Radioactive and The Decay Dystopian Super Boxset- A Dirty Bomb and Nuclear Blast Prepper Tale of Survival
Authors: James Hunt,Roger Hayden
Copyright 2013 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.
Table of Contents
Radioactive - A Prepper Survival Story
Chapter 5 – Phoenix on My Mind
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 1
Smoke billowed throughout the entire base. Screams were muffled by the sounds of sirens and blasts coming from every direction. There wasn’t a safe place to hide. They were caught off guard. Shrapnel and fires from the bombs of enemy aircraft ravaged the naval ships. Crewman were burned, maimed, and blasted to pieces.
Men attempting to escape from the smaller ships through the water were either dragged down by their own equipment or by the hundreds of others desperately trying to stay alive. Those that survived the waters were mowed down by the swarming aircraft that picked them off like fish in a barrel.
This harbor was supposed to be impenetrable. The shallow waters made it impossible for submarine assault, and they were too far out of reach for any airstrike to be effective without being picked up by their radars. However, all of those securities were blown apart, along with 21 ships that were sunk or damaged, including 8 battleships and 188 aircraft.
The attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 took the lives of 2,471 Americans as Japanese fighter pilots decimated the naval air base. Those events reverberated throughout the rest of the United States and propelled us into World War II.
Over 70 years later, the American military is still considered the most powerful military force in the world. A large portion of how a military’s power is defined comes from the prowess of its navy. In 2011, the U.S. Navy controlled almost fifty percent of the world’s naval power. The second largest percentage was the Russian Navy, which came in at around eleven percent.
The homeport for the United States Pacific Fleet is the San Diego Naval Base. It is home to forty-nine navy ships, two Coast Guard cutters, five military sealift command logistical support platforms, and many research and auxiliary vessels. This base has played a pivotal role in the relief efforts of natural and terrorist disasters. It is the central logistical hub for the entire Southwest region for the American Navy.
There is an annual exercise to simulate an attack on the naval base to ensure that police and military personnel stay on their toes. They go over legitimate scenarios of how a person, or persons, could sneak onto the base to cause serious destruction or harm to military personnel and equipment. These role-playing incidents cover anything from a boat attack to enemy divers placing bombs underwater. The San Diego Naval Base considers itself thoroughly prepared for any attack.
So did Pearl Harbor.
Clouds drifted across the grey morning sky. The sun lazily poked its head above the horizon. The orange light hit the window of a small one-story house in the suburbs of San Diego. The light forced its way through a small crack where the curtains came together, hitting Jim in his closed left eye.
The alarm clock buzzed and Jim’s eye squinted open, his light brown pupils hesitant to greet the morning. He clicked the alarm off. He sat up, rested his feet on the soft carpet, and lingered there for a moment stretching his neck. He ran his hands through his short hair and rubbed his face.
Jim Farr was a slender, toned man in his late thirties. He had some premature greying hair speckled into his scalp and along the stubble on his face, although with him closing in on forty, he wasn’t sure the phrase “premature” really applied anymore.
He pulled the curtains open. His eyes were met with a quiet stillness reserved for lazy Sundays, even though it was only Tuesday. A slight purring came from beneath his feet. His cat, Tigs, wrapped her body around his legs. He smiled at her as she made her figure eights, meowing for her breakfast. Jim reached down and picked her up. “Let’s eat.”
The small kitchen was clean and tidy. A gas stove was sandwiched in between the counters with a microwave above it. Jim reached for the cat food in the small pantry. The tin can cracked open and Tigs bounced around excitedly. Jim dumped the brown mush into her bowl. He grabbed the water bowl, refilled it, and placed it down next to her as she chewed on her breakfast. He gave her a pat and then headed back down the hallway.
Jim opened a skinny door at the end of the hallway where a large black safe lined the side of the closet. Blankets, first aid kits, water, and canned goods lined the rest of the remaining shelf space. He unzipped a large backpack on the floor and rummaged through the small portions of food, water, and medical supplies inside it. He took note of his inventory on a checklist sheet, going along and marking the items off as he came across them. He flipped a bag of instant oatmeal over in his hand and read the expiration date. It was the very same day. Jim left the rest of the materials in his bag and leaned it against the doorframe.
In the kitchen, Jim tossed the oatmeal packet on the table and rummaged through one of the kitchen cabinets. He pulled out a new box of instant oatmeal, tore the side of the box, and pulled out another pack. Jim then went back to the hallway to replace the oatmeal pack he took and then double-checked everything to make sure it was secured in the bag before he shut the door.
Jim ripped open the oatmeal bag, poured it into a small beige bowl, added some water, and hit the two-minute express button on the microwave. He sat down on the steel chair of his round table and picked up the paper from the day before. Jim caught Tigs staring at him as he shoveled the mush into his mouth. “What? It said it was good until today.”
After Jim finished his breakfast, he tossed the bowl in the sink and rinsed it out. He walked back to his room and opened his closet, grabbing his light blue polo and dark blue cargo pants. He dressed quickly and snatched his Navy security badge off the top of his dresser as he walked out.
His phone buzzed in his pocket as he locked the front door. He slipped his phone out as he got to his truck, throwing his work bag in the back while tucking his shirt in.
“Hey, Terry,” Jim said into the phone.
Captain Terry Streak squared up a notebook on his desk. The lines of the book ran perfectly parallel to the edges. His shirt matched the sharp corners of the desk and the bars on his uniform stretched broad like his shoulders.
“You know you’re the only person who works here that doesn’t address me as Captain?” Terry asked.
“Contractors aren’t enlisted men, Terry.” Jim hung his badge around the rearview mirror, cranking his truck engine to life. “Besides, if you could just teach your boys proper marine mechanics, I wouldn’t have to come and fix your ships all of the time.”
“For the price you charge, I could just buy a new one.” Terry took a swig of coffee from his mug and set it gently down on a coaster. He swiveled in his chair to look out the window and at the line of warships in the bay. “Jim, I just wanted to give you a reminder about the drills happening this week. It’ll be busy around here and security will be tight.”
Jim turned his truck onto the highway. Light traffic dotted the lanes. Jim slid his sunglasses on to shield his eyes from the rising sun. The orange light bathed the coast in a warm glow. “You’re still going through with it then?” Jim asked.
Terry rubbed the creases in his forehead as he logged into the computer on his desk. “We’ve had our FBI friends look into it, and they don’t seem to be worried. Besides, the drills we’re doing this week are to prepare for those situations. We’re already on high alert. We’ll be fine.” Terry picked up a small frame in his worn hands. A laughing woman and two squirming kids were wrapped in his arms. “I wouldn’t let anything happen if there was a real threat.”
Jim merged onto an exit heading west. “Just tell your boys to keep the cavity checks to a minimum until after I’m there.”
Terry let out a snort on the other end of the phone. “Will do, Jim.”
Jim slid the phone off his cheek and tossed it in the cup holder. He rolled the window down and let the fresh salt air cool his face.
Security gates and personnel lined the entrance to the naval base. Jim watched the canine units sniff the cars before entering. “At least the guys with gloves aren’t out,” he said to himself.
A young man with a clean shaven face waved him forward to the front gate. Jim stuck his badge through his open window, smiling. “Rough game last night. It’s gotta be hard being a Cubs fan.”
The young man shook his head and scanned the badge. “Don’t make me use my side arm, Jim.”
Jim snagged the badge out of mid-air after Sean tossed it back. “Have a good one, Sean.”
Jim parked in the remote lot and saw his friend Coyle leaning up against his work van. He gave a nod to Jim before he opened up the back doors and started rummaging for his tool kit.
“’Bout time you showed up,” Coyle said, throwing on his jumpsuit that covered his matching polo and blue cargo pants.
“Hey, make sure you have your badge visible on you today.”
The top half of Coyle’s body was consumed by the back of the van. The clank of tools banging against each other blocked Jim’s voice.
“Huh?” Coyle asked.
Jim pounded on the side of the van. Coyle popped his head out with an annoyed expression.
“What?” he asked again.
Jim grabbed the badge hanging out of Coyle’s pocket.
“Keep this on you and keep it visible. Terry told me they’re doing their drills this week, so it’s gonna be tight around here.”
Coyle snatched his badge out of Jim’s hand. “They were definitely thorough when I came in. I’ll be walking funny all day.” Coyle pinned the ID card to the front of his jumpsuit and grabbed the rest of his tools. “So what are we getting into today?”
Jim motioned over to the Coast Guard cutter in the harbor. “Something’s wrong with her operation system. She keeps choking when they start her up.”
Coyle pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and popped it into the left side of his mouth. “This place would sink without us.”
Jim grabbed the cigarette out of Coyle’s mouth. “And you’d get kicked out of this place without
me
.”
“Hey!”
Jim pulled his hand and the cigarette out of reach before Coyle tried to snatch it back. Jim pocketed the smoke and looked at a frowning Coyle, who then reached back into his pocket for another one. “I thought you quit?”
“I did, but I still like going through the motions. It makes me feel better.”
***
Crowds outside the naval base were growing. The U.S.S. Midway, part of the education Navy Museum, was permanently parked in San Diego Bay. The traffic in the parking lot was picking up and sunscreen-coated tourists were pouring out into the warm morning sun.
A large black van sat idly in line at the main security gate. The driver wore dark aviator sunglasses and a ball cap labeled “Real Productions” on the front. A long, blonde-haired woman with her hair pulled back in a ponytail scanned through her emails on her phone.
The canine unit ran by and circled the car, cleared it, then moved on. Sean came out to greet the driver as he rolled down his window. “How are you doing, sir?”
The driver’s nose hairs sprouted to his upper lip and a mole dotted his left cheek. He smiled, revealing crookedly stained yellow teeth. “I’m fine. We’re part of the production team here for the training exercises today.”
Sean checked his clipboard. “I’ll need to see your clearance badges.”
“Sure, no problem.” The driver tapped the girl on her shoulder. He stuck his hand out and without looking, she shoved two badges into his hand.
Their pictures appeared on Sean’s screen as he scanned their badges. His eyes moved from each picture to the faces in the van. “Okay, Mr. Fin, you’re going to want to report to the main office and meet with Captain Streak for further instructions.”
Mr. Fin smiled again and replied, “Thank you.”
***
The afternoon sun beat down through the windows of the Coast Guard cutter’s bridge. Tools were strewn about the floor covered with greasy rags and the dismantled parts of the control panel.
Jim stripped three wires of their multi-color wax coatings and twisted them together. He pulled a laptop out of his bag and plugged a portable USB card into the side, which brought up the schematics of the ship. He grabbed a small radio out from under the mess on the floor and clicked the side box. “Coyle, are you getting a signal down there?”
Coyle, who was now covered in engine grease down below in the aft engine room, checked the LCD screen on the engine board. He pulled the radio to his mouth and clicked the talk button. “Yeah, it looks like we’re good. She lives!” He threw his arms up in the air victoriously.
Jim gave a fist pump himself. “And just in time for lunch.” While Jim reassembled the control panel on the bridge, a rush of static voices came breaking in and out of his radio. “Coyle?”
A voice rang through very clearly, talking in low hushed tones. Jim didn’t recognize the voice.
“We are a go,” the voice said.
More static rushed through the line followed by a loud screeching, and then it broke off.
Coyle’s voice finally broke through. “Easy there, bud. No need for a sound check.”
Jim replied quickly. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what? You making those banshee screams into the radio?” Coyle jeered.
Jim shook his head, stood up from the floor of the bridge, and looked out the window into the bay. “I think we were picking up some traffic from the training exercises going on.” Jim scanned the massive destroyers in the bay. Waves lapped helplessly onto their grey steel sides.
Coyle’s voice broke him out of his trance, “Well, I think we should finish up here and grab some food. I’m starv—”
Before Coyle could finish, an explosion rattled the bowels of the ship and knocked Jim onto his back. The noise was deafening. A continual high-pitched ringing filled Jim’s ears. The boat rocked back and forth, sliding his tools across the floor, banging into each other. The blurs around him came into focus even as his legs kept buckling underneath him. A seemingly far away voice called out to him. It was faint but growing stronger. Coyle was screaming through the radio.
“Jim! Jim! What the hell was that? Talk to me, Jim!”
Jim reached for the radio across the floor and fumbled with it. “Coyle? Are you alright?”
“I think I busted my ass, but I’m okay. You alright?”