Nuclear Winter First Strike by Bobby Akart (top ten books of all time .TXT) 📕

of the Emergency Broadcasting System. A series of side tunnels connected with a total of twenty belowground office complexes, some of which were three stories tall. The East Tunnel included a computer complex for directing emergency simulations and wartime operations.

An on-site sewage treatment plant capable of processing ninety thousand gallons a day was coupled with two quarter-million-gallon aboveground storage tanks designed to support a population of two hundred for more than a month.

Although the facility was designed to accommodate several thousand people with sleeping cots, only the president, members of the cabinet, high-ranking military commanders, and Supreme Court justices were provided private sleeping quarters.

The president was told this might be an intermediary holdover until after the threat had passed. Based upon confirmed, active intelligence, he’d either return to the White House or be sent to Cheyenne Mountain, where he could better interact with his military commanders.

The planning of the president and the staffers who made up the White House operations team was timely, although complicated by the ballistic missile alert issued on the West Coast. The human side of the administration was safely tucked inside the bombproof bunker. However, the computers and files necessary to operate the government hadn’t arrived before the blast doors were forced to shut. The delivery trucks had been redirected to secure locations, and it wouldn’t be until the next day before their contents were delivered.

For the first time late that evening as midnight approached, the former Pennsylvanian who grew up in a coal-mining family got settled into the former Bureau of Mines property. He wasn’t sure if the false alarm was intentional or truly human error, as the young woman had professed to investigators. He tried to think through the events, especially the timing, to determine if there was a connection to the activities of his secret task force.

He couldn’t discern what the purpose might be. Why instigate a panic now when the possibility of actual nuclear retaliation by North Korea or China could come very soon? He shrugged off his own questions. He’d been assured by those he’d hand-selected for this job that their experience immersed in the inner workings of the DC bureaucracy would yield the result he sought.

The president insisted upon plausible deniability. When the time came to cross the Rubicon and pull the nuclear trigger, he needed to be shocked and disturbed that he, as president of the most powerful nation on earth, was forced to take such a dangerous, hostile action.

The term crossing the Rubicon was based upon an ancient event. In 49 BC, Julius Caesar prepared to cross the Rubicon River in present-day northeastern Italy during his quest to conquer Rome. To cross the Rubicon was a metaphor that meant to take an irrevocable step toward a risky or even revolutionary course of action. Many equate it with the more modern phrase passing the point of no return.

President Helton understood the risks and ramifications of his plan. It was calculated, to be sure, but also predicated on the counsel of the men and women who’d worked in Washington most of their adult lives. He felt certain their advice was sound, and because it comported with one of his unstated goals to accomplish as president, he likely downplayed the risks to suit his purpose.

The hour was fast approaching. He, like Julius Caesar, stood on the precipice of greatness or an abyss that would resemble Hell on Earth.

Part VI

One Week in October

Day six, Wednesday, October 23

Chapter Forty-Two

Wednesday, October 23

Driftwood Key

Hank Albright wasn’t a very good liar. In fact, he was terrible at it. That, coupled with the look of genuine guilt on his face, made many of the guests he was evicting from the hotel question his reasoning. They most likely understood his motives.

All of them had spent much of their vacation time monitoring the news in one way or another. In society, it was not unusual to observe any given public setting and see eyes focused on smartphones, perusing news or entertainment websites. Walking down the sidewalk of a busy city street, heads were bowed to read the screens. Sitting in the stadium of sporting events, fans alternated their attention between the actual game and the replays shown on streaming television via an app. A couple sitting at dinner in a restaurant or at home shoveled food in their mouth with one hand while scrolling through their media source of choice with the other. Rarely would they speak to one another except to point out a perceived newsworthy item.

Those outside habits and influences had found their way into the Driftwood Key Inn. So that morning, when guests woke up to no water in their bathrooms and a gentle knocking at the door with a letter containing the bad news about the water main break, many were not surprised. Some actually welcomed it. The directive to leave the inn made the decision for those who were on the fence of whether they should stay or go home.

By noon, all the guests had hurriedly left. The reservations for the rest of the month had been rescheduled. The housekeeping staff and bartenders had been instructed to button up their various areas of responsibilities as if a hurricane were coming.

Once the final guest had departed, Hank and Sonny closed the iron gates leading across the private bridge connecting the two keys. Only Mike and Jessica had keys to unlock the dual padlocks holding the thick steel chain wrapped through the doors.

Hank stood there for a moment. His hands were thrust into his pockets as he stared off into the mature groupings of mangroves that lined the bridge on the other side. Their exposed roots clung to the fine sandy soil surrounded by brackish water. He wondered how many mangrove snappers were feeding just below the surface. The thought reminded him of a gift he’d purchased himself, as well as one for Jimmy—a gutting and cleaning knife with a spoon attached to the handle, made by Morakniv.

He