Reach for the Skies--the disaster of '76

Thanks to all...

I'm glad people are enjoyng. I don't know how far I'll take this--depends on the fun it is, and the interest people show. I definately know what is being said about things devolving as they get close to the present--though the present should be very different!

I'd say the Great War is still fairly likely--or at least A Great War--Europe is bound to explode sooner or later. Of course, since I'm only a half-hour into the post-impact period, such speculation is a bit premature...
 

Hyperion

Banned
I'm glad people are enjoyng. I don't know how far I'll take this--depends on the fun it is, and the interest people show. I definately know what is being said about things devolving as they get close to the present--though the present should be very different!

I'd say the Great War is still fairly likely--or at least A Great War--Europe is bound to explode sooner or later. Of course, since I'm only a half-hour into the post-impact period, such speculation is a bit premature...

Keep up the good work.

On looking down the timeline months and years beyond this event, I wouldn't plan for the 20th century anytime soon. Stick with the immediate aftermath, and say the next decade or so for right now, and build after that.
 

Arrix85

Donor
Stick with the immediate aftermath, and say the next decade or so for right now, and build after that.

Agreed. To explore how the USA change after this tragedy in crucial to this ATL (a raised awareness towards space could lead to a less insolationist (hope I wrote the word ok) United states on more "earthly" thing or not :D).
 

Hyperion

Banned
Something else to consider.

At this time where there any noticeable numbers of Canadian or British businessmen or tourists that would have been in the area for one reason or another. Not necessarily a large number, but more than one or two odd people.

I doubt anyone important would be around, but if some minor bureaucrat or minor politician or businessmen where killed or something, it might give an opening for the British or Canadians to ask to have people involved to help with the investigation.
 
Reach for the Skies, part three

Dartmouth College

Those who didn’t see the cloud did hear the rumbling some 5 minutes later; now the town was fully alerted. The few that didn’t hear it were soon aroused by their neighbors—a scene being repeated throughout Northern New England and Southern Canada.

Within a half-hour, rumors were flying through the sleepy college town. Church bells were ringing, calling all who wished to prayer, and the fire brigades to their posts, lest there be a need for them. At the telegraph office, people clustered outside, anxiously awaiting word of what might have happened. All normal activity had, not so much been cancelled, as trailed off as the sheer magnitude of the blast sunk in.

Inside their yellow frame house, Professor Houston and his daughter had finished refining some numbers. “OK, Dad, it was at least three minutes, perhaps more, after we saw the cloud, that we heard the explosion, right?”

Robert nodded, saying, “That’s a minimum, so means that the blast was at least 36 miles away, and we could hear it clearly—despite the intervening mountains. That says a lot about the force of the blast—bigger than the Battle of the Crater by far.”

Working her slide rule, and examining the readings from their neighbor’s transit, she said, “I figure the cloud was, at a minimum, 12 miles high, and most likely a lot taller. I’ve checked the numbers three times, and got the same answer each time…”

“OK, we’ve learned everything we can from here; let’s get ourselves to my office on campus.”

In 1876, Dartmouth was a small college, and Hanover was a small town; it was a short walk over to the science building—especially at the speeds the pair were known to walk; they never wasted any time. With summer vacation started, many professors, like many of the students, were out of town—though most of the staff would soon be back for the summer session. While there were plenty of agricultural scientists present, the small, poor college lacked a large physical science department…and the department head was out of town.

Other faculty had gathered at the science building, hoping that some of the science faculty could explain what had happened—sure as heck, agriculture or literature couldn’t!

As they saw Robert and Lynn hastening up to the science building, faculty and students turned towards them. Both were known to be brilliant, and their purposeful stride, and sheaves of paper clutched in their hands, suggested that, unlike anyone else, they knew something—or at least had an idea based on reason. No one had panicked—at least not overtly—but by now, everyone believed that the column of smoke, the hideous mushroom cloud, was an enormous explosion, beyond the mountains, in the direction of the center of the state. Everyone had heard the explosion, and many had seen the streak of light in the daytime sky. Some even claimed to have seen a bright flash in that direction, right at the end of the trail of light.

People started crowding around the two, some shouting questions, others simply looking worried. “Dad, you’re going to have to tell them something—they need to know what might have happened—and we need more data—perhaps we can get some of the students hunting down some directions and times.”

He glanced about the crowd—students, professors, and townspeople mingled, families clumped together, and nodded to his daughter, saying, “Follow me.”

With that, he started edging his way through the crowd towards the steps. Progress became a bit faster when Lynn took the lead; unlike her father, she wasn’t averse to the occasional shove—or if someone was trying to push in close to ask something, an “accidental” elbow. Not many people did push her, for all her courtesy and brains, people knew not to push her patience.

When a couple of students joined in the effort, progress became almost easy, and with fewer elbows needed. Once everyone could see him, individuals continued shouting questions, until he gave them the same look he’d give unruly students. Even so, it took a few minutes for quiet—or something resembling it—to spread—and even then, it was mainly because of his reputation for expertise on a variety of subjects.

“I keep hearing the same question, ‘What happened this morning,” along with many others. Lynn and I have been working on that question ever since she called my attention to the smoke—I can be a little hard to distract when I’m working numbers, as I’m sure a few of you know…”

A nervous laughter came from a few in the crowd, and then trickled off. He adjusted the spectacles on his nose, and continued, “I have some facts, some educated guesses, and a need for more facts. With those facts, I can get a much better idea of what happened, and where.

Here’s what I can tell you for certain right now: This morning’s explosion—and it was an explosion-- was more than 35 miles away, very likely a lot further away. I can say with certainty that it was more powerful than any man-made blast, by several orders of magnitude. I would guess—and this is only a guess—that it was the equivalent of at least a thousand tons of gunpowder.”

The crowd went silent as the implications sunk in—not pounds, but tons. Was there even that much gunpowder on earth? It was certainly a number that got people’s attention.


Into the stunned silence, he continued, “The mushroom shaped cloud is characteristic of large explosions, but mathematical analysis shows that this cloud reached at least 12 miles into the sky. These numbers are minimum figures; they may be much larger.

He paused, trying to decide what else to say, and watched the crowd. Already pale faces were paler yet; people shifted uneasily on their feet, hoping that the scientist could offer them some idea of what had happened, and what might be coming next. A crow screeching was the loudest sound to be heard, until a voice broke the silence, “What happened—what blew up?”

That cry unlocked a floodgate of questions, from “Is this the End Times,” to “How do you know what you’ve told us.”

He held up his hand, looking around, and saw that several top college officials were arriving, as well as one of the selectmen. (Selectmen are the elected officials that run the town between town meetings.) Apparently, they saw that someone might have some answers, and wanted to hear them.

The selectman’s officious cry of “Let me through!” was ignored—except for the snarls of a few students, saying, “Let him talk; he has answers!”

Ignoring the selectman, and his mountainous ego, Robert continued, “Since I can answer clearly and accurately “’How do we know this,’ I’ll answer that one first. The distance is easy. It was at least three minutes after the column of smoke was seen that we heard the rumble, and we know the speed of sound—hence, we can tell how far away it is. I’ll spare you the mathematics for now, though…”

Once again a nervous laugh spread through the crowd—glad to be spared math few would understand, confident that he had it right. As the laughter subsided, he added, “Simple trigonometry and a few measurements allow deduction of the height of the cloud—that is, however, dependent on the distance to the explosion. I need more information, and I’ll be able to determine just where it happened. As for what happened, I can only offer theories—and tentative ones. My first guess is that it was a meteorite—a rock falling from the sky.”

Expressions ranged from total disbelief to stunned acceptance to skepticism—meteorites were, first of all, something that was debated—and if they existed at all, small chunks of rock, not something that could devastate mankind. Many of the townsfolk had never even heard of such things. Seeing a lack of comprehension and belief, he added, “Think of it as a chunk of the moon that broke off, perhaps, or a piece of a minor planet.”


Continuing, before anyone could get too focused on what was just a working theory, he added, “Right now, though, we need more data—more information about what we can prove. I don’t think we’re in any danger; meteorites are very rare—but we need to know more. Are any of my students up for a fast ride?”

Two men and a woman stepped from the crowd, all saying, “Professor, what you want, we’ll get.”

“Come up here, Lynn has some papers, and can explain what we need…”

As Lynn started explaining to the three students what she needed, the professor resumed speaking, “The other thing I need is simple: If anyone timed the interval between the flash and hearing the explosion, that would help immensely. If anyone has timed it, I’ll be able to tell almost exactly where it hit. That will help us assess how bad it might be there. There will be people needing shelter, food—you name it.”

A harsh, scornful voice broke through as he paused, “And who do you think YOU are? Anything to be done about this goes through ME; I’ll be sure that nothing WE need here gets wasted, or sent on a wild goose chase—there might be more coming.”

As the selectman ranted, a few people turned to look at him, and Lynn looked up from the bunch of students she was speaking with.

She took a long look at him, and when he paused for breath, she glared at him, pitching her voice to carry, “You sorry specimen of humanity! You can’t just barge in here, trying to take charge of something you know nothing about—something you can’t even begin to wrap your small, piggy mind about, wondering how YOU can profit from it. Well, rich banker or not, we have more important things to deal with than your petty schemes—right folks?

He gaped at her, open-mouthed; that tomboy had no right to talk to HIM like that—he owned the biggest bank in the area, and she was just some no-account professor’s daughter, no mater what might have happened before.

A few cries of “Here, here!” from the crowd—mostly students—rose in support, while none tried to shout her down…then her father added, “And why did you stay home when our country was in danger? Bought an exemption, did you? Sent someone else off to fight and bleed for you?”

From somewhere in the crowd, a voice—a local farmer, from the accent, yelled, “’Course he stayed home—treats people like slaves, he’d rather be a plantation lord down south…I hear he owned a blockade runner or two!”

Spinning in the direction the comment came from, as more people voiced agreement, he snarled, “When I find out who said that, you’ll pay for it, mark my words…”

“Oh, really?” interjected Lynn with a sneer, “I remember what happened LAST time you threatened to make someone ‘pay for something.’ I doubt you’ll do any better this time.”

As he paled, remembering some past event, Lynn glared daggers at him, almost driving him back with eyes of blue fire. When she actually stepped forwards one step, his uneasiness turned into a retreat, as he backed up two steps—and only two, unaware of a foot placed in his path, sending him onto his rear.

As laughter swept through the immediate area—and spread rapidly, as word spread. He climbed to his feet, nervousness turning to rage at the laughter, mixed with a few enthusiastic cries of joy—the tension broken for a moment as the humiliation of a man who, rightly or wrongly, was widely despised, yet mysteriously won reelection to the board of selectmen regularly—along with having the influence to get his own way in almost anything that mattered. Shoving his way forwards, face red, eyes blazing, he managed to find another foot in his way. This time, he merely stumbled, then pushed forwards to the foot of the steps, snarling, “I have had enough of you—too good for an honest businessman, that hoity-toity attitude—now you and your daddy trying to tell me how to run this town…”

She said something quiet to her father, and he nodded—the fury plain on his face, but keeping quiet—for the moment, then stepped forwards, saying, “Don’t cross swords with me again—or it will come out worse than last time—much worse…”

Other than the two of them, there wasn’t a sound, though those close to them edged back, mostly without even realizing they were doing so, as the hate flowed between them. It was the selectman, the rich banker, that stepped back yet again, the ill hidden fear on his face visible to those close by.

From somewhere close by, a feminine voice called out, “You don’t hold a mortgage on her family’s place, now, do you?”

Another voice cried out, “Can’t force yerself on a lass without a hold on the family farm, now—how’s that feel?”

As he stood there, a deep voice, full of hatred, said, “So it’s not just my daughter you tried for—too bad someone hasn’t shot you yet…”

“Run him out of town!” called another.

Fear can bring out the best—and the worst —in people, and this was no exception. His behavior—his public discourtesy to, and contempt for a women who all knew to be both smart, and gracious at all times, his years of gouging farmers, pressing his attention where it was far from welcome, and more—combined with the raw fear pervading the town—had gone too far. Harsher suggestions on ways to deal with him echoed back and forth through the crowd, cries of any other sort drowned out as years of hate strained at the leash of civilization.

Lynn looked out over the crowd—fast becoming a mob—and paled. A year ago, she’d used a well placed knee—followed by a couple of possibly unnecessary elbow strikes—to disuade his amorous attentions when he’d refused to take “no” for an answer. Humiliating him again felt good—as well as removed an obstacle to doing hat needed to be done—but having him torn to pieces in front of her wasn’t what she had in mind. There was only one way she could see to get their attention, divert them from a western style lynching, and she used it…
 

Arrix85

Donor
Very good update! sorry If I already said it, but I find your writing quite riveting.:)

Seems easy to relate to these people.
 

Hyperion

Banned
Creepy yet realistic that even in a disaster, some people would stand in the way or try to capitalize on it.

One thing I am curious to see down the line. At some point in the next day or so, will the White House get a report that something disasterous has happened up in New Hampshire?

How will the Senators and Congressmen from New Hampshire react to a large portion of their state being wiped out?
 
Washington...

I'm already working on Washington. I'd guess that the first reports of SOMETHING happening will be there in an hour or two, and in front of President Grant soon after. No details yet, but that there was a very big bang. As for congresscritters, I need to see who they were--and if Congress was in session. If not, New Hampshire might be down some elected officials.

The White Mountains were a popular vacation spot-and place for deals to be done in quite comfort, far from prying eyes. Anyone could be there--missing, trapped, injured, dead, or vaporized, or many possible combunations of these. Missing and vaporized people are a challenge, in many ways. When do you decide that they're dead, and apoint replacements?

Could have been worse; President Grant wasn't there...
 

Hyperion

Banned
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/44th_United_States_Congress

This is from wikipedia, so take it with a grain of salt and double check just to be safe.

In 1876, the two US Senators for New Hampshire where Aaron H. Cragin and Bainbridge Wadleigh, both Republicans.

The three Congressmen for New Hampshire where Frank Jones, Samuel N. Bell, and Henry W. Blair. Jones and Bell where Democrats, Blair was a Republican.
 
I'd drop the moment to moment perspective in a little bit, just as soon as you can get the actual disaster accounted for. The really fascinating bits will be bringing in the big names in the nation and around the world, and in documenting longer-term trends. There's certainly a value in the work at this stage, but it's just historical fiction with an asteroid.

Such is my two cents, at any rate.
 
Reach For the Skies Chapter Three

Jason looked north for a moment, as the still rising cloud spread, its dark brown and black a scar against the White Mountain sky—his gaze matching the terrified passengers. “Looks like it’s between here and the notch,” he muttered, not hearing his own voice. As he turned back to look at the assembled passengers, glancing from one side of the train to the other, he realized that lips were moving, but no one was making any sounds—or rather, that the blast had stunned his ears more than he realized. All these people looking his way—and he couldn’t even speak to them. He could, however, search the crowd for people that could help, people that would be prone to panic—and most important, his wife and children.

His eyes passed over the kneeling priest, surrounded by others, all apparently praying—not an unreasonable reaction, but too passive for his taste.

A few feet away, an enterprising photographer and his assistant were already setting up a camera, apparently more interested in recording the event than worried about it. And there wasn’t just the large cloud, branches had been blown from the trees, and the lightly built trackside shack was indeed missing its roof. Add that to the broken windows in the locomotive, the concussive blast, and whatever it was had to have been huge. Thank goodness the locomotive had shielded the rest of the train from the blast—but some windows were still cracked and broken, and there was other minor damage visible.

Sweeping further, others simply stood there, gazing at the hellish mushroom. Children clung to parents, wives and husbands (or men and their mistresses, he thought unkindly—but realistically) clung to each other—but all gazed north.

It was among those people that the welcome sight of a cluster of red hair manifested, along with one head of brown hair—his redheaded wife and their three children. Unharmed, but clearly frightened, they could see him as he stood on the roof of the baggage car. They tore their eyes away from the horizon, and looked up. He somehow managed a smile, trying to give them the reassurance the head of the family owed his wife and kids—that he stood between them and the looming disaster.

A few minutes passed as people stood there, collecting their wits, praying, or taking photographs, and the sharp hiss of steam escaping through the safety valve told him that hearing was coming back. (Since the locomotive had plenty of steam, and it has nowhere to go, some escapes—even with the fire banked, some will still boil.)

Shaking his head—that blast had unsettled him more than he thought—he slipped back down into the cab to check the water level in the boiler—loose enough water, and the 10 wheeler would explode like a large barrel of gunpowder. Making a few adjustments, he added water slowly to the boiler, cooling it down, yet careful not to add too much water; he expected to be moving again soon, and didn’t want to cool things down too much.

A short toot of the whistle, and he scrambled back onto the baggage car, hoping that the passengers could both hear him, and would listen. As he remouonted the car, passengers did indeed look at him, their faces showing their fear—and perhaps, some hope that he’d have something to shield them from whatever had happened. “OK, everyone—It looks like something big exploded somewhere ahead of us, and we got shook up, but the train looks fine. As soon as we know everything is OK, we’ll get you back onboard and back up to the previous station; the track’s blocked ahead.

Big! That looks worse’n big,” said someone from the crowd. Another added, strangely calm, “Perhaps it’s the End of Days…”

Another man replied, “I was in Mobile when it blew up; that’s just a big explosion—bad, but nothing unnatural about it, mark my words. There’s gonna be people needin’ this train, so the railroad’s doin’ right getting us back to the station.

“He’s right,” Jason called out. “Everyone get on board, help anyone that needs it; we’ll be rolling as soon as we know everything’s right with the train, and know it’s safe.

Although the conductor was in charge of the train, the man was doing nothing besides standing and watching, so he glanced at the devastation again; it looked like it was much worse on the hilltops behind him-yet the blast came from in front. He swung down from his high perch and strode over, addressing the conductor as he approached.

When he got an acknowledgement, he said, “James, please set up the relay box, and let the previous station know our status. Tell them we’ll be backing to the station, and the track’s blocked ahead—blocked bad.”

After getting an answer, he swung into the cab. He gently moving his fallen fireman, covering him with a canvas sheet, then bent over to scoop more coal onto the blaze, when he saw his head end brakeman running full tilt towards the train.

Note: The head brakeman was sent forwards to flag down any oncoming trains, so they wouldn’t plow into the standing express. He should never return without orders; the fact that he is indicates something is VERY wrong.

Pitching that scoop onto the fire, he jumped down and walked forwards—a fast, but non-panicked—ground eating pace.

“Mr. Christie,” he gasped, “It’s gone—just gone!”

Jason grasped the shaken brakeman by the shoulders, saying, “What’s gone, Chris? What happened?”

“I went up the hill—wanted to be able to see other trains—and there ain’t nothin’. All just gone! Everything—not a tree standing, fires—ain’t nothing standing over the hill—trees bigger around than the track, blown over…even some rails knocked loose…this is the end of the line.”

“You did right, coming back. We’re reversing to the last station, then we can see about getting the women and children off, and looking for survivors forwards. Now, gather up a few able-bodied men, we want the tools on the shed there loaded on. Pile them on the platform. (Railroads had trackside sheds in strange places sometimes, stocked with tools for track work if needed.)

A cry of “Dad!” followed by, “Jason,” cut into his discussion, and he turned; his eldest son was at his side, his wife and other two children right behind. “You OK?” “What happened?” What blew up?” were blended in a torrent of questions.

Putting on a brave face, he said, “Like I said, something big blew up—and it’s pretty bad. Fireman’s down, but I can fire her myself. We’re going to be fine, but I’m going to be busy up here until we get back to civilization.”

“I can help fire her,” said the oldest—you taught me to shovel coal right—like for the furnace.”

“It’s a lot harder work, Junior—not just one or two shovelsfull; sure you’re up to it?”

“Needs to be done, Dad; I can at least make it easier for you.”

“Company policy doesn’t allow it, but these are extraordinary circumstances. Just remember—do exactly what I say—there’s no room for your innovations—not here, or we might wreck her.”

As they were conferring, the conductor came towards the small group, saying, “Jason, wires are down somewhere behind us, too—but on the good side, Joel Weber here’s an engineer—deadheading north.”

Jason took in the other man’s appearance at a glance; he’d seen him from a distance, but never been introduced. Joel was relatively young, brown hair, solidly built—a generally battered looking face—old stuff, souvenirs of some sort of rough life—nothing really distinctive for a railroad man—but added to that was a very recent lump on his head, and a bit of a gash over his left eye.

“I’m Jason Christie, and glad to see you; I’m going to need some help. Fireman’s down, and we need to get this train rolling—and rolling quick as we can. Are you OK?”

Joel nodded, saying, “I’ve had worse bumps in one round, let alone a whole fight. I’m ready to go.” (Boxing back then was strictly bare knuckle, and not a socially acceptable sport.)

All business, Jason turned back to his family, saying, “Junior, Jason will fire her, but if I need you, I’ll get you—but right now, I need you to take care of your mother, sister, and brother. So—get on back to the coaches, get on board—set an example.”

Once they were out of earshot, he added, “Joel, fireman’s not just down, he’s dead—didn’t want to panic the womenfolk. What do you run?”

“Actually, I’m a hostler, not an engineer, so I can run anything we have. (A hostler is qualified to move locomotives around the yard, but not to take them out on the main line, or pull a load. He brings it out of the roundhouse to get hooked up, or puts it away—things like that. Think of him as a parking lot attendant for locomotives.)

“OK, that’s good—right now, I need you keeping her ready to steam; we’re pulling out shortly. Right now, we’re backing up to that shed, and loading up on tools. You walk to the rear, then inspect as we roll. I’m going to take a quick walk, make sure everything is right. We’ll be picking up the rear brakeman on the roll.”

Even as he was explaining things, the head end brakeman and several people—mostly men, but a few women, too—were piling tools onto the platform next to the shed, while the head end brakeman told them what to keep—which seemed to be almost everything.

With a wave, he brought the head brakeman over to the locomotive, and added him to the impromptu conference. When he had the man’s attention, he rounded out some details, “OK—we’re going to run backwards—slowly—to the nearest passing siding, and run around. Won’t be as good as pointing the right direction, but I really don’t like the idea of pushing this many cars on this track. You’ll be on the rear platform, and you’ll relay anything important forwards. We’ll get my shotgun from the baggage car; if you fire it, I’ll know to stop NOW! Remind Ron how easy it is to derail running backwards…brake gently, keep tension on the couplers—and that only if we’re on a downhill; otherwise, I’ll brake us with the locomotive. I’ll run at no more than 10 miles per hour, if conditions permit—and at a slow walk near the bridges.

(If a coach slows down more than the locomotive, the coaches can be shoved right off the track, especially if there’s already a problem.)

“5 Minutes!” he called, sounding the whistle briefly. When he had people’s attention, he repeated, “In 5 minutes, the train is backing up about 700 feet, to that wrecked tool shed. We’ll be loading tools on board the baggage car, then departing.”

As some people hesitantly started towards the coaches, he called out again, “Get on board!”

“Mr. Engineer Sir!” called out a child as he ran up to the locomotive.

“What is it, son,” Jason replied, one hand on the locomotive, about to swing into the cab.

The youth pointed at the man just starting to fold up his complex photography apparatus, saying, “My Dad….err…Mr. Fairchild might not be able to get things put away that fast—and those pictures are important!”

“Another photographer who thinks the world revolves around his camera,” he thought to himself—then took another look north. The great, grim cloud seemed like it was almost overhead—and photographs of that would do more than sell papers; they might help tell scientists—or ministers—what happened up there.

“OK—go help him get packed up—tell him he can board after we get the tools loaded. But, I need to talk to him before we get rolling.”

The first puff, as the wheels started to turn, was almost eerie in the silence. Although it had been less than a half hour, it seemed an eternity since the explosion—and that first, gentle bump of the tender against the sill of the baggage car showed that, no matter what, he was here, and so was his locomotive. Gently backing at only a few miles per hour, he didn’t even need to whistle for brakes, preferring to control the speed with just a deft hand on the throttle. With hardly a bump, the train eased to a stop, the baggage car directly adjacent to the tools.

Everyone bailed out, either helping to get the heavy tools onboard, or to encourage the ones who were loading. Jason looked back from the cab, and nodded—the urgency seemed to have sunk in.

It was only a few minutes’ work to heave the sledgehammers, shovels, fishplates, tieplates, spikes, saws, axes and other gear into the baggage car; the maintenance shack didn’t have all that much in it at the time. And then, with all onboard, Jason took one last look around, seeing the maintenance shed’ push car, and spoke again, “We might need that push car.” Looking at the hostler, now acting as his fireman, he said, “Joel, please tie that to the pilot; we might need it more than we need unscratched paint.”

(A push car is simply a lightweight platform on railroad wheels, intended to be pushed along the track by track workers It has no coupler, and most have no way to attach it to a train at all. “Pilot” is the railroad men’s term—non-railroaders usually call it the “cowcatcher.” A fishplate is the metal joint that is used to bolt two rails together. A tieplate is the piece of metal between the rail and the tie.)

With her rearranged crew, a borrowed fireman, and the head end brakeman on the observation platform, Jason leaned out the window, looking back over the length of the express. As he released the brakes and eased the throttle open, he sounded three short whistle blasts into the unnatural silence, telling the world that the Profile Notch Express was back in business.
 
Temp paues

very good story so far, i do wonder if this event will launch Space Travel , and Investigation much more sooner . :)

This timeline is far from abandoned--in fact, I needed to pause both for rl, and for rethinking a few tings. But, it will be moving ahead.

Space travel--perhaps and perhaps not. That's a very difficult field, and right now, the Americans don't even know what they don't know. Astronomy, flight, seismology, the dynamics of large explosions, theology, vulcanology, and more--all will get some interest.
 
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