Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Read online

  She still wasn’t convinced that he’d give the vacation idea his best effort. He was infamously nonconfrontational, likely to back down if his boss gave him shit about leaving on short notice. She’d have to be all over him today. Holographic messages. E-mails. Phone calls. Virtual reminders. Anything and everything. She might even contact his boss if prospects looked grim. She could find Scott Warren’s e-mail and phone number on the San Diego County website, or raid Nathan’s phone—which he’d conveniently left on the counter. She eyed the device, shaking her head.

  CHAPTER 11

  Nathan pressed the oversize garage-door button and walked between his car and Keira’s mini-SUV, waiting for the bay door to close before he opened his car’s trunk. The less his neighbors saw, the better. Thanks to government programs encouraging neighbors to be nosy, he was paranoid. Nine reports had been filed against his address, online or through the California Resource Waste Hotline, since they’d moved in six years ago. All bogus “trolling” claims related to water use. Each one easily refuted by his household’s water-reclamation percentage, the highest in the neighborhood, and one of the highest within a square mile—unsurprisingly.

  As a water-reclamation engineer for the county, he’d taken extra steps to maintain a pristine water-use record. Leadership by example was a priority in his line of work, along with keeping San Diego County Water Reclamation Authority investigators out of his house.

  Once the garage door closed, Nathan ran his fingertips under the trunk latch, triggering the biometric scanner. The hatch popped, rising slowly to a fully opened position. Inside, three light-blue, five-gallon water bottles lay side by side, filled to capacity with seawater. He heaved one of the forty-pound bottles out of the trunk and tucked it under his right arm, squeezing carefully between the two cars.

  Stepping behind the packed industrial shelving toward the rear of the garage, Nathan lowered the bottle to the floor next to a locked steel door, took a moment to disable the biometric sensor lock and turn the deadbolt, then dragged the bottle through the doorway.

  Overhead lighting automatically illuminated the room, exposing a ten-foot-by-ten-foot windowless square surrounded on three sides by three-tier plastic shelving units. The “bunker” held the emergency supplies he and Keira had collected over the past few years, along with Nathan’s pièce de résistance: a refitted, portable, electric desalinator and water maker.

  He removed the bottle’s lid and emptied the raw seawater into a deep-blue thirty-gallon rain barrel perched on a sturdy wood platform. A briny smell filled the room as the water splashed into the barrel. After the barrel emptied, he placed it on top of a stacked pair of long plastic bins next to the door and took a step back to examine the water-making rig.

  A clear plastic tube protruded from the bottom of the elevated barrel, connecting the food-grade plastic container to the desalinator stowed beneath the wood platform. A second clear hose rose from the output valve on the other end, climbing the wall and disappearing into the top of a second rain barrel that occupied the other half of the table.

  The system was simple. He poured the seawater into the open-top container, powered the desalinator, and waited ten hours for fifteen gallons of fresh water to fill the second barrel. Fifteen extra gallons per week may not sound like a bounty, but in the context of California’s draconian water-preservation efforts, the added water made a big impact on their daily lives. Sometimes he wondered if Keira had forgotten that, especially when she called the water a luxury. It was far from a luxury in his mind.

  Californians fell into three main categories when it came to water consumption. Those who couldn’t afford to exceed their allowance and didn’t; those who incurred inescapable debt to exceed the allowance, even if just marginally; and the smaller group, who could pay the exorbitant, escalating fees for overconsumption.

  The standard water allowance for each Californian provided a bare minimum for consumption and basic hygiene. The allowance was based on age, assuming average height and weight. Each household received the combined allowance for all verified occupants of the dwelling, which inevitably led to a host of fraudulent occupancy claims. Water Resource Authority analysts estimated a 9 to 12 percent difference between the reported number of San Diego County water users and the actual number at any given time. WRA investigators, outnumbering emergency services personnel three to one, spent most of their time chasing fraudulent occupancy leads.

  They dedicated the rest of their time to checking requests for larger allowances. Variations from the county-assigned water allowance were granted based on drastic departures from human growth averages, medical conditions, or state-approved employment-based waivers for strenuous job-mandated activities. Variations didn’t come easy, and they were subject to frequent review.

  The Fishers had created their own version of the variance program, with Nathan taking weekly trips to the ocean to collect enough seawater to keep them from second-guessing every single water-use decision. The fifteen gallons granted the Fishers a small respite from the water-obsessed madness that consumed most Californians. It also provided them with viable, atypical options in the unlikely event of a system-wide man-made or natural catastrophe—which was the whole purpose of the bunker.

  Anchored around forty-five gallons of stored water split into fifteen, three-gallon plastic containers, the bunker contained enough supplies to successfully weather a short-term local crisis or evacuate the state by car. A quick glance at the shelves demonstrated that the Fishers had focused most of their energy and resources on the latter scenario. He had Keira to thank for that.

  One critical year—2031—had been a bad tremor year for Southern and Central California, reigniting fears of the revised thirty-year, 8.0-magnitude scare initiated by the National Geological Survey in late 2018. The chances of California experiencing an 8.0 quake by the middle of the century more than doubled from 2015 estimates—hitting an unprecedented 20 percent likelihood. The next decade or so had been relatively quiet for California, burying those fears. That year brought them back to the surface, with a tripling in the number of micro-tremors along multiple critical fault lines. That was the year the Fishers started preparing for the possibility of a sudden exodus. Keira had insisted, backed by Nathan’s father, who had converted to “prepperdom” after he retired from the Marine Corps.

  Now Nathan had a room filled with survival gear, dehydrated food, MREs, water containers, medical supplies, spare gasoline, and “bug-out bags,” all of it waiting to be thrown into his wife’s mini-SUV at the first sign of trouble—and much of it waiting to get them thrown out of California, should it be discovered. The gasoline alone would get them deported without a hearing—or shot in the head by criminals. Fifteen gallons of untraceable gasoline was worth a mint on the black market.

  Despite the constant low-grade anxiety generated by the bunker, its contents gave Nathan some peace of mind. Unlike the vast majority of Californians, the Fisher family could head east into the wastelands with enough fuel and supplies to link up with his father in Idaho.

  Nathan turned the blue switch on the desalinator’s plastic housing unit to the “On” position and watched the dirty seawater climb down the tube. He listened to the desalinator for several seconds. It sounded fine. Not the smoothest hum it had ever produced, but not the worst. By the time he finished hauling the remaining two bottles into the room, a column of clear water crept toward the top of the freshwater storage barrel.

  “As long as it works, I don’t care what it sounds like,” he mumbled.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Atten—hut!” growled Major Kane, Second Battalion’s executive officer.

  Captain David Quinn pushed his chair back and stood at attention amid a cacophony of metal scraping linoleum. Most of the battalion’s officers and senior staff noncommissioned officers were present. Close to eighty Marines packed into a classroom designed to accommodate forty. Under normal circumstances, the colonel would assemble a group this large in the parking lot,
but Quinn sensed that nothing the colonel had to say to them this morning fell under the “normal” category.

  The space fell silent moments before Lieutenant Colonel Smith plunged through the door and headed straight for the dark faux-wood podium next to the wall-mounted digital screen at the front of the room. Smith, “two-four’s” battalion commander, was a bulldog—short and barrel-chested, with ripped arms bulging against his rolled-up combat uniform sleeves. He was followed closely by the battalion sergeant major, a hulk of a Marine, who stood at attention next to the stand holding an olive-drab digital tablet.

  “As you were,” said Smith, gripping the sides of the lectern and turning to Major Kane. “Secure the door.”

  A faint murmur rippled through the room as the major turned the latch above the door handle and tested the door. The Marines settled back into their seats or standing positions along the walls of the classroom.

  “All field exercises scheduled for June have been canceled,” said Smith. “Regiment, ergo division, wants to keep all units close to the vest for the time being. As of right now, every Marine and sailor in the battalion falls under a two-hour recall, and we will most definitely test this recall at the most inopportune time, like zero dark thirty on Friday or Saturday night.”

  A restrained grumbling erupted, as Quinn made eye contact with his company first sergeant. The recall order would not be well received by Fox Company Marines, who’d recently returned from a month-long joint exercise at the National Training Center in Fort Irwin, California. Being on two-hour standby placed a lot of restrictions on them.

  “It’s better than an indefinite division-wide confinement to Camp Pendleton, which is exactly what will happen if our Marines fuck this up,” said Smith. “It’s up to each and every one of you to impress the importance of following this order. With that said, all leave commencing in June is canceled. No exceptions. Marines currently out of the state on leave are fine, but there will be no extensions. If they’re in-state, you’re to make every effort to get their asses back. Any questions?”

  Echo company commander stood up in the front row. “Sir, what can we tell the Marines? I assume this is related to the secession issue?”

  “Leave your assumptions out of it for now. Issue and enforce the order. I don’t need Camp Mateo transforming into a liberal arts college campus, with seven hundred brand-new political science majors,” said Smith, eliciting some laughter.

  “This is for the Marines’ very own safety and security. Division doesn’t want any of our Marines left flopping in the breeze if the political climate goes south. Frankly, I don’t know any more than you do about the situation, but at the risk of making an assumption, I think the assassination rattled a few cages in the Pentagon—probably the White House, too.”

  A wiry master sergeant from headquarters and support stood next. “What about families living off base, sir? Will we have a contingency plan for their evacuation?”

  “I never said anything about an evacuation, Top,” said Smith.

  “I just—” started the master sergeant.

  “Assumed? Let’s take this one step at a time. General Nichols considers our families to be just as important as our rifles, so I feel confident that his plan will soon include families. Right now, he’s concerned with basics, which is taking several thousand federally sworn killing machines out of the state political equation on short notice. Any more assumptions?” asked Smith, suppressing a devilish grin.

  Nobody stirred as Smith surveyed the group.

  “Very well. Sergeant Major Harmon will answer any specific questions related to the restrictions and expectations surrounding the two-hour recall,” said Smith, stepping around the podium and taking the digital tablet from Harmon. “Major Kestler. Captain Quinn. Follow me.”

  Shit. Had he done something wrong? Had he rolled his eyes? It couldn’t be that. Smith had tapped the operations officer, too, and Kestler was poker-faced, 24-7. The guy even wore the same dour expression at command picnics or officer socials.

  No, this was something bigger. Maybe a lateral-to-weapons company commander? Fox Company was running smoothly, but Weapons Company still struggled after the tragic DUI-related death of Captain Lee. He glanced at his first sergeant and nodded, before sliding past several chairs to catch up with Lieutenant Colonel Smith.

  Without speaking, Smith led the two officers into an adjacent classroom and closed the door.

  “This is for your eyes and ears only,” said Smith, activating the tablet. “Division is exploring a long-dormant plan to move the bulk of our Pendleton-based force to Marine Corps Air Station Yuma. They’re just looking at the plan, making a candid assessment of its feasibility.”

  “Jesus,” muttered Quinn, instantly processing the far-reaching consequences of a full division-level evacuation from Camp Pendleton.

  “This is an ancient plan drawn up in the wake of the 1992 Landers earthquake. Marine Corps planners in Quantico wanted a contingency plan to evacuate Camp Pendleton on short notice if geological trends suggested an imminent 8.0-or-greater earthquake in Southern California.”

  Major Kestler’s eyes narrowed—the first show of emotion Quinn ever recalled seeing from the Marine many called “the cyborg.”

  “Sir,” said Kestler, “I didn’t think Camp Pendleton was situated on an active or inactive fault line.”

  “It isn’t,” said Smith. “I think they were looking for an excuse to come up with this plan.”

  The screen illuminated, showing two digital thumbprint scanners.

  “Two-person integrity. A right thumb from each of you opens the tablet, which contains the plan. If one of you walks more than twenty feet away from tablet, it shuts down and requires two thumbs again. Or my thumb. Study this plan and report to me by sixteen hundred. I want to know exactly what might be required of the battalion if California goes to shit,” said Smith. “And David?”

  “Yes, sir?” asked Quinn.

  “I’m appointing you as my liaison to division. They know you’re approved for every level of the planning phase. Don’t lose that thumb,” said Smith, cracking a smile.

  “Copy that, sir,” said Quinn. “Who should I contact at division?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet, but I’ll let you know shortly,” said Smith. “I do know that they are planning a site visit to MCAS Yuma within the week, and I expect the bastards to be well represented on that visit. One of you will make the trip with a squad of Marines. You can draw straws.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Kestler.

  Better you than me, David thought. MCAS Yuma was a desert dumping ground.

  “It probably goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. Keep this under wraps. If anyone asks about the trip, we say the battalion got tagged to escort one of Pendleton’s regular resupply runs to Yuma.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kestler.

  “I’ll leave you to this mess,” said Smith, glaring at Kestler. “Sixteen hundred hours in my office.”

  When the door closed behind Smith, Kestler unveiled a thin smile. “This is going to be a grade-A cluster fuck,” he said, shaking his head.

  “That’s an understatement, sir.”

  “Call me Harry,” said the major. “Looks like you and I will be joined at the hip for a while.”

  “Won’t your assistant operations officer be jealous?” asked Quinn.

  “He won’t have time for emotions, if my guess is correct,” said Kestler. “This plan is going to require his full attention, if implemented.”

  “Let’s hope it isn’t,” said Quinn, suddenly worrying about his wife.

  CHAPTER 13

  Nathan Fisher lowered his window and poked his head out of the car, pushing on the center-console armrest for leverage. The eight-story, mirror-windowed building containing his office loomed in the distance, shining through the thick shield of tall palm trees lining the San Diego County Water Authority’s main access road. He was accustomed to hitting traffic outside the facility, but
nothing like this. The snarl of automobiles extended from the Poway Road turnoff to the security gate—nearly half a mile. It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to go half that distance. Creeping along at this rate, he was undoubtedly going to be late.

  “Dial Robert Taff’s phone,” he said, lightly pounding on the steering wheel.

  “Dialing Robert Taft at the San Diego County Water Reclamation Authority. Mobile number,” said his car.

  A few moments later, the car informed him that the call was connected.

  “Morning, Nathan,” said his supervisor. “I bet I know where you are.”

  “Breathing carbon monoxide fumes in front of the main gate,” said Nathan, rolling up his window. “Looks like I’m about forty minutes out, unless this speeds up.”

  “I’m about ten minutes behind you,” said Taff.

  “All of this because of the assassination?”

  “No,” said Taff. “The seawater-cooling pump at the Del Mar plant failed this morning. State authorities raised the critical infrastructure protective posture, the CIPPR, about thirty minutes ago. That’s confidential information for now. Del Mar hasn’t hit the news yet.”

  Shit. The plant looked fine from the beach when he left. Those boats. Jesus. They had to be connected. Right?

  “Nathan, you there?”

  “Sorry. I thought the car in front of me stalled,” he said, steering his mind back to the conversation. “Do they suspect a terrorist attack?”

  “I don’t think they’re ruling it out, especially on the heels of Almeda’s murder. Did you catch the details of that mess? Someone really wanted her dead. The scene looked like a war zone.”

  “Yeah, it was unbelievable,” said Nathan. “Looked like they used high explosives to blow up her townhouse.”

  Should he report the stealth boats he’d spotted off the beach? He was positive they had retrieved divers. The seawater-cooling pump station was located on the banks of the San Dieguito Lagoon, directly accessible to the ocean. Could a diver team travel that far? Military divers could. Fuck. A trip to visit his parents wasn’t sounding so bad.