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    EMP: Nuclear Summer
    EMP: Nuclear Summer
    EMP: Nuclear Summer
    Ebook331 pages5 hours

    EMP: Nuclear Summer

    By TD Barnes

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    In "EMP - Nuclear Summer,” the pulse-pounding third installment of the EMP Series, the survivors face a new phase of their struggle for survival. After spending two years meticulously preparing to defend against the Islamic jihadists from Central America, who are determined to seize control of the Hoover Dam and the Colorado River to establish an Islamic caliphate in Arizona, the survivors must confront a changing world.
    The once-encompassing nuclear winter has given way to a different peril—the influence of storms driven by the roving jet stream. In a bold move, the survivors make a difficult decision to split into two groups. While most seek refuge in the Veteran’s Hospital in North Las Vegas, clinging to the hope of restoring a semblance of society, a brave few remain steadfast at the mountain, determined to defend it against any threats.
    A resolute leader among the survivors, Samantha finds herself at the forefront of a fierce battle unfolding at the Hoover Dam. The clash coincides with global weather changes, unleashing radioactive dust brought forth by an El Nino storm. Forced once again to seek cover, the survivors face a relentless fight against human adversaries and nature's unforgiving forces.
    As the tension escalates, tragedy strikes, leaving the survivors reeling from the unimaginable consequences. Their trials test their resilience, unity, and determination to persevere against all odds.
    "EMP - Nuclear Summer" takes readers on an electrifying journey through a world forever altered by catastrophe. The survivors ' unwavering spirit is tested with danger lurking at every turn and the line between friend and foe blurred. As they grapple with loss, uncertainty, and the ever-present threat of annihilation, they must find strength within themselves and each other to navigate the treacherous path that lies ahead.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTD Barnes
    Release dateJul 19, 2014
    ISBN9781310371196
    EMP: Nuclear Summer
    Author

    TD Barnes

    TD BarnesDOB: January 25, 1937Place of Birth: Dalhart, TexasCurrent Address: 468 Palegold St., Henderson, NV 89012Phone: (702) 481-0568, Fax: 566-4168, e-mail: tdbarnes@me.comURLs:http://area51specialprojects.com/http://roadrunnersinternationale.com/Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ThorntondBarnesTwitter: https://twitter.com/ThorntonDBarnesBlog: td-barnes.com/blog/Smashwords Interview: https://www.smashwords.com/interview/area51spSmashwords profile page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/area51spLinkedIn: www. LinkedIn.com/profile/edit?trk=tab_proThornton D. "TD" Barnes, a multifaceted individual with a background in military intelligence, surface-to-air missile and radar electronics, and aerospace, was born in Dalhart, Texas, and raised on a ranch near Clayton, New Mexico, and Dalhart, Texas. His childhood during World War II instilled a passion for technology exploration, which he carried into adulthood. After completing high school in Oklahoma, 17-year-old Barnes embarked on a ten-year military career, beginning with service in Korea as an intelligence specialist and Germany as a HAWK missile man. During his time in the Army, he honed his missile and radar electronics skills, focusing on countering Soviet threats. He also attended the Artillery Officer Candidate School before a military injury altered his career path.Transitioning to aerospace pursuits, Barnes became involved in significant projects at NASA's High Range in Nevada, contributing to the X-15 program, atomic bomb tests at the Atomic Energy Commission’s Nevada Proving Grounds, and the NERVA nuclear rocket project. He furthered his involvement in secretive projects by participating in the CIA's Mach 3 A-12 Project OXCART and stealth initiatives at Area 51.Beyond his aerospace endeavors, Barnes founded and led an oil and gas exploration company for over four decades, delving into uranium and gold mining ventures. He has dedicated himself to preserving the history of Area 51, serving as president of Roadrunners Internationale and as the Nevada Aerospace Hall of Fame Director Emeritus. His contributions have been featured in documentaries on major networks like the National Geographic Channel, the Discovery Channel, the Fox News Channel, and the History Channel.Barnes is also an accomplished author, with notable works about the Cold War, including "The Secret Genesis of Area 51,” "The CIA Area 51 Chronicles,” and " CIA Station D - Area 51. Currently residing in Henderson, Nevada, he continues to exert influence in aerospace, exploration, and literature, focusing particularly on the formerly highly classified aspects of the CIA’s era at Area 51.

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      Book preview

      EMP - TD Barnes

      EMP - NUCLEAR SUMMER

      Book 3 of the EMP series

      By:

      TD Barnes

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2023 - TD Barnes

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE - Summer at last

      CHAPTER TWO - Looking for a new home

      CHAPTER THREE - The Brotherhood

      CHAPTER FOUR - The Plane

      CHAPTER FIVE - Civilian Challenges

      CHAPTER SIX - The Move

      CHAPTER SEVEN - CQ

      CHAPTER EIGHT - El Nino

      CHAPTER NINE - New Technology

      CHAPTER TEN - Contact

      CHAPTER ELEVEN - Trouble at Base Camp

      CHAPTER TWELVE - A new threat

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Recon to base camp

      Epilogue

      About the Author

      CHAPTER ONE - Summer at last

      T-Plus four years, eight months, 21 days.

      In the heart of the mountain, Army Colonel Thomas J. Bradley stirred from his slumber, an instinctual sense of alertness overcoming him. With eyes wide open, he absorbed the surroundings, a veteran in the art of honing his senses. A strange hush had draped the chamber, and his keen mind swiftly pinpointed the anomaly rousing him from sleep – the silence.

      For four long years, Bradley had called this underground refuge home, attuned to the constant hum of the air duct above his cot. But tonight, the once familiar hissing of air had vanished, replaced by an eerie calm. It was unheard of, and instantly, he went from a state of rest to full combat readiness.

      The air circulation duct was the lifeline of their hideout, a constant reminder of their existence within the vast network of tunnels that stretched for miles. But now, the absence of the usual drone struck him like a warning signal. He strained his ears, detecting the faint echo of the massive motor and fan that powered the ventilation system. The mountain's heartbeat had not stopped but felt muted and abnormal.

      Sitting up, Bradley tuned his senses to the usual noises that echoed through the tunnels. As was the steady broadcast of pages and messages over the intercom, the hissing and occasional banging that accompanied daily life seemed intact. But one sound was conspicuously absent – the thundering onslaught of winter's fury assaulting the air intake outside.

      Realization dawned upon him like a lightning strike. The mountain's isolation had shielded them from the savage winter's grasp, but the fierce storm had always made its presence known, a constant reminder of the world beyond their underground sanctuary. Tonight, that reminder was eerily missing.

      Fully alert now, Bradley swung his feet onto the floor and stood up. The movement stirred his loyal companion, Sarge, the poodle who had become a steadfast companion in this subterranean world. As his gaze scanned the room, it fell upon a worn-out Army combat uniform, a saddle, and a pair of cowboy boots neatly placed nearby, evidently belonging to a woman.

      Bradley was no stranger to the hardships of life in confinement. His physical prowess and agility set him apart from others in this underground realm. A direct descendant of the Cherokee Indian heritage, he attributed his deep tan to a legacy that traced back to the Trail of Tears, a testament to his resilience and adaptability.

      As the Colonel donned his gear and readied himself for whatever lay ahead, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted in the outside world. An unspoken tension hung in the air, and he knew that whatever had silenced the mountain's voice demanded their attention. His instincts screamed at him, and his warrior spirit flared. In the face of this unsettling silence, Bradley was prepared to face the unknown, to protect those sheltered within the mountain's depths, and to confront the challenges that awaited them on the surface.

      Despite his stubborn, precocious rejection of bureaucracy, he was the epitome of productivity: a well-organized, punctual, and thorough leader. His posture and mannerism spoke of total confidence and fearlessness. His piercing eyes, 1000-yard stare, and battle scarring told of hell seen and experienced during his military career.

      Good morning, Sarge, Bradley said to the poodle as he stood up and put on his military ACU combat uniform. He glanced back up at the duct pipe as though not believing he does not hear the winter sounds. Sarge sleepily climbed out of his bed, stretched, and took a waiting position at the alcove exit.

      Bradley quickly shaved, brushed his teeth, and hurriedly made his bunk, the latter being a strict requirement for everyone in the mountain. He strapped on his sidearm holster, grabbed his Kevlar helmet, and slung his weapon over his shoulder. Sarge recognized the moment and anxiously bound through the exit of the small alcove designated as the commander’s quarters.

      Bradley stopped at the entrance, turned, and scanned the small, solid rock alcove that he called home. His eyes paused when he saw the boots, a western hat, and the desk containing the photo of his wife, Stacey dressed western and sitting on a horse. His eyes settled on the rock wall, where she had jokingly drawn a window shape in chalk the day that they had moved in. A sad expression flashed on his face before he placed his Kevlar helmet on his head and stepped into the central tunnel.

      Bradley and Sarge followed the main tunnel a short distance to the latrine, which under the circumstances was relatively modern and clean. Sarge rushed to the doggie potty section while Bradley entered a stall. Before leaving, Bradley opened a water faucet in the animal section to fill the animal watering trough for the dogs, cats, and Guinea hens roaming free inside the mountain.

      Bradley washed his hands and waited for Sarge to finish drinking. He heard the paging system click of activation, and a female voice announced. Attention, all personnel. Be advised that a minor earthquake during the night loosened some ceiling rock between alcoves 12 and 13. You're reminded to wear your helmets until further notice. Before deactivating, the paging microphone picked up a fragment of youthful horseplay when the teenage female volunteer on duty giggled and said, Stop it.

      The announcement about falling rock focused Bradley’s attention to the tunnel ceiling while he and Sarge headed to the mess for his first coffee. At this early hour, they encountered only a few residents along the way. They also met a few cats on the prowl for rodents eliminated long ago. Sarge scattered two Guinea hens looking for insects to eat, spawning amused chuckles between Bradley and those witnessing Sarge clear passage for his master.

      The small poodle accompanying the commander had oddly begun shortly after they entered the mountain after the bombs when the dog’s owner, a cook in the mess, asked Bradley if he minded taking the dog on his morning jog. The two bonded and had remained a team ever since.

      The dreaded radiation storm’s unexpected departure now focused Bradley’s mind on trivial things to which he usually paid no attention. As he headed to the mess, he visually noticed changes in the tunnel’s walls, chemical lighting failures at various alcove entrances, cracks in the concrete flooring — human occupancy taking its toll on the mountain’s interior. It gave him pause to wonder about changes to the environment on the outside after four years of nuclear winter.

      All this merely bolstered concern harboring in his mind ever since the return of a storm bringing with it a returning radiation danger. Rising radiation levels had forced the residents back to safety in the mountain two weeks ago.

      Good morning, sir.

      The greeting repeated throughout the mess as Sarge, and he entered. The usual early risers sat scattered among the wood dining tables, some visiting with a young mess officer who had come to the mountain as a teenager, and the workers in the mess hall, mostly teenagers conducting their mandatory cross-training duties under the supervision of a mess sergeant.

      Bradley smiled and nodded to everyone while continuing to his reserved table by the wall and the outside HD camera monitors, accepting along the way a cup of coffee rushed to him by the mess officer.

      The duct pipe did not lie — the storm and winds had moved out during the night, leaving a light blanket of snow. Compounding the good news — he noted the snow being a dirty white rather than the usual black and deadly.

      Good morning, Colonel. It looks like the storm blew through.

      Bradley looked at the voice and saw rancher Don Pierce.

      Looks like it, Don. I can hardly wait to see what our weatherman says about it.

      He knew the rancher expected more and glanced at the outside radiation reading before hoarsely whispering. I give it a week, and we might be able to return outdoors on a limited basis, The whisper associated with a battle scar extending from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. The scarring resulted from of a sniper bullet to his throat that damaged his vocal cords and permanently reduced his speech to a husky, laryngitic sounding whisper.

      Don always wore Levi’s and an old, beat-up, western hat rather than the military issue uniform and Kevlar helmet worn by the others. Bradley and everyone else recognized this being a lifelong rancher tradition and condoned it as being an exception and natural in his case.

      I certainly hope so, Colonel. We have chores to get done before winter sets in.

      Bradley held his cup to his lips while thoughtfully watching Don saunter back to his table. Having himself grown up on a West Texas ranch, he knew the farmers and ranchers’ natural urge to cultivate the land and raise their livestock. Also, being knowledgeable about the unpredictable world in which they now lived, he knew the days of seasonal life no longer existed. The jet streams now controlled Mother Nature and the world as they once knew it. The world still had its four seasons, but now it also had the sub-seasons of a nuclear winter wandering the planet at the jet stream’s whim.

      May I bring you some breakfast, sir? Bradley glanced up at a young girl that he had earlier noted working behind the chow line. He usually processed through the chow line like everyone else, but seeing no one in line, and the girl’s eagerness to please him, he decided to let her pamper him for a change. Sure. Whatever you're serving will do.

      It pleased him to see the mountain’s young survivors enjoying their work in the mess. During slack periods with few or no diners, they naturally engaged in horseplay tolerated to a point by the mess sergeant and mess officer. Seeing the mess sergeant looking his way, Bradley motioned for him.

      Sir?

      Sergeant, didn’t that teenager work with Dr. Sanders in the photosynthesis garden? Before the bombs, Dr. Sanders had worked as an aerospace botanist for SpaceQuest, Inc., a North Las Vegas company contracting with NASA. Inside the mountain, she had started and operated the photosynthesis garden initially intended to supply the first space colony on either the moon or Mars. Four months ago, the detonation of a bomb planted at the south portal by a sleeper Islamic activist had killed Dr. Sanders, a rancher, and his wife, several children working in the photosynthesis garden, and Colonel Bradley’s wife, Stacey.

      Yes, sir. Terre Scofield worked closely with Dr. Sanders.

      When she brings my breakfast, I would like to talk to her a bit.

      Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.

      Terre placed Bradley’s breakfast tray on the table before him. You wanted to speak to me, sir? She asked.

      Yes, please sit down. I understand you worked in the photosynthesis garden with Dr. Sanders. Did you learn enough to continue her work?

      Terre did not flinch at the question. Yes, sir. Dr. Sanders ensured that we knew what we did and why. Bradley only needed this reply and show of confidence to supplement a thought brewing in his head.

      Thank you, Terre. This is all I need to know for now.

      Bradley hardly noticed his breakfast as he watched the camera monitor while the darkness of the night turned to day, realizing now how a wild, raging, and the deadly nuclear storm could come and go away with the same sudden speed. He imagined this storm being what life on another planet or the moon might be like.

      This storm had arrived unexpectedly and looked to last into the annual return of winter. He awakens to find it had slipped away during the night as fast as its arrival surprised Bradley enough to articulate his mindset entirely in the time spent eating his breakfast. The break in the nuclear weather meant his people could resume their desperately needed activities outside the mountain.

      He hurriedly finished his breakfast. Once completed, he carried his breakfast tray to the tray disposal area for cleaning. He looked concerned; determination showed in his stride. Nonetheless, he took the time to refill his coffee cup to take with him as he left the mess.

      Bradley had two idiosyncrasies, coffee, and his poodle dog. His coffee addiction, his always having a cup of coffee, and having his dog, Sarge, accompanying him set him apart from the others.

      He claimed that once the coffee hit his stomach, it straightway caused a general commotion with ideas moving to his head like the battalions of the Grand Army of the battlefield.

      Another quirk of which he was not aware was his having a potty mouth. Had he known, he would have attributed it to an elderly ranch foreman who first introduced him to bunkhouse coffee.

      He entered the central tunnel, where Sarge automatically headed up the tunnel slope toward the War Room with Bradley in toll. Other than meeting a couple of soldiers headed to the mess, they encountered no one else at this early hour. At the entrance to the War Room alcove, Bradley stopped to look up at the collage of photos depicting those lost in the south portal bomb attack. He performed a hand-over-heart salute before continuing into the War Room, where he automatically glanced at the outdoor camera monitors and the radiation level reading.

      Three large screens dominated the War Room alcove, monitoring systems delivered from the Nellis AFB Battle Staff Briefing Room to the mountain after the EMP. The three 12 x 12 feet etched, and fogged glass rear projection screens now monitored the activities inside and outside the mountain, each screen displaying single or double viewgraph or 35 mm slide, or single, dual or quad computer or video display. The screens enabled zoom monitoring to provide security for 12 critical areas within the tunnel simultaneously, or any combination of such with enough memory to give a 3-D CAD capability to view details of any emergency.

      He nodded recognition to the radio operator sitting in the adjoining radio room and headed to the weather station at the alcove’s back wall. On the big screen, he confirmed that the jet stream was now whipping into northern Nevada, which meant good news.

      Good morning, Charlie, he greeted Charley Mitchell, the meteorologist who before the EMP provided weather forecasts for missions at the Groom Lake facility in Area 51 as well as those at Yucca Lake.

      Mitchell, a soft-spoken, 31-year-old single man, had earned selection for shelter inside the mountain for his classified and highly specialized service. No one inside the mountain had known him to be an Air Force Special Operations Weather Officer. Nor did they know about his assignment with the Air Force Special Operations Command (AFSOC) at the CIA‘s secret Yucca Lake PRV piloted remote vehicle operation.

      Special operations meteorologists, such as he, ranked among the most highly trained personnel in the US military. Secrecy had prevented his expanding upon his occupation when chosen for the mountain. During the entire four years, Meteorologist Charles Charlie Mitchell had officially met Bradley only once when Bradley sought input about predicting the nuclear winter, which, of course, Mitchell, cooped up inside a mountain, lacked a clue.

      This changed a few months ago when Bradley sought the ability to determine outside weather effects on those waiting to emerge from the mountain once the radiation level allowed. That is when Mitchell introduced Bradley to the meteorological equipment at Groom Lake, which they retrieved between storms and during a safe radiation level period. Knowing the global weather conditions ever since had proved a godsend for the mountain residents, allowing them to plan their outdoor activities in between the nuclear winter storms.

      You know what they say about the weather, Mitchell quipped with a grin. I think we should take note of what happened. Predicting weather now plays under a new set of rules.

      All I ask is for you to do your best to keep our people safe. Anything on the Charleston camera?

      They both stepped over to the wireless monitor fed by a remote high definition camera placed on Mount Charleston to monitor the Las Vegas Valley. They had installed the camera the same day the storm struck, the installation team barely making it back to the mountain before exposure to lethal radiation levels returning with the rain.

      I’ll be damned, Bradley muttered. There’s a light. What could that be?

      They both looked at each other in surprise. Mitchell increased the camera lens zoom onto the light, but they could not distinguish anything in the darkness. "It is in the Springs Preserve area

      Keep an eye on this, Charlie. I’ll be at the Command Center.

      He paused. On second thought, Colonel Barlow and Major Kellahan can come here. He stepped outside the alcove door and called to the nearby guard detail officer manning the north portal entrance. Find Colonel Barlow and Major Kellahan and tell them that I request their presence in the War Room at their convenience. Locate Mayor Robinson as well.

      Yes, sir.

      Thirty-seven-year-old Jane Barlow, born in San Diego, had grown up in Henderson, Nevada, where she attended ROTC at Basic High School and during her four years at UNLV majoring in political science. She had joined the Nevada Army National Guard as a second lieutenant and had deployed on three tours of Southeast Asia with an assignment to the 422nd Expeditionary Signal Battalion. Barlow rated high in her Army OERs, Officer Efficiency Reports, and maintained an excellent physical condition, short styled hair, and appearance that complemented a combination of knowledge, authority, and sophistication.

      Barlow had entered the mountain as Bradley’s executive officer, where she had served until a few months ago when he promoted her to colonel and made her the commanding officer to allow him to concentrate on the military’s intelligence and technology needs.

      When the EMP struck, Captain Richard Kellahan commanded the 92nd Civil Support Team for weapons of mass destruction, a joint force unit of soldiers and airmen headquartered in Las Vegas in case of a domestic chemical, biological, or nuclear event occurrence.

      Kellahan, 5 feet, 11 inches, 190 pounds, and 32 years old led by never raising his voice, a military leader with the composed mannerism of a student counselor. Being essential to his position, Kellahan remained frozen a captain until the survivors first left the mountain, at which time Bradley and Barlow promoted him to major.

      Former Beatty mayor, Jeannette Robinson, near Bradley’s age, was a short, heavyset woman highly respected by the mountain’s civilian population. Her duties focused on solving domestic situations among the civilians and acting as their liaison with the military.

      The three arrived on the handcar manned by a teenage boy volunteering for the handcar service extending through the mountain to the south portal.

      We’re impressed, sir. What did you say to Mother Nature to get the old gal to behave? Barlow said, pitching her Kevlar to Kellahan to place with his on an empty chair.

      I threatened her with Major Kellahan.

      Hey, boss. Leave me out of your battles with that Mother Nature bitch, Kellahan said, making a motion as though backing away while shielding his face with his hands. He walked over to the Mount Charleston camera monitor. Damn, he exclaimed. We can see the town again. Any movement?

      Mitchell said, Not yet. We did see an electric light before the sun came up.

      You're kidding me! Kellahan and Barlow looked at Bradley for an explanation.

      Beats me, he said. He looked at Kellahan. We are about to find out. He looked at Mitchell. Charlie, sit in on this and speak up if you disagree.

      We saw how this latest storm slammed us with little warning despite our weather monitoring. We saw it leave as unexpectedly, said Bradley.

      Meaning? Robinson asked.

      This tells me that the jet stream now controls the weather regardless of the season, Kellahan said.

      Bradley looked at Kellahan and continued. I agree. If it decides to dump snow on us midsummer, that is what it is going to do. To me, that means that we can no longer rely on there being seasons, where we can predict the weather. He looked at Mitchell, who nodded in concurrence.

      He continued. We know now that in most cases the radiation brought by these storms will most likely be a coating type rather than penetrating like after a nuclear event. The point is that shelter from the storms does not have to be a mountain or even a bunker. We need a good cover for what we’ll classify as ordinary storms and a bunker-type retreat should we be hit with penetrating radiation. He looked up at the rock ceiling for emphasis. Point is, it need not be a mountain.

      The others quickly recognized this being much more than a staff meeting concerning the mountain.

      I suppose you heard about the rocks falling from the roof again last night. That is happening more frequently. We've lost some of our lightings. Look around — everything is aging here. I think it is reminding us that man is not supposed to live beneath a rock.

      You’re telling us it is time to leave the mountain, aren’t you, sir?

      Yes, Jane. This storm occurred in a way that tells us that we must adapt to shorten and uncertain growing seasons. We’ll never grow crops or raise livestock as we once did. Think of us now living on another planet.

      So much for scheduling everything in my day planner, Robinson whispered to Kellahan. Mitchell overheard her comment and chuckled. Tell me about it.

      Bradley overheard her as well but chose to stay on point. The word planet identified a notional concept swirling in his mind on how to best describe their situation. We must think as Dr. Sanders, and her group did when they brought us equipment and technology designed for a lunar colony.

      Test tube reproduction and organic gardens, Barlow said more as an observation than an opinion.

      Bradley chose to accept the comment as informational. Yes. With our small number, we don't need wide herds of livestock or mega-farms. We've survived only to find ourselves in a new world. We must adapt and live with what we have to rebuild.

      Barlow thoughtfully nodded her head in concurrence. This was what she and the original military element in this mountain trained for.

      Bradley turned to Kellahan.

      We need to recon the Las Vegas Valley for survivors, and more importantly, find a location that will provide what we need to survive.

      The survivors we find? Kellahan dangled the question for Bradley to finish.

      Bring in those willing to adapt — isolate those who don't and deal with them as needed. That is your call. Again, your people are trained to deal with situations such as this.

      Do you have a schedule, sir?

      Bradley looked at Mitchell for confirmation of his opinion and the others. I don’t imagine the weather will allow us to make a complete transition without interruption. I suggest you immediately commence preparation for a total move but plan to implement the actual move-in stages, but on short notice, taking advantage of windows of opportunity.

      He directed his comment at Kellahan. Kellahan, you have to ensure our security before we move a thing. Fortunately, we have the weaponry to protect both the mountain and our new location.

      Any thoughts on where we relocate? Kellahan asked.

      You and Barlow know the area and what will be required to rebuild our society. Obviously, with what we know about the ever-changing weather, we can forget about living an agrarian lifestyle. Forget our ever going back to the horse and buggy society; it is time we evolve into the modern world. I cannot see us settling for reviving old cars and trucks when we have the intelligence in this mountain to evolve into personal flying platforms. Therefore, we sheltered the brains of our nation — to not lose the momentum of our advancing man into the space age.

      While he spoke, Barlow’s mind raced to comprehend what relocating and starting over entailed. She frowned. My God, Tom. We trained for nation rebuilding — not this. This is not nation rebuilding. We are talking about starting from scratch — setting up a new currency exchange, constitution, governance — forming a working government, developing businesses, workforces. Her voice tapered off to a whisper. Where do we start?

      Bradley recognized the magnitude of the burden this placed on her and said consolingly, It does not have to happen overnight. Think it through and do it right. We must maintain martial law for now, but that we can peel away one layer at a time during the transition to civilian authority. Lest we don't overlook our still facing unnamed enemies out there.

      Everyone grew quiet, contemplating the Herculean tasks facing them.

      What can I do? Robinson asked to break the silence.

      Neither Barlow nor Kellahan responded.

      Bradley thought for a moment before speaking. "I envision the mountain remaining a permanent repository for much of what we have archived here. This will require some of our people remaining behind to maintain and protect the mountain. I anticipate some Beatty residents

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