Sol Survivors

Chapter One

Chapter One

Chapter One

“Pull!”

Joel McConnell knew he would miss his third consecutive shot even before he squeezed the trigger. Too distracted. Yep, low and left. This time the late-day sky appeared to flash brighter for a second, further throwing his concentration. The clay pigeon continued unimpeded in its flight to the grassy horizon.

Why was he suddenly so aggravated? He arrived in a good mood. Hell, this was arguably Joel’s favorite place on Earth. Everyone else in the trapshooting line at the Quantico Shooting Club appeared to be relaxed and having fun, busting the clays like there was no tomorrow. Even the teenage girl on his left.

Joel knew what it was—or rather, who. The shooter two places to his right, dammit. For some reason that guy’s presence disturbed him. It wasn’t just his oversized cowboy hat. Truth was, Joel still owned a similar hat, though it hadn’t seen daylight in years. And it wasn’t the 20-gauge pistol-grip the man was firing, as inappropriate as it may be to use when the range was busy. Knuckleheads showing off with pistol grips was something you learned to tolerate at ranges that didn’t post rules disallowing them. Somehow, Joel didn’t think the cowboy would respect any such sign anyway.

Joel called for another bird. This one he obliterated before it fell from its apex. Now that was better.

Not ten seconds later, the cowboy did the same thing, followed by a happy exclamation that sounded too much like yeehaw for Joel’s taste.

Alan, Joel’s favorite range sergeant, strolled by in full fatigues as Joel pushed four new rounds in the loading tube of his Remington 870. But before he could get back into posture, a ruckus erupted from the cowboy. Different-sounding gunshots popped off as the man began shouting inanities.

Joel looked over in time to see the fool firing a handgun at a clay pigeon in the air. Not a pistol-grip shotgun this time, but what looked and sounded a lot like Joel’s 9mm Glock.

“Unreal,” Joel said.

Alan obviously heard him, but offered no sympathy in his reaction. To make matters worse, the cowboy actually hit the target on his fourth or fifth shot. The ensuing celebration was not something that belongs on a public range this far north.

“Alan,” Joel said with more than a little disdain, “can’t you do something about that?”

Alan laughed. “Afraid not. He’s an army colonel.”

“Oh.” Joel smiled and raised his firearm. He hit his next four birds.

The revelation of the cowboy’s identity did magically make it all okay. Just something that goes with the territory when your shooting club is on a marine base. And then, surprisingly, the colonel came over and apologized to Joel. He must have realized he’d been disturbing him. Sure enough, the offending pistol turned out to be the same Glock 19 that Joel owned. They chatted a bit before Joel had to get going if he was to beat rush hour traffic to Fredericksburg.

He didn’t quite beat it. Congestion on the southbound I-95 proved heavier than usual, and became worse as Joel neared Fredericksburg. But that was nothing compared to the street traffic on Plank Road after exiting. He felt his blood pressure rising again.

“What in blazes is going on here?” Joel shouted over his favorite Merle Haggard song. “For crying out loud, I’m going to miss the next light, too, and I’m not four car lengths from the damn intersection!”

The real problem, of course, wasn’t the traffic. Neither had it been the crazy colonel at the range. Joel didn’t usually sweat small stuff unless he was irritated over something else. The truth was he’d been dreading this evening, for no rational reason he could think of. It had been a dark cloud over his head all day. There were a hundred things he’d rather be doing than this. But he knew it was an inevitable part of being in a new relationship.

Joel managed to make a right turn by blatantly cutting two cars off, throwing obligatory thank you waves at the drivers without making eye contact, and then driving his Chevy Silverado truck up the curb and down the sidewalk twenty yards before plopping back down to the asphalt of the cross-street. Now headed the opposite direction he needed to go, Joel began looking for a way to circle around. At least he escaped the gridlock. The heaviest traffic appeared to be associated with the Battlefield Visitor Center, so he gave that a wide berth in his rerouting endeavor.

By the time Joel made it to the restaurant, he found he was the last to arrive. Jessie waved at him from a booth close to the entrance. So much for having a relaxing drink at the bar first.

“Hi honey,” Jessie said squeaking her tight jeans across the vinyl to the inside seat. “You didn’t get off on Plank, did you?”

“Yes, I did. Huge mistake. Huge!”

Jessie giggled at the inside joke. “I should have warned you. There’s a protest going on. A bunch of my yoga students headed to it right after class.”

“What kind of protest?” a pretty blonde in a plaid top asked from across the booth. A thin man in a yellow dress shirt buttoned to the neck sat next to her. She looked up at Joel and added, “Hello.”

“I’m sorry,” Jessie said. “Joel, this is my best friend, Debra, and her boyfriend, Archer.”

They exchanged the standard pleasantries as Joel sat down. Joel thought he detected a reaction on Debra’s face which lacked the usual enthusiasm of being referred to as a best friend. Or maybe she was less than thrilled at Archer receiving the boyfriend designation. Archer simply reached for his drink and acted oblivious.

“Civil war statues,” Jessie explained. “You know, the ones glorifying slave owners as national heroes. About time those came down.”

Joel signaled a nearby waitress in an effort to avoid commenting. Archer gave no visible reaction either, sipping at his cocktail. The best friend replied after it became clear no one else would.

“Those who refuse to acknowledge the past are doomed to repeat it,” Debra said.

“Exactly!” Jessie lifted her red hair up to adjust it in the clip. “Wait. What do you mean, girl?”

Debra laughed. “It’s a saying. It means we can’t learn from history if we erase it, and then we’ll be doomed to repeat unnecessary mistakes.”

“I’m not talking about erasing history. I just don’t want to see monuments for racists standing tall and proud in my park. I’m fine with historical monuments for good people.”

Archer spoke. “I never did understand why statues were built for people on the losing side of a war.”

“They were all Americans,” Debra said. “Though times and the culture were radically different. Everyone lost in that war.”

Jessie picked up her wine glass. “Everyone loses in every stupid war. Here’s to no more wars.”

The three of them clinked. Joel was glad he didn’t have a drink yet, so he didn’t have to consent to the toast. Not that he wished for war any more than anyone else. But you can’t peacefully coexist with fanatics who have made it their mission to destroy you and your way of life.

Joel managed to get a beer delivered from the waitress and began perusing the menu, which consisted of casual steakhouse fare at fine dining prices.

“So Joel,” Debra said. “Jessie tells us you own an auto dealership in DC?”

Joel lowered the menu. “If that’s what she said, I’m afraid she over-glamorized it. I run a used car lot.”

“A big one,” Jessie quickly added.

“Which?” Archer asked. “I may be in need of your services.”

“McConnell Motors.”

His face brightened. “I think I’ve seen your commercials.”

“Then you must be a night owl.”

Debra nodded. “Too much of one,” she said, “for someone who has to be at work early.”

Archer rolled his eyes.

“You in the market?” Joel asked.

“Not to buy. I’m looking to unload my second car. Just want some fast cash for it.”

“The faster the better,” Debra said. “Get rid of that loud thing, please.”

It turned out he had a full-size diesel truck. Joel always liked to buy those. They did not usually sell fast, nor were they particularly profitable to flip. Joel just liked having a few around. He made an extra effort to be friendly to Archer after the dinner orders were placed, and asked about his profession.

Jessie answered for him. “He’s a magnet scientist.”

Joel turned to encounter a mischievous smile from Jessie.

“We both are,” Debra said. “That is, we are geologists who specialize in geomagnetics. It’s not quite as glamorous as that probably sounds, either.”

“Hmm.” Joel took a gulp of beer. “I know I’ve driven by a … geomagnetic observation center of some kind here in Fredericksburg.”

“Yes, the observatory,” she replied. “That’s where we both work, when we’re in the field.”

“And where they met,” Jessie added.

Joel set his glass down. “I don’t really understand what that is, to be honest, but it sounds like something cool. For people of education, I mean. I’ve always made my living selling this or hustling that, ever since dropping out of city college. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be paid for having a brain.” He paused. “But, all I ever wanted to do was run my own business.”

“That’s why we’re so perfect for each other,” Jessie said climbing his shoulder to kiss his cheek. “We share the same spirit.”

She then turned to Debra. “And maybe why you two are as well, right? Although, you know what they say about workplace relationships…”

Debra frowned. “No, what do they say?”

“Yeah,” Archer said. “What do they say?”

Fortunately, the food arrived before Jessie was forced to answer. She changed the subject and made light talk about what it was like to be a yoga instructor with her own studio, but the conversation died. Not so much due to eating as to everyone using the opportunity to read their phone screens. Joel got the impression they had all been resisting the urge to check them out of politeness during the pre-dinner chat, and now at long last were able to submit to the ever present tug.

Joel was not immune, either. He checked his own screen to read a message from his salesman who’d wrapped up the deal on the Mustang and was closing the lot for the night, since he also had obligations this evening. When Joel looked back at the table, he noticed Jessie reading Twitter, something which struck him as inappropriate when out with company. Messages were one thing. Even f*******: had reached acceptable status at the dinner table these days. But descending to nonessential social media flirted with rudeness.

The phones, having gained a foothold on the scene, were not easily going away again. Everyone set theirs within sight now, where the devices remained even as plates were cleared and dessert menus appeared. That’s why Debra and Archer both reacted simultaneously, making casual reaches for their phones with spare hands, when both chirped at the same time.

Their casual attitudes abruptly changed.

“Wow, did you get this, sweetie?” Debra said to Archer.

“Yep,” Archer replied. “Just our luck.”

“What’s up?” Jessie asked.

Debra made a sad face. “We both, uh, have to go back to work tonight. Shoot. I should not have consented to a second glass of wine. I’m going to be tired.”

“You must be joking,” Jessie said. “Why?”

“The nature of our profession is that we are always on emergency call. First time for me.”

“Not me,” Archer groaned.

“There’s a magnet emergency?” Jessie asked. Her tone bordered on mocking.

“Could be,” Archer said tossing back the remainder of his drink. “An emergency with Earth’s geomagnetic field, that is. Looks like a solar storm has been observed. The last time this happened, it ended up missing us by a comfortable margin. I still had to pull an all-nighter.”

“Sheesh.” Jessie uncapped a tube of lipstick. “They have you guys jumping like Chicken Little because of stuff happening on the sun? Don’t they know it’s a big ball of fire? Of course it’s going to have flames jumping off it.”

Joel picked up his own phone and remarked, “A solar flare is a potentially serious event, actually, if it heads our way.”

“Yes it is,” Debra said. “See, your man here knows. Even if he did drop out of city college.”

Joel shot Debra a stern glance, but her blue-eyed smile contained only playful innocence, taming him instantly.

The waitress returned. The four of them proceeded to get the check and settle up. Debra and Archer reluctantly said their goodbyes and hurried out. Joel sat with Jessie a while longer, trying to think of an excuse to go back to DC tonight so he could take care of lingering bookkeeping chores. He also felt a sudden desire to prepare a few things at home in case of a power outage.

Jessie would have none of it. She’d been nagging him lately about being a workaholic. Joel conceded to spending the night after she began rubbing his arm. Maybe he’d get an early start in the morning.

* * *

Mick Murray pondered the state of his career as he worked on polishing another noncommittal opinion. This part of his job was beginning to become frustrating. Not that Mick didn’t enjoy the distinguished position of clerking for a Supreme Court Justice. It was a dream job, to be sure. He just wished one of the other eight justices had hired him. Any of the other eight.

The phone rang. Mick tried to grab it before the second ring with his left arm, which now dangled an unrolled sleeve.

“I thought you’d still be there,” the voice of Associate Justice Janet Peterman said through the receiver. “You don’t get paid for overtime, Mick. Go home.”

“I’m almost done readying your statement on the Apple anti-trust case,” Mick replied, cradling the phone in his neck and re-rolling his sleeve. “We need to get that done. Everyone else has already completed theirs.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Thanks for being on it. Have you read the others, by any chance?”

“The others?”

“Just curious.”

“Some,” Mick answered. “Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“About what, Ms. Peterman?”

“About my opinion, in light of the others you’ve read.”

Mick tried to keep his sigh from going through the phone, and, realizing he failed, said, “I think your reputation as a moderate is secure.”

“You still like working for a moderate justice, don’t you?”

Uh-oh. Mick straightened up in his chair.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

She laughed. “That was far from convincing. It’s only an opinion statement, not a vote. I don’t need to telegraph my position ahead of time.”

“You rarely do.”

The laughter stopped.

“Any of the others noncommittal?” Justice Peterman asked.

“No,” Mick said. “The ones I perused, at least, are all lining up against Apple.”

“Really!” She paused a moment. “Tell me, what do you think about the case?”

“What … what I think?”

“Yes, if you have a take on it.”

“Well, that should hardly matter.”

“Off the record, Mick. And no, it doesn’t matter. It certainly won’t influence me. I know how to do my job.”

“Of course, Ms. Peterman. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“I do respect your opinion from a cultural standpoint, though, as someone representative of your generation. You have a good head on your shoulders. With the right experience, you might be capable of doing my job someday.”

“Thank you, Ms. Peterman. That means a lot coming from you.”

A noise in the hallway drew Mick’s attention. The frosted glass of the cracked-open office door prevented him from seeing who it was. Probably the janitor or night security.

“So, do you have an opinion?” Justice Peterman pressed.

Mick thought for another second before giving his answer.

“Well, I like Apple. I buy their products, and I’m a stockholder, so this is hardly unbiased. But I have never understood anti-trust law. To me it seems like penalizing a business for being successful.”

“I get that,” she said. “But the anti-trust laws themselves are not in question here. Just whether the spirit of them is being violated.”

“And I get that,” Mick replied. “But I cannot see myself ever supporting an anti-trust complaint. So I guess I couldn’t do your job after all.”

Her voice lowered. “Mick, do you think I should start taking a more firm stance on some of my opinion statements?”

“Now that is none of my business whatsoever.”

“Oh, come on. Pretend you’re talking to a friend at a cocktail party.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” Mick finally answered. “If you have a position formed, that is. I don’t believe you should make any effort at maintaining a moderate image. Let that come naturally, if it does. Please forgive me.”

Laughter again, thank God.

“You’re forgiven. This is why I like working with you. You’re the most brutally honest person on Capitol Hill.”

The office door swung open, startling Mick. Two court policemen he knew stood there, wearing their daytime uniforms. Their white shirts looked freshly-pressed, as they do at the beginning of a long day. Rather than greet him as they normally would, they both turned to the side and called for someone else down the hallway.

“Hold on a second, Ms. Peterman. Security just came in.”

“They probably want you to go home, too,” her voice spoke through the receiver as Mick leaned away from it.

A man in a full dress military uniform appeared, slowly entering the room. Middle-aged and decorated, he moved and acted as someone of authority.

“Are any of the justices here tonight?” the soldier asked.

“No,” Mick said. “No one else at all, but me. I happen to have one of the justices on the line, though.”

“Okay.” The soldier nodded and pointed at the phone. “Tell her to come in early, please, to pack up everything required for moving. We’ll need to contact the others, too.”

“Um … moving?” Mick asked.

“Yes.” The soldier looked around the office. “We’re moving the court somewhere safe for … a few days.”

“Ms. Peterman,” Mick said back into the phone. “Something’s happening.”