by Tim Washburn
He squats to wrap his arms around Lexi and rake his fingers through her thick, curly coat as tears wet her fur. She licks his face and he hugs her tighter. This is not the first time he’s waited helplessly for the arrival of an ambulance. He stands as it turns into the drive and the siren dies in mid-whoop.
Two paramedics jump out, one male, one female. Both are young and athletic and they begin grabbing medical equipment from a side compartment of the ambulance.
Zeke steps up close. “We’re going to need the stretcher.” The woman yanks open the back door and tugs the stretcher from the clamps on the floor.
“Can you explain what happened?” she says. Ramirez, according to the name tag pinned to her white uniform shirt. Petite and dark haired. She loads medical supplies onto the gurney.
“My mom saw him collapse as he was walking up the path in the backyard,” Zeke says. “I checked his pulse—it’s weak but it seemed to be regular. I also gave him three aspirin as soon as I could.”
“You did good,” she says. “Can you fill me in on his medical history as you lead the way?” Zeke grabs the front of the gurney and begins pulling it around the side of the house. He recites what little he knows of his father’s health history.
The gurney bounces over several exposed tree roots as they round the house and make their way down the path. The other paramedic, a white guy named Dotson, according to his name tag, appears to spend all of his off time at the gym and seems content to allow his partner to ask all the questions. Zeke’s mother stands to allow the man room to operate. He sinks to his knees and begins reaching for equipment from the bags with one hand while his other feels for a pulse at the neck. With a pair of heavy scissors, the man snips the length of Robert Marshall’s T-shirt and begins attaching a series of leads to his chest.
Ramirez grabs a blood pressure cuff from one bag, whips the gray band around Robert’s thin arm, and inflates the cuff. She one-hands a stethoscope into her ears and places the business end next to the cuff. A hiss of air escapes as she gradually deflates the blood pressure monitor. “Ninety over sixty,” she says to her partner as she reaches for a bag of IV fluids.
Zeke can’t tell from her tone if that’s bad or good, but he doesn’t want to interrupt them to ask. She swabs his father’s other arm with an astringent antiseptic and begins searching for a vein, finding one near his elbow after several flicks of her middle finger. She plunges the large needle into his arm and attaches the line from the IV bag, handing it up for Zeke to hold.
“Let’s get him on the stretcher,” Dotson says as his eyes focus on a monitor where a steady stream of green-lined peaks and valleys traces across the screen. Zeke hands the IV bag to his mother and kneels down to help the paramedics maneuver his father. He’s somewhat surprised at how light his father is. He was never a large man, but Zeke never considered him fragile until his arms reach under his upper body. Together, he and Dotson lift him onto the gurney.
Ramirez pushes a lever with her foot and all three pull on the top rail of the stretcher. Zeke glances down and is surprised to discover his father’s eyes open. He leans over and kisses his forehead. “You collapsed in the yard. You’re on the way to the hospital.”
It’s hard to tell how much he understands, but he nods weakly. The three push the stretcher up the slight incline of the path and back around the house. Zeke looks back to see his mother shuffling up the trail, her head down and her shoulders stooped.
“C’mon, Mom,” he says. “You ride with him in the ambulance and I’ll grab the pickup and follow.” She catches up to them as one of the paramedics swings the rear doors open.
CHAPTER 15
The White House Situation Room
Wednesday, September 29, 10:56 A.M.
President Harris is doing his best to block out the ongoing conversations while his mind spins through numerous scenarios—none of them good. Cut off power to millions of people on a hunch? Force all planes to ground, stranding thousands of people hundreds of miles from their destination? Announce to the nation that our modern life is about to be thrust back to the Dark Ages?
The President is stirred from his thoughts when several loud gasps replace the chatter. He glances up to see several hands pointed toward one of the television screens tucked into the front corner of the room. “What is it?” President Harris stands and works his way around the table toward the television. A large banner is superimposed on the bottom of the screen: “Fiery Crash in Seattle.” “Oh my God,” he mutters. “We need sound,” he shouts to the room.
A switch, somewhere deep in the recesses of the Situation Room, is thrown and the voice of the CNN reporter floods the room. “Authorities say all radio communications were lost as one aircraft was landing and the other was taxiing onto the runway for takeoff. Both jets collided and instantly broke into flames. No word yet on which airlines or what flights or even the type of aircraft involved. Also, there has been no official word on the number of casualties, but I would think they would be numerous. This is Ron Bloom reporting live in Seattle. Now back to . . .”
The sound fades, leaving the conference room quiet as a tomb. President Harris paces the length of the room. He stops near the rear and pauses before turning to face his advisors. “I want all flights grounded this minute. I also want all power grids switched off within the next thirty minutes. Stop all trains, whether they are powered by the electrical grid or not. If we can’t communicate with them we’ll have a dozen more disasters on our hands. Have those in charge begin shutting down all nuclear facilities. Admiral Hickerson, activate the National Guard in every state. I don’t care how much heat we take over this decision. We have to do what’s best for the country. I want updates every thirty minutes. My staff will draft a statement and I will address the nation as soon as possible.”
The President exits the Situation Room and everyone starts to talk at once. Scott Alexander is at the President’s elbow as they walk toward the staircase leading to the first floor. “Mr. President . . . should we be concerned about the panic your address to the nation could cause?”
The President ignores the question as they make their way up the stairs and through the maze of hallways that make up the West Wing.
In the Oval Office the President collapses into the chair behind his desk. Alexander takes a seat in one of the flanking chairs. President Harris swivels to look at the sun streaming through the windows. It’s a beautiful fall day in the nation’s capital.
The President rakes his hands through his hair and speaks without turning to face his old friend. “What the hell are we supposed to do, Scott?”
“We’re doing everything that can possibly be done, sir.” Alexander pauses as he tries to frame the words for his next statement. “We should think about moving you to the bunker.”
The President swivels around in his chair. “I will do no such thing, Scott. And I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about it.”
“Yes, sir . . . but, Paul, we’ve been friends for most of our adult lives and I know how stubborn you can be. At the very minimum, we should start preparations for a move in that direction in the coming days.”
President Harris gives Alexander a withering look. “We need to work on what I’m going to tell the nation, Scott. That’s our focus right now. How the hell do I tell the people that life as they know it is going to disappear and the strongest nation on earth can’t do a damn thing about it?”
CHAPTER 16
TransJet Flight 62, south of Newfoundland
Wednesday, September 29, 10:59 A.M.
TransJet Flight 62 is off the coast of southern Newfoundland destined for Paris after departing from Dallas. The Boeing 747-700 is on autopilot, cruising at 33,000 feet at a speed of 460 knots. Captain Steve Henderson has flown this route enough times to do it with his eyes closed. He turns to his copilot, and current lover, Cheryl Wilson. He removes his headset and motions for her to do the same.
“How about a romantic dinner in Paris?”
C
heryl rolls her eyes. “How many romantic dinners have we had in Paris? I’m more interested in a nice, private room-service dinner.”
He frowns.
“In the nude?” she says.
He smiles. “I think I like that idea better.”
Both in their midforties, they’ve been paired up in the cockpit for the last eight months. Each of them is recently divorced, he for the first time and she for the second. Both ex-spouses had voiced the same complaint—too much time away from home.
Without warning, an intense light flashes through the cockpit, momentarily blinding them. At the exact moment of the flash, the autopilot disengages and the aircraft decelerates. They both quickly clap on their headsets.
“What the hell was that?” the captain says as he wrestles with the controls, trying to maintain airspeed and altitude.
“I don’t know.”
He reaches over to toggle a series of switches. “Autopilot will not reengage.”
Both scan the instruments searching for any indications of damage to the critical components of the plane. Cheryl toggles the radio button on the wheel to talk with Steve but finds dead air. Frustrated, she yanks off her headset. “What’s wrong with the radio?”
He pulls his headset off. “I don’t know, but the autopilot won’t reset. The satellites can’t seem to get a fix on our position.”
“Could’ve been a solar flare. There’s supposed to be increased solar activity, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Me, either. Think it had some effect on satellite tracking and communications?”
“It may have. Try the radio again.”
He clamps the headset on and punches the radio button on the wheel. “Gander Center, TransJet Flight 62.”
Static.
“Gander Center . . . TransJet Flight 62. Please acknowledge.”
Gander Center is Newfoundland’s air traffic control for all transcontinental flights flying the busy air corridor.
Steve pulls the mike away from his lips. “Cheryl, check to see if you have a cell signal.”
“In the middle of the ocean?”
“Just check. We need some way to communicate.”
She pulls her phone from the side pocket and lights the screen. “Nothing.”
“What the hell is going on?” Steve stabs at the button on the radio, scanning through all available frequencies.
“Anything?”
Steve shakes his head and looks at his copilot. “We’re screwed. We’re flying blind in one of the busiest flight corridors in the world.”
CHAPTER 17
NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center
Wednesday, September 29, 11:08 A.M.
Sam turns his chair to the window and stares at the sun-painted peaks of the Rocky Mountains. White patches from an early season snowfall glint in the midmorning sun.
Without turning in Kaylee’s direction he says, “Where’s your family?”
“New York.”
“Manhattan?”
“Yeah. And my brother’s at Stanford.”
“Do you have any relatives living outside the city?” Sam’s voice has taken on a soft tone.
“I have an aunt and uncle in Wisconsin. My mother’s sister.”
“You should probably call your parents and tell them to start making their way to Wisconsin, Kaylee. I don’t think they want to be in New York City when the power goes out.” He turns to face her. “Tell them what’s happening, and tell them to hurry. I don’t know if your brother will have time to fly to Wisconsin, but you need to call him, too.”
“What about your family, Sam?”
“My ex-wife and two girls are in Southern California. A sister in Missouri. My sister should be okay where she is, but I’m going to call the ex and tell her to head up to the cabin her parents own in the mountains.” He removes his glasses, rubbing the pinch points on his nose. “There’s a well and a generator. At least I can tell them to stock up on gasoline. Once the fuel’s exhausted, there’s a mountain stream near the cabin.”
“What are we going to do, Sam?”
He pulls out his wallet and thumbs through a stack of credit cards. He works the gold Amex from its slot and slides it across to Kaylee. “Have Daniel grab a couple of people and go shopping. Tell them to buy as many gas containers as they can and fill them to run the generator on-site. Tell him to purchase as much water and canned food items as he can. Spread the purchases around. Have them take the big panel truck parked out back.”
“Worried about raising a few eyebrows?” Kaylee says.
“Maybe. The panic will start when the President delivers his address to the nation.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“Hopefully pretty quick. I don’t think we have much time.”
Kaylee takes the credit card and leaves the room. Sam pulls his cell phone from his pocket and turns again to face the mountains. When he looks at the screen he’s somewhat surprised to find he still has cell service. He scrolls through his contacts and winces at all the names. He stops on his ex-wife’s name and punches the call link.
They divorced almost five years ago, and the reasons why still elude him. Grown apart was her excuse. His two children—Abby, now fifteen, and Gracie, thirteen—had the unfortunate experience of suffering through their parents’ divorce. Over the years, both Teresa and Sam have mellowed enough to be civil to each other. The kids spend the summers with Sam, and one weekend a month he flies to Southern California.
“Hello, Sam,” his ex-wife says in her raspy voice. Neither of them has remarried but the children recently told him their mother is now dating one man steadily.
“Hi, Teresa. I wish I were calling with better news . . .”
CHAPTER 18
The White House, the Oval Office
Wednesday, September 29, 11:42 A.M.
President Harris, his sleeves rolled up and his yellow tie loosened, sits behind his desk as a steady stream of advisors moves in and out of the Oval Office as if it had a revolving door. Everyone is attempting to carry on business as usual. Scott Alexander sits on one of the two muted-yellow sofas filling one side of the office, listening. Between guests, the President will sometimes ask his opinion, but otherwise he remains a spectator. He glances down at the thick sheaf of papers resting in his lap and riffles the pages with his thumb. Enlil is the name given to the latest computer simulation. Alexander has read the report from cover to cover—twice—coming away with the same impression each time: we’re in deep shit.
He stands, tosses the report on the coffee table, and wanders around the room, trying to bleed off nervous energy. The President’s chief speechwriter hurries into the room again, trying to craft the perfect statement without creating worldwide panic. What’s the point? Alexander thinks as he stops near the window overlooking the Rose Garden. He turns away and continues prowling.
During a lull, Alexander approaches the desk and sits in one of the flanking chairs. President Harris glances up with a perturbed look on his face, “Nothing to do, Scott?”
“No, there’s plenty to do, I guess, but I don’t think strong-arming a senator over a piece of legislation is relevant now.”
President Harris tosses his pen on the desk and leans back in his chair. “Listen, Scott, we don’t know what the hell is going to happen, but we need to continue working. There’s still going to be a government—even if we have to work by candlelight. Regardless of the doomsday prophets, this won’t be the end of the world. Will it be hard? Damn right. Will people suffer? Yes, they will, but we can overcome, Scott. We have to—it’s the only choice we have.”
“I’m more concerned, sir, with the immediate effects of your address to the nation. How the hell are we going to control the reactions of the people? There will be looting, hoarding, and killing from the get-go.”
“What are you suggesting, Scott? That we allow the people to remain blissfully unaware until the moment the storm hits? That’s goddamn irresponsible.”
&n
bsp; Scott doesn’t answer as the President stews over his statements. Then, in almost a whisper he says, “Maybe we should. What’s to be gained by telling them in advance? A few gallons of gasoline? A few containers of water, which will go to the first ten or fifteen people in the store? Then what? We might be better off waiting until the playing field is level and no one has electricity.”
The President stands and walks to the large windows.
Scott doesn’t press the issue. While the President stews, he reads, again, the inscription woven into the perimeter of the custom-made carpet: The welfare of each of us is dependent fundamentally upon the welfare of all of us, a quote from Teddy Roosevelt.
President Harris turns from the windows and begins to pace, the limp more evident. The silent reflection is interrupted when Janice Baker enters.
“I’m sorry for intruding, Mr. President, but I wanted to bring you the latest issue we’re facing.” She walks to the front of the desk as President Harris collapses onto his chair.
“What is it, Janice?”
“Sir, we issued the order to ground all flights but some of the transcontinental flights, especially those flying longer routes, never received word.”
The President leans forward in his chair. “Are you saying we still have planes in the air with no way to communicate? Or to navigate?”
“Yes, sir. The FAA is trying to establish contact via high-frequency radio, but no one knows if it will work. If so, they’ll try to land the planes at the closest available airport.”
“Christ, I should have listened to Dr. Blake.”
“Sir, most of these pilots could fly their routes blindfolded, they do it so often.”
“They could when they had radios and navigation. Landing those planes could turn into a disaster in a heartbeat.” He points toward the television screen, where continuing coverage of the collision at the Seattle airport plays in silence. “Hell, those planes were flying short hops and look what happened.”
