Chapter 3: Civil Unrest

Early July, 2026 — Montana/Idaho

“I have this new satellite phone, which won’t help if a similar EMP blast occurs in orbit.” Jim held up the Iridium phone. “I also need to coordinate the modifications to my buddy’s Lear jet, which I’ll handle personally in the next two weeks.”

It was early, and the darkness outside suggesting dawn was far off. Janice remained in his bed with the blankets draped over her hips. Her large breasts captivated his attention as he dressed and prepared to hit the road. They had made love twice more after returning to his home. It’d be impossible for her egg not to be fertilized, he mused, gazing warmly at her. Part of him hoped they would have to try again. He could see by her eyes that she felt the same.

She twisted her mouth humorously, reading his expression. “If I took, it would be beautiful,” she said wistfully. “If not, we will try again.” She sat up and clutched his beefy arm as he sat on the bed’s edge to put on his boots. “Know this looking forward,” she added firmly, gazing hungrily into his eyes. “You better get used to ménage à trois!”

“Officials updated the death toll to over 213, claiming as many as 170 victims were trampled to death in the panic following the initial bursts of gunfire.” Jim listened idly to the background news report while driving west on I-90. “Sources with the Capitol Police say the deceased shooter—who remains unidentified—left a handwritten manifesto identifying himself as ‘God’s hand’ and his goal to cleanse the immoral stain from the fabric of our declining nation.”

Jim shook his head and silenced the newscast when his phone rang. “This is Jim.”

“Major!” It was Robert, “What’s the plan for my jet?”

“Your G-700 is a lot bigger than our Citation,” he explained. There was a rest area ahead, so he slowed for the ramp. “I gotta see if it will fit in our hangar.” He texted his hand-picked technicians before leaving Missoula. “I’ll know more in a—” He paused for another incoming call. “Hold on, Rob, RJ is calling me right now. I’m gonna conference him in ... just a sec.” He pulled up to the Visitor Center and parked as he answered the other call. “Hey, RJ.”

“Jimbo,” a young male voice answered. “What’s shakin’, hoser?”

Jim rolled his eyes. The young tech was an engineering genius and techno-wizard but lacked social graces! “We’re going to AuNi coat a Gulfstream to see if we can protect it from an EMP burst like the one over Istanbul.”

“No shit? Damn, that Turkey got basted good, didn’t it?” the lad snorted at his joke. “How big?”

“A Gulfstream 700,” he replied. “Belongs to Robert Gallagher, owner of—”

“That the rich dude fucking up all the land in North Dakota?” RJ interrupted, causing Jim to close his eyes and clench his teeth.

“Yeah ... listen, Riley, ‘Mister Gallagher’ is on the call with us—” he growled with a tone that usually affected people limited to one side of their brain. 25-year-old Riley Jenkins had no such filter.

“Dude! He’s rich as fucking Rockefeller!”

Jim heard an older snort in the background. “RJ! Watch your language! What do you need to know?”

“Jeez, dude, sorry...” the nerd replied unrepentantly. “How big is your jet, man?”

“About a hundred ten feet long,” Robert replied, trying to stifle his laughter.

“What’s the wingspan?”

“Not quite that much...”

A disgusted sigh was heard, followed by typing. “Never mind, I got the specs...” a long pause. “You’re gonna want to double wrap the avionics package ... yep ... Goddamn! This thing can fly 8000 miles!” he exclaimed. “Let’s see ... cabin length is 56 feet, 11 inches ... so 17.34 meters by 2.48 meters—”

“RJ, can you do the math later?” Jim grumbled. “Can we use our hangar or not?”

“Sure, but why the hell would we want to?” the young man replied.

Jim rubbed his temples. Dealing with the skinny, pimple-faced, pencil-necked techno-geek was like herding cats! “What do you mean?” he groaned.

“Come on, Jimbo, think about it. Malmstrom is right down the road ... well, 165 miles down the road. And they have all the hangar space we need and then some. And they are already shielded from EMP—”

“The Air Force base?” Robert interjected.

“He’s quick,” Riley quipped sarcastically.

Oh God! Jim thought painfully. “Why do we need a shielded hangar?” he asked, flinching as the answer dawned on him.

“Well, you’re gonna wanna test it, right?” the technician replied. “I could ask my old Prof at MIT to borrow their gamma emitter—” he hesitated. “Actually, maybe you better ask,” he added. “Or get Daddy Warbucks to make a call.”

“You want to bring a gamma emitter to an Air Force base to fry a $30 million jet so you can test the shielding?”

“Eighty million,” the oil tycoon corrected.

“Better to find out on the ground, right?”

“Hold up,” Robert interjected. “You can create an EMP blast inside a hangar using a gamma-ray gun ... thing?”

“Technically, yes,” Jim replied. “And I assume they have a suitable model at the MITR. Is that right, RJ?”

“What is MITR?”

“It’s the MIT Reactor,” Riley answered. “The research-based nuclear reactor on campus.”

“You mean they have a nuke plant at MIT?” the billionaire exclaimed. “In Massachusetts?”

“Yeah, but it’s not very big,” the techno-geek replied. “Only 6 megawatts.”

“Jeezus Christ! How long have they had that?”

“Since 1956.”

“Back to the topic—” Jim interrupted, searching his glove box for some Tylenol. “How do we borrow a hangar from the Air Force? And why can’t we use a microwave emitter?”

He heard another dubious sigh. “Dude! That high-altitude EMP over the Baltic was ten fucking megajoules! How are we gonna replicate that with a microwave?”

“Could you all speak human for the non-MIT folks?” Robert complained.

“Technically, I’m not MIT,” RJ replied casually. “I was in my third year when I was invited to leave after the ... ah, ‘incident.’”

“What kind of ‘incident’?”

Jim began rubbing his temples harder. “Do you know the government oversight involved with transporting a gamma emitter across state lines?” he growled.

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you’d let me build one,” the kid retorted.

“You can build a gamma emitter?” Robert asked, intrigued.

“Sure,” the kid replied. “Just need some good isotope like U236 and—”

“Please don’t encourage him!” James begged.

“Uranium? Like Pitchblende?”

“Sure. It doesn’t need to be fissionable to emit gamma—”

“RJ, I’m not buying you an—”

“How much do you need?” the billionaire interrupted.

“Wha? Dude, you can get uranium?” RJ gasped.

“By the truckload,” the oil man confirmed. “We dig up tons of it while we are ‘fucking up the land.’”

Jim pressed his face into both hands as a tension headache came on. God, why me?

“I’d need to see the ore and measure the sievert scale to see how—”

“Why don’t you two talk it out amongst yourselves, and I’ll get back to my vacation,” Jim growled. “And RJ ... keep it to 1000 joules and confined to a 100-micrometer array!” He hung up before the boy could complain.

He maxed out his trailer again, making getting back to highway speed in the Wagoneer slow. He reached St. Regis in half an hour, bypassed the small town, and headed south on Little Joe Road. An hour later, he arrived at the Broadaxe site and carefully navigated the narrow passage to the clearing where his Quonset hut sat, and immediately noticed motorcycle tracks around the clearing. He got out and inspected the shelter’s interior to check for tampering. Despite having double-tarped his bags of cement and tied them securely, he could see where someone had cut part of it away, but his large job box remained locked and the generator hadn’t been vandalized.

He made a mental note to buy ‘No Trespassing’ signs next time he was in town, but in the meantime, the intrusion motivated him to finish the hut to secure his gear when he wasn’t around. He spent an hour clearing the back half of the floor, double-checking the rebar grid before mixing and pouring cement. He worked in stages, mixing, pouring, and troweling one section at a time until it was too dark. By evening, he had completed about a quarter of the floor.

At the rear, he placed anchors for the steel framing studs for the rear wall. After shutting down the generator, he explored the bike tracks and followed footprints to the mine entrance. Seeing the barrier pried back, he resolved to fix that too before leaving in a few days.

His satellite phone had limited signal in the narrow valley, but he found spots to call and text. At the entrance to the top cave, he discovered the strongest signal, and sat down, back against the cliff, and began returning messages from clients. He also sent several emails with suggestions for the Gulfstream project and mentioned the possibility of securing a spare hangar at the airbase. The base commander had requested a point paper detailing their plans before he would approve it. Jim was pleased when he found that RJ had drafted it, so he approved it for Sully’s chop. He also offered to brief the base officials in person, seeing potential future market opportunities.

Done with business mail, he read and responded to several messages from Janice about her new role, then scrolled through news apps to catch up on the recent turmoil in the Capitol. As expected, there was more speculation than fact, and the conjecture had become more exaggerated and less credible with passing time. Even so, the sparse factual details painted a grim picture. More than 200 protesters had died, creating a martyr effect favoring the pro-Palestinian movement and their efforts to stop the rampant violence in Gaza. Local Jewish and pro-Israeli groups had subsequently found themselves targeted with death threats and acts of vandalism, causing further outcry and pressure to defend themselves and retaliate.

He was shutting the app down when Janice called. “Yeah, babe, what’s up?”

“You can’t get the news there, can you?” she breathed with worried excitement.

“Not breaking news, no. What’s going on?”

“There’s a riot in the Capitol going on right now! A bomb exploded outside the Israeli Embassy, and an extremist group took responsibility, calling for the eradication of the Jewish state,” she replied. “They’re pressuring the President to declare martial law in the greater DC area and call in the National Guard to quell the rampage!”

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “That will cause a bloodbath to make Kent University look like a tantrum!”

“You got that right,” she replied. “FOX is airing an interview tomorrow between that Geraldo guy and several militia groups that are growing in strength and popularity. They are claiming to be ready to answer the call to defend our borders from the inside by doing what the government is too afraid to do.”

“Gee, who do they think the enemy is?” he grumbled, recalling the J6 insurrection.

“Apparently, there are several jihadist-type extremist groups that have allegedly set up training camps in the US,” she replied. “According to news reports, whether credible or not, the FBI and other law enforcement agencies are keeping tabs on a couple of them.”

“That fucking rooftop shooter lit off a powder keg,” Jim growled. “Listen, I don’t know how bad this will get, but be ready to bolt in an instant. Pack a bag with essentials and be ready to bug out on short notice.”

“Where should I go?” she asked.

He thought for a second. “I’d feel better if you were up in Canada with Marta. Sully can arrange your flight in the Citation. I’ll text him.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but James ... what about you?”

“I’m right where I want to be, sweetheart.” He stood up and pressed his boot toe into the strange footprint left by a trespasser. Whoever they were, they couldn’t have accessed the upper shaft because the barrier was still intact. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been in worse situations.”

After they disconnected, he sent a message to Sully, then carefully made his way back down the steep path by moonlight. He wore his headlamp, but preferred the natural lighting and his excellent night vision.

Several hours later, he was awakened by the sound of a curious nocturnal animal scuffling around the campsite. He remained still in the back of his jeep but reached for his Sig Sauer to reassure himself it was within reach.

The next morning, he found tracks of a large canine. He suspected a wolf, but had never personally encountered one in the wild. Were they even known to exist in this area? After a campfire breakfast of reconstituted eggs, pancakes, and fried Spam, he took his coffee cup to inspect the concrete he’d poured the day before. It was set and held his weight, but he knew better than to linger on it while it cured.

After finishing his coffee, he gassed up the generator and started mixing cement, transporting the heavy, damp mixture into the shelter by wheelbarrow. Lunch time came, but he decided to put off eating until he’d completed two more sections or about three-quarters of the floor. He troweled the new surface smooth and continued working, finally finishing the pad at dusk. After cleaning the mixer, he began installing the metal studs in the back of the hut.

It took him another day to complete the back wall and insulate the back and front walls, minus the doors. He opted for a single personnel door on the left and a twelve-foot-wide rollup garage door to the right for vehicle access. By the afternoon of the third day, the Quonset hut was completely sealed and ready to be secured. The concrete pad had cured enough for him to relocate all his equipment inside and lock it up. The next step for the hut was to wire it for lighting and electrical, but he had to return to Missoula for more supplies. He also needed to stop by the fabrication plant to pick up the heavy AuNi rolls ordered specifically for the shelter.

After breakfast, he collected his refuse in several contractor bags, hitched up his trailer, and left the mine. He stopped in St. Regis for fuel and decided to reward himself with a hearty lunch in the restaurant. After parking his truck and trailer alongside the road, he walked across the parking lot, noticing five off-road motorcycles parked in front of the building. He bent over to inspect the tires, taking several pictures, then entered the diner to find a table.

The place was busy, and it wasn’t hard to differentiate between the locals and passing tourists. A group of younger guys watched him as he entered, but the locals were watching a news broadcast about another Capitol uprising and talking over each other as they discussed it.

The waitress took his order of a French dip, seasoned steak fries, and coffee. While reviewing his recent texts and emails, he felt a presence and looked up to find two of the younger guys standing next to his booth. Both had long, dirty blonde hair and several days of facial growth. Both wore worn and stained jeans; the older wore a stained Corona t-shirt, while the younger had a ragged, sleeveless logger shirt. He suspected a familial relationship due to their physical similarities.

“Can I help you?” he asked directly. The conversation around them ceased.

“Saw you taking pictures of our bikes out front,” ‘Corona’ greeted gruffly. “What’s up with that?”

“My property was recently trespassed upon by a group of vandals,” he explained calmly. “They were riding dirt bikes like those out front. I’ll check the treads when I get back.”

“You calling us no-gooders?” the younger fellow spat. Instead of answering immediately, James slid out of the booth, overtopping them by a head and revealing the 1911a1 that hung securely on his right hip. “I don’t know,” he replied calmly. “Did you trespass on my property and vandalize my things?”

The older man elbowed his younger brother before glaring at the former Army Ranger. “Don’t even know where your property is, dude.”

“It will be clearly posted from now on because I don’t tolerate trespassers or vandals,” he replied with a humorless smile. Glancing at the younger fellow, he added, “Or no-gooders.”

The older guy sniffed disdainfully and returned to the booth where their companions waited.

“You should be more careful with your insinuations, buddy,” the younger fellow growled as he followed his brother. “Folks around here might get the wrong impression.”

“Oh?” Jim called after him. “And what might that impression be?” But ‘Corona’ grabbed his brother’s arm and jerked him toward the table before he could respond and escalate a bad situation with a man who was obviously armed.

Jim watched the five men at the booth, memorizing their faces as they glanced back at him. The server appeared with his food, and he smiled at her as she placed his order on the table. He retook his seat and grabbed the steak sauce for his fries.

“Goddamn, President ain’t gonna do shit about all these Taliban fuckers coming into our country and stirring up their jihad bullshit,” he heard someone mutter nearby. He turned to find the speaker gazing at the big screen normally used for sports. He was an older guy in heavy Carhartt coveralls with a ball cap.

“Shit!” guffawed another. “Them sand niggers is probably bankrolling his reelection campaign!”

“Listen to that skinny-ass liberal cunt talking shit about our militias—like we’re the fucking bad guys!” griped another.

He tuned them out as he ate, dividing his attention between his news feeds, messages, and the five bikers in the adjacent side booth.

“You should watch your back with them,” the female server muttered as she bent close to refill his coffee.

“Oh?” he replied casually, finishing his food and letting her take the plate. “Who are they?”

She didn’t look back but kept her eyes on the table before him. “The McPherson Brothers you met—Colby and Lance. Lance is the mouthy one,” she muttered. “The other three are good-ole-boys who feel bigger about themselves just by hanging out with those two dunderheads. You get on their radar and they will cause you grief, mark my words. Their dad is a Mineral County Sheriff’s deputy, so calling the law won’t help.” She reached into her apron and pulled out his check.

He pulled two $50 bills from his wallet and handed them to her with the check. “Who said anything about calling the law?” he smiled back as he got up and turned to go.

“Want your change, mister?” she asked with raised eyebrows. The check was under $20, so his gesture befuddled her.

“Keep it,” he replied lightly as he looked back, “and it’s Jim.”

“Where the hell did you find that lad? And how did you keep him away from the NSA?” Robert asked over the Jeep’s Bluetooth. Jim had just dropped off his trailer at his small house and was heading to the AuNi plant east of the city.

“A box of Twinkies and an X-Box,” he scoffed.

“PS5,” the younger voice corrected. “X-Box? Puh-lease!”

“You don’t want to know his feelings about NSA,” Jim grinned. “We’re talking tin-foil hats...”

“Ah,” the billionaire replied.

“Are you done?” Riley grumbled. “Are you coming to the plant today or what?”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes, Junior. Keep your shorts on,” he grinned from behind the wheel. “Where are we at with the polymers and resin tanks?”

“Everything is loaded up in the toy hauler and ready for transport,” the boy genius replied. “Just need an okay from the Air Force and a big-ass jet.”

“I spoke to the base commander and got permission to fly in tomorrow afternoon. They won’t need the hangar soon, but I’d like my plane back ASAP,” the oil man responded. “How long will it take?”

“I don’t know,” Riley replied casually, “I’ve never taken a Gulfstream apart before.”

“Excuse me?” Oh boy! Jim felt his blood pressure rising again.

“Well, I need to access the guts and stuff before we can spray everything down with the AuNi shielding.”

“Tell me he’s joking, Jim!”

That kid will be the death of me! He clenched his jaw. “I have two certified A&P guys coming to help, Rob. I promise we’ll put her back together exactly as she’s supposed to be.”

“A&Ps?” the billionaire demanded.

“Airframe and Powerplant mechanics,” he explained calmly. “They work on our Cessna all the time.”

“Are they rated for a Gulfstream 700?” The man sounded close to crying.

Riley snorted disdainfully, “What’s the difference?”

Upon arriving at the plant and inspecting the Gulfstream load-out, Jim enlisted several plant workers to help him load four rolls of EMP insulation for his shelter into the Wagoneer. He boxed the wiry RJ upside the head for trying to kill their client with a stroke. “What’s the difference?” he mimed. “Jesus, Riley! Gallagher is our wealthiest and most profitable client!”

“So?” the kid replied, ripping a piece of jerky with his teeth. “It’s not like he can’t afford a new one.”

Jim sighed and addressed the other technicians involved in the project. “Don’t let him near that jet with tools!” he ordered. “I’m going back to my property in the morning and will head straight to Great Falls the evening after.” He made the boy flinch as he cocked his hand for another cuff. “I will supervise the project from start to finish!”

After leaving the plant, he returned to Missoula, hitched his trailer and visited the hardware store for more concrete blocks and lumber, then stopped by the Steel Supplier for bar stock and hardware to fabricate the main tunnel gate. Janice had returned to her apartment after he left, so he spent the night alone before leaving early.

Arriving at his property, he saw no further signs of trespassing. The Quonset hut was undisturbed, and the tunnel barrier was intact. By noon, he had relocated his generator and cement mixer, then removed the timbers and panels blocking the mine entrance. After an hour of measuring and marking the entrance with chalk for the iron gate, he set the mounting hardware and closed the remaining space with blocks and mortar. This took the rest of the day and well into the night.

The following day, he cut the gate pieces with an oxyacetylene torch and laid them out in a rough design. Using the generator as a welder, it took only a few hours to fabricate and set the gate in place. After testing it, he secured it with a heavy lock and posted several large red and white “No Trespassing” signs. He then put his tools and equipment back in the Quonset hut and walked the property line, posting more signs as he went. He hadn’t explored the entire property yet, expecting that old logging roads likely crossed it, but that was a task for another time. For now, he had a jet to encapsulate.

It was late afternoon when he returned to the state line and the interstate beyond. The encapsulating team was waiting with a large party of Air Force and government officials when the sleek jet landed gracefully on the main runway, and escorted by a small jeep with a flashing red light, taxied to the designated hangar and shut down its engines. Moments later, the main cabin door opened and lowered automatically to the pavement, revealing carpeted steps. Jim stood below when the pilot appeared and stepped out of the plane. It was Robert Gallagher himself, wearing light cotton slacks and a polo shirt. “Whoa!” Jim greeted him with a handshake. “You fly them too?”