One Second After

436 Pages·2009·1.4 MB·English

by  William R. Forstchen

ONE SECOND AFTER
William R Forstchen
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
New York
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
All books are, in a way, the works of others . . . those who inspired me as a kid,
taught me to be a teacher, a writer, a father. Those of you who grew up with
science fiction during the Cold War will remember Alas Babylon, and the
chilling movies Testament and On the Beach. The nightmares of that time did not
happen, but one does wonder, if their warning insured that indeed such things
did not happen, when I was a child. Their impact on me is obvious with this
work, their warnings as real then as the warning of this book is a potential reality
now.
Special thanks must go to my friend, Newt Gingrich, for kindly providing the
foreword to this book, the encouragement, advice, and crucial contacts he helped
me with along the way. Captain Bill Sanders, who serves with our Navy, is one
of the world's leading experts on this topic; it was Newt who introduced me to
him, and as I worked on this project his advice was invaluable, along
with his friendship. I must emphasize that Captain Sanders is a true professional;
at times I asked questions to which he replied, "I can't answer that," and there the
discussion ended. Everything he
did help me with is public record and not classified. Congressman Roscoe
Bartlett, a true public servant, who headed up a Congressional committee
evaluating the threat of electromagnetic pulse
was a great inspiration as well.
An old friend, who might seem out of place in this acknowledgment is the author
Jean Shepherd. So few recall his name today, though nearly all are familiar with
his famous movie about a family Christmas during the Depression. His writing
and radio show inspired me when I was growing up near New York City, and by
incredible good luck, he was a neighbor of mine up in Maine. As a fledgling
writer, I spent some incredible moments with Jean and always remembered how
he said "write what you know, kid." After so many books set in the past, or
future, for the first time I turned to writing one set now, and it was Jean's advice
that led me to this story set in my hometown. Black Mountain, Asheville, and
Montreat College, where I teach history, are all very real. Of course, being a
work of fiction the characters are fictional, but friends
and neighbors might sense something of themselves in this story, and to all of
them I owe my deepest gratitude for their years of friendship. Particular thanks
should go to Jack Staggs, chief of
police, for his insights, to my family doctor and our local pharmacist,
conversations regarding this
story left all of us chilled. And as always Bill Butterworth (W. E. B. Griffin Jr.)
one of the best darn editors and friends one could ever ask for.
As always my thanks to Montreat College, to the thousands of students I have
taught there across the years, whom I love deeply, and who were indeed an
inspiration as are some of my fellow faculty, the president of our college and the
board of trustees, especially Andy Andrews, veteran of Omaha Beach and close
friend for so many years. Thanks as well to the staff at a nearby nursing home,
who guided my father and me through the last year of his life . . . truly everyone
who works there is a guardian angel.
A writer cannot function without good editors, publishers, and agents. Tom
Doherty will always stand in my view as one of the best, and Bob Gleason,
though we had a few "moments"
at

times, moved this book forward and I am grateful. As for the agents who
believed in this, Eleanor
Wood, Josh Morris, and Kevin Cleary . . . all I can say is thanks. And there is
someone else special, Dianne St. Clair, who has always believed in me, and
whose loving encouragement always came at the right moment. And to Brian
Thomsen, thanks for everything.
In closing, I hope that this book never comes true. The threat is real, frightfully
real, made even more frightening when you take the time to study it, question the
experts, and have a sense of history. The moment of a fall from greatness often
comes just when a people and a nation feel most secure. The cry "the barbarians
are at the gates" too often comes as a terrifying bolt out of the blue, which is
often the last cry ever heard. There are those in this world today who do wish
this upon us and will strive to achieve it. As was said by Thomas Jefferson, "the
price of freedom is eternal vigilance."
I pray that years from now, as time winds down for me, critics will say this was
nothing more than a work of folly . . . and I will be content. . . for the vigil was
kept and thus my daughter and those I love will never know this world I write of.
William R. Forstchen
Black Mountain, North Carolina
July 2008
FOREWORD
BY SPEAKER NEWT GINGRICH
Though this book is a work of fiction, it is also a work of fact, perhaps a "future
history," that should be thought provoking and, yes, even terrifying for all of us.
I know this from personal study, across decades, of the very real threat to
American security that is posed by this particular weapon that Bill Forstchen
writes about in One Second After.
There has been much attention given, since 9/11, to a wide variety of threats to
our nation . . .
additional attacks by the hijacking of commercial airliners, biological and
chemical attacks, even the potential of a so-called "dirty bomb," or even an
actual nuclear detonation in the center of one
of our major cities.
But few have talked about, let alone heard about, the terrible, in fact
overwhelming, threat of EMP, which is short hand for "electromagnetic pulse
weapon."
My friend, Captain William Sanders, USN, one of our nation's leading experts
on this particular weapon, will provide the afterword for this book, explaining in
greater detail, using unclassified documents, as to how such a weapon works. In
short form here, when an atomic bomb is detonated above the earth's
atmosphere, it can generate a "pulse wave," which travels at the speed of light,
and will short-circuit every electronic device that the "wave" touches on the
earth's surface. It is like a super lightning bolt striking next to your house and
taking out your computer, except infinitely worse, for it will strike our entire
nation, most likely without warning,
and
could destroy our entire complex electrical grid and everything attached into that
grid. It is a real threat, a very real threat and one that has deeply worried myself
and many others for years.
My friend, Bill Forstchen, has coauthored six historical novels with me across
the years. I have gotten to know him closely. He holds a Ph.D. in history from
Purdue, he has specialized in the history of military technology, and this is no
wild flight of fantasy on his part. In fact, the start of this book was a
conversation that Bill and I shared several years back, concluding with his
announcing that he felt he should write a novel about the threat, to raise public
awareness.

As I said before, I see this book as a terrifying "future history" that might come
true. Such books have a significant tradition in their own right. H. G. Wells
wrote frightfully accurate prophecies of what history now calls World Wars I and
II. Two of the great classics of the Cold War, Alas, Babylon and the movie
Testament, gave us a profoundly moving glimpse of what would happen to
ordinary citizens if war between us and the Soviets was ever unleashed. In fact
Bill will openly admit that those two classics were indeed models for this book. I
also compare it to perhaps the most famous of the "future history" books of
modern times, George Orwell's 1984.
If the evil of totalitarian regimes had been allowed to flourish in the rubble of
Europe after World
War II, that future history might have come to pass. Orwell, by his book, raised
an awareness that
just might have saved us from Big Brother and the Thought Police.
I'd like to think that Bill's novel may do the same. Few in our government and in
the public sector have openly confronted the threat offered by the use of but one
nuclear weapon, in the hands of a determined enemy, who calibrates it to trigger
a massive EMP burst. Such an event would destroy our complex, delicate high
tech society in an instant and throw all of our lives back
to an existence equal to that of the Middle Ages. Millions would die in the first
week alone, perhaps even you who are reading this if you require certain
medications, let alone the most basic
needs of our lives such as food and clean water.
The place Bill writes about is real; he has set this story in his hometown and the
college that he works at. I remember when he was writing the book and we'd
talk. More than once he was deeply
disturbed by what he had researched, discovered, and was now trying to express
as a story for all to read. What hit him the most, he told mo, is (hat he kept
picturing his teenage daughter in this nightmare reality, and I think as you read
the book you will see that point
of identification. It struck me deeply as well, for I have two grandchildren. As he
wishes to protect his daughter from this fate, so do I wish to protect my
grandchildren, to be able to pass on to them an America that is safe from such
threats.
The threat is real, and we as Americans must face that threat, prepare, and know
what to do to prevent it. For if we do not, "one second after," the America we
know, cherish and love, will be gone forever.
ONE SECOND AFTER
For I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.
C H A P T E R O N E
BLACK MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROL I N A , 2 : 3 0 E D T
John Matherson lifted the plastic bag off the counter.
“You sure I have the right ones?" he asked.
Nancy, the owner of the shop, Ivy Corner, smiled. "Don't worry, John; she
already had them picked out weeks ago. Give her a big hug and kiss for me.
Hard to believe she's twelve today."
John sighed and nodded, looking down at the bag, stuffed with a dozen Beanie
Babies, one for each year of Jennifer's life, which started twelve years ago this
day.
"Hope she still wants these at thirteen," he said. "God save me when that first
boy shows up at the door wanting to take her out."
The two laughed, Nancy nodding in agreement. He was already enduring that
with Elizabeth, his sixteen-year-old, and perhaps for that, and so many other
reasons as well, he just wished that he could preserve, could drag out, just for a
few more days, weeks, or months the precious time all fathers remember fondly,
when they still had their "little girl."
It was a beautiful spring day, the cherry trees lining the street in full bloom, a
light shower of pink petals drifting on the wind as he walked up the street, past
Doc Kellor's office, the antique stores, the new, rather Gothic-looking art gallery
that had opened last month, the usual curio shops, and even an old-style
icecream parlor . . . at a dollar fifty a scoop. Next up the street was Benson's
Used and Rare Books. John hesitated, wanted to go in just for a few minutes,
then pulled out his cell phone to check the time.
Two thirty. Her bus would be rolling in at three, no time today to go in, have a
cup of coffee, and talk about books and history. Walt Benson saw him, held up a
cup, gesturing for John to join him. He shook his head, pointed to his wrist even
though he never wore a watch, and continued to
walk up to the corner to where his Talon SUV was parked in front of Taylor's
Hardware and General Store.
John paused and looked back down the street for a moment.
I'm living in a damn Norman Rockwell painting, he thought yet again, for the
thousandth time.
Winding up here . . . he never imagined it, never planned for it, or even wanted
it. Eight years back he was at the Army War College, Carlisle, PA, teaching
military history and lecturing on asymmetrical warfare, and waiting to jump the
hoop and finally get his first star.
And then two things happened. His promotion came through, with assignment to
Brussels as a liaison to NATO, a rather nice posting to most likely end out his
career . . . and then Mary had returned from the doctor's several days after the
promotion, her face pale, lips pressed tight, and said four words: "I have breast
cancer."
The commandant at Carlisle, Bob Scales, an old friend who had stood as
godfather for John's Jennifer, understood the request he then laid before him.
John would take the promotion, but could it be to the Pentagon? It'd place them
nearby to Johns Hopkins, and not too far from Mary's family.
It didn't work. Cutbacks were hitting as it was, oh, there was great sympathy
from upstairs, but he had to take Brussels if he wanted the star and maybe a year
later they'd find a slot for him stateside.
After talking to Mary's doctor . . . John resigned. He would take her back home
to Black Mountain, North Carolina, which was what she wanted and the cancer
treatment center at Chapel Hill would be nearby.
Bob's connections were good, remarkably good, when John first mentioned
Black Mountain. A single phone call was made; the old-boy network, though
disdained as politically incorrect, did exist and it did help at times when needed.
The president of Montreat College, North Carolina, in Mary's hometown, did
indeed "suddenly" need an assistant director of development. John hated
development and admissions work but survived it until finally a tenure-track
professorship in history opened four years back and he was slotted in.
The fact that the president of the college, Dan Hunt, owed his life to Bob Scales,
who had dragged him out of a minefield back in 1970, was a definite mark in
John's favor that could not be

ignored between friends. Dan had lost his leg, Bob got another of his Bronze
Stars for saving him,
and the two had been buddies ever since, each looking out, as well, for those
whom the other cared for.
So Mary got to go home, after twenty years of following John from Benning, to
Germany, to Okinawa, sweating out Desert Storm, from there to the Pentagon,
then a year, a wonderful year, at
West Point and then three more wonderful years teaching at Carlisle. At heart he
was a history teacher, and maybe whichever bastard in the personnel office at the
Pentagon had nixed John's request to stay stateside had done him a favor.
So they came home to Black Mountain, North Carolina. He did not hesitate one
second in granting her wish, resigning his commission and promotion and
moving to this corner of the Carolina mountains.
He looked back down Main Street, frozen for a moment in time and memories.
Mary would be gone four years next week, her last time out a slow, exhausting
walk down this street, which as a girl she had run along.
It was indeed a Norman Rockwell town. That final walk down this street with
her, everyone knew her, everyone knew what was happening, and everyone
came out to say hi, to give her a hug, a kiss, all knowing it was farewell but not
saying it. It was a gesture of love John would never forget.
He pushed the thought aside. It was still too close and Jennifer's bus would be
pulling up in twenty minutes.
He got into his Talon, started it up, turned onto State Street, and headed east. He