Nuclear Winter First Strike Bobby Akart (children's ebooks free online .txt) 📖

“Not true, Mr. Hank. You’ve forgotten your father’s words. Eyes wide open.”

Hank laughed. “He was talking about something totally different. It had nothing to do with you fixing me up with a lady friend.”

Phoebe pouted and then furrowed her brow. “Okay, fine. But you will drink these smoothies every day. Please?” Her tone of voice begged just enough that he couldn’t say no. Plus, it had been really good.

Hank wrapped his left arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

She nodded and patted him on the chest in a motherly sort of way. She was three years younger than Hank, but Phoebe had assumed the role of lady of the house after his wife passed. She eagerly took care of him as if it had been a solemn promise she’d made to the Albright family.

Chapter Three

Friday, October 18

Abu Dhabi National Exhibition Centre

United Arab Emirates

Peter Albright knew an attack was imminent the moment the shouts of Abu Dhabi police assigned to the conference security detail reached a fever pitch. But that moment was almost too late. Even as the implication of their warnings registered in his brain, and the logical conclusion calculated, the blast of a car bomb ripped through the Abu Dhabi National Exhibition Centre in the United Arab Emirates.

Peter, the oldest son of Hank Albright, was a pool reporter traveling with the U.S. secretary of state. It was one of the worst jobs in journalism unless you loved to travel. Starting from the bottom, you might be assigned to vice presidents, or the second ladies of vice presidents. Dutifully following them to unexciting locales like Dayton, Ohio, or Fresno, California. Then, with luck, you might get elevated to the president’s entourage, complete with Secret Service companions and Air Force One amenities.

Peter hadn’t achieved that level of experience yet. However, the opportunity to follow Carolyn Sanders, the secretary of state, around the world, was a good one. And she was a frequent flyer to be sure. There wasn’t a conference she didn’t want to attend. Every event of national importance to America’s allies was worthy of her presence. Her appearances rarely made news, as she enjoyed her role as a figurehead for the Washington administration and not a politician trying to make a name for herself. The president seemed to enjoy surrounding himself with, as Peter called them, underachievers.

In any event, he was prepared to pay his dues. Despite the fact his primary employer, the Washington Times, paid his salary, Peter ended up doing work for a whole lot of news organizations that didn’t pay him one plug nickel. Most often, he’d end up writing a lot of vacuous nonsense, like:

Pool Report #1

SOS greets local officials as she arrives at something-or-other airport. The ambassador sneezes. SOS says, “Gesundheit.” Ambassador’s aide sneers and shakes head in disgust. Nation is at odds over trade agreement with Germany. SOS waves at people who lined up outside the fence surrounding the tarmac. They are waving American flags and cheering. Everyone scrambles for motorcade vehicles, and entourage pulls away at 10:11 a.m.

It was gripping, scintillating stuff like that. And he had to do it over and over and over again, even when there was even less to say than the faux pas associated with an innocent sneeze.

Today was different.

The bomb blast was sudden and violent. It came without any warning other than the last-second shouting. Peter acted on reflex, diving behind the large sectional sofa in the middle of the conference center lobby. He scrambled on all fours until he could wedge himself under a marble sofa table to shield his body from flying glass and debris.

His duck-and-cover instincts had been developed in press rooms, not on the field of battle. He’d never experienced anything like a bomb blast, but he’d learned to dodge the verbal assaults of DC politicians looking to make an example of a reporter who questioned the veracity of their statements.

From beneath the marble tabletop, Peter turned his head toward the source of the blast, the circle driveway along the front entry. Once a hundred-foot-wide, thirty-foot-tall section of ornate etched glass, it was now broken into a million pieces, with shards of the panes peppering the attendees of the conference.

Peter checked his exposed skin. For a second, he was relieved. He’d avoided the debris from the blast. He glanced behind him. A woman was dying from a piece of glass that had pierced her neck and severed her jugular. Her once pristine white suit was now being splattered with various shades of crimson.

Mayhem reigned in the lobby. Cries for help. Screams of agony. Moans of pain. The roar of human devastation was deafening.

Then came the gunfire.

Shrieks filled the air as hysterical attendees were frightened to the next level of horror. Peter understood their fear because he sensed there was more to come. The bombs were detonated, and then they were done. However, automatic weapons could go on and on until a good guy with a gun kills the bad guy.

Bullets ricocheted throughout the building. Peter set his jaw in determination. He had no intention of dying under the marble console table. He crawled past the now-dead woman in white along the back of the half-moon sectional. He tried his best to keep the sofa between him and the front entry, the source of the rapid gunfire.

He scanned the lobby. Besides the banks of elevators, there was a hallway that most likely led to the conference center’s administrative offices. All the events were to take place on the third floor overlooking the marina below and the Persian Gulf in the distance. He calculated the distance he’d need to cross in the open to make it to the double doors leading down the hallway.

Thirty yards. He could make it.

He listened, waiting for a lull in the gun battle. Maybe the Abu Dhabi police would give an all clear. Or maybe if he