Donny continued his bizarre behavior. He zipped his wheelchair into his room, looked at his computer monitors, and then zipped back into the living room, stopping a few inches from the large windows. Clap. Giggle. Repeat—again and again.
At least he was happy.
Cody Broadway fought tears. Tears were for kids, and he was ten. More than once his mother had told him he was now the man of the house. He took that seriously although he didn’t fully understand what the words meant.
More people came into the waiting room. Some were crying. Others were hurt. Outside he could see ambulance after ambulance drive by the window and stop at the rear doors. His mother had passed through those doors while a nurse examined him briefly and then led him to the waiting room. She wasn’t as friendly as Alan.
Cody took another bite of a Snickers and then a sip of orange soda. He didn’t feel well. For a time, he thought the mix of candy and soda might be upsetting his stomach, but then realized it was something worse—fear.
The tears began to rise again, but he pushed them back. Crying would do no good. Nobody in the full room knew him. He doubted any cared. They had their own problems.
He wished his dad were still alive.
When President Barlow strode into the White House sit room on the ground floor, everyone stood. The Woodshed was a complex of rooms covering 5000 square feet and included offices for National Security Council watch officers and a president’s briefing room, a smaller version of the main conference. Renovations began in 2007 and were completed in 2009, but they had begun again, utilizing the latest in communications. Keeping up with technology was an unending task.
“Be seated,” the president said as he took a seat at the head of the long wooden table surrounded by thirteen padded black chairs. Most of them were filled.
The south wall featured a large monitor to facilitate videoconferencing with other heads of state. The sit room was manned every minute of every day by watch teams. More than thirty personnel kept things flowing smoothly.
Contrary to what most believed, the room was used often and not just for emergencies. This was especially true during Nathan Barlow’s administration. He loved to pull information from around the world and discuss it face-to-face with his advisors.
The long, dark, wood conference table dominated the tunnellike room. The walls had once been covered in mahogany, but now WhisperWall treatments had replaced the wood. Several smaller monitors lined the east and west walls.
“First question: Is this a terrorist attack?” Barlow leaned back in his chair as if he asked the question every day. He didn’t, but he did think about such things frequently. Such was the life of the commander in chief. He looked at the secretary of Homeland Security.
Secretary Monica McKie pressed her lips. “Mr. President, I’ve received reports from around the country, and there is no indication of a physical attack. No bombs in substations or that sort of thing, but something is afoot.”
She started to say something else when Barlow snapped his head around to Leon Sampson, a small man who looked like someone who was picked on in school. That was an illusion. Only five feet eight, he proved himself tough through a long and decorated career in the Army. He retired from the military with three stars on his uniform. Barlow insisted on calling him by rank. “General?”
“CIA has nothing to indicate this is a terrorist attack. By that I mean we have nothing new. We are all aware of cyber infiltration into power systems of several countries.”
Barlow turned back to McKie. “What do you think is afoot?”
“Leon has it on the money. I suspect a cyber attack, but it’s too soon to say with certainty. What we do know is that there is no mechanical problem. I’ve also checked with NASA and NOAA, and no coronal mass ejections are reported.”
“Could a CME be responsible for outages on both sides of the country?” Barlow leaned into the desk.
“If it was big enough, yes.” McKie didn’t flinch under Barlow’s gaze. She never flinched. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But you don’t believe that’s the case now.”
McKie shook her head. “No, sir. A CME would impact the world’s satellites, and we have no indications of that. More to the point, NASA’s Solar Dynamics Observatory satellites are orbiting the sun. We know every burp the star makes, and nothing has been noted.”
The president looked at his hands as if they held the answers to his questions. “So if you’re right, some actor has planted programs in our power grid just like before—or did we fail to clean out the Chinese viruses?”
McKie took the question. “Our cyber experts are certain that the previous incursion was adequately dealt with. That was under a different administration, but they did a good job dealing with it. There are thousands of attempts every week to compromise sensitive computers. So far, we at Homeland and USCYBERCOM have kept domestic and military networks clean. Still, we have lost material. Everyone has lost data.”
The large panel monitor on the south wall came to life. “General Holt,” the president said. “Glad you could join us.” A solid-looking man stood next to the general.
“Thank you, sir. Sorry to be late, but I wanted to have the latest report for you.” He glanced at the man by his side. “For those who might not know, this is Colonel Jeremy Matisse. He oversees the day-to-day at USCYBERCOM.”
Barlow leaned on the end of the table. “We’ve already decided that the blackouts on the East Coast and West Coast are not caused by something natural. We’re thinking a cyber attack of some kind. Do you concur?”
“I think it is wise to assume so, at least for now. Early diagnostics haven’t found anything in the military networks. If a hostile is involved, the perpetuator appears to have targeted civilian sites.”
“That’s bad enough, isn’t it?” Barlow asked.
“Yes, sir. Military bases can run on backup power for some time, but all American bases depend on local power.”
A watch officer stepped into the room and handed a note to Frank Grundy, who read it, folded the paper, and set it on the table. “The grid is coming back online. DC will be one of the first areas to get power. It looks like this has been a tempest in a teapot.”
There were smiles around the table.
“Good to hear, Frank. Okay then, so we’ll be back to normal soon. Is that right?”
“It appears so, Mr. President.” Frank looked relieved.
Barlow stood. “Thanks for all the good work, folks. Someone get me answers when they become available. Frank, make sure Des is up to speed and has something good to say to the press.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barlow exited the room. As he did, the lights in DC came back on.
7
O’Tool
Tell me the truth, General. Was all this done for my benefit?”
Jeremy exchanged a glance with Holt. The man’s expression didn’t change, but something in the commander’s eyes said he couldn’t believe the insufferable arrogance of the Senator.
“As I said earlier, Senator, this was not arranged for you. If you’ll recall, you arrived early.” Holt’s voice remained calm and carried no irritation. Jeremy had no idea how the man could do that.
“But you knew I was coming. You could have had things in place and then executed your plan.” They walked from the situation room back to the general’s office. Holt took a seat behind his desk as the senator grabbed one of the two guest chairs. Jeremy decided to remain on his feet.
“Senator, you can’t believe that I or anyone in the service would cause millions of people to go without power. No doubt there has been loss of life. Second, if I were to arrange a dog-and-pony show for you, it would be one that made us look like heroes. All we did was kick in a few protocols.”
“You know I’m just giving you a bad time, don’t you General?”
“No, Senator, I don’t.” He leaned back in his chair and looked a year older than he did this morning.
Jeremy decide
d to run interference for his immediate superior. “Imagine if things had not resolved themselves so quickly, Senator. I can imagine the computer jockies over at Homeland are rejoicing.”
“Do you exchange information? With DHS, I mean.” In Jeremy’s opinion, this was O’Tool’s first reasonable question.
Jeremy looked at Holt, who motioned for him to carry on. Holt was brilliant, determined, and a genius at organization. One thing he wasn’t was patient. “Yes, Senator, we do. We even drill together. One thing 9/11 taught this country was that the first victim of an attack is communication. Today, everyone who needs to be connected, is connected.”
“That’s the way it should be.” O’Tool steepled his fingers. “I look forward to continuing the tour—”
The phone on Holt’s desk rang, and the general snapped it up. He listened and then nodded as if the caller could see him. “Good.” He set the phone back in the cradle. “Power is back on in our portion of Delaware.”
The news was good.
Backup generators had kept the power going in Harris Memorial Hospital, but the lighting remained muted. Roni was well into her third surgery when things brightened.
“That’s an improvement.” Surgical nurse Loren Grimm looked up from her tray of instruments just long enough to make the comment. “My eyes are killing me.”
“Me too,” Roni said. “I’m getting a bit of a headache.”
“Need some ibuprofen?”
“I was thinking of morphine.” Roni didn’t move her eyes from the patient with a rib sticking into his lung. “Someone get me an update on pending surgeries. Who have we got in the halls?”
One of the other nurses stepped to the phone on the OR wall. She hung up a moment later. “It’s official—power is back on.”
“And the surgeries?”
“There are eight more waiting for ORs to open. Admitting says Dr. Hall lost a patient about half an hour ago. He took the next one in line, which was yours. You have one less on your list.”
“Remind me to kiss the man.” Ronni called for another instrument. “So that means—what, three more?”
“Yes,” the nurse said.
“And here I thought it was going to be a tough day.”
Loren grumbled. “The day ain’t over yet.”
“No wonder people call you a ray of sunshine.” Roni stopped long enough to stretch her back and move her head side to side, trying to untie the knots in her neck.
She allowed herself to relax for a moment. Things were looking up. She might even get to go home tonight.
Stanley sat in his car, letting time and the world pass by. In some ways he was a prisoner. His office was twenty-five floors above, a long trek in a stairwell lit only by battery-powered emergency lights. His home was across the bay, near but made far by traffic that had turned roads into parking lots. His wife was in La Jolla at UCSD. He had little to do but listen to the car radio.
Hope surfaced when the news announced that some power had returned to the East Coast. Washington DC now had power, as did parts of Virginia and Delaware. Upstate New York had electricity flowing, as did Albany. Soon the lights of Broadway would be blazing in the Big Apple again.
He smiled. This would be the talk of friends and family for weeks.
A few people near Cody Broadway cheered as word spread about the return of power. Most, however, seemed lost in their own pain. Cody couldn’t blame them. All he could think about was his mother.
More people arrived in the ER, but the stream seemed to have slowed. Maybe he would be able to see his mother soon.
Rosa had the radio on in the condo and had been following reports closely. The San Diego news station had kept up a constant flow of conversation, most of it repetitious, about the outage. When they reported that parts of the city had power again, she felt a flood of relief. Rosa liked things orderly and consistent. Change made her nervous.
Donny wheeled out of his room, stopped a foot short of the window, and fixed his gaze on downtown San Diego. He seemed content but was no longer laughing.
He didn’t move. He just stared.
Rosa stepped to him and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Quite a day, Donny. Quite a day.” When she turned to walk away she caught a glimpse of Donny’s reflection. It didn’t look right, didn’t look like him.
She did a double take.
The reflection turned and looked at her.
President Nathan Barlow returned to his schedule. Several meetings had to be canceled because of road congestion, which was fine with him. He had a mountain of information to read. He might even set aside thirty minutes to read something other than government documents.
He was tired. He, like anyone who followed the presidency, knew that presidents aged at twice their normal rate. The weight of responsibility, the long days, the overflowing schedule, and the inability to please everyone—sometimes anyone—pressed him down.
Still, he loved the job. It had been the only thing he truly desired. As a boy, his great-grandmother had said what grandmothers had been saying for generations: “In this country, a boy like you could grow up to be president.” Barlow had taken those words to heart, and politics became his only passion.
Born to wealthy parents who made their money in banking, Barlow attended the best schools in Massachusetts, including Harvard. After his undergrad work, he studied at the London School of Economics, where he excelled. His father set him up in banking, and he spent the next ten years earning a fortune as an expert in international finance. Even then, his mind ran to the halls of congress, and on those days when he felt especially resourceful, the Oval Office.
It had all worked out, and at times he thought some higher power had scripted his life for him. As if he were in a dance class that painted footprints on the floor to teach the waltz, all he had to do was step where guided.
Part of his daily routine was to allow time for reflection and reminder. Each day, he sat in the Oval Office, or the private study next to it, or on Air Force One and said, “I am the president of the United States.”
Most days, he didn’t believe it, but then some crisis would arise, and everyone in the country looked to him as if he had answers at the ready. It was the only thing he hated about the job—the way people looked at him when things went wrong.
Troops in Afghanistan had been reduced to a handful, but the Middle East was still a mess. Iran and North Korea seemed to be in a contest to see which government was most loony. The economy was better but not great, and the mountain of impossible-to-pay debt threatened to send the economy spiraling back down. Greed was still normal in the institutions that nearly bankrupted a dozen industries. The two-party system continued to be more obsessed with who got the last word in than achieving meaningful legislation. The country that once demanded the world’s respect was slowly becoming a joke. He wouldn’t allow that.
Or so he had said.
He knew enough history to know that the bigger the country, the harder the fall. Historians noted that ancient Egypt and Rome supposedly could not fail but did anyway. The Soviet Union had been a force to reckon with but then fell apart. The British Empire had been an empire for a long time. Even mighty China was marching toward history’s banana peel.
At least the US had some moral sense. Not much, but some. In his dark hours, he wondered if the best days of the country were behind it.
He pushed those thoughts away. Negative thinking never achieved anything in his life. Focus did. Dedication did. Determination did. Optimism—well, that just made life a little more pleasant. But the dark cloud that hung near the ceiling of the Oval Office couldn’t be blown away by the winds of positive thinking. It was nearly impossible to be an optimist in this city, in this building, in this famous office. At least one problem was off his plate. He had never been so happy to see the lights come back on. To prove the point, he pulled the chain on the green-canopied banker’s light at the edge of his desk. The lamp was a cheap knockoff of the old lights popular decades ago
, but his daughter had given it to him when she was twelve and he had won his first term in congress. She had saved her allowance to buy it, and the lamp had sat on his desk ever since. When he took the White House, he saw no reason to change the tradition.
The 60-watt bulb glowed beneath the curved green diffuser. Larger 100-watt light bulbs became illegal to sell in 2012, and 60-watt incandescents followed suit earlier this year. He wondered what the political repercussions would be if the country learned their commander in chief harbored an illegal product right on his desk. The thought made him smile.
Then the light went out. All the lights went out.
The door to the office opened, and Frank Grundy poked his head in. “Mr. President—”
“I know, Frank. We’re on lockdown.”
Three Secret Service agents poured into the room. Barlow had a bad feeling.
8
Descent of Darkness
NEW YORK CITY
POPULATION 8.5 MILLION
Rudy Watt was one in a million. Maybe one in a hundred million. He spent his life in what his grandparents would have called an iron lung. But there was no iron in his cocoon. He was in a clear acrylic cylinder with a suitcase-sized ventilator resting on the floor.
Rudy had spent the last two years in the device—a small amount of time compared to those who lived during the days of polio. Some, he had been told, had lived for years on devices that did their breathing for them. Negative pressure breathing they called it.
He called it prison.
His mother and father reminded him daily how lucky he was to be alive. He didn’t feel lucky. Instead he cursed fate for not letting him die in the gutter where his head hit the curb after he fell from his motorcycle. Back of the head, above the Atlas vertebrae. His spinal cord remained intact but not the portion of his brain that governed autonomic respiration. The fall killed the medullary respiratory center but left the rest of his brain alive.
Digital Winter Page 6
