Three Degrees and Gone

By J. Stewart Willis

In 2087, coastal flooding and extreme changes in the weather have turned the United States into a nation of migrants and tent cities. In this environment, three family groups struggle with their plights and their dreams for the future. They come together from different parts of the nation when they hire illegal trafficke

• Language: English
• Publisher: Authors' Tranquility Press
• Release date: Apr 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960675682

J. Stewart Willis

About the author: J. Stewart Willis served twenty-five years in the United States Army and worked for twelve years with a division of a major tech company in Northern Virginia. While working in the tech industry, he worked on three proposals including the management of one for over a hundred million dollars. DEADLY HIGHWAY is based very loosely on those experiences.

Book preview

Prologue

Some old men and women still proclaim there is no such thing as global warming, and that what is happening is part of the Earth’s natural cycles. For those who stand on the ocean shores and look out to where their homes once stood, the argument no longer matters. If the warming was man-made and something could have been done about it, nothing had been. As the world enters the final decade and a half of the twenty-first century, those born at the end of the previous century tell stories of how the world appeared less than a lifetime ago and how much it has changed. Children hardly believe.

In the late years of the 2080s, the Houston Bayou covers over a thousand square miles of Texas, part of a vast swath of flooded bayous that stretches across the south from Mexico to more than half of what had been Florida and up the coast through South Carolina, where it changes to a swamp extending through Virginia, across the Chesapeake Bay and up through New Jersey. Beyond that, what had been the Atlantic Coast has become a scattering of sand bars and small islands.

Over the previous sixty years, as the encroachment of the oceans became a racing tide, citizens of the South and East Coasts swarmed inland, overwhelming the infrastructure of inland cities and then headed further north. The north-south interstate highways were overwhelmed with migrant traffic, and highway maintenance became a major national concern. Heavy rains, washouts, and rising rivers required whole sections of these highways to be rerouted and rebuilt.

Where have the migrants gone? Certainly not to the west where people had gone 150 years before when they escaped the dust bowl, although the current vehicles piled high with a few worldly goods do not look much different from those of the 1930s. Going west meant drought and fire. No, in the late twenty-first century, migrants headed north. Those coming from the Gulf Coast went at least as far as Missouri, Kansas, and Kentucky, where exhaustion and hunger forced them to stop. If they could, they went further north to the Great Plains and to Canada. In the north, they were joined by those fleeing the East Coast from Boston, from New York City, and from other cities at the mouth of the Hudson River, from Baltimore and the region around the expanded Chesapeake Bay, and from Southeast Virginia. A few from the East Coast only went as far as the new ports of Newburgh and Poughkeepsie, New York, north of Philadelphia on the Delaware River, and Richmond, Virginia, but those areas were overrun.

At first, Canada had welcomed the immigration, especially as it accompanied the relocation of United States industry, but as time passed, Canada began to feel the impact of overcrowding and the loss of its identity. It decided to close its borders, just as Iceland and Greenland had closed their ports. Canadian politicians had veered to the right and threatened to expel the immigrants. Although its border with the United States was very long, the Canadian politicians pushed for the construction of a wall to keep United States and Mexican citizens out. Sections of the wall were built in areas of high population. Boat patrols were established on the Great Lakes, the Puget Sound, and the St Lawrence River. Still, emigrants streamed across the borders of Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Maine, and specially Alaska, where stories of death and survival were often horrendous.

A similar problem had occurred with the Scandinavian countries as sandstorms blowing from the Sahara across Southern Europe forced North Africans and Europeans to emigrate north. Closed borders forced these people to go to Russia, where they were carefully documented and shipped to the eastern expanses of the county.

Opportunities in the United States rapidly diminished. Those who remained in the South worked in jobs necessary for surviving industries or in the maintenance of infrastructure and human life. Extreme weather battered them on an almost daily basis. They stayed inside and survived.

It is in this environment that men survived. Some survived well. But there was a price. And there was still hope.

Part One

Texas City

Chapter One

Boring! Boring! Boring!

It might be the critique of a book or a movie. It might be the emotion of someone listening to rap or country music or Chopin.

It depends on who you are. If you’re me, Dana Wilkins, it’s my life.

It’s 2086 AD. Boring has been my life for twenty years, although it’s getting worse. I live with my husband and daughter in the Gibson Employee Apartments in Texas City. I live in amazement of what a three-degree rise in the average global temperature has wrought.

In the fall of 2086, my husband, Frank Wilkins, worked for Gibson Petroleum, which had bought the BP Refinery in Texas City in 2039. At the time, the water in Galveston Bay had risen by three feet since the turn of the century. BP decided that the writing was on the wall and got out of the petroleum business at a considerable loss. Gibson, however, had been optimistic.

Although water had begun to accumulate on the lower spots in the petroleum tank fields of the Texas City Industrial Park, Gibson thought that by being proactive, they could save the operation. Immediately, with support of government funding obtained through Congressional action, they elevated the docks at the port based on actions already taken by the Navy at Norfolk, Virginia. They also redesigned and reconstructed elements of the refinery to create a lower profile and greater strength to ensure reliability during storms. Realizing that the rise of the water might make the railroad from Houston to Texas City unreliable or useless, they installed pipelines and, with help from the state, raised and strengthened Interstate 45 as it ran south from Houston on pillars and islands, looking like the highway that once interconnected the Florida Keys.

Finally, as Galveston Island began to vanish under the sea, the company and the state dredged the remains of that land and built a massive dike around the refinery and its fields of tanks. Additional protection was provided by huge pumps, some imported from New Orleans, after it became obvious that most of that city would not survive.

Gibson Employee Apartments were next to the industrial park. This vast building was within the dike, covered by a plastic, environmentally controlled dome. Within the building were apartments the employees of Gibson rented, the apartment size depending on the size of the employee’s family. Married employees lived at the center, the single women to the west, and the single men to the east. The building not only enclosed apartments but also a gymnasium, a shopping mall, a theater, restaurants, bars, tennis, racket and handball courts, a basketball arena, an infirmary, and many other facilities to help make the isolated life within the dome more enjoyable. The Gibson employees felt very fortunate because most people outside the facility lived very hard lives in battered houses, often without heat or air conditioning, and were continually subjected to the vagaries of the weather.

Despite the efforts of Gibson, there was nonetheless a feeling of claustrophobia in the employee apartments—a feeling of a constrained life, of little variety, and of constant repetition. Further, there was a completely unknown future and life after Gibson employment and outside of the Gibson dome gaped like an empty hole.

It wasn’t that you couldn’t leave the apartments. Self-driving rental cars were available. You could ride up Interstate 45 during times off from work. Or you could hire a piloted hover plane and be flown beyond the dome or fly it yourself if you had a license. The planes flew themselves, but for safety, they were required to have a pilot.

There were still universities and theaters in what remained of Houston, sports on weekends, and shows to see. But it was an effort, and the weather was a factor—rain or no rain, you only knew it was likely to be bad. Not many people left the dome.

It was in this environment that Frank awoke each morning. He’d typically roll over and sit on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes and pressing his fist against his forehead. He’d twist around and glare at Dana. He’d reach over and brusquely push her shoulder. Damn it, Dana, get up. Get in the bathroom quick and make my breakfast. It’s another shitty day.

Dana would get up, pull her nightgown down, and head for the bathroom. You know I can’t be in and out of the bathroom instantly.

Hell, all you have to do is piss and shit. I don’t ask much of you. Breakfast and dinner and a little fucking now and then.

Dana glared back out of the bathroom. Yeah, now and then, when it’s convenient for you.

Frank raised his arm toward her and made a fist. You complaining bitch got food and a warm bed. You can at least give me what I need.

Dana stood at the sink, staring down and sighing. It’s pretty much the same every day.

On the second Tuesday of October 2086, Dana stood at the same sink. She looked up and into the mirror, rubbed the darkness under her eyes, and thought, Shit, I’ll do the makeup after the bastard leaves. She then headed for the toilet.

She left the bathroom without looking at Frank. In the kitchen, she turned on the light in the vent over the stove. She didn’t like much light in the morning. The only windows were in the bedrooms where the blinds were all closed. There were no draperies. You had to go to Houston to get draperies, and they were expensive as hell. She didn’t care anyway. Life was too dull to care.

She stuck bread in the toaster; cracked eggs into a frying pan, yolks unbroken, as Frank liked them; got the butter out of the refrigerator; shoved frozen bacon in the microwave; and sat down for a minute while the eggs fried. The coffee pot was perking, having been set with the timer the night before. She thought, It seems like we should have progressed beyond this. We made breakfast this way a hundred years ago. All these new frozen and dried breakfasts taste terrible. At least the bacon’s not so bad. She stood back up and put three breakfasts together. She put one on the table, two in the warmer, and poured two cups of coffee.

She heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door open, Embrey’s door open, and Frank shouting, Embrey, get your ass out here. You’ve got school!

Frank came into the kitchen and sat at the table. Shit, you broke one of the yolks. Why are you so sloppy?

Dana shook her head. You can check the warmer if you want. There are two meals in there. You’re welcome to whatever breakfast you’d like.

Frank glared at her. Come here, woman.

Dana hesitated and walked over, an arm-length away from Frank. He leaned over, stretched out, and punched her shoulder. I already told you this morning to cut out the shit. You’ve got a job to do around here, just like I’ve got a job to do. I don’t need crap from you. If you feel it’s important, I can give you a little encouragement. Hell, you’re only now getting to look good again from the last time I corrected your shit.

While Frank was speaking, Dana stepped back, crossed her arms over her breasts, tucked her chin down, and closed her eyes. When she turned and looked back up, Embrey was standing in the kitchen doorway. You through in the bathroom, Embrey?

Embrey nodded. Yeah.

Dana brushed by her. Your breakfast is in the warmer.

Dana locked the door of the bathroom, put on minimal makeup, and waited for the apartment door to close as Frank left for the day’s work. Then she emerged and went to the kitchen where Embrey sat glaring at her. Every morning, you leave me with him while you hide in the bathroom. I don’t like being his punching bag. It’s not fair.

Punching bag, nothing. He doesn’t hit you.

I still have to listen to his shit.

Yeah, and it’s not helping your language. I’ll try to do better.

Yeah, sure. Embrey rose, picked up the cylinder containing her rolled-up computer from the charging station, and headed for the door. I’ll be home late. I’m working on the school’s digital yearbook.

Dinner will be at 6:30 . . . no later.

Yeah, well, it will just be you and me. Our household leader said to tell you, if you ever came out of the bathroom, that he’ll be late tonight and not to wait for him.

After Embrey had gone, Dana threw out her cold coffee and poured herself a fresh cup, pulled her breakfast from the warmer, and sat at the table.

As she ate, she reached up and massaged her shoulder where Frank had punched her. The pain was minor. Many times, it had been worse. She sipped her coffee and thought about the day ahead. She would clean the apartment first. Frank insisted that it be cleaned daily. It was best to get it out of the way. No sense in giving Frank more to complain about. She just had to put away the dishes. She put them in the deep sink right after a meal, and they moved automatically through a wash cycle to another basin down the counter. It was all automatic. In the bathroom, the sink and shower cleaned themselves immediately after each use, and the toilet, which flushed automatically, was cleaned on demand. She just needed to push a button by the door, and the toilet would heat and burn dirt away.

The floors were automatically vacuumed through narrow spaces between the floorboards. They could have carpeting if they wished, but that required hand-vacuuming, and most people rejected that option due to the effort required. They could buy strips of carpeting the width of the floorboards, but Dana thought that looked strange. The boards had a softness that was kind to the feet and that was fine enough for her. Clothing, sheets, and other fabric items went into the cleaning closet where she hung the dirty clothes, closed the door, and pushed a button for chemical cleaning, shaking, and drying. When the sheets and blankets were clean, Dana would hook them over four arms that stuck up from the corners of the bed, and the arms automatically made the bed when a button was pushed.

Embrey’s room was another story. A typical teen, the young woman allowed no one in. She even had Frank cowed about her room. Still, she managed to pick it up at times and take things to the cleaning closet. Because the vacuum would suck things on the floor into cracks, it was her bed that was frequently piled high. When she couldn’t get into the bed anymore, she would take a few minutes to tidy up.

Dana allowed an hour and a half for cleaning, from 8:00 to 9:30 a.m. Then she had nine hours until dinner. Every day, she had to think about what to do to fill the hours. After twenty years of living in the Gibson Employee Apartments, there had been little variation. She usually tried to work out, either playing racquetball or using the machines in the gym. As time went by, she played less and less racquetball, but her forty-two-year-old body could still work in the gym. It was essential because most of the remainder of the day was spent sitting, either in the movie theater or watching the streaming on their wall television. She could watch it anywhere. The wall had been covered with paint that contained millions of LEDs. All she had to do was mark a section of the wall with the pointer from a wand, and it would become a screen, any size she wanted. The wand communicated the pictures to the wall.

The apartment’s television system offered a few news stations, but the majority of the stations were streamed from a national company to which the Wilkins subscribed. The company had movies dating back 150 years and television productions for at least 120 years. In a way, it taught the history of civilization for the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, although the creativity of what was seen often confused what life was really like. The choice of shows to watch was enormous, almost too vast to contemplate. When Dana selected a TV series or movie to view, it was a matter of random choice.

For a spouse, staying at home and watching with a friend or friends was a matter of choice. Dana worked diligently to ensure she watched with others. Over the years, she had witnessed rampant depression among those who had no social interaction. In her early years in the apartments, Dana had worked hard to host parties, both in the evenings and for sports events, and frequently had couples in for dinner. In later years, as Frank became increasingly frustrated and angry with life, there were no more parties, just spouses together for lunch and shows. Still, it was critical to stay involved.

Clearly, life was getting harder. Frank had been a good husband in the early years of their marriage. He had gone to work for Gibson in hopes of moving up the ranks. It was his dream that one day, he would move his family into the luxurious management apartment building that was under its own dome and offered exclusively to the senior staff. After twenty years, fulfillment of that dream seemed more distant than ever. Dana understood the frustration, but it made the beatings no easier to take. And she knew she was not alone. She had heard other wives complain, seen the bruises and black eyes. It was a contagion gestating in the womb of the Gibson compound.

Dana had often wished that she could work, but Gibson would not allow it. The company did not want two people earning salaries and having more money than others. They feared the unrest, competition, and dissatisfaction that would ensue.

Dana poured herself another cup of coffee, picked up her wand, picked a spot on the kitchen wall, drew a rectangle, and turned on the television. She decided she would watch for an hour and then go see if Dee Willoughby or Billy Sands down the hall were available to go to the gym.

Chapter Two

Embrey took the elevator to the third floor, headed for the exit, and entered an enclosed domed hallway that bridged over the dike and then a highway, a couple hundred yards across to the Texas City Public Schools complex.

The schools were run by the State of Texas and were separated physically from the Gibson Employee Apartments and all other buildings by private hallways and doors that self-seal once school begins. During the periods before and after school, all individuals entering or leaving the school were scanned for their identity implant (the so-called Double I), which was implanted in every child within two days of their birth, unless delayed by medical issues.

Unidentified individuals were instantly checked against the national database. Further, they were personally contacted through their cell phones, a thin patch of electronics snapped into each individual’s garment. When garments were put on each day, the patch would communicate with the Double I to sync with their cell phone ID. In operation, the patch would communicate with small electronic implants behind the lobe of each ear (implanted at each child’s first birthday) and respond to the individual’s spoken word or tap. Further, if a person was identified as a stranger, the phone patch began emitting a beeping sound and, through the ear implants (ear imps), the individual would be instructed to stand in place until a security personnel arrive to check them out. If metal or the odor of known explosives and accelerants were detected on an individual, doors would close to trap the person in place until authorities could be called in. The Double I also facilitated the tracking of the individual throughout the school if he or she got beyond the entrance. A similar system was used everywhere in the country where security was required or where there was a high concentration of people.

All of this became mandatory in 2047 when the level of shootings and terrorist explosions grew so overwhelming that people were afraid to leave their homes, threatening the economic stability of the nation.

The siege of hunkering down had been related to two things—the smothering publicity that was given in the media to the endless surge of perpetrators of violence and the high level of stress and depression that had developed in the masses due to extreme weather conditions, claustrophobic living and stressful working conditions, and the constant fear of imminent attacks.

Of course, there were people born before 2047 who did not have the Double I. Over the years since, in addition to inserting Double I, is in all newborns. The government inserted them in every government employee and in individuals who had been arrested. Further, people could not get a driver’s license, pilot’s license, boating license, or any other kind of license, or passport, without a Double I implantation. Finally, as cell phone networks evolved so that the snap-in cell phone patch became ubiquitous, along with its connection to the Double I, people were forced to implant the Double I just to have the communications capability that had become essential to modern life.

If someone who did not have an installed Double I arrived at a secured location, they were immediately challenged, screened, and turned over to authorities.

As Embrey walked down the long tube-like hallway, she remembered the moving walkways that had been there during her first three years of school. They had been in the apartment hallways as well, but the government had mandated their removal because of the high levels of obesity occurring in the population, especially those living in an industrial apartment structure, alongside their elevated levels of depression due, in part, to lack of exercise.

Embrey entered the school building without thinking about alarms. Over the school year, she had only witnessed their activation five times when new maintenance people had entered the building.

As she came to her locker, she found her friend Julie Ming waiting for her.

Hey, Embrey said and bumped fists.

Hey, yourself, replied Julie. Dad had to drive me to school through the rain. The center of Hurricane 2086-17 is going to come on shore thirty miles east of here in five hours. Hope I can get home.

Embrey thought for a moment. Yeah, I saw the rain hitting the domed roof over the walkway and heard the wind pounding the glass, but when you get inside these places, you don’t pay much attention.

Yeah, you’re lucky. Those of us who live in the real world just hang on when these things hit. Thank goodness we get some reprieve, December through February, between hurricane seasons. The only way we can keep our sanity.

Embrey pressed her index finger against the detector in her locker, and it popped open. She reached in and took out her sensor goggles, which resembled the virtual reality devices of the 2010s and 20s. Her grandfather had told her how his father had used them for fun. She’d seen pictures of them in antique books he had kept for memories. They looked awkward and clunky. The modern-day sensor goggles were sleek and sophisticated.

No one used books anymore. Embrey had heard stories of children carrying books to school in the 1900s, holding them to their sides with a notebook, keeping them rigid, and later in packs on their backs. She had seen old movies where a boy would carry a girl’s books to school as part of some kind of mating ritual. She had thought it was kind of dumb like girls were inferior and had to be helped.

Between the phone patch, the ear imp, the computer in a tube, the television wand, and the sensor goggles, there was no need for books. All Embrey carried to school was the computer. She had sensor goggles and television wands both at home and at school. She could have kept computers in both places as well, but they were expensive, and her father said they couldn’t afford two. Fortunately, she could hang her one computer under her clothes upon coming and going to school so that no one would know her father was so cheap.

Embrey hooked her arm through Julie’s. I like the decorations on your tunic. Aren’t they called buttons? I think they used to use them to fasten clothing. Really different. Where’d you get them?

Julie smiled uncertainly. Yeah, buttons. Do you like them? I was almost afraid to wear them. Just sewed them on as decorations. No one uses them anymore, but I thought it was kind of different. Our clothes seem so plain. The buttons were on some old clothes my mother brought from China. I’ve seen old pictures. The tunics and slacks we wear today kind of look like the clothes Chinese peasants wore in the twentieth century. I think the buttons went with fancy versions.

Embrey stopped and turned Julie toward her. She looked at the buttons and concluded, Yeah, they do liven things up. Better than the pins I like to put on. But I’m lazy about that. I guess I just look like everyone else. There are only so many colors to go around. She hooked her arm in Julie’s again. Come on. We need to get to Feeney’s seminar before our ear imps beep.

The girls entered the seminar room and took seats at a semicircle of individual tables. Mr. Feeney was shuffling papers at his desk at the center of the arc of tables. When everyone was seated, he looked at Abee Makuto. Abee, the sensors say your ear imps are on. Turn them off. No music in class. You need to listen to me.

Abee tapped the phone patch on the shoulder of her tunic twice and then held her finger there for a second. Okay, Mr. Feeney, but I hate whoever invented the sensors in these tables. No one can get away with anything.

Mr. Feeney smiled. If I could, I’d figure out a way to have them make you sit up straight. Hopefully, you can still learn in that disgruntled slump.

Abee didn’t move.

Mr. Feeney turned to the other students in the class. I hope you viewed your homework on your goggles last night. Embrey, what’s the subject for today?

Embrey sat up a little straighter and looked around. Stupid war.

Mr. Feeney sighed. Do you mind expanding on that a little?

Okay. The 2027 war between us and China.

Was it a real war? Some people call it a ‘skirmish,’ others an ‘incident.’

Doesn’t matter. People got killed.

Mr. Feeney nodded. True enough. When a couple of guys get in an argument and one kills the other, is that war?

Alberto Baldonado sneered, If you’re in a New York gang, it is.

Mr. Feeney nodded. In a slang sense, I guess that’s right, but most of us would call gang killings murder.

Alberto protested, So, if it’s big, it’s war. How big does it have to be?

Tai Thumwe interjected, Has to be between countries. That way, it’s not murder.

Peter Arceneaux offered, Yeah. It’s not just numbers. If you kill off a bunch of people indiscriminately, that’s terrorism, which is worse than murder. If you discriminate and kill off an entire population of some kind, that’s genocide. That’s really bad. War’s different. It’s only bad if you lose. Then it’s murder if you were really nasty.

Tommy Burke postulated, Fortunately, it’s getting harder and harder to commit genocide. There’s been so much racial intermarriage that it’s hard to tell who’s who anymore.

Jimmy Turner protested, Well, not everyone has intermarried. I’m pure black and proud of it. No mongrel about me. Even you guys that call yourselves white are a mix-up of Irish, Italian, and whatnot, and you Orientals are Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and whatever, although you all look the same. If Arceneaux were pure French, he’d be called Pierre.

Latoya Davis glared at him. So I’m not completely black. At least I’ve got a black name.

Mr. Feeney tried to bring the discussion back on track, Guys, we’re all Americans. Over the years, everyone has struggled to do away with prejudice.

Jimmy Turner wouldn’t back down. Yeah, by interbreeding. I’ve been pure, always.

Sam Warner threw up his hands. You telling me that the tribes of Africa are any different than Poles and English? If you’re pure black, I’m pure white, and I come from all over Europe. Besides, I bet you have a little Thomas Jefferson in you. I bet most slaves did. Aren’t you a descendant?

Turner stood up, pushed back his chair, and started toward Warner, but he was blocked by Latoya and Embrey.

Embrey looked at him. Sit down, Jimmy. If you want to be all black, that’s fine, but give the rest of us a break.

Latoya pushed Turner’s shoulder. Damn, Jimmy, remember that one-on-one is a crime. Let’s get back to war.

Turner glared, but he then sat down.

As the girls sat down, Latoya mumbled under her breath, Jimmy, I may not be pure, but I’m blacker than you are.

Turner leaned forward and glared at Latoya. What’s that, Latoya?

Latoya raised her head and looked straight ahead. Nothing, Jimmy. Just trying to avoid a war.

Mr. Feeney looked around as everyone was once again seated. He breathed an audible sigh, returned to his desk, and sat down. He spoke slowly, looking down, Okay. I think we’ve decided that wars are between nations. He looked up again and turned his head toward Abee Makuto. Well, Abee, the sensor says your ear imps are off, but you didn’t participate in our little melee. Can you help us out about the War of 2027?

Abee half smiled. Sure, Mr. Feeney. What do you want to know?

Mr. Feeney tried not to smile. Well, Abee, can you tell us how the war started?

Sure, Abee replied. Some software guy from California screwed up the electric power in Arizona, and we blamed it on China.

Mr. Feeney nodded. That’s quite a jump.

Yeah, and pretty dumb, noted Abee.

Mr. Feeney agreed, It was indeed. But you’re playing Monday- morning quarterback.

Peter Arceneaux interjected, Monday-morning quarterback is an anachronism. Football was banned years ago around the time of the War of 2037.

Mr. Feeney sighed. Anachronism, huh? Is that the word for the day? Fine, but you know what Monday-morning quarterback means, and whether or not it’s an anachronism is not the subject for the day. What did the software developer do to the power grid in Arizona? He looked at Julie Ming, who was looking down and trying to be inconspicuous. How about it, Julie?

Julie looked up and breathed in deeply. "Well, it’s a long story and personal. My grandmother was still living in China at the time, and I agree, the war was dumb. I think it all began in 2016 or 2017 when North Korea was testing rockets and nuclear bombs, and our government was feeling threatened and getting all worked up about it. The Koreans jumped on the world stage and said they were going to stop testing, but then they continued testing. In 2020, they fired a nuclear rocket that was supposed to land and explode in the Pacific Ocean, but it didn’t work right and crashed in Japan, killing half a million people.

"Based on agreements the U.S. had with Japan (although I believe we would have done it anyway), we launched many rockets into North Korea, destroying their rocket launchers, airfields, and much of their industry. We then dropped huge bombs on their underground nuclear facilities. China’s quick response was to announce that unless the United States stopped, they would fly over North Korea and shoot down any U.S. aircraft that entered the airspace. As a result, there was a standoff, and China began to provide humanitarian supplies to North Korea and strengthened their position