by Tim Washburn
“Correct. Seventeen hours and we’re already an hour into this event. But I don’t believe it will take that long for this storm to arrive.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure how much stock to put in their 1859 technology. Plus this ejection of plasma is much larger.” Sam pauses, hoping for a rebuttal—for Kaylee to tell him he’s crazy as a loon. But she doesn’t. “Put another call in to NASA. I want a definitive explanation about the status of that satellite.”
Kaylee stands and heads for the door only to pivot on her heel.
“How bad do you really think this storm could be, Sam?”
Sam returns the glasses to his face. “Bad, Kaylee. It could be catastrophic. Worse than a sky full of bombs, at least for anything depending on electricity.”
CHAPTER 4
NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center
Wednesday, September 29, 8:01 A.M.
Sam shuffles into the solar observation room. His blue shirt is damp under the arms and a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead.
“Sam, there have been several more CMEs in the last ten minutes,” someone shouts.
“They’ll be here fairly quickly, then,” he mutters. He stands tall, squaring his shoulders. “Okay, listen up. I need everything you have assembled into a concise brief and I need it in the next fifteen minutes.” He turns to Kaylee. “You’re in charge of putting the data together.” Sam turns and hurries back to his office.
The room explodes into a beehive of activity as everyone begins speaking at once. Kaylee stands in the center of the room and yells for quiet, then issues instructions. She flips open her laptop and begins typing, trying to organize the bits of shouted information into a workable timeline.
Back in his office, Sam picks up the phone and heaves a heavy sigh as he punches in the phone number. To hell with stepping on sensitive toes, he thinks. He’s chosen to bypass about ten layers of bureaucracy by calling direct to Dr. Debra Bailey, the under secretary of commerce for oceans and atmosphere and the director of NOAA.
“Director Bailey’s office,” the receptionist says.
“This is Dr. Samuel Blake at the Space Weather Prediction Agency. It’s urgent I speak to the director right now.”
“In regards to what?”
A gatekeeper with an attitude. Sam explains to the receptionist who he is as he doodles dirty words on a piece of scrap paper. The receptionist puts him on hold. His anger at the bloated government agency ratchets up another notch.
Finally, the phone is picked up on the other end. “Dr. Blake. What can I do for you?”
“We have a serious situation developing.”
“How serious, and what exactly are you referring to?”
“A massive geomagnetic solar storm may be on a collision course with Earth.”
“Might be? We don’t know for sure? And when you say ‘massive,’ how massive?” Her voice is full of skepticism, and he can hear the shuffling of paper on her end.
“How about the total destruction of every electrical system north of the equator?”
The paper shuffling stops. “You can’t be serious, Dr. Blake.”
“I’m deadly serious. We need to begin a national mobilization to shut down power grids, and we need to ground all aircraft because of the potential loss of communications.”
“Come now, Dr. Blake. You just said you didn’t know if the storm would even hit here. You want me to ask the brass to cut off power to millions of people in addition to stranding travelers in some far-off destination based on a maybe?”
“I called”—he inhales a quick breath—“I called to request a videoconference so that I can explain the situation.”
The director pauses, as if consulting her busy calendar. “How’s tomorrow or the day after sound?”
Sam chuckles. “I was thinking sometime within the next fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“What? Impossible. You know what a scheduling nightmare that would be. It will take most of the morning to even make contact with whomever needs to be contacted.”
“We don’t have most of the morning. There’s no time to be worried about schedule snafus.”
“When do you expect the storm to arrive?”
“Unknown. But my best estimation is between ten and seventeen hours.”
A gasp on the other end of the line. “How bad could this storm be, Dr. Blake?”
“It might very well send a vast majority of the world into darkness for years, and maybe forever.”
A long silence. He taps his foot, waiting for her to reply.
Finally she does. “We need to keep this under wraps until we can develop a response. I’ll set up the videoconference within the hour. We need Homeland Security involved, as well as Energy and FEMA and the Joint Chiefs, and . . .” She ticks off several more organizations. “Did I leave anyone out?”
“Yes, you did. The President.”
“I’ll arrange it. You better be on top of all your facts and figures. I don’t want to be the agency crying wolf.”
“I think there are more important things to worry about than saving face. I’ll be in my office whenever you’re ready, and please—every second counts.” Sam slams the phone down and stands. He shoves his hands into his pockets and paces the small confines of his office, hoping they’re not too late.
CHAPTER 5
The Marshall home, near Durant, Oklahoma
The screen door slaps shut behind Zeke as he and Lexi step through the back door of his parents’ home. The house came with the property, and what began as a one-story wreck shedding shingles is now a three-bedroom rancher with gleaming stainless steel appliances arranged around the built-from-scratch kitchen. His mother’s pride and joy. He finds her at the gas stove, an appliance large enough for a commercial kitchen. The aroma of sizzling bacon makes his empty stomach rumble. Zeke steps up and offers her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Pour yourself a cup of coffee, Zeke,” his mother says, reaching for a cup from the cupboard and handing it to him.
Barbara Marshall is taller than average at five foot eight, and her once-svelte figure has gotten less slender with age. A thickness has settled into her hips, but she’s not overweight. Just a heaviness that seems to accumulate over a lifetime. Her mostly gray hair is pulled up in a ponytail and the apron wrapped around her jeans and sweatshirt is embroidered with KISS THE COOK across the front. Both of Zeke’s parents are closer to seventy than they would like to admit.
“You realize you don’t need to cook for me.”
“I know, but I was cooking breakfast anyway.”
Zeke pours coffee and steps over to join his father at the scarred dining room table, one of the furniture holdovers from their early days—sentimental value, according to both parents. Zeke never asked what was sentimental about an old table, fearing the answer. His father has today’s paper spread out before him.
“Anything interesting?” Zeke says.
“Is there ever?” His father folds the paper and tosses it onto one of the vacant chairs. Robert takes off the reading glasses, his sole concession to growing older. He is only an inch or two taller than his wife, but at six foot three their son towers over both. Zeke has the same broad shoulders and big hands as his father, but how he grew so tall is a mystery. His mother insists that most of the males in her family had been tall, so they chalk it up to genetics. “How are the tables coming?”
“Slowly. I may need your help sometime this week to mill a couple more walnut trees. I’ve just about gone through everything in the drying shed.”
“How many orders do you have left to fill?”
“Three.” When Zeke moved down here he helped his father, a retired civil engineer, put the finishing touches on a state-of-the-art woodshop, built—of course—to his father’s precisely engineered plans.
“They all going to that designer in Dallas? Ruth’s friend?”
“Yeah, she’s created a good market for them. It’s getting hard to keep up.” To occupy his
mind, Zeke started building tables—dining, end, and every other type. But these aren’t just any tables. They’re handcrafted and all the joinery is hand finished. They can’t be found at IKEA; they reside only in some of the more expensive homes around Dallas.
“How much are you selling them for now?”
“More than I ever thought possible, Dad. Dining tables seating eight sell for ten grand.”
His father whistles. “Damn, that’s a lot of money.”
Zeke senses his father’s pride. Hell, he could give them away and his father would probably be happy, as long as Zeke had something to keep himself busy—busy enough so that the bad memories can’t stake a claim to his sanity.
“Your sister called this morning and wanted to make sure we were coming for Thanksgiving,” his mother says, sliding the steaming plates of scrambled eggs and bacon onto the table. Zeke’s sister, Ruth, makes her home in Dallas with her husband and two children.
“On one condition,” Zeke says between bites. “As long as Carl doesn’t make me watch any more episodes of that doomsday-prepping show he’s so fascinated with.” He uses the distraction of their chuckling to slip a piece of bacon to Lexi, who’s sitting patiently under the table in anticipation of a few stray crumbs.
“You know you promised to go and bring them home if something happened,” his mother says.
“And I would, too, if something happened. But I think the odds are better of winning the lottery. I don’t think we have much to worry about. Besides, Dad, you’ve stocked up on ten of everything, right?”
“No, eleven of everything. You can’t be too prepared,” he says, stone-faced.
Zeke sneaks another piece of bacon to Lexi before standing from the table. He gathers up the plates and carries them to the hammered-copper farmhouse sink his mother fell in love with at the kitchen showroom. “Mom, I’m washing the dishes but I need to run out to the shop. Deal?”
“Okay, son, the dishes are all yours.”
Outside, the portion of the cerulean sky visible through the tree canopy is devoid of clouds. The sunlight stabs through the leaves, creating a shimmering shade that sways with the breeze. Zeke passes the remainder of his mother’s garden on the way to the workshop. The garden is a source of pride for her. Bright red peppers and a few late tomatoes hang limply, but everything else has already been harvested. After hours of online research she learned how to preserve what was harvested. The shelves in the garage sag under the weight of dozens of canned jars containing tomatoes and pickled okra, plus a large sack of dried beans that will probably end up being tossed out after a year or two.
As usual, Lexi matches her owner step for step until she spies a pair of squirrels spiraling around an old oak tree. She darts off with a bark, sending them scampering farther up the tree. Zeke crosses the threshold of the woodshop and flips on the lights. The interior illuminates as bright as a modern laboratory, with precise overhead lighting for each woodworking machine, as if they were on display in an art gallery. The woody aroma produces an instant calmness in Zeke. The different textures and colors of sawdust littering the floor create a natural, multicolored carpet. He sorts through the wood and counts out the number of walnut boards remaining and does a quick mental calculation to determine if he has enough to finish. Barely, but definitely not enough to start on another project.
He heads back to the house. When Zeke first moved here he was apprehensive about being so far from civilization. But he adapted quickly to a new way of living. No cell phone, only the one small television, and an ancient laptop, which he piggybacks onto his father’s Wi-Fi connection on the rare occasion he needs to go online. Off the grid—almost. Robert and Barbara Marshall aren’t so far off the grid, owning a television, a couple of cell phones, and two computers. The cell phones work better as paperweights most of the time because of the spotty coverage in this heavily wooded section of southeastern Oklahoma.
Zeke climbs the steps of the back porch and stops in his tracks. His parents are arguing, an uncommon occurrence. They stop when Zeke pulls the squeaky screen door open. His mother glances in his direction, a blush of pink on her cheeks. His father is staring at the honey oak tabletop as if memorizing the pattern of the wood grain. The sudden silence is uncomfortable, but in his gut Zeke knows what they were arguing about even though he heard very little of the hushed conversation. Him. Zeke squares his shoulders and holds his head just a tad higher as he walks to the sink.
“Son, you really don’t need to wash the dishes,” his mother says. “I’m quite capable of doing that.”
“I know, Mom, but you cooked.” Zeke rubs the soapy rag around the same plate three times as his mind spins. Should I start a conversation about something I have no desire to talk about? No. Moments later he places the last plate into the rack next to the sink and turns to face his parents. His father still won’t meet his eyes.
“I called Ruth and told her we would be down for Thanksgiving,” his mother says. “I told her what you said about Carl and his doomsday show, and she assured me he’s no longer as fascinated by the end of the world. He’s now engrossed with gold digging in Alaska.”
“Maybe he and I can take a trip to Alaska and strike it rich,” Zeke says.
“You’d have better luck digging worms in the garden. Now get out of my hair and go to work.” His mother shoos him toward the door.
“Dad, you busy?”
“I’ll be out in a minute, son.”
Zeke reenters the shop and soon loses himself in the work. He grabs a board from the drying shed and fires up the planer to smooth its surface. The whirring blades emit a fountain of shavings as the spicy aroma of walnut fills the space. The noise of the machine cancels out all the others, including those within, until the lights suddenly flash off and the planer groans to a stop.
CHAPTER 6
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, September 29, 8:11 A.M.
Presidential Chief of Staff Scott Alexander rushes through the corridors of the West Wing on his way to the Oval Office. The secretary of commerce has just briefed him on the possibility of an imminent geomagnetic storm, after word was passed up through the ranks of NOAA. With a secret love for all things science-related, Alexander is familiar with most of the studies dealing with the effects of space weather on Earth. After his brief meeting this morning, he took a moment to reread the results of the latest computer simulation. The report more closely resembles a script for a disaster movie rather than a scientific paper.
He arrives at the secretary’s desk fronting the entrance to the Oval Office and stops for a minute to catch his breath and sort out his thoughts. He hitched his wagon to President Harris during his first run for office: a U.S. House seat left vacant after the incumbent was indicted on federal bribery charges. Paul Harris is a no-bullshit man, and the information Alexander is preparing to present could be a hard sell with the limited data available.
“Who’s in with him?” he asks Barbara, the longtime presidential secretary. She’s wearing a navy dress, refusing to wear slacks to work, and her short gray bob is, as it has been over the last twenty years, perfectly coiffed.
“The British ambassador, and they’ve been in there for some time. Do you want me to buzz the President?”
“Yes, please. And would you request the ambassador stay?”
Barbara raises her eyebrows. “You sure about that?”
“Yes, and please tell him what I have is urgent.”
Barbara buzzes the office. “Sir, Mr. Alexander would like a brief word with both you and Ambassador Nelson,” she says when the phone is answered. Scott overhears the President’s portion of the conversation. Hears the surprise and the developing anger in the President’s voice.
“Sir, he said it is very urgent.” She listens, then replaces the phone. “Go right in, Mr. Alexander.”
He takes a moment to straighten the lapels of his charcoal suit before pushing through the door to the Oval Office. A short, wiry man who always
seems to be in motion, Alexander crosses from the hardwood floor onto the custom-made carpet and shakes the proffered hand of Ambassador Nelson. He takes a seat in one of the chairs flanking the two sofas occupying one side of the famous office.
President Harris stares at him. His famous smile is nowhere to be found. “What’s this about?”
“I’m sorry for intruding, Mr. President. But we may have a developing emergency.”
The President darts his eyes toward their guest.
“I think this also concerns Great Britain,” Alexander says.
Ambassador Nelson scoots up to the edge of the sofa. “Don’t tell me the damn Iranians are threatening nuclear destruction again.”
“No, Mr. Ambassador, at least not that I know of.”
The ambassador relaxes.
“It could be much worse.” Scott pauses. “A little over three hours ago, the sun released a massive ejection of plasma that may be heading straight for Earth.”
“May be?” the President says.
“Yes, sir. We seem to be having a satellite issue preventing the scientists from accurately predicting where it may hit. But—and this is more than speculation—if this plasma storm hits, the result could be devastating to most if not all of the countries north of the equator and possibly farther south.”
President Harris clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Ambassador Nelson, would you please excuse us for a brief moment?”
The ambassador pushes his short, wide body up from the sofa and quickly exits the Oval Office.
The President stands. “What the hell, Scott? Was that necessary?”
“Mr. President, Paul, this goes beyond our borders. We need to begin preparations, and his country may be facing the same potential devastation.”
President Harris paces to the windows. He’s a big man—a former college offensive lineman who still looks as if he could suit up and play today. Except for the slight limp, the result of a nasty cut block that ruptured his ACL. He looks dapper, as always, in a dark navy suit, white shirt, and club tie. “Damn it, Scott, you just said you didn’t even know if it’s going to hit here. He’s probably out there calling the prime minister.”
