Solar Storm: Homeward Bound Page 3

  After six months with the truck, he decided he needed a more secure way to store guns than just putting them in the back seat.

  Jack designed a large set of drawers to fit between the wheel wells of the truck bed, covered by a wall-to-wall false floor. A loss of ten inches’ depth mattered little for his uses. A load of bark using the side extensions worked well. And, a load of gravel didn’t reach the edge of the bed before the springs sagged under the weight.

  Each drawer was twenty inches wide and sixty inches deep. There was a small compartment forward of and to the rear of each wheel well. The deck panels of the false truck bed fastened against a rubber weather strip that acted to seal any gaps. With the seal compressed, metal on metal contact all the way around provided a dustproof and waterproof storage space.

  In the forward sections, Jack had stored an array of spare electronics and other emergency supplies. He’d hoped the compartment would act as a Faraday cage and protect all the sensitive electronics from an electromagnetic pulse. He was about to find out for sure. Faraday cages were simple in theory. Electrical currents traveled on the surface of conductors so a cage made of wire and insulated from the objects inside would shield objects within the cage. To block electromagnetic radiation openings had to be smaller than the wavelengths you need to block.

  Typical radio wavelengths measured meters in length, but for short-range radio and microwave signals, wavelengths often measured less than one inch. Wireless networks operated in wavelengths from about five inches down to less than a quarter inch. If you wanted to block those frequencies, the holes in your wire needed to be smaller. Jack had little data on the dangerous frequencies of an EMP, but he knew the spectrum went well into the gigahertz range. Solid metal eliminated the need to guess.

  Jack stored several items in case of an EMP type event. A spare red dot sight for the AR-15, which he hadn’t brought, and an extra reflex sight for the 1911. All redundant, but too valuable to leave behind.

  For communications, he had an Elecraft KX3 Ham radio, which he’d purchased as a spare. It matched his home unit and covered all the Ham bands from 160 meters down to two meters. Small and light, the KX3 ran on AA batteries. At only ten watts the KX3 didn’t have much power but still allowed him to chat with operators all over the Northern hemisphere. He also had his old KX2 radio. It covered fewer frequencies and did only Morse code, but was even smaller and lighter.

  There were also reels of antenna wire, other antenna parts, and four cheap Chinese made dual band, two-meter handheld radios. There were a folding solar panel and a small solar charge controller for recharging all the batteries and electronics. A small cloth bag with two dozen rechargeable batteries and several flashlights rounded out his backup communications stash.

  Each time he’d upgraded his electronics, the old part got put in a box. The big metal box at home most often, but sometimes it wound up in the truck if it was small and light enough. The list included his six-year-old laptop, a first generation iPad, and a Kindle. He’d sealed each in a Mylar anti-static bag with a small desiccant gel pack as if they’d arrived fresh from the factory.

  He hadn’t gotten around to storing a set of parts to rebuild the alternator or spare computers for the engine and electronics. The alternator would have been easy enough, but the high cost of replacement computers was a real budget constraint. Without those, the truck would stay behind. In hindsight, it seemed like the wrong spare part to delay for budget reasons, but then hindsight always worked like that. Then again, the exploded battery made the lack of expensive computers moot.

  As long as he left the storage sealed, the gear would be safe. But simple choices often made for hard decisions. He could take the equipment out of storage sooner, increasing the risk of damage from a solar storm. Or, wait longer and burn through more food.

  At some point, he’d have to trust to luck, pull the electronics out, and begin his journey home. Without knowing when it would be safe, he was rolling the dice in either case. Each day that passed increased the odds that the storm was over, but he didn’t know if it was by twenty percent or one percent. Jack decided he couldn’t afford to wait more than two days despite the value of the radios and other devices. Running out of food would be worse than losing a radio.

  Jack pulled the drawer out to its full extension, lifted off the aluminum covers and set them aside. The left-hand drawer was divided into a small section big enough to hold several pistols and magazines near the front of the drawer. The back of the drawer held short rifles. His 5.56mm AR-15 carbines would usually fill those empty slots, but the ARs had stayed home. Jack had brought only the guns needed for the gun show in Las Vegas. Since his primary business included building custom 1911 pistols, long-range rifles, and work on guns for the Cowboy Action Shooting crowd, that was what he had. Two 9mm Smith and Wesson pistols had been a last minute decision.

  The right-hand drawer layout held long rifles. The Marlin 1895 Cowboy lever-action which looked like it came right out of the Old West, with its octagonal twenty-six-inch barrel, lever-action, and wood stock. It even had a leather cartridge holder laced over the wood stock. Jack had the receiver etched with a scene of wild horses running free across the desert. He had done the exquisite hand checkering on the stock and fore grip himself. He’d also made the leather cartridge sleeve for the stock.

  The other rifle was a new custom built, bolt-action rifle with a detachable box magazine. With its stock of metal and polymer, adjustable cheek-piece and butt-plate, bipod and Leopold tactical scope, it was the antithesis of the cowboy rifle. The artistry of the .308 resided in the machining and careful assembly. It exuded the hard beauty one associates with an efficient, functional and accurate tool.

  Jack had six magazines for the rifle and twelve for the pistols. Besides the two custom 1911 .45 pistols, Jack had a Kimber with a .22 caliber conversion that made practice inexpensive. He also brought a Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm and a little M&P Shield also in 9mm. He’d done custom work on both and used them as sales pieces.

  Jack looked at the empty slots with a touch of longing. Whenever he traveled, and the route might take him through California, he pulled the semi-automatic rifles and locked them up in the safe at home. Even the bolt-action rifle presented a risk with its detachable magazine. Since the magazines held only ten rounds, he figured it was worth the risk. The M4 carbines might get confiscated by the state if they ever searched the vehicle. So, he didn’t bother bringing them. He’d be able to get them back, but it would take a lawyer and a lot of money.

  The suppressors, hidden in a compartment behind the front bumper, were technically illegal. Recent changes to the laws made suppressors legal in Washington again. Jack had filed paperwork with the BATF to manufacture them, but it was pending review. He’d built several while testing designs, and the ones he’d stashed in the compartment seemed to be as effective as any he’d tried. The .308 suppressor was built for the bolt-action rifle. The 5.56 and .22 caliber suppressors were for rifles he’d left home. He also had one each in .45 and 9mm, for the pistols.

  The suppressors for the 5.56 and the .22 were useless without the rifles. The .22 caliber conversion for his Kimber 1911 pistol didn’t have a threaded barrel so he couldn’t use a suppressor on it. Jack thought they might have value as trade goods. The 5.56 would replace the normal flash hider found on most AR-15 type rifles. The .22 suppressor would be less useful. People who had threaded barrels on their .22 rifles likely had a suppressor already.

  Jack pulled out the .308 bolt-action rifle and gave it a quick wipe down and cycled the action. Then he popped the scope covers and turned on the lighted reticule. He shouldered the rifle, looked through the scope and smiled. The lines in the scope that marked target ranges and windages glowed red. The drawer had worked to shield the delicate electronics, even with the loose fitting cover. Or, perhaps the scope had provided sufficient shielding on its own. Either way, he now had real hope that the stuff stored in the front compartments would be working.

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nbsp; He put the rifle back and picked up the lever-action Marlin. It too got wiped with a silicon-treated towel. He set the rifle on top of the drawer and took out the Kimber 1911 with the .22 conversion. He checked the chamber and gave it a wipe and returned it to the drawer. He was more worried about the next 1911. It had a Burris reflex sight installed. He turned it on and raised the weapon. There was the red dot, glowing just like it should. He turned off the sight, and the pistol went back into the drawer. The third 1911 was his regular carry gun. He gave it a quick wipe and set it next to the lever-action rifle.

  He picked up the Marlin and flipped up the tang-mounted peep sight. Jack slipped a laminated data card from a pocket in the leather cartridge sleeve. The peep sight on the old cowboy lever-action was very accurate, but setting it took time.

  Jack looked over his data card for the peep sight. He wanted a setting that would give him reasonable accuracy over a wide range of distances. The data for 150 yards gave him the best single setting out to almost 200 yards. Two hundred yards was a long shot if you didn’t need to take it. Since the most likely use for his lever-action was self-defense, there just wasn’t a need for shots that long. If he were hunting, he’d use the scoped rifle.

  With the sights set for a hundred and fifty yards, he could hit a pie plate from point blank out to a hundred and seventy-five yards. Too close and he might hit as much as three inches high. Beyond 150 yards the bullet would hit low. At 175 yards he’d still be on the plate, near the bottom, but still a hit. At 200 yards, he’d be four to six inches below the plate. Jack decided he could deal with that by aiming higher.

  He grabbed the magazines for the 1911 and put them in a duffle. Next, he put the aluminum cover sheets back over the drawers and closed them, the deadbolts snapping closed with a comfortable clack.

  It took a few minutes to open the compartments on either side of the drawer. One held what looked like an old western ammo belt filled with large cartridges. Each brass cartridge held a 405-grain cast lead bullet and had enough powder to push that bullet out of the rifle at just over 1740 feet per second. The loads would take down any game on the North American continent, and most of Africa. The 45-70 Government cartridge had bagged both Cape Buffalo and if the rumor were true, elephant. Not something Jack would ever consider.

  He had, over the years, hunted dangerous game: bear, cougar a few times, and wild boar. Jack’s regular hunting trips were for deer, pheasant, and grouse. Either of the rifles he had would be okay for large-game. The Kimber with the .22 conversion was the only option he had for small game. The rifles would destroy too much of anything much smaller than a porcupine.

  Jack got the guns loaded and put the spare ammo into a small bag. He slipped a double magazine pouch and holster onto his belt then added two extra magazines and holstered the pistol. It took a few minutes to get the covers closed, and then he shut the canopy.

  “I guess the rest can wait until we’re ready to go.”

  He took one more look at the sky. There were no clouds, just the Aurora. The forecast he’d gotten in Reno yesterday suggested there wouldn’t be any for a few days. Jack walked back to the tent, the dogs following at his heels.

  “Let’s get to bed guys.”

  He put the duffle down and sat on the chair to take off his boots.

  As his fingers worked at the double knot to unlace his boots, his mind kept working on the problem. I’d better get in the habit of being ready for trouble, he thought. That would mean sleeping with his clothes and boots on. His fingers stopped working at the double knot. Great, one more thing to get used to. He tied the knot again and crawled under the woobie.

  Jack woke to clear sky and a thin layer of frost on the tent. It had been an unpleasant night. Sleep eluded him despite his exhaustion from the previous day’s events. The ringing in his ears was a constant annoyance impossible to ignore.

  He spent the morning organizing and trying to decide what would get left behind. The dogcart would hold most of the food and water, the spare guns, and the extra ammo. He had eight large lightweight drawstring bags and a pile of stuff-bags of various sizes filled with camping gear. He looked through them to see which if any were unnecessary. After a few minutes, he decided he’d have to take them all. The wood stove for the tent could go into the cart. Most of the rest would go onto the pack frame.

  It took a while to get the backpack organized. Even though it was modular and very flexible, the system was a bit cumbersome to use. The Kifaru pack frame had several attachment points for the bags. Jack used the bags to organize equipment into functional packages such as the shelter kit and the kitchen kit. Each package attached to the frame individually, allowing Jack to shift weight around for comfort. When needed, he could remove any of the packages while leaving the others in place.

  With all the bags removed, he could use the frame and load sling to carry almost anything he could lift. The load sling attached at the bottom of the frame and folded up and over the kits. Molle webbing covered the outside of the sling, allowing the quick attachment of a wide array of molle compatible pouches. Jack had three molle pouches attached to it, a catchall pouch at the top, a tear-away trauma kit, and his full first-aid kit. When everything was cinched tight, the pack was well-balanced and easy to expand as needed.

  The heaviest pouches, those containing the ammo, hung from G-hooks flat against the Kifaru pack frame, from the midpoint going up. The bottom and top stuff bags held the bulky, lightweight gear, everything with any real weight went into the middle two large bags. Anything else would get layered on top of those. Each large bag attached to the frame with a pair of nylon straps.

  The small chest pack could be worn alone or clipped into the harness of the pack frame. When worn with the backpack, all the weight transferred to the pack frame. Two quick release buckles would allow Jack to drop the main pack and leave the chest pack hanging from its own little harness. He put the money pouch into his chest pack, then added his 1911 pistol and four magazines to the Velcro lined gun compartment. A small set of binoculars, maps, fire starter, filtration straw and a bottle of iodine and a small first-aid kit went into the large middle compartment. He pulled the holster and magazine holders off his belt and added them to the catchall pouch on the backpack where they’d be easy to find. Jack preferred to carry his gun on his hip, but carrying the backpack made it impractical.

  Jack worked to separate things he wanted to take from things he knew he’d have to leave behind. Dusty could pull 200 pounds over any terrain the cart would traverse, or as much as 600 pounds if she stayed on the roads. Hoover could pull even more. Jack had never come close to the limit even with all his camera gear when they went camping.

  Now, he found himself wishing he’d built a second dogcart. The plan was to use the pack for things he couldn’t live without and put everything else in the dogcart. Jack wouldn’t be able to carry all of his own food, but he could take several weeks’ worth. All the useful gear that was to be left behind went into the useful pile. Essential gear went into the keeper pile, and anything that the solar storm had ruined went into the junk pile.

  Last night it had been too dark, and Jack too distracted to notice the mess in the back of the truck. He stared at the bags of dog food scattered across the bed of the truck. His nice neat stacks had disintegrated in the chaos of the truck’s death throes. He had twenty-four of the thirty-pound bags and one more partial bag.

  If he’d waited until his trip home to stock up, there would have been only half a bag. That would have been a disaster. Jack didn’t believe in fate, but this sure felt like it. Under normal conditions, he’d have picked up the dog food on the way home. The timing of the Vegas show had shifted his shopping trip to the point where if he didn’t get dog food on the way down, he’d have run out two weeks ago.

  To save money, Jack made regular trips to Oregon to buy from the regional distributor. The dog food was high quality and high calorie, but it was also expensive. Even with the discount and no sales tax, it would have
been cheaper to buy it online if it were just his dogs. He also bought for his neighbors and a couple of regular customers, and they helped pay for the trip. He’d known his neighbors, Steve and Ashley Sarchielli, and Marty and Annie Bickerstaff since his University days. The families had made a decision to relocate to rural Eastern Washington when Jack found a set of joining properties, right next door to his friend Henry Monk nearly twelve years ago.

  Jack bought three months’ worth of dog food for each person. It worked out to twenty-six bags. The savings were enough to cover the travel cost and still save everyone three bucks a bag. On regular trips, he also picked up supplies for the shop, the livestock, and assorted building supplies.

  Jack wasn’t sure what his friends would do now. He would be months late, and he couldn’t carry it all. Twenty bags would fill the dogcart meaning he had to carry everything else in his pack, and that wouldn’t work.

  Hoover needed twenty-two hundred calories a day. Dusty, despite her smaller size, needed twenty-four hundred calories a day to maintain her weight. The dogs went through three bags a month of the high-calorie mix. Jack estimated that pulling the dogcart would burn at least an extra bag per month. A few days wouldn’t matter, but over two or three months it would take a toll. If his estimate of sixty-six days to get home was right, he’d need at minimum, nine bags. For safety’s sake, Jack decided on twelve. That was a bit less than three-quarters of the capacity of the cart.

  Jack sat and looked at the piles of equipment. Something was nagging at his thoughts, he just couldn’t bring it into focus. He was gazing at the aluminum cases, which held his now useless camera lenses, when the epiphany hit. He could dump the useless lenses and use the cases to hold the salvaged electronics. The briefcases sealed well and were big enough for everything and then some. He could fit the remaining functional electronics in the cases, and with a little padding, it would continue to be protected.