by Tim Washburn
“Sir, they’ll just have to—”
The intercom buzzes and the President punches the button. “Yes, Barbara?”
“Sir, Director Carter on line one.”
The President puts the call on speakerphone. “Don, I’m with Janice and Scott. All right if I leave it on speaker?”
“That’s fine, Mr. President. They probably need to know what’s happening. And it’s not good, sir. The New Orleans area has had three days of heavy rain. Enough rain that Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River are near their flood stage.”
President Harris leans closer to the phone, resting his elbows on the desk. “Don’t tell me all the new pumps the Corps of Engineers put in aren’t keeping up with all that water.”
“Well, that’s the problem, sir. About half of them seized up when a power surge of some sort hit the system.”
“What are you saying, Don? They don’t have enough pumps?”
“No, sir. They’re working like crazy to replace what they can, but . . .”
President Harris wipes his brow. “How bad is it going to get, Don?”
A pause on the other end of the line. “If it continues to rain, some parts of the city will experience Katrina-like devastation.”
CHAPTER 19
Durant, Oklahoma
When the ambulance doors slam shut, Zeke darts back into the house to grab the keys to his father’s pickup. After locking up, he steps outside and whistles for Lexi. She races around the side of the house as Zeke opens the door to the pickup. Lexi jumps aboard and he slides behind the wheel. The engine rumbles to life and he slams on the accelerator, leaving a trail of gravel and dust swirling behind them.
Zeke whips the pickup into the short driveway to his home and jumps from the cab. Lexi follows and enters the house when Zeke swings the door open. He tries to explain to her that he’ll be back soon and gives her tummy a quick rub. He locks the door and hurries back to the pickup. After a quick U-turn he steers the truck onto the roadway. The two homes are located a couple of miles south of the main highway leading into Durant. Zeke white-knuckles the wheel as he steers around the larger potholes and shudders over the washboard sections where the asphalt and gravel have given way.
At the highway, he turns east and gooses the pickup up to seventy, hoping like hell a farmer on a tractor doesn’t pull out in front of him. He focuses on his mother and the uncertainty of his father’s health. The worry etched on her face as the ambulance doors closed gnaws on Zeke.
On the outskirts of town, he eases off the gas and slaps his thigh—Ruth needs to know what’s happening. For the second time in one day he wishes he hadn’t turned his back on technology. Zeke makes a left on Route 69 near downtown and drives toward the hospital.
Durant is a small town, home to a little over fifteen thousand people. But it’s the hub of southeastern Oklahoma and home to the largest hospital in the region. He turns off at the hospital exit and slots the pickup in the first available parking spot. The lot is jammed with farm trucks of every size, many with hay spears pointing toward the heavens. Most are covered in a thick layer of gravel dust with slashes of red mud along the fenders. Zeke locks the truck and runs toward the emergency room entrance.
The automatic doors part and he follows the signs to the waiting room, where he finds his mother slumped in a chair. He takes a seat next to her and wraps an arm around her narrow shoulders.
“Do we know anything yet?” he whispers in her ear.
“No. They wheeled him into the emergency room as soon as we arrived.” Her tears have ended, leaving a salty residue on her cheeks.
“Did he say anything in the ambulance?”
She shakes her head.
“Do you want me to call Ruth?” Zeke says.
“Not until we know something. The kids are in school and I don’t want her thinking she needs to rush up here. I think it would be best if we had something more to tell her, don’t you?”
“You’re probably right.” Zeke turns his gaze away from the hurt in her pale green eyes. They sit in silence.
The lights in the waiting room flicker and flash off, only to re-illuminate a moment later.
“That’s strange,” Zeke says.
“What’s that, son?”
“The lights. When Dad and I were working in the shop the lights flickered on and off a couple of times. We thought the issue was isolated to our area—”
“Marshall family?” a tall black nurse says, using the heel of her tennis shoe to hold open the door. She’s dressed in purple scrubs with a stethoscope hanging around her neck.
Zeke waves, then takes his mother by the elbow to help her up from the chair and leads her across the lobby.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you back to the ICU,” the nurse says.
They fall in behind her as she ushers them down the hall.
“What happened to my father?” Zeke asks.
“The doctor will explain, but I will tell you Mr. Marshall suffered a heart attack.”
Barbara Marshall inhales an audible breath. Zeke slides his arm around her.
The hallway is lit with green-tinged fluorescent lights that reflect on the polished linoleum. As they shuffle past other patients’ rooms, Zeke resists the urge to peek inside. The nurse stops at a door and ushers them into the room.
Zeke pulls up short, struggling to contain his shock at the number of tubes and wires snaking toward his father. His father is awake and smiles weakly. His mother shrugs off Zeke’s arm and moves to his bedside.
Zeke turns to find another man in the room. Dark haired with dark skin, the man is in his midthirties, short and diminutive, with a white coat draped over his narrow shoulders. Zeke offers his hand.
“I’m Dr. Ahmed, and I’ll be taking care of your father.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Zeke works to conceal his surprise. In Afghanistan, and all through the desert, he met many Ahmeds. And most weren’t pleasant encounters. The doctor’s name, along with the familiar accent, puts Zeke on edge. “I’m Zeke Marshall and that’s my mother, Barbara. Thanks for looking after my dad. Can you explain what happened?”
“Mr. Marshall has suffered a myocardial infarction, a heart attack. We are monitoring his heart through the use of an ECG machine, which measures the heart’s electrical activity—”
“How bad was the heart attack?”
Anger flickers in the doctor’s eyes. “I’m waiting for the blood work, which should be completed anytime. But, from looking at the ECG, I believe your father is a lucky man, having suffered a non–ST segment elevation myocardial infarction—”
“In English, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir. May I continue?”
Zeke nods.
“As I was saying, not that any heart attack is good, mind you, but this type does less damage to the heart muscle.”
“What could have caused the heart attack?” Zeke asks.
“A blockage in the arteries leading to the heart muscle. I administered a thrombolysis immediately upon his arrival to the emergency room. It is a clot-dissolving agent which helps restore blood flow and prevent further damage to the heart.”
Zeke says, “So what’s next? How do we treat the blockage?”
“Once your father is stabilized, I will send him for an arteriogram to discover how much blockage and in which coronary arteries. The doctors upstairs will be able to reduce the blockage using angioplasty and insertion of stents that will keep the arteries open.”
“When are you scheduling the test?” Zeke says.
“Hopefully later this evening, if he has no more unusual ECG readings. I’ll be back soon to check on your father while the nurses schedule the arteriogram.” The doctor turns toward the door, then stops and turns back. “I understand you administered aspirin to your father at the scene.”
Zeke nods.
“Probably saved his life,” Ahmed says before exiting the room.
Zeke steps up to his father’s bedside, not
knowing how to express his feelings without it being awkward. “So much for all the jogging you used to do.”
CHAPTER 20
TransJet Flight 62, south of Greenland
Wednesday, September 29, 11:45 A.M.
Captain Steve Henderson wipes the palm of his hand across his pant leg. Flight 62 is still some distance from landfall on the coast of Ireland. His copilot, Cheryl Wilson, is slowly dialing through the radio frequencies in search of a human voice. The loss of the autopilot has the captain glued to his instruments, trying to maintain a consistent speed and altitude. They’re forced to navigate by compass and map, something neither has done since they were flying Cessna 172s back in high school.
“Holding altitude and speed are fine, Steve, but what are we going to do when we begin the landing process?” Wilson says.
The captain looks away from the instruments long enough to see the fear on her face. Cheryl Wilson looks younger than she is, with black hair streaked blond and cut in an even line just above the shoulders. “Pray, I guess. Other than that, we can only hope the home office is aware of our loss of radio contact and navigation abilities, and is working to establish communications with us on landfall.”
“What if they can’t?”
Henderson sighs. “You’re killing me with all these questions, Cheryl. All I can do is drive the damn plane.” He glances at the altimeter again. The air corridor they are flying is the main flight path for flights between Europe and the United States, often with jumbo jets within just a few thousand feet of one another. He turns back to his copilot. “Look, I’m sorry, babe. I’m a little stressed at the moment.”
Cheryl says, “What if we detour north and put it down in Reykjavik?”
“What if every other plane in transit has the same idea? Without radio communications or any way to navigate, that would turn into a clusterfuck. I think our best course of action is to continue on to the UK and hope we can reestablish radio contact.”
Cheryl turns away to stare out the windscreen.
“Listen, Cheryl, we need to work together on this.”
Cheryl nods and reaches over the console to rub his shoulder. “Should we inform the flight attendants about the situation?”
“Hell no.”
Cheryl yanks her hand back. “Why not? You don’t think they have a right to know what’s happening?”
“Not until we know what the hell’s happening. The last thing we need is an airplane full of distressed passengers.”
She shakes her head and looks away.
Steve turns back to the instruments, thinking: the last thing we need is a lovers’ quarrel in the cockpit of a plane flying blind.
CHAPTER 21
The Oval Office
Wednesday, September 29, 11:55 A.M.
All thoughts of an address to the nation are put on hold as the President and his advisors work the phones in search of a solution to the impending disaster in New Orleans. The entry to the Oval Office is a revolving door with people streaming in and out, but no one has come up with a viable alternative. If it were just an electricity issue they could use generators to power the pumps, but the motors themselves are shot. In between calls, President Harris keeps a close eye on the television where the coverage of the collision at the Seattle airport continues.
The President hangs up the phone and looks over at his chief of staff. “This is just the beginning.”
Scott nods. “We’re doing everything that can be done.”
The President lowers his voice. “We’re fucked, Scott. Hell, we can’t even help one small area of the country. What’s going to happen when the entire nation is without power?”
“What are we going to do to stop it? We can’t. We’ll just have to do the best we can.”
One of the staffers turns up the volume on the television. The CNN reporter is speaking. “Susan, we’ve learned that the two aircraft involved were 737-600s, each capable of carrying a hundred and thirty-two passengers along with five crewmembers. No word yet on the number of injured, and firefighters are still trying to contain the fires that continue to rage from spilled jet fuel. We’ve just received word that all flights are now grounded. No reason was given for the grounding, but one would think the disruption in radio communications, such as happened here, may be the overriding reason. I have called numerous sources but . . .”
Amy Whitworth, the chief speechwriter, hurries into the office and approaches the desk. Her blond hair is pulled up in a ponytail and most of her fingers are stained with blue ink. She slides a sheaf of papers across the desk. “Mr. President, this is the latest draft. But to be honest, sir, I don’t know what to write that won’t cause nationwide panic.”
President Harris riffles the pages with his thumb. “It’s impossible. That’s why I’m thinking about not delivering a speech at all.”
“But, sir, don’t you think that would be irresponsible?”
The President waves a hand at the vacant chair. “Amy, have a seat for a minute.”
She tucks her dress under her legs sits.
“How old are you? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?” the President asks.
“I’m twenty-nine, sir.”
President Harris crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Let me ask you a what-if question. What would you do if I told you that the power was going to go out for months, maybe years?”
“Well, sir, I’d go get as much water and food as I could. Then, I’d go to the bank and withdraw all of my money. After that, I’d fill up my car with gas and get out of the city.”
“Exactly. And your fellow three hundred million citizens will be trying to do the same thing.”
Amy twirls a stray strand of hair around her finger. “But, sir, don’t you think they have a right to know?”
“That’s the ethical question I’m dealing with. Thank you for all of your work.”
Amy takes that as her cue to leave. As she exits the office, the intercom on the desk buzzes. “Mr. President, Admiral Hickerson on line three.”
The President hesitates, his hand hovering above the handset. “What do you think the grumpy old bastard wants?”
“Hell if I know,” Alexander says, running his finger around the collar of his shirt to loosen it. At five-eight, he wears the same shirt size he wore in college.
Admiral Hickerson, the grandson of a famous World War II admiral, does not lack in ego. He tends to be somewhat disdainful of political presidents, believing they’ll be around at most eight years, whereas he has devoted his life to his country. The President plucks up the handset.
“Mr. President,” the deep voice says, “I’m getting a lot of blowback on activating the National Guard, sir.”
“What kind of blowback, Admiral?”
“Well, sir, no one is privy to the information we possess and many are questioning the reasons for the activation.”
“The reason, Admiral, is because I ordered it. Does there have to be more?”
“No, sir, I don’t suppose there does. But what would you like them to do, sir?”
“Admiral, I don’t care if they stand around scratching their asses. I want them ready to go when this shit storm hits.”
CHAPTER 22
Durant
Some of the color has returned to Robert Marshall’s cheeks. He lies in the hospital bed, an IV above his head dripping fluid into his body. His color isn’t back to normal, but at least it’s now a couple shades darker than the white sheets that surround him. He even feels well enough to carry on a conversation, which Zeke mostly ignores, as his mother and father speak in softened tones.
Zeke paces four steps forward before turning and pacing back along the windowed wall overlooking the corridor. The odors, the subdued lighting, the beeping of the equipment, the constant stream of nurses in and out of the room, the squeaky-clean floors—all a reminder of a time he would rather blot from his memory forever.
“Do you want me to call Ruth?” Zeke says.
His mother turns in his di
rection. “Why don’t we wait until we have the results of the test, first.”
“But I would want to know if I were her, Mom.”
“I know, son, but she has to care for her fam—” The words die in her throat as her cheeks turn a deep crimson.
“You can say it, Mom. Family. It’s been three years. I know she has a family, but I still think she would want to know,” Zeke says.
“Zeke, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Zeke steps toward the door and, without turning to look at his parents, says, “I’m going to walk for a few minutes.”
He wanders down the hallway, with no specific place in mind, just to gain a little distance from his parents.
After the IED exploded beneath our Humvee chaos reigned inside. Through the smoky haze, the screams of my friends were loud enough to penetrate my near deafness from the explosion. The smell of cordite and singed flesh was overpowering. Someone, most likely the soldiers in the following vehicle, pried open the doors and the heavy smoke cleared. The bright beams of several flashlights washed over the interior and I knew immediately that two of my squad members were dead. There was blood everywhere.
Someone grabbed me by the arm and dragged me outside. Pain—all I felt was mind-numbing pain. Someone jabbed a needle into my arm and the morphine coursed through my body, taking the edge off. I must have passed out. My next memory was being loaded into a rescue helicopter. Above, the blades cut through the dark night.
I remained at the base hospital for two weeks. Shrapnel wounds covered my lower body, and my shoulder, which was hit with a large piece of flying debris, looked like hamburger. But I was alive. If I had been riding on the other side of the Humvee, I’d have been dead. At the start of the third week one of the doctors informed me I was being transferred to the VA hospital in Oklahoma City.
