Blink of an Eye

by William S. Cohen

  “You have made an unauthorized landing at Parris Island,” the major said.

  “I made an emergency landing at Parris Island,” Tourtellot responded.

  Major Watts opened a spiral notebook with an olive-drab cover. “Name, rank, serial number, Lieutenant.”

  “What the hell is this, major? Am I a prisoner of the U.S. Marines?”

  “You are a trespasser who has made an unauthorized flight onto a U.S. military installation, Tourtellot. And I am writing an incident report for submission to my commanding officer. Name, rank, serial number.”

  Tourtellot responded in a calm voice, then, less calmly, added, “Major, I cannot contact my base. My wife and two kids live in Savannah. I want to call them. Major, there is no incident to report here. There’s some kind of incident in Savannah.”

  “Name of duty station,” the major continued, acting as he had not heard Tourtellot.

  “U.S. Coast Guard Air Station, Savannah, which, as I have been telling everybody, is out of contact.”

  “What were your orders? Where is your flight—”

  The door suddenly opened. The surprised MP stood aside and saluted the commanding officer of the Parris Island base, Brigadier General Michael Greene.

  The major rose quickly, Tourtellot not quite as quickly.

  Greene glared at one man, then the other. “Major,” Greene said, “what the hell are you doing?”

  “Writing an incident report, sir,” the major said, holding up the notebook. “This man just made an unauthorized—”

  “This man, Major, is a U.S. Coast Guard officer, not a goddamn terrorist,” Greene said, turning toward Tourtellot. “Now, Lieutenant, tell me what happened.”

  After hearing Tourtellot’s account, Greene looked at his watch. “The time is 2209, Lieutenant. You said you heard the words huge wave and bright at 2113. Still no answer from your base a few minutes ago. We’re wasting time.”

  Greene ordered Watts to take Tourtellot to the Briefing Room, closed the door, sat at Watts’s desk, punched several numbers on a classified military line, identified himself, and put in a call to the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon.

  A flag officer is always on duty at the NMCC. The call from Greene was taken by Air Force Major General Michael McHugh. Flag officers frequently know each other, at least slightly, because they had met along their similar paths to their admiral or general stars. But the Marine and Air Force paths of Greene and McHugh had not had any mutual milestones. And so neither could assess the other by drawing from an anecdote, or a promotion party, or a poker game at the Naval War College, the National Defense University, or some other installation attended by potential flag officers. A stranger was speaking to a stranger.

  “We believe that a severe emergency exists in Savannah, Georgia,” Greene told McHugh. “The Coast Guard Air Station at Savannah has lost communication. The report that reached here indicates a tsunami has caused a massive power failure.” Tsunami inspired in McHugh’s mind images of floating cars and fleeing Japanese.

  Greene quickly and professionally described what Tourtellot had reported, including the failure of the helicopter’s radio. The call was a model of an efficient military communication. However, both officers realized that they were not dealing with a military matter, and they were not quite comfortable dealing with it. Their unspoken priority was to get the matter off their agendas.

  Ever since Hurricane Katrina, no senior military officer or civilian official wanted to be the person who failed to immediately alert the President to a natural disaster. After only a moment’s hesitation, McHugh called the White House Situation Room and relayed the report.

  Navy Captain Gregory Spencer, the duty officer in the Situation Room Watch Center, answered McHugh’s call. “I think the President should be informed,” Spencer said. “Meanwhile, get a detailed report from General Greene and put it in the classified net. It sounds like a major disaster. We’ll coordinate it all here, General. Not at the NMCC.”

  “Very well, Captain,” McHugh said, ending the call and, with some relief, getting a fuzzy matter away from his turf, just as General Greene had.

  Spencer, well aware of the clout of the Situation Room, had not sounded like a mere Navy captain speaking to a general. Duty in the Situation Room lifted military officers out of the world of the military and into the world of POTUS, the President of the United States. Spencer was working for the President, not for the generals and admirals of the Pentagon.

  Spencer ordered one of the other watch officers to contact military installations around Savannah. Two minutes later, the officer reached the officer of the day at Fort Stewart, headquarters of the Third Infantry Division, about forty miles southwest of Savannah, talked to him for a couple of minutes, made three other calls, and then reported to Spencer.

  “Stewart reports loss of contact with Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah, sir,” the officer said. “They assumed a communications screwup. I tried to reach Hunter. Nothing went through. Also, no response from the Coast Guard Air Station, which is located at Hunter. Verizon Georgia in Atlanta says all its cell-phone sites in Savannah are down. Also landlines. Same from AT&T Georgia. It’s a blackout.”

  “Cause?”

  “No one knows, sir. They all just say blackout.”

  “What do we know about Hunter?”

  “It’s an Army base, not Air Force, technically part of Stewart, sir. When the Third Infantry deploys, its transport aircraft use Hunter.”

  “Okay, Dawson. Keep trying to develop information,” Spencer said, “I’m going with tsunami.”

  Spencer knew where the President was, and, thoughts of Katrina and the Japanese tsunami spinning through his mind, he paused only for five seconds before he picked up a telephone handset on his console and hit the President’s button.

  24

  PRESIDENT OXLEY, against the plea of his wife, had put his smartphone in his inner breast pocket when he was heading off to greet his dinner guests. He agreed to set it on vibration and assured her that nothing less than World War III would produce a call to him during a state dinner.

  When he felt the vibration thumping against his chest, his first inclination was to ignore it. But he knew he could not. Turning to his right, he said to Rachel Yeager, “Excuse me, Ambassador. It’s apparently urgent.”

  Captain Spencer identified himself and spoke unhurriedly. “We have a report of a major power loss centered on Savannah, Georgia, Mr. President. Looks like a tsunami.”

  Rachel concentrated on her dessert—nectarine sorbet and coconut pecan brownies—and tried not to look as if she were listening to a presidential phone call.

  “Anything from Savannah?”

  “Negative, sir. No communications whatsoever. The Watch Center here gets no telephone reception, no television or radio transmissions in the area. Electrical blackout.”

  “Not spreading?”

  “No, sir. What we are seeing looks like a regional blackout centered on Savannah. But I’ve never seen, never heard of, anything this big. At least in the U.S.”

  “I can’t ask the obvious questions here, Captain. I’ll be in the Situation Room shortly. Find Falcone, if he’s back, and get him there.”

  At the mention of Falcone’s name, Rachel tensed for a moment, but continued to appear happily dining. She glanced down the table to Prime Minister Weisman, who put down his spoon, shrugged, and stuck out his hands, palms upward in his familiar gesture of frustration.

  Oxley pocketed the phone and nodded toward a Secret Service agent who was inconspicuously standing at the wall behind the President’s table. The agent stepped forward and leaned down to Oxley, who looked up and spoke softly. “Pete, I have to leave immediately to the Sit Room. Please go to Vice President Cunningham—as discreetly as you can—and tell him to get up here to sit in for me and close down the dinner. Then go to Secretary Kane’s table and tell him to go to the Sit Room. Go there yourself and tell them to find Penny Walker and get her to the Sit Room.
”

  “Anyone else, Mr. President?”

  “No. I don’t want a stampede.”

  “Yes, sir,” the agent said before walking away as fast as he could walk without appearing to be running.

  Oxley turned back to Rachel and managed a tight smile before saying, “Sorry about this. We seem to have a natural disaster on our hands.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. President,” Rachel said.

  Oxley stood, walked past Mrs. Oxley to Weisman, leaned down, and said, “I’m awfully sorry, Avi. Duty calls. Looks like a tsunami off Georgia.”

  Weisman, who had an imperfect knowledge of American and Russian geography, looked puzzled.

  “Why can’t the Russians help?”

  Oxley looked puzzled in return, and then in a moment, replied. “It’s our Georgia, Avi.”

  By now the room was buzzing, drowning out the soft music of the U.S. Marine Band. The leader swung his baton, upping the volume and tempo. Everyone knew that something was happening, but what? Except for Oxley’s staff concerned with his security or with national security, the use of cell phones was forbidden at social functions.

  Philip Dake kept his eye on the President’s table, irritated because he was supposed to know what went on in Washington, and here he was, as ignorant as everyone else. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and saw a Secret Service agent at Vice President Cunningham’s table. As Cunningham rose, the agent approached Dake’s table.

  Dake swiveled around and heard Secretary Kane tell the agent, “On my way.”

  “What the hell’s going on, Gabe?” Dake asked.

  “Don’t know,” Wilkinson said.

  Kane rose, made a wide sweep of his right hand and added, “Good night, all.”

  The correspondent next to Dake was desperate to call NBC News. Sitting at a nearby table was Ned Winslow, GNN’s foreign correspondent, who had been recalled from Iraq when the combat troops left and was now the GNN anchorman in Washington. Winslow raised both hands in the air expressing his frustration. Scanning the room, Dake spotted Secretary of State Bloom at one table and Sam Stone, director of the CIA, at another. They were still seated and looking perplexed. Penny Walker, Secretary of Homeland Security, was not at the dinner.

  Dake’s instant analysis: Walker rarely socializes; she was probably home enjoying Dancing with the Stars or Monday Night Football. Bloom still eating his sorbet. So no military or diplomatic crisis. Why Kane? Oxley needs to hold somebody’s hand. Chooses Kane, maybe because Falcone is still overseas.

  Dake knew the protocol. No one could leave a room until the President left. But the President was leaving, Kane was leaving, Cunningham was walking toward the head table, and the dinner was not over.

  Oxley stood at his place and raised a glass. Everyone stood except Weisman and Rachel as Oxley said, “Mr. Prime Minister—Avi—it is a great honor to have you under this roof, where you and your predecessors have been warmly welcomed since the birth of Israel. I speak for all Americans when I say that we respect your efforts to find a road to peace in the Middle East.”

  The President lifted his glass, sipped, and then added: “Avi, I now must leave this wonderful event for a few minutes. There is an important matter I must attend to.” Oxley pointed toward Max Cunningham, who was almost at the table. “Max will fill in for me. Please go on with the dinner, and get a second helping of sorbet. I won’t say, ‘good night,’ because I’m sure I’ll to be back in time to enjoy the entertainment.”

  The President then headed toward the entrance hall. Ray Quinlan, though not summoned, sprung up from a nearby table and hurried to catch up to Oxley.

  A trio of violin virtuosos—Joshua Bell, Alexander Kerr, and Itzhak Perlman—had been scheduled to perform after the dessert had been served. But White House protocol staffers, whose job was to maintain decorum and please important guests, reacted spontaneously to an unexpected event they knew nothing about. They smoothly ordered the virtuosos into the room and told them to play.

  The three men entered the room together, an aide escorting Perlman in his wheelchair. They bowed to their buzzing audience, raised their hands for silence, then turned and serenaded Weisman with a sparkling performance of the Paganini Caprice Number 24.

  When the music ended, Jessica Baldwin, in a striking green gown, appeared from somewhere, went to the President’s table, and, trying almost successfully to be invisible, advised Vice President Cunningham to say good night to Weisman and Rachel and lead them from the room. Baldwin sensed that his departure, with Weisman and Rachel, would have the same party-ending effect as the exit of a president.

  But everyone already knew that the party was over. One by one, the tables began to empty. Some people, however, tarried, their faces reflecting their belief that they were pleasantly puzzled and wanted to stay to see the solution of the puzzle. They knew that something extraordinary had happened and that they would be in the favored few that had an incredible story to tell their friends and children: They had been in the most powerful house in the world when Something Happened. When, they wondered, would they learn what it was?

  25

  WHEN A White House car pulled to Penny Walker’s Georgetown townhouse, she was at a pottery wheel in the basement, wearing a red bandanna, jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and sandals. Surprised to see a presidential aide at the door, she took off her bandanna and asked him to wait while she washed her hands. As they hurried down the stone stairs to the car, the aide told her that all he had heard was that Savannah had been hit by a tsunami.

  In the car, she called her chief of staff at his home in Arlington, Virginia. “Frank. Tsunami in Georgia. Apparently hit Savannah head-on. Don’t we have some outfit that handles that? Gives warning? Where the hell was the warning?”

  Frank Nakamura was rapidly thumbing through a directory in his smartphone. “Here it is. DART. Stands for Deep-ocean Assessment and Reporting of Tsunamis. We spent six billion—”

  “Never mind how much the damn thing costs. I need to know what the damage is—and why no warning. Get to those people. Find some facts, goddamn it. I’m on my way to the Situation Room. You’ve got the number. Give me what you get. You’re point man. This looks like it’s our Katrina. I don’t want any fuckups.”

  She next called the duty officer at Homeland Security’s headquarters in Northwest Washington. “Get me Admiral Mason.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The locator log puts him at CGHQ. I’m paging him there.”

  Admiral David Mason ran the Coast Guard from its waterfront headquarters at Buzzard’s Point, a bit of land jutting out of the confluence of the Potomac and Anacostia rivers in the southwest quadrant of Washington.

  The Coast Guard—42,000 men and women on active duty, 7,000 civilians, 8,000 Reservists and 34,000 volunteers in the Coast Guard Auxiliary—was the largest component of the assorted federal agencies that Congress had coagulated into Department of Homeland Security after nine-eleven.

  Mason was a full admiral, recently appointed by President Oxley to a four-year term as commandant of the Coast Guard and unanimously confirmed by the Senate. Besides reporting to Penny Walker, Mason wore two other hats, as he reminded her only once. As commandant of the Coast Guard, he reported to the President, and, as commander of an armed military force, he reported to the Secretary of Defense.

  “And,” as he told Penny Walker when they met for the first time, “because the United States Coast Guard happened to be jammed into the goddamn bureaucratic basket called the Department of Homeland Security, I also report to you, Secretary Walker.”

  After that encounter, they quickly settled into a solid working relationship. Both were single, and there were occasional discreet dates for dinner at favorite restaurants. Romance hovered but had yet to land.

  *

  “MASON here,” he said, answering Walker’s call on the first ring. “I think I know why you’re calling, Penny.”

  “Savannah; the tsunami,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I k
now.”

  “I’m on my way to the Situation Room. Anything new, please call me through the duty officer there.”

  “I guess you know that, for us, it struck home,” he said, his voice oddly strained. She liked his usual voice—the authoritative command, an admiral on the quarterdeck. To her ear, he wasn’t sounding his normal self.

  “What is it, David?”

  “Our Savannah Air Station. It seems to be gone.”

  “My God! What? I hadn’t—”

  “No communications. And that cannot be because of an electrical blackout. We have our own power. Switches over automatically. It’s out. Completely out.”

  The car was pulling up to the West Gate.

  “We’re here. What should I say about the Coast Guard?”

  “We had a helicopter up, looking for a fishing boat in trouble. It lost some of its power and wound up at Parris Island. That’s all we’ve got. I’m waiting for more details. With Savannah out, it basically means no air resources for our entire AOR—Area of Responsibility—which extends from Melbourne, Florida, to the North Carolina/South Carolina border.”

  “Oh, David. Your people there. What do we know about them?”

  “Nothing, Penny. Nothing. We know nothing.”

  26

  FALCONE WAS on the terrace, looking out on the night, when he heard the penthouse door buzzer. That meant that a security man had taken the private elevator and was standing politely in the hallway. Still in the khaki slacks and Red Sox sweatshirt he had worn on the plane, Falcone walked to the door and opened it. The security man simply said, “Situation Room.”

  Twelve minutes later, he was entering the Situation Room. Captain Spencer was standing at one of the six large plasma screens. They were all showing the same image: a black blot rimmed on three sides by expanses of light. “Moments ago we were able to divert a satellite and get this image,” he said. “The blackout has spread across the border to South Carolina, almost as far as Charleston and inland to the outskirts of Atlanta.”