Times What They Are Read online

  Times What They Are

  D. L. Barnhart

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, events, and locals are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, businesses, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 - L. Barnhart

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be copied or reproduced in any manner without permission.

  Cover photo – Shutterstock

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Acknowledgements

  Part 1

  Prologue

  The 737 descended, following the Potomac River south toward runway 01 at Reagan National. Five miles out, Captain Hugh Murdoch banked the jet slightly left and radioed Reagan traffic control. “AG 3316. Flameout port engine.”

  “AG 3316. Can you restart?”

  “Negative. Will land on one engine.”

  The plane continued an eastward drift. Seconds later, red and green lasers strobed the plane.

  Captain Murdoch spoke again. “AG 3316. FRZ lighting us up.”

  “AG 3316. Yeah, air space violation, P56. Take new heading ah . . . two, one, zero.”

  “Roger, two, one, zero.” Murdoch acknowledged the directive but did not complete the turn.

  “AG 3316. Descend to 2000. Cleared for runway zero one. Follow AA 1607 heavy. Fire crew standing by.”

  “AG 3316. Roger, descend 2000.”

  The Washington Monument stood dead ahead, less than a mile. Murdoch banked slightly toward Reagan as the strobes and the controller warned again. The Air Force might launch a missile, but despite the occasional threats, they had never downed a commercial airliner. He glanced at the dead co-pilot, shrugged, and pushed the power to full. He banked left and counted to five. Then he hit the button on his cell phone.

  Chapter 1

  Cedar Rapids, Iowa

  On the screen, three huge mushroom clouds, close to merging, covered metro Washington D.C. Karla Becker pushed her way out of the break room. The entire office staff had crammed in, shoulder to shoulder, watching in horror the video feed from an NBC affiliate helicopter out of Richmond, Virginia, sixty miles away.

  Karla didn’t need more than a few seconds of the frantic commentary to understand that the pictures were real and what they meant. She crossed the empty office, picked her purse and coat from her cubicle and started to leave. She paused in the corridor and returned to her computer. She called up her 401 k account and sold everything. It probably wouldn’t matter she thought, but in an hour, it would all be worthless.

  Two women emerged from the break room in tears. Karla zipped her coat and stepped out the door. She moved quickly in the frigid air, already regretting the wasted time. Even in Iowa, twelve hundred miles from Washington, there would be panic.

  Karla thought first of her daughter, Jessie, nine and in school. She’d be safe there for a while. The real need was to get ahead of the crowd. Karla ran to her truck, relieved to see only a few others with the same idea. She exited the lot then turned left at Blairs Ferry. Food was important. All she could get.

  She whipped into Sam’s Club and piled twenty-five pound bags of rice onto a flatbed cart. She added cases of pastas, beans, flour, and tuna fish. Karla stowed the food in the truck and ran back for more. It took most of an hour and five flatbeds to max her Sam’s card and fill the F150, the lines growing longer with each load. Karla considered she might be overreacting. If so, she’d have food for a year. If not, she wouldn’t have a second chance to get it right.

  She crossed the lot to a gun shop in an adjacent strip mall and stood in an agitated line to buy all the ammunition they would sell for her rifles and handguns. Karla worried that not everyone would be as prepared as she was or be willing to pay for what they needed. She stowed the ammo in the cab, drove to her house on a small farm, and stacked the goods in her garage. Then, she went for Jessie.

  The line at school backed thirty cars onto Echo Hill Road. Karla parked on the grass and walked to the office. Anxious parents crowded the
room, trading fears as they waited to demand their children’s early release. Karla wished she’d been quicker. But at least they’d have food.

  Forty minutes later Karla reached the head of the line. “Jessica Becker.” There was no need to say more. Everyone was there for the same reason.

  The harried clerk scanned a list. “Not here.”

  “What do you mean she’s not here? Where did you put her?”

  “Father picked up. 10:02.”

  “He doesn’t have custody. He can’t.”

  The clerk waved indicating the crowd. “He did. What can I say? It’s not a normal day here.”

  “Does it say who let her go?”

  “She’s gone. Pick her up at her father’s.” The woman leaned around Karla to get the next name.

  Karla stomped outside. She opened her phone and pressed Jessie’s number. She listened to the recorded message: “All circuits are busy. Please try again later.” She tried the police and got the same message.

  Karla jogged to the truck and headed into town, debating her next move. She passed Target with a line out the door and a police vehicle, lights flashing, at the curb. The officer stood between the entrance and exit. The scene was the same at Hy Vee and just as chaotic at the four convenience stores she passed. The Marion police building, by contrast, was practically deserted.

  Karla approached the officer behind the glassed-in counter. She gave her name and address. “My daughter’s been taken by my former husband, Roger Becker.” She gave his address, too.

  “Does he have joint custody?”

  “No. Supervised visitation only.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Nine.”

  “Do you think she’s in immediate danger?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’ll send someone as soon as I can.” He looked at Karla. “Does your former husband represent a threat to you?”

  “I can handle him.”

  “Then, truthfully, the best thing you could do today would be to go talk to him. Bring along your brother or your father, if you can.”

  “You’re not going to get her back?”

  “Ma’am. I’m sorry. We will do everything we can, but it’s going to take a little longer than normal. Every officer is on the streets. We need to maintain order.”

  Karla shook her head and walked away. She sat in the truck for a minute, cursed Roger, then drove home. She could handle Roger, usually, but she tucked a 9mm Ruger in her purse, just to be safe, before she drove to his apartment.

  She circled the parking lot. His car wasn’t there. She pounded on his door, but Roger didn’t answer. She dialed his number and Jessie’s and heard neither ring inside.

  Chapter 2

  White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia

  Dolores Hart stared at the screen. Washington was gone. So were the adjacent sections of Virginia and Maryland. She was safe in the mountains of West Virginia, deep in a bombproof shelter. Most people considered it a joke, but this was why she was there—the designated survivor, the one cabinet member not at last night’s State of the Union address.

  If the blasts had taken place during the speech, she would be president. But that was last night. Now, she wondered if any of the more senior secretaries had left town on an early flight. How about the congressional leaders further up the line—the Speaker of the House and President Pro Tempore of the senate?

  Was she the Secretary of Labor or the new President? Dolores wasn’t sure. She was surrounded by secret service agents and accompanied by a military attaché. Many of these people in contact with the outside world, undoubtedly seeking the same information.

  Gerald Young approached. He was a tall, easy on the eye assistant secretary whose advice she valued.

  “You need to go on television,” Gerald said. “Address the nation. Tell them there is a functioning government and everything will be okay.”

  “Will it?” Dolores asked. “Who did this and how are we going to stop them from doing it somewhere else?”

  “It’s a short list,” said an Army major who hadn’t left her side in hours. “With The Iranians or North Koreans on top.”

  “Do we retaliate or investigate?” she asked.

  “Do unto them before they do again unto us,” the Major replied.

  “Which one?”

  “Both. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  “I don’t even know if I’m President let alone who we should hold accountable. If we launch missiles, millions will die.”

  “And no one in the civilized world will miss any of them.”

  Chapter 3

  Karla sat phone in hand watching the early news. There were no close-ups of the damage in Washington or in Philadelphia where another bomb had exploded. The three in Washington were estimated at a combined fifty megatons, the one bomb in Philadelphia at twenty. What was left of the cities was too contaminated to enter. More than a million were thought dead, but no one knew the real number. A grim faced weatherman appeared and explained the worst was yet to come.

  He pointed to an image of a radioactive cloud fifty miles wide drifting northeast at ten to fifteen miles an hour. It had passed over Baltimore, then combined with the cloud from Philadelphia. New York, Hartford, Boston and Providence would be in the kill zone. All told, he said, perhaps forty million Americans were in its path.

  The scene shifted. Feeds from helicopters in Harrisburg and Allentown showed miles of gridlocked vehicles as the remaining populations of eastern Pennsylvania and New Jersey tried to evacuate west. The footage from New York City was equally bleak—virtual riots as airports were closed and inbound planes diverted west. Overloaded ferries foundered north. Unmoving vehicles clogged every major road. Hundreds of thousands fled on foot, fanning out from the city.

  A prerecorded clip followed. A woman stood in front of the presidential seal and urged calm. The caption read: Dolores Hart - Presumed President of the United States.

  Karla shook her head. The news went local. Video showed grocery stores with depleted shelves and hordes of anxious shoppers. The governor had called out the Guard and said the state stood ready to handle the emergency. The mayor, emulating the maybe-president, called for calm.

  Karla shut off the TV. She pressed Jessie’s number then Roger’s. The results were the same as the hundred tries before it. Where had Roger taken Jessie? How would she get her back?

  Chapter 4

  White Plains, New York

  From the back deck of his house on Winding Ridge Lane, Ray Bramlett looked down on the Cross Westchester Expressway. Traffic had stopped westbound hours ago, backed up from the Tappan Zee Bridge or maybe even from the junction with the Thruway. Eastbound traffic had now stopped, too. Black smoke poured from the screaming tires of an SUV wedged into a too-small gap between a box truck and the twelve foot wall on the south side of the highway.

  Dozens of westbound drivers abandoned their vehicles, realizing traffic would not suddenly resume—not in time, anyway. Ray guessed from the standstill that drivers farther west had taken the same action, guaranteeing a tie-up that might never be cleared.

  Ray turned back to the television. The radioactive cloud was on track to reach New York in six hours. The authorities had first recommended evacuation, but as that became impossible, they were now telling citizens to shelter in place. They suggested collecting food and water, retreating to a cellar, if possible, and sealing any doors and windows with plastic sheeting and duct tape.

  Ray had his doubts about that strategy. He might survive, but after the cloud passed, everything would be contaminated. When could he leave the house? How could he get food or water? And who knew if the attacks were over. The news people said a hundred miles north or west of the city would be safe. He couldn’t walk that far in six hours any more than the people on the expressway could.

  Ray considered a hike to the Westchester County Airport two miles away. But was there any chance he co
uld get on a plane? Certainly many people were already there, with money or guns. Ray pursed his lips. The potential for violence added risk, though it didn’t dissuade him. He just didn’t see how in a frantic mob, he would come out on top.

  He ruled out the river just as quickly. The Hudson was navigable well north and wide enough to accommodate a huge flotilla. But his 16 foot outboard was trailered for the winter in his garage. There was no possible way to get it to water.

  That left his Diamondback mountain bike. He couldn’t ride a hundred miles in the allotted time. But he could make it to his sister Karen’s house at Lake Peekskill, thirty miles north. Her husband had an old Honda motorcycle. It could get him the rest of the way, if someone else hadn’t stolen it.

  Karen wouldn’t be using the bike. Ray had spoken with her a few minutes earlier. She was stuck in the city, crying, knowing she would die. Her husband was in the city, too, on his way to join her, he had said. Ray wouldn’t feel bad if he beat Terry to the bike. If Terry was at Lake Peekskill, it would be because he had abandoned his wife.

  Ray threw a change of clothes in a backpack along with three bottles of water, a handful of energy bars, and a few quickly made peanut butter sandwiches. He gathered all the money in the house—three hundred and seventy-two dollars. He also tucked his 9mm Beretta in a jacket pocket. The spare ammo went into the pack. As a final measure, he pulled a tire iron from his car and wired it to the bike frame. Better to have it and not need it than the other way around. With two hours of daylight remaining, he pedaled down the hill and into town, not bothering to lock the house.

  * * *

  Vehicles jammed the through roads. Horns honked. People milled between cars. Some gestured and shouted obscenities. A few men threw punches and smashed windshields. Ray avoided the gatherings, but even on the bicycle maneuvering proved difficult. He quickly abandoned his plan to head north on the parkways and turned south instead. He crossed under the expressway and made a right onto Main Street.

  He rode on sidewalks and through parking lots. Forced into the street, he weaved slowly between stopped and abandoned vehicles. He jumped off and carried the bike when he had to. Men watched him. He eyed them back and held the tire iron ready.