Chapter 1: Broadaxe 238

Mid-June, 2026—Northwest Montana

“Pentagon officials estimated the EMP device’s yield at 20 megajoules,” the canned voice reported over Jim’s 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’re lucky it lit off at altitude!

Major James Merrifield Keller, 42, was familiar with EMPs and weapons of mass destruction. A former US Army Combat Engineer and Ranger, he knew how to make things ‘not be’ anymore. He stood just over six feet with the broad shoulders and athletic build of someone who lifted weights. He kept his light brown hair short and his face with a few days’ growth. He carried his 210 pounds easily, often wearing loose 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 brown eyes showed a keen intellect and calm, calculating demeanor, and his stare could unnerve lesser men.

After completing his ROTC scholarship at MIT, where he dual-majored in Mechanical and Electrical Engineering, he joined the Army. Early in his 8-year hitch, he chose Civil and Combat engineering as specialties because his analytical mind aligned with building, repairing, improving, or destroying things.

Listening to the news while driving 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 specialized needs. One solution was a protective measure he invented against EMP damage: a polyvinyl resin film impregnated with a microscopic layer of gold-nickel-lead alloy. The barrier resembled automotive window tinting film and was applied similarly.

Unlike the typical Faraday cage, which is only partially effective in blocking EMP—and then at little more than the solar constant (1,360 joules)—the multi-layer impregnated film barrier he developed could block the ionizing effects of radiation entirely at exposures far greater than a typical microwave oven.

Reports indicated that the gamma burst affected a large area of northwest Turkey, 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 region was 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 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 dormant mining plots were available for pennies on the dollar, and he intended to see if one of them might serve his needs.

He stopped at the St. Regis Travel Center to fill up the main tank on his ‘91 Wagoneer. After topping off, he entered the busy store to refill his coffee, grab snacks, and a Department of Natural Resources map of the area. It showed forest service roads not on his navigation system, which he expected to lose when he turned south into the mountains. No signal, no electronic map. He had two more weeks of vacation, and 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 and drove for nearly an hour along the winding creek of the same name. The state line wasn’t marked, but he roughly knew when he’d crossed into Idaho. Surrounded by the Rockies, he ventured deeper into the wilderness. His FM signal vanished, so he switched to the AM band. Driving cautiously—he didn’t want to be stranded so far from civilization—he crossed several bridges and headed to his first choice on the list: Broadaxe 238. Encircled by the Nez Perce-Clearwater Forest, it was last surveyed in the ‘50s and worked in the late ‘70s before being abandoned. The number 238 indicated the acres, making it the largest claim in the region—much larger than the typical 143-acre claims, initially mined for gold and zinc. He stopped several times to check his map since his navigation system failed. He pinpointed the claim’s boundary using a handheld GPS and compared his location to the map.

A lively creek crossed the road beneath a serviceable bridge, and he spotted a weathered 6x6 post driven into the ground next to it. He shook his head with a wry grin as he recognized the faded numbers. The number 388 on the roadside face represented the Forest Service Road he was traveling on, and on the parallel face was the number 238, delineating the start of the abandoned claim. So much for maps and GPS.

Across the bridge was a small clearing Mother Nature was reclaiming with saplings and bushes. He parked the truck 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 quaking aspens. The trees 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 birch. He grabbed his day pack, which had everything for a simple hike plus emergency supplies, and slung it over his shoulder. After settling it for comfort, he retrieved his Sig Sauer 1911 .45 pistol from the glove box in its Makarov ProDraw holster and clipped it to his web belt. Satisfied, he stepped onto the trail.

After climbing a shallow redoubt for several yards, the path flattened, revealing a wider expanse of water and a levee directing the creek through a sluice made from old timbers and bricks. Nearby, a pile of lumber suggested a former hydroelectric power station for the mine further along the trail. He was amazed to find the pond clearing carpeted with Morel mushrooms and decided to load several sacks for his dehydrator back home before leaving.

As he approached the steep mountain slope, the trail widened. The area to either side had been cleared for heavy equipment but was now overgrown with saplings and wild rhododendrons. The pond narrowed again into a simple bubbling creek following the gully. Looking up the slope, he saw a winding road/trail ending at a jagged opening in the steep ledge. Many claims had multiple mine openings, and he suspected #238 was no exception. During World War II, this area was bustling with prospectors.

The gully narrowed to a crack in the mountain face that seemed impossible to traverse initially, but it was an illusion. The trail continued into the crack and was wide enough for his Wagoneer. It ran parallel with the steep face to his right and proceeded several hundred yards before narrowing 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 packed track was even and well-traveled beside the steep groove cut by the rushing creek. The path bifurcated immediately beyond the narrow gap, dropping to the left and climbing to the right. Looking down the descending path, he caught the reflection of metal and decided to explore that first. He followed it down the slope and around a curve to a large clearing, where he discovered the mine’s main entrance. Beside it was the skeletal frame of a mostly dismantled metal Quonset hut, roughly fifteen feet across and thirty feet long. Within the remains of the domed structure, he saw several pieces of old equipment, now long past their life expectancy.

The mine entrance was boarded up with faded warning signs. Water trickled from beneath into a nearby stream. He tested the panels and found one side pulled out enough for him to shimmy through and pull his pack in. It was dark inside, but he was ready. He strapped a powerful LED headlamp to his cap. The tunnel was about 9-10 feet wide and 8 feet high, running straight for 75 yards before splitting like a Y. He explored each branch for 100 yards, finding nothing special. His boots crunched on shale and splashed through puddles.

After returning to the clearing, he approached the Quonset hut and explored its contents. He found a stack of badly corroded metal roofing (presumably from the dome structure), several coils of worn electrical wire, the rusted carcass of a small skidder or tractor, and a dozen 55-gallon barrels full of oily water. The interior floor was packed dirt, with sparse weed clumps around the scattered detritus. The structural frame seemed sound, and he mentally reconstructed it, compiling a list of needed materials. He took dozens of pictures of the structure with his phone before returning to the creek to take several more.

He was 95% sure he wanted to buy the claim before climbing the steep path to the upper mine. He was slightly winded when he reached the securely blocked entrance. He tried pulling the panel away but couldn’t get a grip. After several attempts, he realized he needed tools to overcome the obstacle.

Returning to his Jeep, he ate lunch and enjoyed the picturesque landscape. It felt 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, a sensation he welcomed. From then 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 containing the deed to Parcel NPCF-889426 AKA, Broadaxe 238. The land agreement also gave him complete mineral and water rights. The funds had cleared that morning, transferring $482,777 to complete the purchase. A repeat survey was required, but he had until June 2030 to complete it. Despite his calm expression, he was flushed with excitement as he climbed into his Wagoneer for the 8-hour drive to Missoula.

Driving through the Rockies limited his phone calls due to sporadic signal outages. His satellite radio often failed, leaving FM as his only distraction from the drive.

“—number of casualties continues to rise with no indication of a ceasefire between the Turkish Army and anti-expansionist Syrian forces exchanging artillery across a troubled border—,” and later “—In other news, pro-Palestinian protesters marched through the Capital disrupting other gatherings before congregating in front of the Israeli Embassy—”

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. After hooking it up to the Waggoneer, he grabbed his pack and camping kit and headed for the hardware store to collect his cement, blocks, and corrugated roofing order. He maxed the trailer’s payload and loaded the back of his jeep before hitting the road.

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

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

Exhausted, he built a small fire and prepared a hearty meal from freeze-dried rations he’d created. 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 construction blocks and boards he’d found. After preparing a filling breakfast of pancakes, reconstituted scrambled eggs, and coffee, he repaired the hut’s arched frames, replacing many of the rounded trusses and cross beams. Lacking material to complete the structure, he rebuilt 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 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 left 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 for his tools and equipment. He planned on achieving that and more with one more week of vacation.

He took two days to rebuild the shelter and complete the roofing, leaving both ends open while manually excavating the substrate. He used the Jeep’s winch to drag the old machinery out. He measured the floor area and calculated the rebar needed for the pad. On the third day, he drove 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, and he’d have to install the plywood panels on his trailer to contain the crushed rock.

It was still early, so 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 needed. 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 higher 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 out uninvited guests. He didn’t want to be liable for careless trespassers.

Two hours later, he left Old Joe Road and stopped at 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 again. It’s been eight hours without a response. I need to know you’ll be attending 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 realized 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 inquired about specifics for ANP-189, the EMP barrier film he developed and named after the three metals (gold-Au, nickel-Ni, and lead-Pb) and their combined atomic numbers. After assuaging their curiosities, he discussed deploying the barrier to every window of a client’s Billings headquarters. 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 hundreds of wells scattered across northern Montana and North Dakota. Jim’s first job with EBK was to develop 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.

As if ordained, the man himself called at that moment, “Airborne leads the way!” the 62-year-old billionaire barked over his Bluetooth speaker, “How the hell are ya, Major?”

“Living the dream, General,” he smiled, “Sorry for keepin’ you waiting. There’s 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... . “A lot smoother than expected,” he replied. “I had a guardian angel looking over me.”

“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 what he discovered and was working on.

“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. My basement’s getting full.” He referred to his ‘prepping’ 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 in between. He canned, freeze-dried, and dehydrated meals and ingredients, planning for every contingency. He had 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 a post-apocalypse—hoping it never came. Recent events made him less confident of avoiding that outcome. He mentioned this to his friend.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Robert growled. “You know better than most the potential fallout from that fuck up.”

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

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

“Rob,” he grimaced behind the wheel. “That event was the spark.”

There was an 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, off the top of my head. 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 crunch some numbers, come up with a better-than-nothing package, and send 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 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 take. 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,” Brent began again with a scathing tone, “I need you to come to the office immediately to discuss—”

“Not happening, old boy,” Jim cut him off again. “I’ll speak slowly: I’m 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?”

Jim clenched his jaw, “Ya know, Carson? I’m starting to dislike you. I don’t care for your threats or attitude,” he said with a military tone. “Get this straight: I do not work for you, I don’t answer to you, and I could care less about your issue with me! Stay in your lane! We’re done. Goodbye.” He stabbed the red icon, severing the connection.

Watching the road, he thumbed through texts, tagged the spam, and glanced over the others. One from his secretary, Janice, caught his eye, and he selected it to be read aloud. A robot voice said, “James, I’m sorry to bother you during your holiday. I tried to call, but you never answered. Please call me when you get this.” Even with the voice-over, he sensed her urgency. Scanning his call log, he recognized her number several times. She called but never left a message. He selected her contact info and called her back.

It rang several times before she answered, “Hello?” her voice sounded strained.

“Janice? It’s Jim. Is everything okay?”