Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

“Israel, sir. I count twenty missiles currently outbound,” a master sergeant replies.

Hooper glances around at the growing crowd and shouts, “If you don’t work in this room, get the hell out. And that’s a direct fucking order.”

People begin scurrying toward the door as the colonel picks up the phone. Bypassing about ten layers of command structure, he says, “Get me the President.”

Weatherford

Gage is finishing up with the brakes when the interior of the hub lights up like a mirror reflecting the sun. The flash of brilliant light is followed by a deep rumble of thunder, and Gage is wondering if he has slipped into another dimension. He glances up to reconfirm what he already knows—there’s not a cloud in the sky. He stands, stretches his achy back, and steps over to the side, thinking there must have been some type of explosion. But there’s not so much as a puff of smoke on the horizon and no visible signs of anything amiss. When he steps over to the town side of the turbine, his brain registers something different, but he can’t pinpoint what it is. Shrugging his shoulders, he returns to work.

After a few minutes, the niggle in the back of his mind pushes its way to the surface. He retraces his steps for another look. Very few automobiles are moving and a good number of them are stopped in places where a person wouldn’t normally stop. A couple of pickups are stopped in the middle of the road leading out of town, and two dusty sedans are stalled out in the middle of a busy intersection. Closer in, the farmer who was raking hay is down from his tractor, the hood up over the engine. Gage turns his gaze back toward town and, upon closer examination, discovers the interior of the Quick Stop dark. The owner, an asshole new to town, usually has about a half-dozen signs flashing, but they, too, are dark. Last week there had been a fire at the electrical substation that knocked out power for a couple of hours… but that doesn’t explain the auto situation, Gage thinks. His mind spins through possible scenarios as he shakes his head and shuffles back to his work area.

Something else he’s seen is bothering him, but he can’t put his thumb on what it is. He steps over to the ice chest for another bottle of water, and it hits him. The other turbines aren’t moving. Turning for another look, his recollection is confirmed—all the turbines are as still as statutes. “Huh,” Gage mutters. Digging around in his bag, he grabs his laptop and plugs a cable into the computer of the turbine he’s working on and hits the power button and waits for the computer to boot up. And waits. And waits. He punches the power button again, but the whir of the hard drive remains silent. Gage checks to make sure the battery is properly seated and gives the laptop a shake before trying again. Same result. He remembers putting the laptop on the charger before hitting the sack last night so it can’t be a dead battery.

Curious now, Gage sets the laptop aside and approaches the rack of computer equipment mounted on the back wall of the nacelle. None of the lights are flashing and Gage can smell burned plastic. A tingle of dread starts at the base of his neck and inches down his spine like a spider. Although Gage didn’t finish college, he knows a little about a lot of things. Putting everything together in his mind, there’s only one reasonable answer for what’s happening. And as improbable as it sounds, it’s the only valid explanation—an electromagnetic pulse.

White House Situation Room

The intercom in the Situation Room chimes. “Mr. President, I have an urgent call from a Colonel Hal Hooper at NORAD.”

Aldridge glances at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who shrugs. “Don’t know him, sir.”

Aldridge scowls and picks up the phone. He listens for a few moments, the blood draining from his face. He hangs up the phone with a trembling hand and stares at a spot on the far wall for a moment. Then, in a flat tone, he says, “Punch up the feed from NORAD.”

When the screen showing missile trajectories pops into view, everyone in the room gasps.

“In addition to the missile launches you are seeing and the explosion of our drone over Russian soil,” Aldridge says, “a nuclear weapon was detonated high over Kansas City that triggered a massive EMP. The explosion was tracked to a North Korean satellite—”

Aldridge is interrupted by the arrival of six Secret Service agents. The lead agent of his personal protection detail, Ed Henry, steps forward. “Sir, we’d like to move you into the bunker and move the vice president to another location.”

“Stand down, Ed,” Aldridge says. “We need to get a handle on the situation before we even think about relocation.”

“But, sir—”

“Ed, I said stand down. That’s an order. We’ll worry about that stuff later. Right now, this nation and our staunchest ally are under attack.”

Ed Henry hesitates for a moment, but finally accedes to the President’s wishes and signals the other agents to leave and falls in behind them. Aldridge, his composure returning, begins calling out orders. “Isabella, get the Israeli ambassador on the phone. Camila, work with State on reaching out to the Russians. Explain to them that our drone was hacked and not under our control when it entered their airspace. Admiral Hill, I want a list of military options if this situation spirals out of control.” Aldridge turns to the director of homeland security, Nancy Copeland. “Nancy, talk with your folks at Homeland Security. I want some type of damage assessment from the EMP.”

Hands start reaching for phones as the vice president and Jim Keating, secretary of state, huddle in a corner of the room talking strategy before reaching out to the Russians.

“Sir, I have the Israeli ambassador on the line,” Isabella says.

“Put him on speaker.”

Isabella reaches over to a triangular-shaped device on the table and punches a button. “You’re on, sir.”

The President glances up at the big screen to see more red lines streaking away from Israel. “Benjamin, what the hell is going on?”

“Sir, my country is currently under attack from Iran. Entirely unprovoked.”

“And you are responding with what?” the President asks.

“We are responding in kind, sir.”

“With what type of weapons?”

There’s a long pause as the room waits for the ambassador’s reply.

“Sir, we’ve launched a flight of twenty intercontinental ballistic missiles.”

“Benjamin, you’re evading my question, so I’ll make my next question succinct. Are the missiles armed with thermonuclear warheads?”

“Yes, sir, they are.”

Another collective gasp sounds from those gathered in the room. When the President speaks, his voice is low, urgent, “Ben, patch me through to your prime minister.” While waiting for the call to go through, Aldridge strides across the room, stopping near the vice president and secretary of state. “Did you reach out to the Russians?”

“We’re strategizing the call, sir,” the VP replies.

“Fuck strategy. Make the call.” He pivots on his heel and returns to his place at the table as the prime minister of Israel comes on the line.

“Mr. President, we believe the incoming missiles from Iran are nuclear in origin,” the prime minister of Israel, Eliana Salomon, says.

“Believe, but don’t know for certain?” He picks up a handset and signals Isabella to kill the speaker. “And you fire off a nuclear barrage with no consultation?”

“There wasn’t time for consultation, Tom. My country is under attack.”