G Hopf: The Long Road

“It’s a revolver, so all you have to do is point and squeeze the trigger. If for some reason it doesn’t shoot, squeeze the trigger again,” Gordon instructed him.

“I want a gun like yours,” Hunter said, pointing at Gordon’s holstered handgun.

“Later, once you have more training. Revolvers are simple. If you had to troubleshoot a malfunction with a semiauto, you could get into trouble. For right now, this will do,” Gordon said, tussling Hunter’s hair.

“Thanks, Dad,” Hunter said. He then pointed the gun toward the open desert and closed his left eye. He took aim at an abandoned car and pretended to shoot it.

“Hunter, having this is a big responsibility. Do you understand?”

Nodding, Hunter replied, “Yes.”

Gordon squatted down so he could look his son in the eyes. He grabbed both shoulders and said, “Things are different now; this isn’t the world of almost seven weeks ago. In this world we can’t play games anymore. You’re now a man, and you need to act like one. I need you to truly understand this.”

“I do, Dad.”

“Listen, Son, you need to always look after your little sister. I don’t know what the future holds, but if something happens to me, you become the man of the family. The toys need to be put away. I will be giving you responsibilities within our group, okay?”

“I understand, and I’ll make you proud of me.”

Gordon looked into his son’s eyes. He could remember the day he was born. Hunter was always so alert, even at birth. He wasn’t seconds old and Gordon remembered him looking out of his swaddling clothes with fascination in his eyes. Of course, this was how Gordon remembered it, and a parent’s love for his children always makes them seem more than they might actually be. Gordon brought him in closer and hugged him tightly.

“I love you, Hunter.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

Cruz placed the receiver down on the phone’s base and stared at it. Thoughts were pulsating so rapidly through his mind that he didn’t move except for the blinking of his eyes and the throbbing of his temple. He was alone in the command post briefing room. Like Conner before him, he hadn’t asked for this job, it was thrust upon him. The events that had led him to this once-coveted position now grew darker and more complex.

All decisions have consequences, and the decisions that Conner had made as president were coming back to haunt him. Conner’s nuclear strikes across the globe had finally come home to roost. First, they were starting to register environmental issues. Higher levels of radiation had been showing up in the rains that fell across the country. The estimates from some were that the blasts from D.C., New York, and now the more than a dozen large nuclear strikes would make global temperatures drop by two degrees centigrade. This could be enough to cause further degradation to any crops that the survivors would be planting. They had stopped global warming with a small nuclear winter.

The second issue Cruz was facing was abandonment by all nations that had previously pledged their support. The last to drop its support was Australia. He had resorted to begging the prime minister, but nothing would work. The overall consensus from the nations not affected by the EMPs was to pull all support to the United States. As if scripted, they all expressed dismay that Conner would unilaterally attack all of those countries with massive nuclear strikes without regard for civilians. Conner had briefed all leaders of state but only after the weapons had reached their targets. He felt he couldn’t trust anyone after New York had been struck.

Cruz’s feelings were mixed; he’d supported Conner’s decision then, especially after the incident with Griswald, but had reservations he hadn’t shared with his old friend. Cruz only now appreciated the pressure that Conner was under. It’s easy to judge and second-guess those in charge, but when the ball stops with you, the responsibility can become overwhelming. The situation the country found itself in now was hard for him to get his arms around. He didn’t know where to start. Conner was gone, most likely dead, but a body hadn’t been found. The limited number of troops they had made a search for him impossible. Cruz believed that Conner had been right about setting up a new capital to show the American people that the country was rebuilding, but he couldn’t decide if he should do it now or wait to find out the true fate of the president.

Everything was a mess, but he had found good counsel in the new secretary of defense, General Samuel Baxter, the commanding officer of Cheyenne Mountain. Baxter was the typical career officer. He was a graduate of the Air Force Academy, smart, quick-witted, and honest in his assessments. This honesty had cost him some positions. The command of Cheyenne Mountain was actually considered a demotion for him. Since the end of the Cold War, Cheyenne Mountain had been considered a relic that still received funding only because some of the “old dogs” in Washington insisted. Now it was the de facto capital of the United States and sanctuary for what was left of the centralized command and control.

Picking up the phone again, Cruz dialed and sat patiently waiting for the person on the other end to answer.

“General, I need you and the rest of the staff to report to the briefing room ASAP.”

Cruz relaxed into the leather chair and looked at the walls. He spun around and faced a map of the United States, staring at the red lines drawn around parts of the country. These lines represented areas now considered contaminated. The red lines on the right side of the map connected and overlapped. From east of the Mississippi, many regions fell into contaminated areas. With the two nuclear strikes and dozens of meltdowns from Florida to New Hampshire, this part of the country was now being considered a total loss.

To the right of the map hung a large dry-erase board. On it were more than fifty evenly spaced columns, each with a total at the bottom. The number Cruz could not tear his gaze from was the one circled on the far right bottom: 13,152,891. That number was too impossible to believe. After almost seven weeks, they estimated that more than 13 million Americans were dead. The initial day had killed hundreds of thousands, then those in need of urgent medical care had followed in the tens of thousands over the next few days. Civil unrest took thousands more in the first days. Starvation began to take those weak, young, and old by more tens of thousands. If they didn’t have the SIPRNet, they wouldn’t have been able to communicate with anyone outside Cheyenne Mountain.

The news was sobering, but information was critical. With each relay from those outside, the picture came to seem insurmountable. There were large riots, murders, mass executions, starvation, rapes, and total chaos in the bigger cities. If that wasn’t enough, the nuclear plants began to melt down, causing mass radiation sickness. This was followed by the nuclear strike on New York, which killed millions. They truly didn’t know how many were dead; the numbers were just good guesses. But judging by what they saw on some of their patrols and from reports across the country, they were probably right.

Some of the latest troubling news concerned the sighting of mass migrations out of the East. Hundreds of thousands were heading west. Some word must have spread that the government planned to focus the recovery efforts in the West first. The densely populated Eastern Seaboard had turned into a bloody grinder. Streets were covered by starving bands of people fighting for what few scraps of food they could find. Murder was now commonplace. Strewn along with the trash were bodies of those who had either been killed or starved to death. The stench on many streets in the big cities was unbearable. Even if no one had told them to leave, many knew the cities were now death traps and if they had a chance for survival it was not to be found there. Many saw the West as wide open and rich with natural resources.