Chapter 1: Broadaxe 238

Mid-June, 2026 — Northwest Montana

“Pentagon officials released a statement earlier today estimating the yield of the EMP device’s yield at 20 megajoules,” the canned voice reported over Jim’s dash radio as he drove West on I-90, 40 minutes from Missoula, heading for the mountains. Goddamn, he thought absently. No wonder Turkey is so fucked up. They are lucky it lit off at altitude!

Major James Merrifield Keller, 42, was no stranger to EMPs or weapons of mass destruction. As a former US Army Combat Engineer and Airborne Ranger, he knew how to make things ‘not be’ anymore. He stood just under six feet and had the broad shoulders and athletic build of someone who spent a lot of time lifting weights. He kept his light brown hair short and his face with only a few days’ growth, and he carried his 210 pounds easily, often wearing loose dress shirts and slacks that hid his muscular frame. He preferred tactical cargo pants, long-sleeved shirts, black leather boots, and a ball cap for outings. His hazel eyes showed a keen intellect and calm, calculating demeanor, and his stare could unnerve lesser men.

After completing his ROTC scholarship with the University of Michigan School of Engineering, where he dual-majored in Electronic and Electrical Engineering, he joined the Army. Early on during his 8-year hitch, he chose Civil and Combat engineering as specialties, because his analytical mind fell naturally into considering how a military asset could be built, repaired, improved — or obliterated.

Now, listening to the news reports as he drove, made him contemplate the real-life impact of his work with EBK Engineering Concepts, Inc. He’d spent twelve years building a loyal client base by offering innovative engineering solutions to meet their unique and specialized needs. One such solution was a protective measure he invented to protect against EMP damage, a polyvinyl resin film impregnated with a microscopic layer of gold-nickel alloy. The barrier resembled automotive window tinting film and was applied similarly.

Reports indicated the gamma burst affected a large portion of northwest Turkey and parts of Bulgaria and Greece. The total affected area was undetermined, but massive blackouts occurred over a 150km radius from Istanbul to Plovdiv and Kavala. Information from the affected areas was initially sparse until military units arrived. Gonna be a lot of dead folks, he thought as he slowed for the St. Regis exit. As if things weren’t already bad enough, with the prolonged Russian incursion into Ukraine and the ‘accidental’ detonation of the 50-kiloton nuke in Poland!

Jim shook his head, patting the stack of registered mining claims he had downloaded from the Idaho Bureau of Land Management. The 143-acre plots, dormant mining sites, were available for pennies on the dollar, and he intended to see whether some might serve for what he intended.

An hour later, he pulled into the Travel Center to top off the main tank on his ‘91 Wagoneer. After filling the tank, he entered the busy store to refill his coffee, grab snacks, and a DNR map of the area. It showed several forest service roads that were not on his navigation system, needed because he expected to lose signal when he turned south into the mountains. No signal, no electronic map. He had two more weeks of vacation, and even though he was away from his office, his primary clients had his direct number and could reach him if he was within coverage.

Crossing I-90, he turned onto Little Joe Road, driving for nearly an hour along the winding creek of the same name until he estimated he’d crossed into Idaho. Surrounded by the Rockies, he ventured deeper into the no-man’s land wilderness. His FM signal soon cut out, so he surfed the AM band for stations. Driving cautiously—it wouldn’t do to find himself afoot, this far from civilization—he crossed several bridges over streams and rivers as he headed to the first location on his list, Broadaxe 238. Encircled by the Nez Perce-Clearwater Forest, it had last been surveyed in the ‘50s and worked in the late ‘70s before being abandoned. The 238 represented the number of acres, much larger than the typical 143-acre claims, that initially been intended for gold and zinc mining. He stopped several times to check his map, now that his navigation system had failed. Using a handheld GPS and comparing his location to the map, he pinpoint the claim’s boundary.

Moments later, he laughed upon finding a lively creek crossing the road beneath a serviceable bridge. A stout 6x6 post had been driven into the ground next to the bridge, and although the stain had faded, he recognized the carved digits. On the side facing the road was the number 388, representing the Forest Service Road he was traveling on. On the face parallel with the bridge and stream, he saw the number 238, delineating the start of the abandoned claim.

Just across the bridge was a small clearing Mother Nature was now reclaiming with dozens of saplings and bushes. He pulled the truck aside and killed the engine, stepping out to enjoy the panoramic view and sounds of the creek splashing merrily along as it flowed toward the Gold Creek tributary. A light breeze cooled his face as it flowed through the narrow valley between the towering mountains. He closed his eyes and listened, hearing the rustle of the silver-dollar-sized yellow leaves of quaking Aspens as they rustled with life. The trees were many and varied, tall Lodgepole Pine, shorter Douglas Fir, spruce, and massive sequoia, interspersed with deciduous aspen, birch, and tamarack.

To his right was a rough trail, once a road, that followed the creek upstream and disappeared around a copse of papery-barked birch. He grabbed his day pack, which had everything for a simple hike plus emergency supplies, and slung it over his shoulder. Settling it until it was comfortable, he then retrieved his Sig Sauer 1911.45 pistol from the glove box in its Makarov ProDraw holster and clipped it to his web belt. Satisfied with the feel, he stepped onto the trail.

After climbing a shallow redoubt for several yards, the path flattened and revealed a wider expanse of water and a man-made levee that directed the creek through a sluice made from old timbers and bricks. Nearby, a pile of lumber suggested there might once have been a hydroelectric power station for the mine further along the trail. He was amazed to find the clearing around the pond carpeted with Morel mushrooms, and decided to load several sacks of them for his dehydrator back home before leaving.

As he continued toward the steep slope of the mountain ahead, the trail became wider. The area to either side of him had at one point been cleared and used as a staging area for heavy equipment. Now it was overgrown with tall saplings and wild rhododendrons. The man-made pond gradually narrowed again until it was once again a simple bubbling creek that followed the contours of the gully. Looking up the slope of the mountain, he thought he could discern a winding road/trail that terminated at a jagged opening in the face of the steep ledge. Many of the claims in the area boasted more than one mine opening, and he suspected #238 was no exception. During the Second World War, this area had been alive with active prospectors.

The gully promptly narrowed to a mere crack in the mountain face that seemed impossible to traverse at first glance, but once he got closer, he realized it was simply an illusion. The trail continued into the crack and was easily wide enough for a vehicle as big as his Wagoneer. It turned to run parallel with the steep face to his right and proceeded several hundred yards, before it suddenly narrowed hourglass-like until both walls spanned only five yards apart before opening again. Good place for a stout gate, he thought as he passed through the stenosed area.

The packed track was even and well-traveled beside the steep groove that had been cut by the rushing creek. The path bifurcated immediately beyond the narrow gap, dropping to the left while climbing to the right. Looking down the descending path, his eye caught the reflection of metal, and he decided to explore that first. He followed it down the slope and around a curve to a large clearing, where he discovered the main entrance to the mine. Beside it was the skeletal frame of a mostly-dismantled metal Quonset hut. At a rough estimate, the frame measured fifteen feet across and thirty feet long. Within the remains of the domed structure, he saw what appeared to be several pieces of old equipment, npw long past their life expectancy.

The mine entrance was boarded over, with faded warning signs painted on the plywood surface. A small stream of water spilled forth from beneath the obstruction and trickled over to the nearby stream. He stepped up to the barrier and tested the panels to see if he could gain entrance. He found that one side of the barrier pulled outward just enough to permit him to shimmy his body through and pull his pack in after. It was oppressively dark within the tunnel, but he was prepared for the eventuality. He removed a powerful LED headlamp from his bag and turned it on, before strapping it to his ball cap so that he could look around. The tunnel was roughly 9 to 10 feet wide and 8 feet high, and proceeded straight into the mountain for about 75 yards before branching right and left like a Y. He traversed each branch for about a hundred yards before returning to the entrance, finding nothing of particular interest. The soles of his boots crunched against hard-packed shale and occasionally splashed through pockets of free-standing water.

After returning to the clearing, he stepped over to the Quonset hut and explored the contents. He found a stack of badly corroded metal roofing material (presumably from the dome structure itself), several coils of electrical wire with the insulation worn away, and the rusted-out carcass of a small skidder or tractor. There were nearly a dozen old 55-gallon barrels that appeared to be full of oily water. The interior floor was packed dirt, with sparse clumps of weeds appearing randomly around the scattered detritus. The structural frame seemed sound, and he began mentally reconstructing it, compiling a list of needed materials as he progressed. He took dozens of pictures of the structure with his phone before returning to the slough in the creek and taking several more.

He was 95% decided on buying the claim before he even proceeded up the ascending path towards the upper mine. It was a steep climb to the cave, and he found himself slightly winded when he got to the securely blocked entrance. He tried pulling the panel away but couldn’t get a purchase on it. After several attempts, he realized he would need tools to defeat the obstacle.

Returning to his Jeep, he ate lunch and enjoyed the picturesque landscape. It felt uniquely and compellingly empty to him. The ghosts of prior denizens did little to strip him of the sensation that he was the only living soul for miles around, and it was a sensation that he welcomed. From that moment on, he knew he would spend as much of his life in this spot as opportunity permitted.

Two days later, James left the BLM Office in Boise, Idaho, with a spring in his step. In his hand was a folder that contained the deed to Parcel NPCF-889426 AKA, Broadaxe 238. The land agreement also gave him complete mineral and water rights to the property. The funds had already cleared that morning, transferring $482,777 to complete the purchase. A repeat survey would be required, but he had until June 2030 to complete it. Despite his calm expression, he was flushed with excitement as he climbed behind the wheel of his Wagoneer for the 8-hour return trip to Missoula.

Motoring through the heart of the Rockies precluded him from making or receiving many phone calls due to sporadic signal outages. Even his satellite radio failed him often, leaving FM as his one distraction from the mind-numbing drive. “—number of casualties continues to rise with no indication of a ceasefire between the Turkish Army and anti-expansionist Syrian forces who continue to exchange artillery fire across an already troubled border—”, and later “—In other news, pro-Palestinian protesters have once more marched through the streets of the Capital disrupting several other gatherings before congregating in front of the Israeli Embas—”

Early the next day, he got up and prepared for his first run to Broadaxe with supplies. He owned an 18-foot dual-axle, flat-bed trailer rated for 2 tons, and after hooking it up to the Waggoneer, he grabbed his pack and camping kit and headed for the hardware store to collect his order of cement, blocks, and corrugated roofing materials. He maxed the payload of his trailer and loaded the back of his jeep before hitting the road.

Three hours later he reached the border of his claim and carefully headed out along the overgrown, narrow track. He had to break out his chainsaw and cut several saplings away before traveling past the sluice and pulling into the clearing beside the run-down metal shelter.

After unloading and stacking his building materials, He spent the afternoon removing the garbage, rusted sheet metal, barrels, and refuse, finally clearing the interior before loading everything onto the trailer for the landfill. When it grew dark, he broke out his rechargeable flood lights and finished by clearing the interior of weeds and dried leaves. It took hours of work with a flat shovel, but he had cleared the entire floor space except for the broken-down skidder when he was done.

Nearly exhausted, he built a small fire near the site and prepared a hearty meal from freeze-dried rations he’d created in his spare time. Too tired to pitch his tent, he unrolled his sleeping bag in the back of his Jeep and slept with the rear door open.

In the morning, he rekindled his fire and fashioned a small table, using the construction blocks and boards he’d found. After preparing a filling breakfast of pancakes (reconstituted), scrambled eggs, and coffee, he began repairing the hut’s arched frames. He had to replace many of the rounded trusses and cross beams. Lacking sufficient material to complete the structure, he concentrated on rebuilding it from the rear. He attached a quarter of the new metal roofing but couldn’t reach the top without a scaffold or sturdy ladder, so he added those to his mental list for the next trip.

It was late afternoon when he returned to his small single-family home. After dropping off the garbage and barrels at the landfill, he returned to the box store for another load. He added twenty 60-lb bags of ready-mix concrete, twenty rolls of R19 insulation, more blocks, and his cement mixer and generator. After lashing his extension ladder to the top, he retired for the evening and slept soundly.

He was on the road before sunrise and reached the site after daybreak. As badly as he wanted to explore the mine, he disciplined himself to focus on completing the Quonset hut to have a secure place for his tools and equipment. With one more week of vacation, he planned on achieving that and more.

It took him two days to rebuild the shelter and complete the roofing. He left both ends open while manually excavating the substrate. He used the Jeep’s winch to drag the old machinery out of the building. He measured the floor area and calculated the rebar needed for the pad. On the third day, he drove the iron staples into the hard-packed earth and wired them to longer pieces to craft a grid. He needed 100 cubic feet of gravel before mixing and pouring the cement. He had to install the plywood panels on his trailer to contain the crushed rock.

Since it was only noon, he dismantled part of the safety barrier and explored the lower cave again. The bright sun only penetrated the tunnel for 25 yards before his headlamp was necessary to penetrate the darkness. At the Y, he paused and inspected the corridor. The walls and ceiling had been blasted out of solid granite up to the bifurcation. Then, the ceiling stretched even further above until it disappeared. The left passage was more developed than the right, which appeared to be a crack in the rock. It had been expanded and worked to provide a flat pathway of packed shale.

He chose the left passage, leading deep into the mountain, occasionally splitting off another tunnel to the right or left towards another depleted ore vein. After 30 minutes, he turned back and left the mine, re-securing the wooden barrier to keep uninvited guests out. He didn’t want to be liable for a careless trespasser’s severe injury or death.

Two hours later, he left Old Joe Road and pulled into the St. Regis Service Center for a snack and coffee. While waiting at the gas pump, he checked his phone and found several messages and dozens of texts. Four voicemails were from clients, and three were from the new Office Manager, Brent Carson. He rolled his eyes at the man’s blunt and arrogant messages. “Hey Jimmy, this is Brent. Hey, um ... I’m holding a mandatory staff meeting tomorrow at 9 for all managers. I appreciate you’re on vacation, but I hope an hour of your time won’t be inconvenient. Call me when you get this ... Bye.”

“Jim. Brent Carson here again. It’s been eight hours, and I still haven’t heard from you. I need to know that you’ll attend the meeting tomorrow morning. Call me—”

“Alright, look, buddy. I know I’m the new kid, but I was hired to whip this office into shape, which involves making hard personnel decisions. Your absence this morning shows how little you care for structured management. I need you in my office tomorrow at 8:30 sharp. If you fail to appear, I’ll have to reevaluate your prospects with EBK. Don’t blow me off again.”

Jim raised an eyebrow at the hostile tone as he raised his insulated travel mug to his lips. The first message was delivered two days ago. He glanced at his watch and calculated that he had missed the second meeting by over 5 hours. With a shrug, he got out and placed the nozzle back on the pump before securing his fuel cap.

After merging onto East I-90 for Missoula, he returned calls, starting with his clients. Two of them inquired about specifics for AuNi-107, the EMP barrier film he developed and named after the two metals and their combined atomic numbers. After assuaging their curiosities, he discussed deploying the barrier to every window of a client’s headquarters in Billings. He promised to draft an estimate and fax it when he returned home.

The third message was from his first and oldest client, Robert Galagher, CEO of an oil drilling consortium with wells scattered across the state’s northern half. Jim’s first job with EBK had been to develop and manufacture a multi-sensor telemetry array to monitor the wells remotely and provide a continuous data feed on operating parameters like output and environmental factors like temperature, wind speed, and barometric pressure.

“Rangers lead the way!” the 62-year-old billionaire growled over his Bluetooth speaker, “How the hell are ya, Major?”

“Living the dream, General,” he replied with a smile. “Sorry for keepin’ you waiting. There is no signal where I’m squatting. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” the man replied. “I was just checking on you. How’d it go with the BLM?”

Jim smirked. As if you didn’t already know, you wily old pirate. “A lot smoother than expected,” he replied. “I had a guardian angel looking over my shoulder.”

“Meh, a candle loses nothing by lighting another. That’s what my grandma said. Did you go for the Broadaxe site?”

“Sure did. It’s a slice of Heaven in the middle of nowhere. I hope you can join me soon and see for yourself.” He described much of what he had discovered and was working on.

“That’s nice of them to leave you with a near-finished building. I’ll be out there. What’s your schedule next month?”

“I’ll be back at work after next week for three weeks. Then I’m taking another fortnight off to move my gear out there. My basement is getting full.” He referred to his extensive preparations for the next zombie apocalypse.

Preppers varied widely. Some clung to conspiracy theories and ranted online, while others packed an old Army surplus bag and got ready to ‘bug out.’ His friend, Robert, had secret underground bunkers scattered throughout the country.

Jim was somewhere in between. He canned, freeze-dried, and dehydrated meals and ingredients, planning for every contingency. Firearms, ammo, reloading equipment, medicines, tools, and gear for hunting, fishing, cooking, shelter, and warmth. He lived by the Boy Scout creed, Be Prepared. He stockpiled for the eventuality of a post-apocalyptic scenario while hoping it never came. With recent events, he had become less confident of avoiding that outcome, and said so.

“Ain’t that the truth,” his friend Robert growled. “You know more than anyone about the fallout that can result from that fuck up.”

“From a geopolitical standpoint, if I were the powers that be, I’d be real diligent regarding that powder keg.”

“You worried there could be a spark?” The retired Air Force General was no stranger to history either.

“Bob,” he grimaced behind the wheel. “I’m afraid that event was the spark.”

There was a moment of awkward silence between them. Then his friend segued, “Got a question about that anti-EMP thing you invented.”

“Shoot.”

“How effective would it be in one of my Gulfstreams?”

Jim paused to consider the question. “Too many variables to answer. Shielding the fuselage is easy. I can apply it one component at a time, like a clear coat, over sensitive areas like the avionics. But depending on exposure, I couldn’t guess its effectiveness. Could it keep you in the air? Most likely. Are Gulfstreams strictly fly-by-wire, or do they have redundant hydraulic controls?”

“Fly-by-wire, but it has a backup flight control unit,” the old man replied. “And the BFCU is hydraulically controlled by a secondary power system. There are two flight control computers with redundant electronic systems.”

“The controller units would be most sensitive, though any electric component is vulnerable.”

“Why don’t you run some figures through your engineering brain, come up with a better-than-nothing package, and shoot me a quote?”

“Robert, I’ll do it under R&D for free.”

The billionaire paused, “What’s the catch?”

Jim grinned, “Buddy, this is all experimental, hence the research. Despite my team’s best efforts, I can’t guarantee you won’t fall out of the sky.”

“Fair enough,” Robert sighed, “Let me know if I can return the favor someday.”

Jim was interrupted by an incoming call. He frowned at the caller ID. “I’ll do that, sir. I got a call from the office I should probably take. You have a good day, okay?”

“Talk soon.”

He killed the connection and answered the incoming call, “This is James.”

There was a startled pause before Brent Carson collected himself, “Mr. Keller,” he began dryly. “How good of you to finally answer your phone.”

Jim chose not to respond to the subtle challenge. Instead, he kept his peace and gazed ahead. The awkward silence grew.

“Are you there?”

“I am,” he replied calmly.

“Do you have anything to say?”

“Why?”

“Look, buddy,” the office manager growled. “I was pretty clear in my last few calls—”

“Which I didn’t get because I’m on vacation and out of cell phone coverage,” he interrupted. Another awkward silence followed.

“As I stated before,” Brent began again with a scathing tone, “I need you to come to the office immediately to discuss—”

“Not going To happen, old boy,” Jim cut him off again. “I’ll speak slowly—I am on vacation for another week. The sole exception is a meeting with a client in Billings. I need to prepare a PSI quote for upgrading their offices, but I can do that from home and then meet—”

“You’ll be here tomorrow morning! Clear?”