Survival EMP Box Set | Books 1-4 Read online

  Solar Storm Survival EMP Box Set

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Solar Storm: Copyright © 2017 Rob Lopez

  Solar Winter: Copyright © 2018 Rob Lopez

  Solar Dawn: Copyright © 2018 Rob Lopez

  Solar Rising: Copyright © 2019 Rob Lopez

  All rights reserved

  Digital Box Set Edition

  First Edition February 2021

  www.roblopez.co.uk

  Book 1

  Solar Storm

  The biggest solar flare since the 1859 Carrington Event is about to bring the world to its knees.

  When a huge plasma ejection from the sun hits the Earth’s atmosphere, the resulting EMP pulse fries electricity grids and disables fragile electronics. Transmission wires melt, transformers explode and modern vehicles cease working. In less than a minute, the world is taken back two centuries.

  Lauren Nolan is attending a seminar in New York when the blackout hits and the transportation system grinds to a halt. Trapped in the panic that envelops the metropolis, Lauren worries for her children, five hundred miles away in North Carolina. Unable to get word to them, she faces a harrowing journey on her own.

  Sergeant Rick Nolan is overseas on a covert ops mission against terrorists. When the solar storm wipes out his communications and his air cover, he and his team find themselves on the same level as the enemy that surrounds them. Caught in a desperate fight for survival, Rick thinks about his family. How is he going to make it back alive?

  Trapped in their hometown of Charlotte, the two Nolan children witness society’s terrifying collapse as water pumps fail, food runs short and the law ceases to exist. Frightened and bewildered, they wonder if they’ll ever see their parents again.

  1

  With the dusty, hard baked landscape and the two pickups in front of him, Sgt Rick Nolan could have been in Utah. He could picture clearly the scene from Once Upon A Time In The West where Henry Fonda walked slowly out of the heat haze, his grim smile and baby-blue eyes promising a slow death if he didn’t get what he wanted. Wouldn’t have involved the pickups, but it was a classic scene in Rick’s favorite Western.

  Except that movie had mostly been shot in Spain, and Rick had never been there. Kept telling himself he should go one day, but never got around to it. Most of the places he ended up in weren’t where he really wanted to be. And where he wanted to be was home.

  With thoughts like that, he knew he was getting old.

  Tired.

  “How are you?” he said, shifting the satellite phone to his other ear.

  There was silence, and he imagined his wife in the kitchen of their home in North Carolina, near Fort Bragg, clearing the remains of breakfast from the solid oak table.

  Then he remembered that she was due to fly to New York today for a seminar, and changed his mental image to that of her mother’s house in Charlotte. Grandma would be looking after the children while Lauren was away.

  “How’s the kids?”

  More silence. His eldest son, Josh, would either be on his Xbox, Nintendo Gameboy or his damn phone. Little Lizzy would be drawing. She was always drawing, and her scribblings – art, he reminded himself – were taped to the refrigerator, microwave, porch door and walls. She was either going to be a great artist or a terrible interior designer.

  “Me and the guys are going out now. We’ll talk when I get back.”

  With Lauren, the conversation would inevitably touch upon the subject of when he was getting out of the military. He was thirty five now. Lauren wasn’t the kind to nag, but the conversation always went in that direction. Namely because he kind of steered it that way.

  He’d been steering it that way for five years now with exactly the same results: nothing. He hadn’t done anything about it. Hadn’t felt inclined to do anything about it. Preferred not to think of it. He wanted to be home, and at the same time, kind of didn’t.

  It was a contradictory feeling he didn’t fully understand.

  “Take care of the kids. Love you. I’ll see you again.”

  The satellite phone remained silent on account of the fact he had the battery in his pocket. He’d replace the battery when he got back to Camp Blazer near Kobani. He was too close to the front line here to risk being tracked or eavesdropped. Talking into a dead phone was part of his pre-mission ritual. Some of the Kurdish militiamen in the compound gave him strange looks, like why was the westerner having such a dry conversation on his phone, sitting in the shade of the olive grove and staring mournfully into the distance, while the other American soldiers sat around waiting for him to finish?

  Rick’s men understood, though.

  They had rituals of their own. In years past, he’d imagined the conversation more vividly, listening to Lauren’s voice as she laughed and blew him kisses. That only happened in these imaginary calls, but even that seemed distant now. The ritual had become more mechanical: a mumbled chant. The end part was real, though.

  He would see them again. That was the point. The whole reason for the ritual. Some way of magically making sure he would return.

  He could feel his family slipping away, however. Especially Josh. He was twelve now and entering that difficult stage of moodiness. Last time Rick saw him, he’d been a bundle of resentment.

  Whether he resented his dad being away so much or for coming back home was hard to tell.

  Rick stowed the phone in his gear and checked the breech of his M4 carbine. His men waited by the dusty, mud-smeared pickups. Five of them: dressed in cargo pants and tees, or Kurdish fatigues to maintain the pretense that there were no U.S. 'boots on the ground’ in Syria. The pickups were loaded with packs, spare wheels and armed with stubby grenade launchers. On the compound wall behind them, pockmarked with bullet holes, was the faded Arabic graffiti left by ISIS fighters before they’d been driven out of the area.

  Definitely not Utah, then.

  “Bird’s in the air, Rick,” called Leroy from the truck, patting his radio.

  Leroy was a black Cuban from a family of exiles. He was armed to the teeth with at least two Glocks, a Bowie knife and a machete, besides his M4 and a ton of ammo. Being black, Leroy knew that if ISIS fighters got hold of him, they’d skin him alive. He wasn’t going to go down without taking a lot of them with him.

  The 'Bird’ in question was the JSTARS surveillance plane that would be watching over them. They weren’t taking the militiamen with them on this trip, so they needed to be able to call in air strikes instantly. The JSTARS carried radar capable of tracking every movement on the battlefield, cameras to obtain a visual image, and links to armed drones that would be circling below it. In contact with it, an AWACS airborne early warning plane flying along the Turkish border controlled and coordinated the movements of NATO fighter aircraft operating from bases in Iraq, Turkey and Qatar. One call was all it would take for Rick to unleash hell on any ISIS groups foolish enough to mess with his team. Climbing into the pickup cab, he opened a laptop on the dash. On the screen was the real-time satellite image of the target area. When the drones came online, he’d also have a thermal imaging overlay, day or night, that would detect anything hidden under camouflage netting. In addition to their own weapons and those of the Air Force, the six Special Forces operators could also call in cruise missiles from Navy ships stationed in the Gulf, not to mention air strikes from an aircraft carrier. Rick’s tiny team had more firepower at their disposal than any equivalent squad in the history of warfare.

  Somehow, he didn’t think Leroy would need his machete, but if he wanted to look hardcore, that was his business.


  Flynn, sporting shades and a beard, sat at the wheel. A veteran who’d joined Rick’s team in Afghanistan, chasing the Taliban on horseback through the mountains, he was as calm under fire as he was now, just waiting for his cue. Staring out at the scrubby desert, Rick wondered if he too could see Henry Fonda.

  Maybe not. He was more of a Chuck Norris guy.

  “Let’s go,” said Rick.

  Ready for anything, the two vehicles drove out of the compound and headed south.

  *

  Lauren toyed with her keys and phone, procrastinating. She really needed to head to the airport, but the smell of cookie dough dragged her back, triggering memories of her childhood.

  It was early in the morning, but her mother was already baking the third batch.

  “I think you’ve got enough cookies, Mom. I’m only going to be gone for the day. I’ll be back late tonight.”

  Grandma Daisy Jones waved off her concerns. “I’ve got two hearty eaters in the house. I picked up some lovely steaks from the market yesterday. If the weather stays good, we’ll have a barbecue. And I got some of that pasta that Josh likes.”

  “Josh isn’t eating so much now.”

  “I know, but he should. He’s getting thin. And I have some of that stringy cheese that Lizzy likes.”

  “It’s junk, Mom.”

  “Yes, but she’s got plenty of time to grow out of it. If she takes after you, she’ll be an athlete when she hits high school.”

  “She’s in first grade.”

  “I know that. You could do with a bit of meat on your bones, too, so I’ve packed you something for the flight.”

  She handed over a large, foil-wrapped package to Lauren. It was still warm: fresh baked cookies and toasted cheese sandwiches. Lauren could almost feel the weight of the calories on her hips already.

  “That won’t fit in my bag, Mom.”

  Lauren had her small military backpack. She hated to check in luggage, preferring to travel light. Even a wheeled carry-on was too much of an encumbrance for her.

  “Of course it will. Now make sure you’re not late for this meeting. It could be important.”

  “It’s a seminar.”

  “That’s a good thing. And it’s even better that they’re paying you to fly to New York to attend. They must think highly of you. I think you’re going to be promoted soon.”

  “I have to go, Mom.” She leaned down to kiss her mother’s forehead, pushing aside the soft, white hair. She got the impression that she had to lean lower and lower with each year. Age was shrinking the old woman. She’d had Lauren when she was thirty seven, pretty late for her generation, and Lauren had always known her as frail, her back bent from a lifetime of tireless work. She’d always been energetic, and indeed something of an athlete in her own youth, but she moved slower now, her arthritic hip giving her problems that no amount of physiotherapy could cure.

  Her cookies were still the best, though.

  Lauren’s father sat in the living room, watching sport on the TV. Since his operation the previous year, when he’d been fitted with a pacemaker, he’d assumed the 'license to loaf’, exerting himself as little as possible, even though the doctor said that wasn’t necessary. All he needed to do was stay away from magnetic fields, which weren’t exactly all that prevalent in the neighborhood. Lauren suspected her mother actually liked it that way, because it meant her father didn’t get in the way so much. The first few years of retirement were a little testy, to say the least. He’d spent the last years at the sawmill planning all the home improvements he wanted to do once he got the time. Mom hadn’t taken kindly to finding the kitchen floor ripped up or tripping over the drill cord when new cabinets went up. She had a set routine and was relieved when the tools went back in the garage.

  “See you later, Dad.”

  He waved the remote at her. “Take it easy, girl. Enjoy the flight.”

  “Try my best.”

  Josh and Lizzy were in the bedroom. Lizzy was unpacking the little suitcase she always brought, laying her pad and pencils neatly on the dresser. Josh, on the other hand, lay sprawled on the bed, shooting zombies on his Nintendo 3DS. He looked bored already.

  “You guys be good for your grandma,” said Lauren.

  “We’re always good,” said Lizzy seriously. “What’s the subject of the seminar today?”

  “Domestic liquidity and aggregate demand.”

  Lizzy screwed up her freckled features. “Do you get cookies?”

  “Always.”

  Lauren gave her a quick hug and kissed the top of Josh’s unresponsive head. Lauren’s old teddy bears looked down from their shelf, unmoved since she left to enlist. Dad wanted to turn the room into a games parlor, but Mom had fiercely resisted him, keeping the room exactly as she left it. Lauren thought she might at least have changed the bed into two singles, so that Josh and Lizzy didn’t have to sleep together, but her mother was adamant it should stay, creaky springs and all. Lauren normally paid little attention to the room, but today she felt the pull of nostalgia as she looked at the framed pictures on the wall. One was of her with her friends at some outdoor concert where she smoked her first joint. The other was of her in uniform, graduating from Basic Combat Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Her mother put that one there, maybe thinking that her daughter would continue to inhabit the room in spirit. Lauren felt a million miles away from the young woman in that picture. It had been a while since she left the military.

  But there was something else. Something that was bugging her.

  Dashing out to her car, she fumbled in her handbag for her keys, feeling the crumpled paper of another drawing that Lizzy had squeezed in there. Remembering that she already had the keys in her hand, she stopped, looking up the street. It was hot and someone was mowing their front lawn. Mr Henderson, taking time out from selling real estate, washed his car on the driveway, the sun casting a rainbow in the spray from his hose. Mrs King walked her two dogs, passing under the shade of the trees on the sidewalk. There were no kids about – they were at school – and half the people on this street were retired folks anyway, which was why Josh was less than enthusiastic about spending the day here, even though he was missing class.

  Lauren felt pulled out of the scene, however, and her thoughts drifted to her husband in Syria.

  Was she having a premonition of something? Was Rick okay?

  She shook her head, casting away all doubts. She didn’t need this right now. When she got in the car and started the engine, however, she took a last look down the street, like she was meant to be looking for something.

  Whatever it was failed to emerge and she released the handbrake, pulling out. Probably just hormones, she thought.

  She still found it hard to leave her kids.

  *

  Joe Butcher watched as the ejected plasma from the sun unfurled on his screen, reaching out into space like a fire serpent. He’d spent the whole morning at the Space Weather Prediction Center in Boulder, Colorado, observing the growing string of sun spots on the coronal hole. The tongues of fire initially bent back on themselves, held back by the turbulent magnetic fields and pulled by the sun’s immense gravity. Then the image from the SDO satellite changed as the magnetic fields broke, and the mass of plasma erupted from the sun’s surface, like a row of belching volcanoes. The computer modeling showed the fan of fire moving to intercept the orbital line of Earth, engulfing it like a tsunami hitting a dinghy.

  “It’s moving fast,” said Joe. “It’s going to hit Earth in thirteen hours.”

  X-rays flew on ahead of the surge, moving at the speed of light. Caroline watched the levels spike on her readouts. “It’s big,” she said. “Upgrading from an M to an X.”

  Brad, the team supervisor, sat behind them with his own bank of screens. “Okay, crunching the data,” he said. His fingers clacked on the keyboard. “The Savani model predicts a range running from thirty two to forty seven degrees out of alignment. That makes it a G4. Going to be some beautiful
auroras.”

  The closer a plasma ejection’s magnetic fields aligned with that of Earth’s magnetosphere, the less impact it would have when it hit. Aligning directly with the magnetosphere meant it would just slide over with minimal disruption. A G4 was a moderate geomagnetic storm in Earth’s atmosphere.

  “Are you kidding me?” said Joe. “Look at the readings from that thing. No way is that going to produce a G4. It’s at least a G7.”

  “Not according to the Savani model.”

  “The Savani model’s still in beta.”

  “And it’s been correct so far. Run the figures on an impact prediction.”

  Joe brought up the image of a world atlas and ran the simulator. Orbs of yellow appeared on the equator over Indonesia, turning green and spreading over the Pacific. More orbs appeared over the poles and the equatorial map began turning red. The expanding orbs met up like spilled paint on a smooth surface, and the atlas was engulfed in what looked like blood. “This could be bigger than the Carrington event. We could be talking G9+.”

  Brad looked up from his screen. “There’s no such thing as G9+. What figures are you using there?”

  “Worst case scenario of one hundred and eighty degrees out of alignment. That’s more than just air traffic and comms. This could fry the grid.”

  Brad glared in annoyance. “Stop messing around. Use the Savani figures.”

  Joe did so, and the red turned green, with spots of orange briefly appearing at the poles, the Aleutians and over trans-pacific flight routes from California to Japan.

  “That’s better,” said Brad. “Issue watch data to airlines and shipping, with a caution to the Department of Transportation, NASA and the grid.”

  Joe and Caroline glanced at each other. Last year, Brad had been chewed out by the Chair of the National Oceanic and Atmosphere Administration, who had herself been chewed out by a senate subcommittee for a red warning he’d given out that, according to the NSA, had triggered terrorist sleeper cells looking to take advantage of the anticipated disruption to communications and electricity. Two guys in Philadelphia had reacted to the gleefully alarmist reports on CNN by bringing forward a planned bomb attack on the transit system. The geomagnetic storm turned out to be minor and the two guys, who were being followed by the FBI, were arrested when they approached their lockup where some explosives were stored, and the CNN presenters got a good laugh at NOAA’s expense, likening the doomsday scenario to the Y2K warnings. Since then, Brad had been on a tighter leash and forced to use the Savani model, even though it was still being tested. The problem for Brad, and everyone else at the Prediction Center, was that it was impossible to tell what the magnetic orientation of a CME would be until it hit the WIND satellite, about a million miles away from Earth. That only gave them sixty minutes before the CME wave hit the planet.