Powerless

by Tim Washburn

  Sam says loudly into the mike, “Major Garcia, did you receive the latest update?”

  “No, Sam, I don’t have anything. What is it?” she says.

  “Another large CME erupted almost five minutes ago.”

  “Is that one headed toward Earth, Dr. Blake?” President Harris says.

  “Unknown, sir. But with these coronal ejections occurring more frequently we need to act now, Mr. President,” Sam says, his voice laced with anger. “These other CMEs could arrive here much more quickly. Think of the first one as a snowplow clearing the road, sir. The following plasma storms will accelerate as they travel down the cleared path.”

  Janice Baker says, “But, Dr. Blake, you’ve said repeatedly you don’t even know if they’re heading toward us.”

  Sam addresses the President directly. “Sir, the first indications suggested they are. I wish to God I could say with one hundred percent certainty, but I can’t. I will tell you this: I believe with ninety percent certainty they are racing toward Earth. Do we want to risk everything on a ten percent difference?”

  Sam reaches for the water bottle as an eruption of voices fills his ear. Then the President’s voice drowns out all others.

  “Dr. Blake, Major Garcia, I’m going with your assumptions. I want a detailed plan to minimize the damage and I want it in thirty minutes. Get busy, people. Dr. Blake, do we have that long?”

  Samuel Blake looks at the clock on the wall. “I hope so, Mr. President.”

  “I do, too,” President Harris says before the audio connection goes dead in Sam’s ear.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Marshall home

  There have been no power surges during the past few minutes. Zeke puts the sandpaper aside and begins the process of creating another piece of usable walnut. As he turns for the drying shed, he finds his father staring at the subtle shading of the wooden top, a piece of fine-grit sandpaper dangling from his hand.

  “Are you okay, Dad?”

  His father turns away from the table, absently rubbing his left arm. “I’m fine, son. Guess I just spaced out for a moment.” He stands and lays the sandpaper aside before walking stiffly in Zeke’s direction. “I’m going to run back to the house.”

  “You feeling okay?”

  His father brushes by him without a word. Zeke follows his progress through the shop and out into the sunshine. He appears to be walking with a slight limp.

  Once his father is out of sight behind the ancient oak tree bulging onto the path from the shop to the house, Zeke grabs the walnut board and sights down the edge to check the crown. When gluing the boards edge to edge to form the table’s larger top, it’s important to alternate the crowns—the direction the grain of the wood is running—for stability. Zeke carries the piece of wood to the table saw to cut it to size. But before he can switch the saw on a scream pierces the quiet.

  He pushes the board aside and races out of the shop. Rushing up the path, he finds his father crumpled on the ground with his mother kneeling over him. Zeke slides to his knees next to his parents. His father is unconscious. The dappled sunlight casts shadows across his father’s ashen face.

  “What happened?” Zeke says as he scoots a little closer.

  “I don’t know. I was looking out the kitchen window when I saw him just collapse.” Zeke’s heart breaks at the sight of tears streaming down her cheeks.

  He reaches a hand out to his father’s neck and is shocked by the coldness of his skin. His fingers fumble for a pulse: thready but persistent.

  Zeke gets to his feet. “I’m going to call an ambulance.” He runs toward the house, wishing, for the first time since he moved down here, that he had a cell phone.

  CHAPTER 12

  The White House Situation Room

  Wednesday, September 29, 10:25 A.M.

  President Harris returns to the Situation Room and sits wearily in one of the leather chairs. The director of the National Security Agency hurries into the room and takes the seat next to the President. He leans in to whisper to the President.

  “What?” the President shouts.

  All heads turn in his direction. “When?” he says in a softer tone. President Harris sags against the back of the chair as the NSA director finishes the conversation and pulls away.

  The room is silent and the participants of the videoconference are frozen in place. The President jerks to his feet and places both palms on the table. “I was just informed—”

  The NSA director leans over to put a hand on the President’s arm. President Harris scowls and pulls his arm away.

  “I think everyone in here has the necessary clearances, Charles.”

  “Not everyone,” the NSA director says, nodding toward the front screen.

  “Well, I just cleared them. The National Security Agency’s satellite surveillance system is dead in the water.”

  A few surprised gasps.

  “That means we have no way to track what our enemies are plotting. And God knows we don’t lack for enemies. I want a detailed plan to further minimize the damage.”

  The President sits. “Dr. Blake, what the hell is going on? You do work for the Space Weather Prediction Center, don’t you?”

  Sam Blake meets the challenge head-on. “Yes, sir. I’m not going to argue semantics with you, Mr. President, but we are hindered by the lack of working instruments. I will tell you for certain that we are being hammered by solar flares stronger than any since the advent of electricity. These solar flares could play havoc—”

  “Hold up, Sam,” the President says before turning to the West Wing staffer who had materialized at his side. The young man, his suit coat buttoned and his red tie cinched tight to his throat, hands President Harris a single sheet of paper. The President puts on his reading glasses and quickly scans the contents as the room grows quiet. He lays the paper on the table, removes his reading glasses, and looks up at the monitor. “The good news continues. Most of Boston is without power. More solar flares, Sam?”

  “Yes, and all this is a precursor to the much larger main storm. What’s happening in Boston and what’s already happened at the NSA is only the tip of the iceberg. The FAA is also reporting radio interference in the northern latitudes between ground stations and aircraft.”

  President Harris turns to the director of homeland security. “Janice, what’s the plan?”

  Janice Baker’s hair looks like a bird’s nest and the wrinkled white blouse she’s wearing is decorated along the front with a coffee stain reminiscent of a Rorschach blot. Although her outward appearance is sometimes considered frumpy, she has a razor-sharp mind and the ability to adapt to rapid changes with concise, bold moves. She moves to the edge of her seat and rests her forearms on the table. “Sir, this is so far outside of our bailiwick. Tracking terrorists or stopping a terrorist threat we can do, sir, but dealing with a presumptive natural disaster is beyond our scope. That being said, working in conjunction with FEMA and the state leaders of various emergency management agencies, we have developed a response plan. I’ll defer to Director Carter for an explanation of the specifics.”

  The President scowls. “Janice, your agency is going to be responsible for many of the actions that need to be taken. I don’t want you taking a backseat.”

  She lowers her eyes. “I understand, Mr. President. We’re ready to implement our portion of the plan.”

  The large screen fills with the face of Donald Carter, director of FEMA. A black man in his late fifties, he has the fleshy face and sagging chin of a lifelong government employee. He is well respected for his compassion and intelligence throughout the various FEMA agencies scattered around the country.

  “Mr. President, we’re in contact with a majority of the nation’s power suppliers. We’ve asked them to reduce capacity to the bare minimum. They are reluctant to reduce supply below acceptable levels at the present time, but hope to phase down throughout the day. But, sir, they are expressing doubts about whether a switched-off grid is any less vulnerable.” The dir
ector pauses for a sip of water.

  “As for the airlines, we’re asking them to ground all future flights. They’re not real happy, believing it to be a temporary problem.”

  “Mr. President,” a voice says, interrupting. He glances up at the screen. “Was that you, Major Garcia?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe all flights should be grounded now. Those that are in flight should be landed at the closest available airport.”

  The director of homeland security sits up erect in her chair. “We can’t strand these passengers hundreds or thousands of miles from their destinations—”

  “Director Baker,” Major Garcia interrupts, “it’s better to be stranded than splattered all over the ground because the pilot can’t navigate or communicate.”

  President Harris holds up both hands. “Don, you’ve talked to some of the airline reps. What do you think?”

  “They’ll squeal like a stuck pig, sir. But Major Garcia might have a valid point.”

  The President mulls over the options. “Janice, tell your people to give the airlines a three-hour window. That’ll allow most of the planes to reach their destination.”

  She nods and excuses herself from the table to make the call.

  President Harris turns back to the screen. “Don, what other good news do you have?”

  “Communications are going to be a major problem, sir. There is a high probability that a majority of the satellites are vulnerable, just as has already happened with the NSA. There may not be a bird left in orbit, sir.

  “In conjunction with the National Emergency Management Association, we’re trying to develop other lines of communication via high-frequency radio or some other type of system. I just completed a reread of the latest computer models of what might happen with such a large solar storm, and, sir, the outlook is dismal.”

  “ ‘Dismal’ doesn’t accurately describe it, Don. Dr. Blake, Major Garcia—any way to narrow the timeline for arrival of the main storm?”

  “It’s just guesswork, sir,” Major Garcia says, “but I do think the seventeen-hour scenario is too generous.”

  “What’s your estimate?”

  She blots the sweat from her face. “Ten, maybe twelve hours.”

  “Christ, a few hours to prepare for an event we have no conception of,” the President mutters, but he’s overheard by everyone. “Dr. Blake, you seem well versed on what the effects of the storm might be. Explain what might happen to our power grids.”

  Sam Blake’s face fills the screen. “It’s not what might happen, sir, it’s what will happen. The geomagnetic storm will produce power spikes—enormous amperage—that will basically melt the transformers. The longer the length of the high-voltage lines, the more vulnerable we are. Unfortunately, our country has thousands and thousands of miles of high-voltage wire.”

  “Why can’t we just replace the transformers and resume electrical service?”

  “I’m not an expert on electrical power, Mr. President, but from the reading I’ve done, there may only be a few extra transformers in the whole country. We’re talking huge, expensive, and complicated equipment. It takes anywhere from fifteen months or longer to manufacture just one. Not only that, but just transporting the massive devices is a long-term process. Increase that one to hundreds or even thousands, and it would take years to rebuild the electrical infrastructure.”

  The President turns his attention to the FEMA director. “Don, why don’t the electrical companies maintain a supply of these transformers?”

  “We’ll need to ask them, sir, but I believe the issue is economics. As Dr. Blake said, these transformers are extremely expensive, and unfortunately our grid is so diverse most of the parts aren’t interchangeable between systems.”

  “What if we force the power companies to switch off all power, at least until the worst of the storm passes?”

  The secretary of commerce says, “Mr. President, even the loss of a few hours of electrical power would cause the loss of billions of dollars to our economy.”

  “If that’s the toll for a few hours, Ed, what do you think the economic impact will be after a year or more without electricity?” the President snaps.

  “Sir, if I may,” Major Garcia says. “As Director Carter said, the electrical companies have already suggested a switched-off system may be no less vulnerable, but I would err on the side of caution and force them to hit the off switch. But I believe, regardless of the effects on the electrical grid, our primary focus should be activating the National Guard. We’re looking at chaos on an unimaginable scale.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Aura Hydroelectric Power Station

  Sunndalsøra, Møre og Romsdal, Norway

  Wednesday, September 29, 10:37 A.M.

  Hard against the southern shore of the Sunndal fjord in northwest Norway lies one of the country’s most advanced hydroelectric plants. A majority of Norway’s power is generated by water, and most of the power plants are dug in along the coastline of the Norwegian Sea. Their distance from the more habitable southern portions of the country results in the need for long runs of high-voltage electrical lines to reach the more populous areas.

  Engineers Lise Brekken and Baldor Amundsen are a couple of hours into their shift manning the minimalist control room of the massive power-generating plant when a flurry of alarms begins blaring. Lise, thirty-two, is a tall and athletic woman who has the Nordic features of her ancestors—well-defined facial structures with a square jaw, icy blue eyes, and long blond hair twisted into a ponytail. Her face tightens with concern.

  “What the hell?” Baldor shouts over the noise. Lise glances at him and shrugs. She turns her focus to the keyboard in front of her, searching for the source of the alarms. Baldor, whose hairline only stopped receding when it ran out of real estate, picks up the phone to notify the plant director, then joins in the search on his own computer.

  There had been an occasional alarm during their tenure, especially during periods of increased solar activity, but nothing like this.

  They both glance up when their boss bursts through the door. Alrek Dahlmen, a short man who is nearly as tall as he is wide, hurries to where the two engineers are sitting and looks over their shoulders as the alarms continue.

  “Shut it down,” he shouts. “Shut everything down.”

  “But, sir, that will leave most of Oslo without power,” Baldor says.

  “Shut the damn thing down, or Oslo will be without power for the next year.”

  Lise and Baldor begin the process of shutting down the massive generators, but the three main generators stop suddenly of their own accord. The control room goes dark until the battery-powered emergency lighting flashes on. All of the computer screens flicker and go black as the alarms stop. The three of them stare at the dark monitors.

  “What the hell happened?” Dahlmen says.

  “We don’t know. The instruments recorded several power spikes before the alarms started going berserk,” Lise says.

  Alrek, notorious for his disdain for women in the workplace, dismisses her comment and turns to Baldor. “Explain, please.”

  “I can’t, sir. It’s like Lise said. Everything was fine until it wasn’t.”

  Dahlmen plants a fisted hand on his hip. “How severe were the power spikes?”

  “On the edge of acceptable limits, but nothing we haven’t seen before, sir.”

  Dahlmen turns to leave. “I want a full report, and I want it now,” he shouts over his shoulder as he exits the control room.

  Lise and Baldor stare at each other in the dimness of the dead control room.

  “What the hell are we supposed to put in the report he demands?” Baldor says.

  Lise sighs. “Better yet, how the hell are we going to produce a report? Every computer in the building is dead.” Lise turns to Baldor. “How long do you think we’ll be without power?”

  CHAPTER 14

  The Marshall home

  Zeke slams the phone down and starts fumbling through the medicine
cabinet above the stove. His hand lights on a bottle of aspirin and he yanks it from the cabinet as several other medications rain to the floor. He grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and hurries out the door, Lexi running alongside. The beauty of the day goes unnoticed this time as he runs down the path and kneels next to his mother.

  “Has he said anything?” Zeke works to pry the cap off the aspirin bottle.

  “He moaned a couple of times, but I don’t think he’s awake. What’s wrong with him, Zeke?”

  “I don’t know. Has he had any health problems lately?” He finally gets the lid free and dumps three aspirin into his sweaty palm.

  “No, but you know how your father is. I’m not sure he’d tell me if he was having any symptoms. He’s so dadgum stubborn sometimes.”

  “Mom, open his mouth so I can slip some aspirin in.”

  She lifts her husband’s head and pries his mouth open. Zeke slides the three aspirin inside. He gently places the water bottle to his father’s mouth and dribbles enough water in to begin dissolving the pills.

  “Why the aspirin, son?”

  Zeke fiddles with the cap to the water bottle. Then he covers his mother’s hand with his own and turns to face her. “Aspirin will help to thin his blood if he’s had a stroke or a heart attack.”

  His mother moans and looks away. Zeke checks his father’s pulse again, and it might be wishful thinking, but his pulse seems stronger. He wipes the sweat from his father’s brow. In the distance, the sound of an approaching siren.

  “Mom, stay with him. I’m gonna meet the ambulance.” She glances up as he stands. “It’s going to be okay, Mom.”

  Now if he only had the same reassurance for himself. The siren sounds closer as he reaches the middle of the gravel driveway. Hurry, goddammit!

  The sun beats down as Zeke strains, searching for the ambulance. He is not a religious man, not after everything that he had witnessed, but he looks up at the cobalt blue sky and offers a brief, silent something to whomever or whatever might be listening. Then he sees the ambulance, a little more than a quarter mile away, and releases the breath he had unconsciously been holding.