Chapter 3: Civil Unrest

Wednesday July 1, 2026—Montana/Idaho

“Officials have updated the death toll to 213, with as many as 170 victims being trampled in the panic following the initial bursts of gunfire.” Jim listened to the background news while driving west on I-90. “Capitol Police sources say the deceased shooter—who remains unidentified—left a handwritten manifesto identifying himself as ‘God’s hand.’ His goal: to cleanse the immoral stain from 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’d texted his encapsulating team 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 voice answered. “What’s shakin’, hoser?”

Jim rolled his eyes. The young tech was an engineering genius and techno-wizard but lacked social skills. “We’re going to ANP 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?” He snorted at his own joke. “How big?”

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

“That the rich dude fucking up all the land in North Dakota?”

Jim closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, “Yeah ... listen, Riley. Mister Gallagher is on the call with us,” he growled in a tone that usually affected people limited to one side of their brain. The 25-year-old prodigy Riley Jenkins had no such filter.

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

Jim heard an older snort in the background. “Language RJ. 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 could be heard over rapid 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 would we want to, dude?”

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. They have all the hangar space we’d need, and they’re already EMP-shielded.

“The Air Force base?” Robert interjected.

“He’s quick,” Riley quipped. He had no clue Gallagher was a retired Air Force General.

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

“Well, you’re gonna wanna test it, right?” the technician replied. “I should ask my old MIT Professor to borrow their gamma emitter—” he hesitated. “Actually ... maybe you should 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 to 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.”

“There’s 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 Tylenol. “How do we borrow a hangar from the Air Force? And why can’t we use a microwave emitter?”

He heard another heavy sigh. “Dude! That high-altitude EMP over the Baltic was twenty 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 fourth year when I was invited to leave after the... incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

Jim rubbed his temples harder. “Do you know the government oversight involved with transporting an ionizing gamma emitter across state lines?” he moaned.

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you’d just let me build one.”

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

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

“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 while we’re ‘fucking up the land.’”

Jim pressed his face into his 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, and I’ll get back to my vacation,” Jim growled. “And RJ ... keep it to 1000 Joules and a 100-micrometer array!” He hung up before the boy could complain.

He maxed out his trailer again, making it slow to reach highway speed in the Wagoneer. 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 navigated the narrow passage to the clearing with his Quonset hut. He noticed motorcycle tracks around the area. He inspected the shelter’s interior for tampering. Despite double-tarping his cement bags and tying them securely, someone had cut part of it away. His job box remained locked, and the generator wasn’t vandalized.

He would buy ‘No Trespassing’ signs the next time he was in town. 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 and 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 a quarter of the floor.

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 before leaving in a few days.

His satellite phone had limited signal in the narrow valley, but he found spots to call and text. He discovered the strongest signal at the entrance to the top cave where he sat, back against the cliff, facing east. He sent several emails with suggestions for the Gulfstream project. Robert called in a favor, securing a spare hangar at the airbase. The base commander requested a point paper detailing their plans before approval. Jim was pleased to find that RJ had drafted it for his review. He approved it for Sully’s chop and offered to brief the base officials in person, seeing potential market opportunities.

After handling business emails, he read and responded to several messages from Janice about her new role, then scrolled through news apps to catch up on the Capitol turmoil. There was more speculation than fact, and the conjecture had become more exaggerated and less credible over time. Still, the sparse factual details painted a grim picture. Over 200 protesters had died, creating a martyr effect favoring the pro-Palestinian movement and their efforts to stop the violence in Gaza. Local Jewish and pro-Israeli groups faced death threats and vandalism, causing outcry and pressure to defend themselves and retaliate.

He was shutting down the app 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. What’s going on?”

“There’s a riot in the Capitol! 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 to call in the National Guard to quell the rampage!”

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “That will cause a bloodbath that makes Kent State look like a tantrum!”

“You got that right,” she replied. “FOX is airing an interview tomorrow between that Geraldo guy and several militia groups growing in strength and popularity. They claim 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 monitoring a couple of them.”

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

“Where should I go?” she asked.

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

She said, hesitating, “I ... I can’t leave my mother, James.”

Crap!

“What about you?”

“I’m right where I want to be.” He stood up and pressed his boot toe into the strange footprint left by a trespasser. They were unable to get through the upper entrance barrier. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been in worse situations.”

After they disconnected, he messaged Sully and carefully descended the steep path by moonlight. He wore his headlamp but preferred natural lighting and his night vision.

Hours later, he was awakened by 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 encountered one in the wild. 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 mixture by wheelbarrow. Lunchtime came, but he postponed eating until he’d completed two more sections or three-quarters of the floor. He troweled the surface smooth and continued working, completing the pad at dusk. After cleaning the mixer, he installed the metal studs in the back of the hut.

It took him another day to finish the back wall and insulate both ends. He opted for a single man door on the left and a twelve-foot roll-up garage door on the right for vehicle access. By the afternoon of the third day, the Quonset hut was completed. The concrete pad had cured enough for him to relocate all his equipment inside and lock it up. The next step for the shelter was to wire it for lighting and electrical, but he had to return to Missoula for more supplies and stop by the fabrication plant to pick up the heavy ANP rolls he had ordered.

After breakfast, he collected his refuse in contractor bags, hitched his trailer, and left the mine. He stopped in St. Regis for fuel and rewarded himself with a hearty lunch. After parking his truck and trailer, he walked across the lot to the restaurant, noticing five off-road motorcycles parked in front. He inspected the tires, took pictures, and entered the diner to find a table.

The place was busy, and it was easy to tell the locals from passing tourists. A group of younger guys watched him enter, but the locals watched a news broadcast about another Capitol uprising and talked over each other.

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

“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. Damn, he’s a shoe-in for Joe Dirt!

Instead of answering immediately, James slid out of the booth. Standing tall, he towered over them by a head, exposing the 1911 on his right hip. “I don’t know,” he replied calmly. “Did you trespass on my property and vandalize my things?”

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

“It will be 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, turning back to the booth with their companions.

“Be 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. “What impression would that be?” Before he could respond, Corona grabbed his arm and jerked him toward the other table.

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. He was an older guy in heavy coveralls with a ball cap.

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

“Listen to that sumbitch 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 nearby.

“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 hanging out with those two dunderheads. You get on their radar, and they will cause you grief. Their dad’s a Mineral County Sheriff’s deputy, so calling the law won’t help.” She pulled out his check.

He pulled a $50 bill from his wallet and handed it to her with the check. “Who said anything about calling the law?” he smiled 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 kid? And how did you keep him away from the NSA?” Rob asked over the Jeep’s Bluetooth. Jim had just dropped off his trailer at his house and was heading to the ANP plant east of the city.

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

“PS5,” Riley snorted, “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?” the kid griped. “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 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 for the day after tomorrow,” the oil man responded. “They no longer keep a squadron there, so the hangars are empty. But I’d like my plane back ASAP. How long will it take?”

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

“Excuse me?”

Oh boy! Jim felt the veins in his head start to pulse.

“Well, I need to access the guts and stuff,” The young man explained, “—before we can spray everything down with the ANP shielding.”

“Tell me he’s joking, Jim!”

Goddammit Riley! He clenched his jaw. “I have two certified A&P guys coming to help, Rob. I promise we’ll put it back together exactly as it’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 tears.

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

Upon arriving at the plant and inspecting the Gulfstream load-out, Jim enlisted several workers to help him load four rolls of EMP insulation into the Wagoneer. He boxed the wiry RJ upside the head for trying to give the billionaire 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 selected technicians, “Don’t let him near that jet with tools!” he ordered. “I’m returning to my property in the morning and heading straight to Great Falls the day 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 concrete blocks, lumber, and signs. He 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 the house was empty that night.

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 night.

The next day, he cut the gate pieces with an oxyacetylene torch and laid them out in a rough design. Fabricating and setting the gate using the generator as a welder took only a few hours. After testing it, he secured it with a heavy padlock 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. He hadn’t explored the entire property yet, expecting old logging roads to cross it, but that was a task for another time. For now, he had a jet to encapsulate.

Monday, July 6—Malmstrom AFB, Montana

The encapsulating team waited with a large party of Air Force and government officials when the sleek jet landed gracefully on the main runway. Escorted by a jeep with a flashing red light, and a ‘Follow Me’ sign, it taxied to the designated hangar and shut down its engines. Moments later, the main cabin door opened and lowered to the pavement, revealing carpeted steps. Jim stood below when the pilot appeared and stepped out. It was Robert Gallagher, wearing light cotton slacks and a polo shirt. “Whoa!” Riley exclaimed. “You fly them too?”

“It’s a hobby,” the billionaire replied casually as he shook hands with the base commander and several officials.

“Damn expensive hobby,” the technician muttered while checking the landing gear compartments.

“Cheaper than an ex-wife,” the tycoon retorted.

“Touche!”

The ground crew quickly backed the jet into the hangar and closed the main doors, sealing it in with their equipment. At the General’s request, RJ and Jim gave a brief but detailed presentation to everyone, explaining who they were, what they would do, and how they planned to test the tri-metal and polymer shielding. Riley wheeled a loveseat-sized metal box before the crowd and removed a sharp-looking instrument resembling a dental X-ray machine with large cables attached.

“Is that your gamma-ray gun?” Rob asked, examining the futuristic device.

“It is indeed,” the long-haired genius answered proudly.

“You’re not going to fry anything in my plane, are you?” he asked nervously.

“Once we finish the encapsulation, Mr. Bigbucks, that’s exactly what I’ll try to do!”

Fuck me! Jim cursed silently, shaking his head at the ceiling. If only there were someone else! Someone who thought before he engaged his mouth!

The project took three days to complete. As the first of its kind, it provided ample lessons learned, and by the second day, they had attracted a large audience of personnel who didn’t bother with introductions. Each step from sleek jet to gutted machine and back was captured on video and shared grudgingly with ‘them.’ RJ became cross and short-tempered due to the unofficial ‘spook oversight’ and lashed out at anyone who stepped out of line in his domain.

On the third day, they began testing segments before replacing the exterior panels around the vital avionics and other ‘guts.’ After setting up the gamma emitter, Jim, Riley, and two other technicians emerged from the toy hauler, clad in lead-lined suits with ANP shielding. With his typical eloquence, RJ suggested that anyone hoping to reproduce or keep their thyroid intact should leave. Each test involved placing an ionizing sensitive sensor opposite the object and positioning the emitter. Then, they relocated outside the hangar while RJ gleefully used a remote to blast the component with enough radiation to destroy it. By day’s end, they were tempted to smack the geek whenever he yelled, “Fryer in the Hole!”