Solar Storm: Homeward Bound Read online

  “It has well and truly hit the fan girl.”

  Dusty lifted her head and sniffled in consternation that the petting had stopped.

  He glanced at the broken camera in his lap before tossing it into the weeds. Dusty’s head swiveled to follow the camera through the air until it hit the ground with a thud and a scattering of dead pine needles. She stepped off the tailgate, trotted over and picked up the camera by the strap. She brought it back and set it in Jack’s lap.

  A vigorous scratching behind both ears set her tail to wagging. “Who’s a good girl?” Jack took the proffered camera and set it aside.

  Dusty licked his hand, happy for the attention.

  He looked around for Hoover and spotted a greenish blue silhouette of a dog sitting on the road with his nose pointed skyward. Pine twigs and gravel crunched under his feet as Jack walked back to the road. He laid his hand on Hoover’s head and looked up. In the narrow band of sky visible between the trees, Jack had a clear view of a flickering waterfall of color that lit the sky in hues of green, blue and purple. A stunning, beautiful, and incredibly bright Aurora.

  “Huh.”

  His shoulders sagged under the weight of too many disappointments coming at him too fast. He turned and walked back to the dead truck.

  Photographing the Aurora Borealis was one of those ideas he could never quite let go. Even after giving up photography as a profession he still dreamed of going north. Thousands of images of the Northern Lights existed. Like most photographers, Jack wanted to make his own. Now, the Northern Lights had come south. Not that it mattered. His camera no longer worked, nor his computer. The big photo printer at home was likely one more piece of his past, turned to junk.

  “Well…this sucks.” Jack sighed as he sat on the tailgate. “You’d think years of disaster planning might count for more. I suppose missing something was inevitable. But, damn...”

  Dusty set her head on Jack’s knee, either seeking comfort or trying to offer it. He wasn’t sure, but his racing thoughts slowed as his fingers stroked her head. Hoover walked over, turned a circle twice and lay next to Dusty.

  There were seven or eight hundred miles between himself and home. On foot, even without the camera gear, there was too much to carry. Jack considered the distance, eight hundred seemed too depressing, and seven hundred too optimistic.

  “Call it seven fifty then. Seven hundred and fifty frigging miles…”

  Jack groaned as he levered himself up off the tailgate in search of dry clothes. He was shivering and needed to warm up soon.

  “Stay.”

  Dusty sat, pinning Hoover’s tail under her hind end. Hoover rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn’t move.

  Jack opened the rear door of the cab and grabbed a small duffel bag from the floor, unzipped it, and pulled out a pair of wool pants. Once he’d finished dressing, he grabbed the thermos. The mug wasn’t on the seat or the floor.

  Gotta be here somewhere, he thought.

  It was too dark to see under the seat. Jack reached under and found the mug with his fingers. A quick wipe with a napkin took care of the pine needles and dirt that had stuck to the wet mug.

  He sat cross-legged on the tailgate, leaning against the side of the truck. After filling the mug, he took a long sip. It was such a normal activity, sitting on the tailgate sipping coffee and petting whichever dog was next to him. The coffee helped settle his nerves and warm away the chill. Dusty sat next to the truck with her head resting on the tailgate in easy reach.

  “So,” he said to Dusty, “I guess we need to figure a few things out. Water and food for you guys, then I’ll set up camp. We’re not going anywhere until morning.”

  Hoover got up to relieve himself and then wandered off, sniffing as he went. Dusty watched while Jack set out the bowls and filled them with food and water. She emptied a third of the water, sniffed at the food and lay down, resting her head on her massive paws.

  Jack pulled a headlamp out of the messenger bag and pushed the power button to no effect.

  “Oh, son of a…” He sighed and tossed the headlamp back into the bag.

  He looked up at the sky again, CME or EMP? Should I open the cargo box to find a working flashlight? Jack wondered.

  An Electromagnetic Pulse from a nuclear device was a brief event. Barring another explosion, he could retrieve a flashlight without worry, and with luck, it would still be working. A geomagnetic storm caused by a coronal mass ejection might last days, possibly weeks.

  Jack thought through the implications of an EMP. A terrorist attack or a prelude to World War III were the only likely scenarios he could think of.

  “I hope it’s a geomagnetic storm from a coronal mass ejection. If it was a nuke, then my life will suck in too many ways to count…”

  He pondered the ramifications of a CME and sighed. “Ah hell, who am I kidding, it’s gonna suck no matter what it was.”

  He glanced at Dusty and patted her head. “Nope, not worth the risk, we can wait a day or two.”

  Jack continued to think back over his research, trying to remember how long a geomagnetic storm might last. If the Aurora was any sign, days seemed likely. As if to hammer the point home, the sky lit up like a dying fluorescent light, flickering and flashing.

  Jack whistled. Hoover spun in place and looked toward Jack. Jack whistled again. Hoover came back at a slow trot.

  “Food, dummy.”

  Hoover walked to the bowls and emptied about half the water. He stuck his nose in the food bowl and shoved it around, looking for something, perhaps buried near the bottom. Convinced there was nothing in the bowl but the dry nuggets, he gave up the search and drank the rest of the water. Jack refilled the water bowl, but Hoover had lost interest in that too. With the dogs taken care of, he unloaded the truck. A quick look at the piles of gear and he knew it was too much. Even with the dogcart, it was too much.

  If he left before the storm was over, he risked damaging the Ham radio gear and the rest of the electronics hidden away under the bed of the truck.

  But, how to know when the storm will end? Assuming it was a solar storm. Would I have seen a nuke explode 300 miles up and over Kansas? In the middle of the night perhaps, but during daylight?

  Not having a ready answer, Jack started on a problem he could solve—getting the camp set up. He picked up the bags with the tent and sleeping gear and moved to a likely spot. The Kifaru Sawtooth was the tent he’d used for every fall and winter photography trip of the last seven years. By this point, setup was mostly muscle memory, leaving his mind free to ponder the situation.

  Assume it’s a nuke… Would a nuke or a bunch of nukes cause an aurora? He didn’t remember any discussion of auroras. He remembered a TV documentary about solar storms, but there was nothing about auroras in that either.

  “I don’t have enough information.” He scrubbed at his scalp as if trying to wash away the random thoughts.

  The show had talked about techniques used to monitor solar storms. There was a big one back a few years ago that missed the Earth. It had been at least two coronal mass ejections separated by hours. Questions cascaded through his mind: Would we get hit by multiple events or would the earth move enough to avoid a second CME? What effect would a second CME have on the already shredded magnetosphere? Would a shredded magnetosphere offer any protection from a second CME?

  “You’d think with all the reading I’ve done that I’d have more answers.” His shoulders sagged, and a frown creased his brow. He was tired of thinking about what he didn’t know. “Fine. So, what do I know?”

  Jack recalled that the big Carrington event back in the mid-1800s made the trip in about seventeen and a half hours. The CME that hit back in the 70s was faster, just over fourteen hours. A slow one might take as much as three and a half days.

  Once a storm hit, the disruption would continue for hours or days. Jack struggled to remember what he’d read. Days seemed likely. But how many? Does it depend on the size of the storm? Following the storm was a period
of recovery as the geomagnetic field settled into its natural pattern. Days? Something like a week? He had no idea if the equipment would be safe during that phase.

  “Damn it,” Jack shouted, tossing the bag he was holding. It bounced off the tent and rolled a few feet away. He sat down on the ground with an audible thump and covered his head with his arms. His jaw clenched in frustration. For all his planning and research, he still knew so little. There were just too many unknowns, too many variables.

  Hoover got up and paced. Jack’s behavior was making him anxious. Something was wrong, but with no real threats, Hoover had no way of knowing what it was. He walked over and leaned against Jack’s side just hard enough to let him know he wasn’t alone. Jack tucked his head against Hoover’s neck, arms around his shoulders. His breathing slowed as he reigned in the frustration and anger.

  “Man up Jack. Get a frigging grip.”

  Without knowledge, his only option was to guess and then try to minimize the possible damage of guessing wrong.

  Jack sat up, pulled the buff from around his neck and used it to wipe his eyes. Memories of a happier time rushed in like a wave on the beach. It was several years ago now. He and Rebecca had been watching a series on TV. Ewan McGregor and his friend Charley Boorman made a motorcycle trip from London to New York by riding east, through Russia.

  The guys had filmed the trip for a documentary called ‘The Long Way Round.’ A few years later they made a trip from the northern tip of Scotland to the southern tip of Africa and called it ‘The Long Way Down.’ The team had the buffs made with their Long Way Down logo and sold them on their website.

  The buff was a very versatile accessory made of a stretchy microfiber cloth tube. You could wear it as a headscarf, balaclava, neck scarf, headband, and a dozen other configurations. Jack often wore his as a facemask to keep the cold wind off his face while on his motorcycle.

  Jack had ordered one for Rebecca and one for himself. It was functional, and a reminder of a very pleasant week. Rebecca had liked to wear hers down around her neck when the weather was cold, and Jack had taken to wearing it the same way.

  He remembered snuggling on the couch for hours with Rebecca, watching the guys ride motorcycles through some beautiful, and at times, difficult country. Thinking about it brought back memories. The aroma of fresh popcorn with real butter, the salt, the hoppy scent and bitter flavor of the ale. Jack smiled despite the touch of melancholy. He still missed her, even after ten years.

  Jack could hear the echo of her voice in his head: You’re too hard on yourself.

  “Enough.”

  Jack pulled the buff back down around his neck and reached out to give Hoover a quick scratch before standing up.

  “I need to focus, daydreaming about the past isn’t helping.”

  I wonder if Henry ever felt like this. What the hell would he do?

  Thinking of his friend and mentor helped. It was Henry who’d started him on the path to self-reliance, minimalist living and being prepared whatever disaster might come. There were too many things that no amount of study or research could answer. What he had, was a lot of general knowledge, and a set of skills developed over the past twenty or thirty years and honed over the last ten.

  Skills and a burning desire to get home.

  Jack looked at his watch, a Ball mechanical auto-winder. He’d purchased it as a reward to himself for finishing his Extra-Class Ham radio license. Part of him was sure that spending three grand on a watch was crazy. The watch was working, and he wasn’t sure if it was the magnetic shielding or the lack of electronics. Even in the dim light of the Aurora the glowing vials of tritium marking the hands and dial were bright. Three grand didn’t seem so bad now.

  “It’s 8:50 now,” he said, “and the truck died at 5:15… so we’ve been here about four hours, and I haven’t seen any lights on over on the highway. Hell, it’s been nine hours since lunch, no wonder I’m starving.”

  Jack headed back to the truck to retrieve the food bag from his camping gear. He stood looking at the mess toward the front of the truck bed. The accident had spread boxes and bags all over the place. The shopping trip at Cabela’s in Reno to restock before heading home was maybe the best thing that had happened in the last few days. Between restocking for the backpack, the truck, and the four cases of military-style Meals Ready to Eat he’d purchased for home, he had a lot of food. In total he had four weeks’ worth of freeze-dried and another four weeks of MREs. Enough for eight weeks’ total, if he limited his intake to 1,600 calories a day.

  If he could supplement it as he went, he’d make it home. With the dogcart, Hoover could pull nearly everything he needed and could find space for. He’d have to remove all the MRE’s from the boxes and shed everything that wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t just the weight, but the sheer volume of stuff he didn’t want to leave behind.

  He thought back to the shopping trip and all the things he’d looked at but didn’t buy because he couldn’t justify the expense.

  “Oh well, too late now… Not that I’d have space for anything else.”

  Jack set up the camp chair and table and lit the gas stove and put water on to boil. He grabbed a dinner pouch without bothering to look at what it was. He only had four choices, and he liked them all. It took five minutes for the stove to get the water boiling. He poured sixteen ounces into the bag, gave it a stir and sealed it. Jack refilled the dog’s water bowls while he was waiting for the food to rehydrate. Fifteen minutes later he had a mug of coffee and foil pouch of Beef Stroganoff. He reached into the messenger bag for the Kindle, opened the cover and discovered that it too was dead.

  “Ah, crap! I just bought it two months ago!” He tossed the Kindle off to the side of the tent harder than was necessary. The device bounced twice before tumbling off into the trees.

  Jack closed his eyes and took a long sip of coffee.

  Well, on the upside, that’s one less thing I have to haul home.

  He finished eating then went to the truck for his duster and the wool liner. The temperature had dropped ten degrees in the last few hours. He snapped in the wool liner and put the coat on. The duster was much heavier than a Gore-Tex jacket would have been, and not waterproof so much as exceptionally water repellant. Now, with 750 miles to travel, he regretted the weight but still wouldn’t give up the durability.

  At an elevation of four thousand feet, October evenings in Eastern California’s high desert had a real bite. Jack expected the temperature to dip below freezing before morning.

  “I’ll want the stove if we’re here for two or three days, it’ll be worth—”

  Jack stopped. It occurred to him that perhaps talking to himself was a bad sign. He looked at Hoover. His eyebrows rose, and his mouth quirked to the side as he considered the notion.

  “I guess talking to you isn’t the same as talking to myself. Right?” Hoover smiled. The goofy dog-smile always made Jack feel better. I wonder how many dogs smile?

  He set about collecting dead wood from the local scrub and juniper trees. With enough wood to last several hours, he turned his attention to assembling the small titanium wood stove. Jack slid the chimney pipe up through the opening in the tent and connected it to the stove. It only took a few minutes to get it going.

  While the stove warmed the tent, Jack used a small one-handed pick to soften up the dirt and dig out the spots where his shoulders and hips would be. The Tyvek ground cloth went over the dirt, then the insulated air pad. Jack pulled the woobie out of its bag, along with two empty pillowcases and his sleeping bag. The Woobie, an insulated blanket designed to double as a poncho liner, when combined with a mid-weight down sleeping bag covered temperatures from mild to subzero. He stuffed the first pillowcase with a down jacket and a wool sweater. The other he stuffed with the rest of his clean clothes.

  Jack wasn’t tired enough to sleep and changing his sleep schedule was getting harder as he got older. With the woobie wrapped around his shoulders, he dragged the chair into the doorway of the t
ent, not too far from the stove.

  As screwed up as things were, he needed a plan. Jack poured the last of the coffee from the thermos into his mug. It wasn’t much, but it was warm. He got out his notepad and pencil to make a list of tasks. The stove was good at heating but almost useless as a light source. The Aurora, to Jack’s amazement, was bright enough to wash the interior of the tent in a soft blue-green light.

  Jack scribbled a few calculations and frowned at the result. If he was right, and the effect of the solar storm was widespread, markets would be empty in a matter of days. The longer they stayed, the worse it would get. He estimated the walk would take at least sixty-six days if he didn’t have to stop. He took a sip of coffee then patted Dusty’s head when she bumped her cold nose against his hand.

  “Go lie down.” The dog sniffed and circled around the chair and stove to settle near the door.

  Nine weeks and five days to get home, but only eight weeks of food. Jack scribbled a few more calculations. Twelve hundred calories a day would allow him to stretch his supply to ten weeks. Ten weeks left little room for error, but it was doable. He was sure he could get by on 1,200 calories, but he’d be losing a lot more than a few pounds.

  He took another sip of coffee and watched the sky.

  Tomorrow I’ll sort what goes and what stays. Food, shelter, clothes, guns… “Damn.”

  Jack walked back to the truck and dropped the tailgate. He punched in the combination on the pushbutton lock and twisted the T-handle on one of the two drawers and pulled it part way out.

  GEARING UP

  After years of having only a motorcycle for transportation, Jack had given in to practicality and purchased a truck for the gunsmithing business. The bike wasn’t ideal for transporting firearms, rifles in particular. Jack was also tired of borrowing Henry’s truck every time it snowed, or he needed to pick up more than a bag of groceries. The motorcycle wasn’t much fun in the winter either.