The last island, p.1
The Last Island, page 1
The Last Island
James Hunt
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About the Author
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Foreword
At the time of this writing, Russia’s unprovoked aggression into Ukraine had been ongoing for nearly a week. The night before I wrote this, Russian forces lay siege to the Zaporizhzhya Nuclear Power Plant, Europe’s largest nuclear facility, where a fire had broken out.
Thankfully, by morning, the fighting at the plant had stopped, the fire had been contained, and all radiation levels at the facility were within normal range. But the long night of fighting and the confusion and uncertainty the fire and shelling instigated revealed a harrowing truth to this war and the impact it will have on not just the suffering of people in Ukraine but the entire world.
Last night, all it would have taken was a single mistake to trigger a catastrophe ten times worse than the Chernobyl crisis. Even now, to sit and think of what might have happened—and what could still happen—turns my stomach. And until peace and democracy are re-established in Ukraine, I imagine more heart-wrenching moments as the world waits with bated breath for how this war will end.
History has never been my strongest subject, but even I can recognize the magnitude of the moment we face.
In my eyes, the war in Ukraine, instigated by Putin, has become a pivotal turning point in our history. A sovereign nation was invaded by an autocracy under the rule of a man unable to let go of his own failed history. Through Putin’s merciless and calculated aggression, millions of lives have changed for the worse.
The closer the fighting moves toward western Ukraine near our NATO allies, the greater the risk for a potentially world-altering mistake. One stray bullet into the chest of our troops or allied soldiers, one miscalculated shelling that crosses the Polish border, one accident over European airspace would topple the first domino in a line of irreversible choices. In a matter of seconds, the world would change.
A matter of seconds.
Never has a foreign war carried so much weight for the rest of the world. Ukraine must win, and they must win decisively. Not only to save themselves and their people from tyranny and destruction but as a reminder for those who rule without consent or consequence.
Democracy is under threat. The cold, calculated measures of autocracy have come to undermine the will of the individual and the future of mankind. Never have the challenges before us been this harrowing.
But never have we possessed the tools and knowledge to solve these challenges. Never have we been so close to ensuring a better future for our children and generations to come. It is our duty and responsibility to leave this world better than we found it.
And our world is not made better through war. Our future is not made brighter by the hoarding of power and wealth. And our children will not benefit from a smoldering planet of ash and dust.
In my profession as a writer, I’ve always believed I have a responsibility to reveal the truth of our humanity. And I believe in the undeniable truth of our hope and compassion. I believe in the strength of community and family. I believe in the progress of science in the name of a better tomorrow. I believe in our right to choose our leaders and the duty to remain an informed and active participant in our democracy. And I believe in our right to defend it.
I wish for nothing more than a quick end to the war in Ukraine. For the sake of the Ukrainian people and the future of the world, we must strive for peace.
I am proudly an American. And while our history isn’t without the stains of injustice, I believe in our capacity for good and our ability and willingness to change for the better. Let our legacy be one of courage and reason, not cowardice and fear. And let us remember the importance of caring for one another and how we are defined not by our differences but by our similarities.
Our strength lies in union, not division, and we would all do well to remember it.
1
It was cold. Winter had arrived in the Pacific Northwest, and the chill had set into everyone’s bones. Anyone who visited the area this time of year would have described it as miserable. The Pacific rarely allowed snow along the coast, and the rainfall was frigid and frequent. But Charlie Owens had never minded the wet or the cold. And, in his humble opinion, the people who vacationed here and complained about the weather missed the entire point of living here: the quiet.
The silence was best early, before dawn. It was also the coldest part of the day, but it never deterred Charlie from enjoying the moment.
Charlie had traveled the country, trotted the globe, but he’d never heard any kind of silence like he did before dawn right here. For these few moments, the Earth stood still.
A boat horn off the coast quickly broke Charlie’s trance, and he pocketed his hands as he stared out onto the choppy seas. A storm had blown through the night before, and Beckett Island had taken the brunt of it.
The rough seas and gray skies had stretched to this morning and had kept Charlie off his small skiff. He had hoped to check his traps but didn’t want to risk the boat tipping over. No sense in being reckless.
But while the rough seas might have ruined his morning, the storm last night provided an opportunity for Charlie to see if the cabin would hold up, and he was glad to find it in one piece today.
Charlie had spent the past six months building a house, clearing the land, and preparing the area for his family’s arrival next week. This was to be their new home, where Charlie could keep his family safe.
Beckett Island was one of the larger islands along Washington State’s coastline, home to less than two hundred people. But the slow, simple life was part of the island’s charm.
Over half of Beckett Island was a protected sanctuary, so the two acres Charlie carved out for himself on the island’s northeast side was prime real estate. In fact, no one had even considered wanting to develop that side of the island because the water was too shallow to fit another harbor.
The three-bedroom, two-bath log cabin had more than enough space for the Owens family, but not everyone was thrilled about the move, least of all Kayla, his teenage daughter. But his wife, Shelly, and son, Benji, had at least warmed up to the idea.
The move here had sounded crazy to everyone Charlie had told, but they hadn’t seen what he had. Charlie’s previous job was as a contractor for the Defense Department. Most of his work was classified. The threats Charlie witnessed—and sometimes neutralized—along with the information he was privy to made him understand the true dangers the world faced.
Overwhelmed, Charlie retreated to Beckett Island, where he hoped to secure a better future for his family.
Beckett Island was small, and the families here were wonderfully friendly and down to earth. It was the kind of place Charlie wished he’d grown up, instead of the foster homes he bounced around, never having a place he could call his own.
Now, he did.
The house wedged in the center of the two acres of land was simple but sturdy and provided him everything he needed.
A garden produced vegetables, bees helped give him honey, which he used to sell at the market on the weekends, a chicken coup provided fresh eggs, and the sea provided fresh fish and crab each day.
One of Charlie’s last projects, the one he finished yesterday, was installing a flag pole outside the cabin. The concrete had set nicely, and all that remained was to fly the flag, but he would wait until his family was here with him.
It was a slice of paradise, but it hadn’t come without hard work and sacrifice.
Because there was no infrastructure on this side of the island, Charlie had to become completely self-sustaining. He installed his own water catching and filtration system, had solar and wind generators for power, a few gas generators just in case they were needed, and a satellite that provided him an internet connection.
It had taken an immense level of commitment and drive, but Charlie had never shied away from a challenge. His former employer once had called him a dog with a bone; once he caught a scent, he couldn’t let it go. His wife had echoed similar statements.
The work had kept Charlie’s mind sharp and his body lean and tan. But even though he dressed most days in flannel, swinging an ax, Charlie kept his face clean-shaven and his brown hair trimmed short. He never had enjoyed the feeling of facial hair.
Charlie entered the cabin, tossed a few logs into the furnace, and fired it up. The room warmed quickly, and he walked over to his laptop and radio, turning on both.
&nbs
Charlie turned down the radio, making a mental note to check on the activity later in the day. He turned on his laptop as he listened to the weather report. It was a high of fifty-three today, but there was no rain in the forecast and the gray skies would give way to sunshine by lunchtime.
Charlie logged into his email and saw a handful of order requests. In addition to farming and fishing, Charlie had a side business as a carpenter.
For years, carpentry was nothing more than a hobby, a means of calming his always busy mind through the use of repetitive tasks and concentration. Building a chair or a table might not have been the way most people relaxed, but it was a way for Charlie to do something productive with his anxiety.
Charlie had always enjoyed making things, improving something from good to great, from satisfactory to something better. He had carried this ambition to nearly every facet of his life: from work to home to family. Charlie was always looking for a way to make something better, more efficient. But what he was better at than anything else in his life was finding problems.
Charlie didn’t know if it was instinctual or simply a skill he had mastered throughout his life, but he knew exactly where and when to press the right buttons to make something fail. And he did that because the only way to rebuild something better was to learn what made it fall apart.
Charlie finished replying to the orders and then returned to his kitchenette to make another cup of coffee to help push him through the day. Charlie ground the beans, boiled the water, and then poured both through a filter which produced a slow drip of black gold into his coffee mug.
Charlie rubbed his eyes, feeling more sluggish than usual this morning. He wasn’t sure why; he’d slept fine, and while it was cold this morning, the weather wasn’t unusual.
The fatigue had been knocking on Charlie’s door for a while now, and deep down, he knew what it was.
It was loneliness.
But Charlie reminded himself he’d be reunited with his family soon. Even though it had only been a week since he’d seen them, performing the finishing touches on the cabin, he missed them. And while he knew his family was nervous about the move—and perhaps didn’t fully understand why—Charlie was thankful to still have them in his life. Even though he hadn’t told them all the truth.
Over the course of Charlie’s “career,” he had experienced traumas he couldn’t unsee. He had witnessed too many broken systems, too many problems, too much chaos for one person to solve on his own.
So he had walked away.
Coffee finished, Charlie grabbed his cup and returned to his laptop. He wanted to look at the USGS website again and see what kind of activity they were monitoring under Mt. Rainer. Between Rainer and Mount St. Helens, Seattle was surrounded by two very active and potentially dangerous volcanoes, either of which could disrupt the region, though Beckett Island was safe from any potential explosions. The earthquakes, on the other hand, represented a significant threat to the city and the rest of the area.
Charlie reached for his phone and called his wife.
“Hey,” Shelly said, in a hurry.
“Hey, did you see those USGS alerts?” Charlie asked.
“What? Oh, yeah, I saw them,” Shelly answered, out of breath.
“You running a marathon?” Charlie asked.
“I’m about to walk into a meeting,” Shelly answered.
“Is it about Danny?” Charlie asked.
“It’s about the gang he’s with, yes,” Shelly answered. “I can’t really talk about it.”
Shelly hadn’t “really been able to talk about it” at all for the past three months. But Charlie understood secrecy better than most.
“All right,” Charlie said. “I’ll be home by dinnertime. I thought we could go out, maybe hit up Chinooks?”
“Yeah, okay, sounds good,” Shelly answered, distracted.
“I love you,” Charlie said, the ache in his voice causing Shelly to refocus on him.
“I love you, too,” Shelly said.
“All right, bye.”
“Bye.”
Charlie hung up and then set the phone on the desk. He stared at his laptop and then drummed his fingers on the table. He reached for his coffee when the laptop screen went completely blank.
Charlie frowned, checking to make sure it was plugged into the single outlet in the cabin, which was attached to the solar generator outside. He found nothing wrong and tapped the power button, holding it down for a reboot.
But still, the screen remained black.
Charlie set down his coffee, grabbed a pair of binoculars, and immediately walked outside. He moved quickly through the woods, heading for the shore where he tenderly stepped out onto the rocky beach and stared at the mainland from the island.
Charlie raised the binoculars and aimed them at the coastal highway along the mainland. There typically wasn’t too much traffic this time of the morning, but the cars he saw were stopped along the road, their drivers outside of their vehicles, conferring with one another about what was going on.
“Jesus.” Charlie lowered his binoculars and wiped the snot dripping from his nose and onto his upper lip. He realized what this looked like, but that was impossible.
And yet…
Charlie reached for his phone and tapped the screen, which remained dark and unresponsive. Between the computer, his phone, and the stalled traffic on the shore, there was only one possible conclusion.
An EMP had been detonated.
2
Detective Shelly Owens bounced her knee nervously. The room was tense, but only because so much was at stake. She was dressed in normal detective garb, dark slacks, and a blouse. She wore dark sneakers instead of flats, and she kept her jet-black hair straight and short. She was the only woman in the room, and her ice-blue eyes studied the faces around her intently.
Shelly had been with Seattle PD for fifteen years. In that time, she had been promoted from officer to detective, to senior detective, and was now the point person for the department in their relationship with the FBI, who had requested assistance on monitoring a local gang of smugglers the FBI and the DEA were attempting to bring down.
Several department heads were crammed into the conference room, along with the head of the FBI’s Seattle Field Office, Bud Horowitz, who was glued to his phone.
The meeting was supposed to have started ten minutes ago, but not everyone was in attendance. She hated meetings like this, and that was saying something considering her background in law enforcement. She’d been punched, kicked, stabbed, clawed at, and bitten by a dog once during a drug seizure, but nothing was worse than meetings.
When Captain Marshall entered and shut the door, Shelly cleared her throat, knowing it was showtime.
“I apologize for the wait,” Marshall said. “I was in another meeting that ran over.” He nodded to Shelly and then sat next to Horowitz. “Detective Owens, the floor is yours.”
“Thank you, sir.” Shelly stood at the front of the room, remote gripped tightly in her sweaty palm, and clicked to the first slide of her presentation. “As you know, we’ve been tracking a gang of smugglers led by this man.”
She clicked a button, and a surveillance image appeared on the screen.
“Justin Weber,” Shelly said. “Three months ago, after tracking Weber’s network of officers in his ranks, my team and I arrested this man.”
