Remnant, Chapter 9

9

Monday,

October Twenty-Third

Once again, I entered what was ‘my’ office, feeling like a stranger. We’d lost Walt Ackerman, and now Pete. The desk, my desk, was too organized.  I grabbed the stack of department summary folders though, from the center of the desk. Someone was looking out for my schedule.

The large conference room was at the end of the hall, with a view to the north, before the Domino anyway. Now the window frames were filled with insulated panels and unfinished sheetrock. Our department heads, and a few of the Townsmen, were chatting, waiting for me to arrive.

“Good morning, everyone. Thanks for putting up with my tardiness,” I said.

“You’re fine. We don’t usually start until eight-thirty or eight forty-five anyway,” Tonya Lincoln replied. “Nice to see you, again, Rick.”

“Thanks, Tonya. You, too.”  Tonya was the acting head of our Commerce Department. She was hoping to get back to running a restaurant someday, as well.   I made my introductions around the room, shaking hands with each department head and Townsman. ‘Many new faces,’ I thought as I moved back to my chair at the end of the scarred conference table.

Drew Simons, one of my former Recovery Board members, joined us right after I sat down. Drew was the head of the Utility Department, when he wasn’t farming.

“Morning, Drew. Good to see you,” I said as I shook his hand.

“You as well. You finally healed up?”

“Making progress, slowly.”

“You did have about the closest call you could have and walk away from it.”

“Walk was a relative term.”

“Indeed. Ready to get to business?”

“Yes. Quicker we’re done with meetings, the better. For everyone’s information, I hate meetings. The quicker we can get through what we need to, the better. We’ve got more important things to do than sitting here.”

“Good. I’m first up,” Drew said.

“Sure, after the Pledge,” one of the Townsmen reminded us. We all stood, faced the wall-hung flag that had flown over the Courthouse through the Domino, pulled from the wrecked flagpole that had torn lose from the tall central tower. It reminded me as I reaffirmed my loyalty to my country, of the World Trade Center flag hoisted by those three firemen, years before.  

We took our seats, and I shuffled my papers again. “Let’s go then,” I said. “Mike might have to interrupt our agenda, so let’s get moving.”

“Utilities.  Expansion and restoration work in the urban area has been suspended for the winter on main electrical lines, but infill work within boundaries of existing feeds will continue until weather limits those operations as well. The good news is that with current work on the boards, we’ll have just under six thousand more homes on line by New Years, including four thousand with backup wood heat, leaving two thousand, or a few less, solely dependent on electric heat—forced air electric in most cases.”

“Wow,” I said of Drew’s report on electrical restoration work. “I had no idea your crews were able to get that many back on line.”

“Power’s back, but that doesn’t mean the houses are ready. Water service is spotty in many areas within the electric boundary, and at least half of those homes still need some pretty serious work to be close to pre-War condition. Of the total number of homes, there’s probably only ten percent that are ready to move into immediately. Those are almost exclusively in the Garland and Lidgerwood areas.”’

“How about work in commercial areas?” I asked. I noted that one of the Townsmen looked extremely bored, already.

“We’re at ninety percent within the Service Area, which is probably over-served, area-wise. There are more buildings served with electricity than are being used for commerce…unless you count warehouses of salvage as commerce.”

“So the next focus area, I mean when the weather turns, is what?” the Townsman who reminded us to take the Pledge asked. I looked at my notes, not remembering his name. ‘Bruce Weathers—Rockford township.’

Drew had several options available for us to consider. “Next year, I’d recommend restoring arterial power up to Francis on the north, from Assembly on the west to Market on the east; Division all the way up to the Newport Highway; and on the south side, power down the Hangman Valley to Hatch; Fifty-Seventh, all the way to Glenrose. That gives us a framework to work within, should we need to add more commercial and residential fabric back to the area,” Drew said, obviously noting Weathers’ expression of frustration.

“That’s just in the urban area. In the rural districts, I recommend further restoration work to Mica, Valleyford, more work around Rockford,” which I noted gained some satisfaction on the face of Drew’s questioner, “and restoration to other hamlets through the south end of the County, within reason.  There’s darned little in the way of power, or population, within a mile on either side of Highway Two or Three Ninety-Five, all the way to the Pend Oreille and Stevens county lines. We’d like to get more done up there, but probably don’t have the gear.”

“How about water?” I asked.

“Everything north of Francis is off line, unless it’s a private well. Too much damage in the Little Spokane River area to fix without more equipment. We’re short of everything. Pipe, couplings, you name it.”

“Thanks, Drew. You can head out if you need to.”

“I do. Many thanks.”

The Commerce Department was next, headed by one of my former Recovery Board teammates, Tonya Lincoln. Tonya provided us a ten-minute breakdown of the number of business operations in the County, although many were amalgamations of trading and bartering operations (ours included) and hybrid businesses that had many different offerings. Our businesses weren’t unique, nor were they alone. Everyone needed multiple jobs to keep food on the table.

She surprised me by stating that the main problem that Commerce was facing was in keeping businesses in operation, because of the local ‘banking industry.’

“Banking industry?” I asked, knowing there wasn’t a real bank in operation, and hadn’t been, since early spring.

“Sorry. Loan sharks is really what they are. They’re tying up physical dollars, silver and gold, and taking it out of circulation. If people need physical money, they charge rates that would make the Mafia blush.”

“I’m assuming there are negative physical consequences involved for those short on paying back?”

“Well stated in a clinical way, yes. “Unfortunately I really don’t have a recommendation for fixing this though, Rick.”

“Simple. We need a bank with real money.”

“Sure we do. I need a nice tenderloin steak for dinner too. Both of us will be disappointed, however.”

“Maybe. See me later today on this,” I told Tonya, arranging for a later meeting to discuss it in more detail.

The Finance Department provided us a report, a grim report, on the ability of the County to continue operations beyond February, due to a lack of physical money to pay vendors, staff, and contractors. Most of the regular County employees were paid in a little silver and more Spokane County Scrip, which was only redeemable at Central Stores, and a slightly reduced price over ‘retail.’ This had been the brainchild of our former Assessor, who had put it in place and run Central Stores, until leukemia took him early in August.

Again, it came down to money. We simply needed more real dollars, silver and gold, in the economy for ‘normal’ operations. There wasn’t enough in the first place, and with some people hoarding it (couldn’t blame them one bit), what had been in circulation was being held for rainy days.

Transportation at least was a bright spot in the series of gloomy reports, with fully operational freight and commuter service running twice daily, soon to be three times daily, on the Central Lines. Former freight cars had been converted to handle commuter traffic, with the addition of windows and bench seating, in the old Burlington yards. Passenger stations were built along each leg of the Central, reminding many of the old wooden stations of the past. These were framed of dimensional lumber, roofed with plywood and sheet metal, and sounded like the inside of a drum when a train passed.

Snow plowing, also the responsibility of Transportation was limited to emergency routes, roads near hospitals, militia centers, and along the Central Line. Snow removal, clearing, packing, or plowing in residential areas was the responsibility of the neighborhoods. Several areas were building snow rollers, large wood or metal drums towed behind a hitched team, to pack the soft snow down.  We knew that diesel fuel would be tight for using to plow roads, and had warned the neighborhoods early that they needed to make plans to deal with snow. 

It was now approaching ten a.m., and I knew that our two remaining departments, Health and Public Safety, were eager to get on with the rest of their days. Both Rene and at least one of the Public Safety staff sat in through all of the meetings, to hear any discussions that might impact the general public. I appreciated their time.  Two of our Townsmen had had to excuse themselves to tend to other Monday morning business.

“Rene, you’re next,” I said as she shuffled her papers.

“Good thing. I’m heading to Sacred Heart at eleven.”

“Let’s not make you late then.”

“OK. First, you’ve read the status reports, right? No need in covering ground twice.”

“I’ve made it most of the way through,” I said.

“A quick summary then. We’re on the down slope of deaths due to chronic conditions that pre-War were maintainable. Heart congestion, severe diabetes, asthma, some severe kidney ailments. Cancers that were being treated pre-War with chemo are now incurable, essentially, although homeopathic treatments have provided some relief.”

“OK. How about the flu? Any progress on treatments?”

“None. If there is any good news on that front at all, it’s that the CDC believes that by next spring, we will be at a saturation point across North America, with virtually all humans exposed to it by that point.”

“Small comfort,” Mike stated.

“Well, it might be. It will probably mean that survivors are either naturally immune or through some fluke, have survived the initial strain and the eleven identified mutations,” Dr. Sorenson replied, fetching another report from her file.

“What support can we give you?” I asked, guessing what was next.

“This is our needs list. Not wants, needs,” she said, handing a copy to Mike and I, and a couple others for the Townsmen, one who looked increasingly bored and restless. Weathers, seated next to him, looked over at him in some disapproval.

I scanned the list some of which I could actually understand, most of which, I could not. The pharmaceuticals alone were a page and a half on the double-sided single-spaced report.

“I’d like you to see what magic you can conjure to fulfill that list. We’re down to triage levels of medical supplies in every single hospital in the region. Meds are virtually non-existent. I’m hoping you can work a miracle here….” she paused a moment. “If you don’t, we’ll be truly back in the eighteen hundreds as far as medical care goes, and that will take effect by the first of the year.”

“I cannot say that I’m surprised by this. I’m assuming that all salvaged and stored medical supplies have been exhausted?”

“Nearly so, yes. And the Nova Pharma plant on the north side will be out of raw materials for their production, as of November one.”

“I’ll look into it. No promises,” I said, rising out of my chair and shaking her hand.  I didn’t want to tell her that I’d already all but demanded that the County received a ‘Priority Status’ for medicine and consumables with Pacific Northwest Command.   You don’t get if you don’t ask.

“None expected. I just don’t want to see many more sutures done with fishing line.”

“Understood all too well. I have a nice scar on my noggin that was stitched up with nylon monofilament.”

“Right, because on August twentieth, we ran out of the real stuff.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said as she turned to go.

“Thanks. And don’t push yourself too hard too soon.”

“You been talking to my wife?” I asked as one of the Forty-First command officers came in behind Rene.

“Nope, I can see it in your eyes.”

“Sharp as a marble, that’s me.”

That brought a needed laugh. “See you next week, if not sooner.”

“Thanks again, Rene.”

I poured a glass of water as the officer, a Major, took his place at the table.

“Major Kurt George. You are Mr. Drummond?”

“I am the accused,” I said as I shook the Major’s hand.

“I’ve been assigned by General Anderson to serve as one of the new liaison officers to the Eastern Washington region.”  I’d met Bob Anderson only twice, the first time when he visited my hospital room, the second at home, a couple weeks ago.  I’d had Carl fish out a couple bottles of a nice old Cabernet for him, after hearing that he’d be treating Governor Hall to a steak dinner in Walla Walla. I thought the wine might be appreciated by all in attendance. Anderson and the Governor had some history together.

“Welcome. And perfect timing by the way,” I said. “Public safety report is up. Mike Amberson, I hope you’ve met? And our Townsmen representatives?”

“We have, thank you. Sheriff, good to see you again,” he said to Mike. “Gentlemen, you as well,” acknowledging our other county representatives and shaking their hands.

“You as well, Major. We’re normally joined by one of our fire district chiefs, but they’re recruiting today. I have a report for you on that, Rick,” he said as he handed me a ten-page report.

“Lots to say here, apparently,” I said.

“About half of that deals with proposed emergency response times and noted shortcomings in coverage. A few pages on shortcomings and equipment failures. Concerns about low water pressure in the Greenacres area, which affects a good-sized hunk of service area adjacent to the Red Line out there. The rest is…”

I cut him off. “Let me guess. Staff shortages.”

“Yep. Which is why they’re recruiting. They’re approaching critical levels even in the all-volunteer stations.”

“What’s the key issue? Are we losing men and women, or what?’

“Not really, there were three more stations opened up in the Valley, and seven in the north and west areas over the past three months. All located in pretty well populated areas. We’re just spread thin.”

“I’m betting that you have the same issue.”

“Not as bad, because I have these guys covering what I can’t,” Mike said as he pointed at the Major. “But it will be an issue we’ll have to deal with soon.”

“Thanks, Mike. Major? I have some questions for you regarding a certain problem spot over on the east side of Coeur d’Alene Lake.”

“News travels fast,” he said with some surprise.

“My ride today was a Humvee that’d seen some damage apparently from a directed EMP hit.”

“Is that your conclusion?” he asked.

“From what the sergeant-major told to me, yep.”

“That does appear to be the case, yes.”

“I understand that a group over there killed a police officer and his wife in their driveway, and another wounded.”

“That is correct, with the exception of the location of one of the attacks. That one was at a church. The deputy was picking up his wife on the way home. She was the pastor there. The wounded officer was coming on shift, and we think their shooters miss-timed their shot.”

“Response?” I asked flatly, trying not to show how angry the preceding statement made me. 

“No time like the present to brief you on this. One of the reasons I’m here today is to tell you that a large percentage of Army personnel will likely be assigned to this mission.”

“Go on,” I said.

“The subject property is quite large and terrain is pretty challenging. Individual homes are not readily observable from the lake, and recon shows that each subject property has constructed observation posts at key locations. The result is that there is a five hundred acre area that has overlapping fields of fire, with most targets fairly well hidden by terrain. The homes, and community center, from what we’ve been able to determine from scant records in Kootenai County, are pretty well hardened against attack. Cast in place concrete. Ballistic glass. Safe rooms, etc.”

“I assume that Kootenai County had building plans on file for these?”

“Only one. The others managed to ‘disappear,’ along with most of the site plans, infrastructure plans, and accurate topographic surveys. Somebody got bribed to vacuum the files that well.”

“You figure a ground assault?” Mike asked, knowing that the chance of success without casualties was almost nil.

“Almost certainly.”

“What kind of opposition do you have?” I asked.

“Forty to sixty armed men and women, well trained, with top of the line equipment and the home-field advantage.”

“Do they really think that….”

“We gave up trying to figure out what they are thinking,” Major George replied, interrupting me. “At least half of the owners of these hardened homes have significant business connections on a national or international level. There have been several occasions where political pressure has been placed on the armed forces units in the area to pass on action in this case.”

“Bullcrap.” I said, leaning forward, and noting that Townsman Weathers was most attentive.

“Yes, sir.”

“How are they supplied power and water?” I asked, thinking about what I’d do if I were in the Army’s shoes.

“Water is supplied through multiple wells and large storage tanks. Power is provided through Kootenai County Cooperative, although we know there are shielded diesel generators serving each home and common buildings.”

“OK. We know what their response has been to outside authority, or at least some trigger-happy cowboys that might be running rogue.”

“No sir. From what we’ve gathered through recorded radio conversations, these actions were directed by the leadership of Black Pine.”

“That’s the place?” I asked.  “I’ve seen some of it. It was passably impressive. Been five years since I was out there.”

“That’s the place.”

“They broadcast in the clear? You said their radio transmissions…” Bruce Weathers asked, before being cut off by the Major.

“Sorry, no. They’re actually heavily encrypted radio transmissions. We deciphered them with some help from Air Force intelligence, while not raising any flags.”

“Major,” Weathers stated, “This ain’t a ground operation. This is an air op. You’ve said that your civilian authorities were fired upon, some wounded, some killed. If that happened here in Spokane County, and it did, Drummond here would make a quick case of taking those sumbitches out, period. You’ve given them the opportunity to play on their ground. I say you play it on yours.”

“You are, sir?”

“Bruce Weathers. In a previous life, I served on a -52 as a bombardier. If I may make a suggestion, you make a high-speed low level pass at oh-three-hundred hours and scare the sh•t out of the sentries. You then drop one GPS-guided bomb on a water tank or three from a nice, safe altitude, and give them fifteen minutes to surrender before your next pass to flatten the place. End of story, no ground-pounders at appreciable risk from hostile fire.”

“Not to be critical of a really good idea, Bruce, but GPS is dead,” I said. “War took out the satellites.”

“Not entirely, Mr. Drummond. There is still a significant operational capability,” the Major said, obviously intrigued by Weathers’ idea.

“Major, I really don’t want to lose the Army resources here in this county, even on a temporary basis, but of course that’s not my call. I suspect that you don’t really want to put your men and women at risk, any more than I do. If I may, I’d recommend that Mr. Weathers’ suggestion be explored with your counterparts at Fairchild.  Connections or not, political influence or not, we’re not going to put up with this, I don’t really give a crap who knows who.”

“Frankly, gentlemen, it had never occurred to staff to consider this as anything but an Army operation.”

“Where did your commanding General last serve, Major?” Weathers asked.

“Germany, from what I understand. One of the last bases to be evac’d,” Major George replied.

“Ground pounder,” Weathers said with a little friendly contempt. “Y’all have your General think out of the box a little. Give the Air Force a little something to do and keep your men and women outta harms way.”

Remnant, Chapter 8

8

Monday,

October Twenty-Third,

5:30 a.m.

My first day back to work started rudely, with my alarm clock going off in ‘buzzer’ mode rather than with some…any…radio program or music.  KDA was usually on the air at five, but today I didn’t check, I’d probably doze off, which I couldn’t afford to do. Karen though was already up and out of bed I noted, and both dogs were out of the bedroom I noted as I padded off to the shower.

After my short, hot shower, I dressed in a base layer, my well worn lined Carhartt jeans, rough-looking hiking boots, a winter shirt and a heavy shirt. If the office was warm, I’d at least be able to peel off a layer or two.

Downstairs, I found a crackling woodstove, real coffee brewing, a wonderful aroma coming from the oven, and no one in the house. Outside, I saw Karen and our kids, along with the Martins, were shoveling out a four-foot drift on both sides of the stock gate. The tractor would have been useless. I wondered if Karen called for help?  I pulled on an old parka that we’d salvaged from our neighbors house, and went outside. Both dogs were on me immediately wanting to play.

“Good morning,” I called out to everyone. 

“Hi, Daddy. Nice snow, huh?” Kelly said as she gave me a hug.

“Sure, great snow for January. Not so much in October.”

“See the drift? We could walk over the gate on the snow. It’s really hard.”

“And cold. What is it, fifteen out here?”

“Twenty. Just feels colder,” Ron said.

“Called out the big guns, huh?” I said.

“Nope, had breakfast already planned. This is just our morning workout. After this, the whole day will be easy.”

“Hope mine is,” I replied as Karen came over and kissed me good morning.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“What time did you get up? I never heard you.”

“Four. Had to get breakfast ready.”

“It smells great.”

“Should be ready. C’mon everyone, breakfast is up!”

The kids raced by me on the way back to the house, saying their ‘good mornings’ along the way. Libby pulled up the rear.

“You in on this too?”

“Of course. I made the cinnamon swirls. And some of the coffee is mine too.”

“Quite a sendoff,” I said as we reached the back porch.

“Just remember to come home this time so you don’t worry your wife out of ten years….or another ten years.”

“I’ll be home, don’t you worry.”

“I know you. I don’t have to worry. Karen does enough for everyone.”

“Thanks. And good morning to you too,” I said as I hung up the grey parka.

“You ready?” Ron said. “Been waiting a week this morning.”

“Hush, you,” Libby said. “Or you’ll be last to eat.”

“That’s OK. ‘The last shall be first.’” Ron replied, quoting the Gospels.  “Shall we?” he said as we gathered around the table to pray.

I was directed to sit at the far end of the table, where my captain’s chair now rested. Karen and the kids (I guessed) had spun the table ninety degrees, put two leaves in it, and gussied it up for my send off.

“And what is on the menu this morning?” I asked, just as it came into view.

“Christmas comes early this year,” Karen said, placing my favorite breakfast meal in front of me. My mom used to make this every year that I could remember, an egg-bread-sausage-cheese-mushroom soup casserole. Why we only made it on Christmas I didn’t know, it was pretty easy to make. I noted that this morning there were two of the nine by thirteen Pyrex dishes, packed full and steaming.

“Wow. I don’t know what to say!”

“Then do us a favor and don’t,” Ron said. “Just dish us up.”

“I can do that,” I said as he handed me a spatula. “I am all about food…I do feel a little guilty though. What about Alan’s family?”

“They’ll be here for dinner. Little early for the kids.”

“Little early for everyone,” Carl said as I passed him his plate.

“It is. No argument. I’m doubting that the schools will be open today with this snow,” I said.

“Late start. Open at nine. Out early too,” Karen said as she brought out a pitcher of our Concord grape juice. “More wind this afternoon.”

“So what’s your new work schedule, Dad?” Kelly asked, between bites and her conversation with Marie.

“Don’t know. I need to see what everyone else is working. Before my accident, we had everyone working flex-time. Forty hours minimum, forty-eight max. Some people were working twelves and a short day, some were working longer than that and bunking in at the complex.”

“They have room for that?” Libby asked.

“We had plenty of room for that, if you didn’t mind spending the night in a jail cell. Three floors of empties, heated and powered up too, with intranet connections to the Metro network so you can do some work from your bunk if you have a laptop or workstation there. Also had one floor of one of the offices converted to a dorm. Pete had the other two converted this fall.”

“But you’re not going to do that are you?” Carl said.

“Hope not to. Rank has its privileges.”

“Sleeping in your own bed is a privilege?” Karen asked.

“These days in public service, yes, sometimes it is.”

The county radio crackled at me before I could take another bite of breakfast. “Spokane to one thirty-seven,” a male voice said.

I made my way over to the radio and replied.

“Be advised, transport arriving your location by oh-six-forty.”

“Understood. One thirty-seven, out.”

“One thirty-seven.”

“Transport?” Carl asked.

“I get a ride to the office.”

“Can I use the car?” he asked, a predictable response from a sixteen year old.

“Nice one, Carl,” John said, already knowing the answer.

“Not unless there is some really compelling reason for you to do so, no. That’s up to your Mom,” I said as I looked at Karen, sharing the same thoughts.

“Dang,” he said.

“Told ya,” John said to Carl as he cleaned up his first serving.

I had about ten minutes before my ‘ride’ would be here to shuttle me to the office. I’d packed an overnight bag just in case, under Karen’s watchful eye, the night before. The kids were engrossed in a video game (at this hour?), and Karen and Libby were in the kitchen, cleaning up the wreckage of breakfast. There were no leftovers, we noted.  That left Ron and I a few minutes to talk.

“You ready for this?” he asked me.

“Ready or not, not much choice it seems,” I said. 

“Any more news about Wolfson?”

“Nope. Still looks like suicide, the last I heard.”

“Damned shame. He was a nice kid.”

“Kid? He’s what, ten years younger than you?”

“Right. A kid.”

“What have you and Alan got on the calendar today?”

“We’re going to meet with Randy Thompson about promoting him up to store manager at the Metro, and we’re going to talk to Kevin about our vacancies. This afternoon I think we’ll be trying to help Casey Wallace and Ray Alden get their stuff moved.  Ray lined up a transport truck yesterday, and he’s anxious to get moved.”

“I’m going to miss those guys. They were good neighbors.”

“Hopefully we’ll have some good replacements, too.”

“Kevin have any leads?” I asked, knowing that he’d run into Kevin after church.

“Some. He’s pretty good at weeding through candidates. Like a pre-screening.”

“Yeah. Let him know that I appreciate that.”

“Well, you do own the houses. You ought to have some say in who lives there.”

“I ought to. I know that some people think that I’m discriminating against them by not picking them to live in one of our houses. And they aren’t just ‘my’ houses. We bought them, all of us basically for back taxes. The fact that I had some money to invest doesn’t change that.”

“Still hard to get through our heads though,” he said as he sipped some hot coffee.

“It was better to get the money into circulation than let it sit there. Besides that, it’s not like I had any better plans for it.”

“Well at least we’re in the black.”

“So far, yep. Be nice if we stayed on the profit side of the line.”

“Anything you can share yet, with all of your inside info?”

“Maybe. It’s not that it’s all that secret. It’s that I need to digest it first.”

“At least we’re over the first hump. We made it to winter, have enough food to eat, and things have settled down.”

“I’m really hoping you didn’t jinx us there, Ron.”

“Naw. You can feel it at the store. People are hunkered down, but they’re actually not in a bad mood or as pessimistic as they might be.”

“Right. But this is October. Give them a month or three of this weather, and get back to me on this in February. Cabin fever might be kicking in by Christmas for all I know.”

“Maybe. We’ll see,” he said, then looked with more attention out to the gate. “Looks like your ride is here. Hummer.”

“I miss my Expedition.”

“I’m sure you miss its twelve miles per gallon, too.”

“Not so much,” I said as Karen, Libby and the kids lined up for hugs. Karen was ‘last’. She got a kiss and a dip, like the sailor-nurse picture from Times Square or wherever, taken at the end of the Second War. I’d seen the picture countless times, and a sculpture of it in San Diego…was that only a year ago? Seemed like a lifetime.

“Off to the salt mines.”

“You take care of yourself.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said as I kissed her again.

“You better.”

I was out the door and back into the cold wind. At the gate, a soldier was looking for the gate latch, and gave up when he saw me.

“Are you Mr. Drummond?”

“I am. Call me Rick, if you would,” I said as I opened the gate.

“Yes sir. Sergeant Major Keith Enders. Nice to meet you,” he said as we shook hands.

“Wasn’t expecting this service today.”

“One of the deputies heard our convoy was heading into town, and asked if we might drop you off.”

“They get tied up?” I asked as I climbed into the front seat, and noted all the odd electronic displays.

“I think they’re shorthanded.”

“That’s a fact. I’d be quite happy to drive myself. Sheriff overruled me.”

“That’ll happen,” Enders said as we backed out of the driveway and headed south.

“Convoy should be a few minutes behind us. We might have to wait a minute or two.”

“Convoy?”

“Supply run to the One Sixty First. They’re getting ready for some action over east of Coeur d’Alene.

“Fighting?  In this weather?”

“Could be. Got an issue with a little group of big-shots that needs to be resolved.”

“Expound on that if you would, please.”

“All this gear was cooked by some version of a portable electromagnetic pulse.”

“I was going to ask about it. I’ve never seen the inside of a Humvee look like this one.”

“Striker model. Surveillance, laser rangefinder and targeting, night vision, portable computers for dismounted ops, inertial navigation, lots of good stuff. Of course, it’s all just ballast at this point,” Enders said as we picked up the convoy, near our darkened, locked and guarded store.

“So what happened?” I asked without looking at Sergeant  Enders. I noted the two passengers in the back were both listening to iPods.

“One of our recon teams apparently got a little too close to the target for comfort. Fired a burst of something and fried it all. Our team never saw it coming.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Just their pride,” he said, pointing to the two rear seaters. “Intel analysts, these two. Lots of well placed fire around the vehicle though. If they wanted our team dead, they’d be dead.”

“Sending a message.”

“Yeah. You could say that. Our reply will be somewhat more aggressive.”

“So what precipitated this?” I asked, wondering why I didn’t know about it already.

“Two Idaho State Police units were shot up on Saturday night. One officer dead, along with his wife, in their driveway. One wounded, alive only because he was in an armored Jeep.  They were investigating livestock theft and intimidation of farms on properties adjacent to a gated community north of Harrison. They were scheduled to serve a search warrant this morning.”

“Were there previous conversations with this gated community?”

“Apparently so. Idaho State prosecutor was ready to bring a slew of charges, based on what the search warrant showed. Wanted to have it nailed legally. The residents of this place are apparently very well connected.”

“Hmm,” I said more to myself than Enders.  I looked again to the back seat, pointing at my ear, asking without words, what the left-rear seater was listening to.

“Foo Fighters,” was the reply from the twenty-ish soldier.

‘I used to have a Foo Fighters song or three on my iPod,’ I thought to myself. ‘A billion years ago. What was that song? Right. Virginia Moon.’  I tried to play it in my head, remembered the tune, couldn’t find the lyrics.

It had been two months and a few days since I’d been into the downtown core area, and I remembered how much of a mess the main streets in the central business district were. This day, we drove down Sprague, swung north to Riverside, with virtually no building wreckage remaining in the core.

I knew that Pete had re-organized both the north- and south-central salvage teams to quickly finish street clearing and aggressively salvage remaining building materials, supplies, and whatever, from the core before the winter hit. What I saw though, were neatly stacked pallets of used brick from dozens of wrecked buildings, stacks of terra cotta from the Old National Bank, stainless steel from the wrecked Seafirst building, pipe, ductwork and piles of unusable debris in every surface parking lot. There were very few vehicles left in the core. They’d been removed to locations unknown for storage, salvage of parts in a post-gasoline world, or recycling.  Street lighting appeared to be back too, with wires strung above grade, pole to pole, for the first time since about nineteen-seventy. Odd.

“Looks a little different down here. I haven’t been down here in two months.”

“Yeah, it’s been interesting to watch, not that I’ve had much time. It’d be nice to see stuff get built though, instead of torn down.”

“Lots of work over in the U-District from what I’ve read in the reports.”

“Gonzaga’s starting classes in the spring I hear.”

“WSU and UW too. Consolidated campuses. There’s still a ton of work to do on the buildings though,” I said. The WSU Chancellor’s report that I’d read said that one of the five Spokane campus buildings survived the Domino with repairable damage. The others were burned out shells from the looting.

“Maybe someday, we’ll see GU or the Cougars back in the Big Dance,” Enders said, referring to both of our ‘local’ basketball teams past successes.

“You a fan?” I asked.

“Not of them. I wanted to go to U Conn when my enlistment was up. Went to Iraq twice though. College didn’t seem to matter that much after the first tour.”

“Huskies were good. Hope there still is a U Conn.”

“Me too. Haven’t heard squat since May.”

“Family back there?” I asked.

“Not anymore. They were vacationing in Florida when it went up. Touring at Canaveral that day.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. Lot of that going around this year.”

“Yep,” I thought, thinking of my surviving brothers, at least I hoped they were still surviving. It’d been months since I received any letters from either Alex or Roger.  They were quite well aged by the time I received them, as well.

We traveled rest of the way through downtown in silence, traveling to Monroe Street, and across the graceful arched bridge over the river to the County campus. The bridge hadn’t been reopened until late September, when the wreckage of the Federal Building on the south end, and a half-dozen collapsed buildings on the north were finally cleared.

The anti-ram barriers were still in place, as were now-permanent enclosed guard structures, these appeared heated. ‘Those woulda been nice back in January,’ I thought to myself as the Humvee pulled up to the door.

“Thanks, Sarge. Take care of yourself,” I said as I shook his hand.

“You too, sir.”

Shouldering my backpack, I headed for the door. Surprisingly, one of young guardsmen opened it for me, standing at attention as I entered. It was a little embarrassing, as I said, “Thanks.”

Inside a new reception area in the four-story foyer, with a young man awkwardly rising to greet me.

“Good morning, Mr. Drummond,” the young man said.

“Morning. This is new,” I said looking around. “You new here too?” I asked. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Yes sir, as of last week.”

“Have we met before? You look familiar.”

“Yes sir, briefly. We met at your home, with Captain McCalister.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Akers, right?” I asked, remembering that evening last spring, in the barn.

“Yes sir. Dean Akers. I suspect you didn’t know my first name.”

“That’d be correct. What are you doing here?”

“Lost my leg in that dust up at the golf course with the Captain.”

“Manito. Right,” I said, remembering the last stand of the hired thugs of one of our former county commissioners, Earl Williams.  Williams had been convicted of a number of murders and conspiracies, and after the sentencing for the first of the murders, there wasn’t much point in continuing any further trials. I’d missed his very public hanging which was held on September sixth.   “Couldn’t stay in the service?”

“Wanted to, but got a medical discharge sent my way.”

“And you ended up here?”

“Someone figured that this would be a good job for me.”

“You have any schooling, beyond the military?”

“Two years community college. Didn’t really have much planned, which is why I chose the Army. Figured it would give me some options.”

“What was your career track in the Army?” I asked, not really caring if anyone was waiting for me. There was something wrong about a kid like this being a receptionist.

“I was scheduled to go into Combat Engineering. After the Army, I thought that I might pursue civil or structural engineering.”

“Still interested in that?”

“Yes, sir, but there isn’t much chance of me getting a college education in it these days.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but there are a few engineering instructors at Gonzaga, and we have our own engineering needs here at the County. Let me talk with whoever’s heading up Personnel and I’ll see what I can do about getting you re-assigned.”

Akers didn’t quite know what to say. “Thank, you, sir. I don’t know what to say….”

“No problem. Just cover the front desk today, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks. I believe that the Sheriff is expecting you, in Conference Room two, at eight-ten. I don’t want to make you late.”

“Mike’ll understand. No worries,” I said as I headed to the stairs. The elevators were still down…probably for good.

I passed a couple more staff on the stairs, shaking hands and exchanging greetings along the way. Mike was in the conference room, looking south across the wrecked and patched Public Health building to the river and the downtown area beyond.

“Hiya there, ‘Dad,’” I said, dropping my backpack in one of the side chairs. “How’re the twins doing?”

“Morning, Rick. They’re doing fine. We almost made it through the night last night.”  Mike’s twins, Suzi and Matthew, were born in early June, healthy, happy, and neither had slept through a whole night yet.

“Perils of the job. Neither of our kids slept for two years.”

“Don’t tell Ashley that.”

“Not on my life,” I said, shaking his hand. “What’s the good word today?”

“Not really a good word, but news at least. First, Pete died from an aneurysm, not suicide.  Second, the U.S. Attorney and his prisoners fly out today, although only a half-dozen or so know that.”

“Some consolation about Pete. Small consolation, that is.”

“Yeah. His memorial service will be this afternoon, downstairs in Council chambers. He requested a private burial.”

“I’ll be there. I assume that most everyone will.”

“That’s what I expect, yes.”

“Mike, what can you tell me about this business over in Idaho? I had an interesting talk with my Army driver on the way in. Their Humvee got hit by an EMP burst?”

“We’ll hear more about it from the Forty-First directly. C’mon. Get yourself some coffee and get ready for your briefing. You should have department heads showing up any time now.”

“Great. Meetings. My favorite.”