. After being turned away from Denver Airport because of communications issues, they returned east to attempt landing at a regional outside of Lawrence, Kansas. There, they were planning to refill and get more intel on the problems plaguing all pilots. But they were diverted from there as well. Finally, they hoped to make it to the private airport outside of Kansas City, since MCI was closed, but were once again diverted.