Smog and the Salv and Other Tales

By David L. Cox

A few short stories from the American High Desert country, Fast-paced and wide ranging tales full of accurate scientific speculation and action adventure with a dash of humor. By the author of the novel "Secret of the Immortals", the stories are quirky, uplifting, and a great read on the beach or that long flight home.

The longest story details humanity's struggle to survive the aftermath of a war fought largely in orbit that pollutes the planet and bombards the survivors with debris from satellites. Smog and the Salv paints a picture of both hope and despair, and is accurate in its speculations about the near future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David L. Cox
• Release date: Aug 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465784421

David L. Cox

An avid Fly fisherman, and backpacker, I spent 14 years as a volunteer National Ski Patrolman, and was the USA Intermountain Division First Aid Adviser. During my business career, I wrote technical articles for several electronics trade journals and later decided to try writing fiction. 'Secret of the Immortals' was my debut novel, and I sold it to a publisher (Adventure Books Publishing) that went out of business before it made it to print. However, the editors provided a lot of encouragement to new authors and I learned a bit about what it takes to produce and mass market a book. After the rights reverted to me, I decided to try self-publishing the work as an eBook and I am presently writing a sequel.

Book preview

Smog and the Salv and other Tales

This book and ebook are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 9781719959865

Ebook ISBN 9781465784421

© Copyright David Leo Cox; All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

Cover art by Tiffany Ratliff

I want to give special thanks to David Scott Aubrey for his review of the manuscript and his valuable criticisms. I also want to thank my wife, Robyn Roberts-Cox, for her patient editing of these stories.

Smog and the Salv

I took my eyes off of the first faint glimmer of skyline for a moment and glanced down at the pressure gauge on the oxygen cylinder in my belt pack. A good two hours left. Ever since the big methane hydrate blow-off in the world’s oceans a decade ago, and the unfortunate eruption of several Indonesian volcanoes that occurred shortly thereafter, it had been hard to see any discernable horizon.

At dawn, the sky that outlined the low mountains, still shrouded in purple nightclothes, merely began to lighten with a diffuse orange glow, and even at high noon, the orb of the sun was a murky yellow eye peeking through the smoldering vault overhead. The empty wastes of the Nevada desert magnified the effect, and the monotonous cycle of pseudo night and day sapped my spirit. But, today would be different. The space-junk forecaster on the NASA channel had issued a reentry alert; a large debris field was going to materialize near here, and I was excited.

Because it was the remains of one of the big Cold War nuclear-powered spy satellites, there was a good chance that the reactor core would survive its plunge through the grimy atmosphere. And, if I got there first with my detectors in hand, I stood to make a lot of salvage money. In these troubled times, one does what one must to survive.

I took off one glove and reseated the smell plug that had loosened in my left nostril. Even that minor leak had let in the nauseating odor of the polluted air, and I breathed in the menthol vapors gratefully.

It was time to take a few hits of oxygen and hike on out to the projected landing zone. I was able to make good time by following a traversable segment of one of the old abandoned interstate highways, and then across the barren landscape that had been denuded long ago by the acid rains. As I neared the crest of one of the bare hills, I stopped and pulled out the topo map from my hip pocket. I checked my wristwatch GPS and located my present position on the map. My destination appeared to be the valley on the other side of this hill. I took another whiff of sweet oxygen, and thanked my lucky stars that I had the financial wherewithal to avoid breathing the foul crap that sometimes swirled in wispy vapors of orange and yellow around my knees. I was one of the ‘haves’ in a world of ‘have-nots’

Ever since the Chinese had tried to take over the International Moon Base, and everyone had gone crazy blowing up everyone else’s satellites, I had been rolling in dough. I had become a space debris salvage specialist, and I focused on the dirty ‘hot’ jobs, because that was where the money was. I was paid by what was left of the U.N. in gold Swiss Francs, and I always got the job done. Most of the time it was a piece of cake, like destroying classified hardware and electronics; other times, like today, it would be retrieving deadly isotopes with long half-lives and a bigger paycheck.

I topped the ridgeline and my jaw dropped in amazement. My target valley had been taken over by a squatter’s camp of beach bums. We called them that because shortly after the climate event of 2014, when the methane hydrates exploded out of the oceans, the sea levels around the world had risen by more than three meters. All of the residents of America’s coastal cities had been displaced inland, and this batch of two or three thousand could have been from anywhere; New Orleans, Miami, Boston, you name it.

With all of their earthly possessions upon their backs, and driven out of the squatter’s ghettos that had sprung up around the higher altitude cities, this bunch had finally found refuge in the great basin country of Nevada and Utah.

The barren land and hard pan salt flats would have broken the heart of any farmer, and even the prehistoric Indians that had lived here existed on a severe diet of Pinion nuts, Sego Lilly roots, all varieties of insects, and the occasional Jack Rabbit. The desiccated hills and valleys had been in a state of perpetual drought for thousands of years, and fresh water sources were meager and far removed from each other. Yet, the beach bums had nowhere else to go. The orbital debris gods picked no favorites. It could have reentered over downtown Dallas, but here it was: Ruby Valley, Nevada; Ground zero, with a camp of desperate refugees about to be bombarded from space without warning.

I had to go tell them, of course. I checked the oxygen and calculated my safe time on site and the travel time back and forth. I would still have a good reserve of air for getting back to my vehicle and a fresh tank. I whiffed up, and reseated the safety goggles and rubberized surgical mask on my face. After testing the seal, I set off at a fast lope down the game trail that led onto the valley floor. Just before I entered the haphazard clusters of cardboard shacks, I stopped and whiffed deeply a few times, and then tucked the cylinder discretely out of sight in my jacket.

I made my way up a narrow winding alleyway and had to straddle an open sewage ditch as I headed toward what appeared to be the headman’s shack. I could tell from the tar paper roof and the guard with a deer rifle that here was a man of wealth and prestige. As I strode up, the guard came to a high level of alertness as he took in my clean and well made clothes. Conflicting emotions of envy, contempt, and inferiority scuttled across his face like a lizard on a hot rock as he tried to peer through my goggles and facemask.

What do you want, Mister?

I casually reached inside my jacket and held out my official badge. I’m a licensed Salv, and I came to warn your camp that it is targeted for some space debris.

The barrel of the guard’s rifle dropped toward the ground and he scratched the stubble on his chin. You’d better come inside and tell the Mayor. He held open the screen door and I brushed past him into the dim interior. The ‘Mayor’ sat on a three-legged stool behind a desk that had been cobbled together out of fruit crates. An exquisite blond in her late teens sat on his lap nonchalantly, and he had a beefy arm, thick with curling black hair, draped over her delicate shoulder.

He whispered something in her ear and then turned to me with a broad smile. I heard you talking with Arnie, he said, motioning to the guard, What’s this about space debris?

Yup; an old Soviet recon sat will reenter in about two hours, and this valley is the impact zone. Don’t you people listen to the forecasts?

We haven’t had batteries for the radios for over a year. The mayor shook his head sadly, and batteries are the least of our problems right now.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the topo map. Spreading it out on the desk, I pointed with my index finger You see the ‘X’ marked there. The Mayor hunched over to see where I was pointing. That is the projected epicenter of the impact, but the debris field footprint is of course, much larger.

My God! What are we to do?

Do you have a Photosynth mobile?

Yes, it’s about the only thing we have left that is still working.

Good; then gather everyone up and beat feet outta here as fast as possible, that’s what; and check old Ravo’s blog archive in your mobile’s library. As you know, he has answers for everything.

Good idea.

I glanced over quickly at the young blonde who had been eyeing me slyly, while adjusting her patched up blouse. No doubt, she was impressed with my envirowear, and I suppose I had been added to her prospect list. Not wanting to stir things up for the ‘Mayor’, I turned to leave, and the burly man spoke quickly, Mister, we don’t know these parts very well. Where do you suggest we go?

Go south. About 100 miles from here is the old Area 51 base that was decommissioned when the U.N. banned powered flight. I’d bet there are good sources of water, some buildings, and perhaps one of those mythical flying saucers you can use to take your girlfriend to Las Vegas.

The man laughed weakly, I’d trade that saucer any day for some good horses.

I paused at the entrance to the hovel, and looked back over my shoulder. Pointing skyward with one finger, I said, Whatever you do, do it quickly.

I strode out into the alleyway and left the camp behind. I paused for a moment when I reached the crest of the hill, and looked back. Arnie the guard was blowing a loud whistle, causing the people of the camp to come rushing out of their cardboard shelters.

When I reached my old Toyota Hydro, the oxygen tank was completely empty, and I switched it for a new one. Settled in the driver’s seat, I scanned the terrain through the windshield and could see an old prospecting road that led to the summit of the highest hill nearby. In less than an hour, and with my tires intact, I parked in a sickly grove of Mesquite cactus far above the valley floor. I got out to stretch my legs, and looked down at the cardboard encampment far below. Already, it had been abandoned, and a cloud of dust rose south of it as the refugees hurried in a long, snaking line away from the impact zone. I hoped they’d make it to the old air base.

In an hour, and right on schedule, a shooting star appeared far overhead in the orange sky, and as it drew closer, there was a triple sonic boom. I could see large chunks of flaming debris spewing out behind it. In seconds, with a terrific roar, it impacted in the northeast valley floor, blasting gravel, rocks, and a curtain of salty soil high into the air. I raced back to the truck and started the engine, descending the summit as fast as I could without breaking an axle.

When I reached the valley floor, I sped across the hardpan, the Toyota bouncing wildly and making weightless all of the empty water bottles and other debris that had collected in the cab. In due course, I arrived at the impact site and parked the truck at a safe distance. I got out my Geiger counter and cautiously approached, checking for elevated radiation levels along the way. It was a smoldering pit surrounded by steaming chunks of shiny metal, bits of electronic hardware, and an intact rocket nozzle. The Geiger counter hadn’t made a click beyond background rads, so I jumped down into the hole for a better look.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. With winking and blinking lights, the reactor was still intact! The Geiger counter started to click and then began humming, so I made a hasty retreat and sat on the front bumper of the Toyota to consider the situation. I was in possession of a functional nuclear reactor, or at least a very powerful isotope generator. I got into the truck and dug out the tech manual that the U.N. had provided. Thumbing through the dog-eared pages, and slow to translate the unfamiliar Cyrillic characters, I finally found the section that discussed the power system. It was, indeed, a reactor, and the internal neutron absorbing rods were radio-controlled at 213 Megahertz.

I had to shut it down, so I feverishly unpacked the R/T from the bed of the truck, plugged in the antenna, and connected the console to the power socket on the dashboard. In a few minutes I was able to dial in the proper frequency and type in the command and control code sequence that fully inserted the rods into the reactor’s core. I could hear a satisfying whine coming from the crater that stopped in a few seconds. Cautiously, I left the truck with counter in hand and looked over the lip of the depression. The blinking lights had extinguished, leaving only a somber red LED that flashed on and off slowly. The counter in my hand clicked only intermittently, picking up the harmless background radiation. Now, I had to figure out how to get the damned thing out of the hole and into the bed of my truck.

I walked back to the crater lip and stood there, once again longing for an illegal cigarette, a product they had ceased producing years ago. No one in their right mind would smoke on top of having to breathe the cesspool of air we have to contend with nowadays. This rotten, stinking, smog was really pissing me off once again, and I mentally changed the subject back to the task at hand. How do I get a reactor weighing more than a ton into the bed of the truck? As I pondered the problem, I noticed that due to the satellite’s shallow reentry angle, it had slammed into the ground in a way that created a natural ramp to the bottom of the crater.

The light bulb went off in my head, and I hurried back to the truck and unhitched the cable from a winch attached to the front bumper. The cable unspooled with a whir as I jumped down into the hole from the steep side. I connected it to one of the convenient eyebolts on the reactor housing and winched the thing to the surface, where it rested uneasily on the edge of the crater. Then, I backed the truck down the ramp into the crater and positioned the truck bed just below the crater rim