Powerless

by Tim Washburn

  “Okay, Mr. Marshall, we’re going to wheel you into the cath room. You’ll be given a mild sedative and the doctor will numb up your groin area before making a small incision. Then he’ll thread the catheter up your femoral artery to your heart. Using a fluoroscope and a contrasting dye inserted through your IV, the doctor will be able to pinpoint the blockages. Then he’ll place a metal stent into your coronary arteries to improve blood flow. Are you ready?”

  “Do I have a choice?” he says.

  The question goes unanswered as the nurse wheels him across the hall into a room where the lights are dimmed. They transfer him to another, firmer bed and wheel the empty gurney out of the room. Someone pushes a needle into the port on his IV line and he becomes sleepy, until he feels a sharp stick very near his manhood.

  “Mr. Marshall, we’re going to start the procedure.” His groin goes numb, and he feels the pressure of the insertion, but no pain. He nods off as the catheter is slowly fed up his artery.

  As the head of the catheter nears his heart, the room is plunged into darkness.

  “Everyone freeze!” the doctor shouts. “I don’t want to rip open a coronary artery because I can’t see where the damn cath is.”

  They wait for the automatic generator to power on. The doctor holds his gloved hands a good distance from the device tickling the edges of Robert Marshall’s heart.

  “What happened?” A nurse says.

  “Don’t know, but it couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” the doctor says.

  The darkness is profound, and the only disruption to the silence is Robert Marshall’s steady breathing. After a few minutes, the lights come on, but they have to wait a few more moments for all the hardware to reboot.

  Once they’re up and functioning, the doctor shakes out his hands before grasping the device. “Let’s get this over as quickly as possible.”

  Downstairs, Zeke and his mother are sitting in the waiting room when the lights go out. Zeke feels his mother’s hand fumble for his.

  “There should be a backup generator,” he says.

  “What about your father?”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  The lights flicker, then burn steady. The admissions people scurry around behind the counter, repowering the computer system as a steady stream of need-to-be-seen patients hovers around the counter.

  Two ambulances approach, their lights sending waves of red and yellow pulses across the waiting room. Zeke stands and walks closer to the window to see what’s happening. Another ambulance zooms by and all three screech to a stop at the emergency entrance. There’s a flurry of activity as paramedics and nurses remove the injured. Three gurneys are wheeled through the automatic door of the ER. Zeke walks over to the admissions desk. “What happened?”

  An older woman behind the counter answers. “Traffic accident. Apparently most of the traffic lights quit working. You’d think they’d have the sense to slow down if the light was out.”

  Zeke drifts away and returns to his seat.

  “What’s all the commotion?” his mother asks.

  “Big traffic pileup. Something about the signal lights not working.”

  “That’s odd.”

  Zeke glances at the overhead lights, a tickle of something creeping down his spine.

  A nurse, dressed in purple scrubs, steps through a side door. “Marshall family?”

  Zeke helps his mother from the chair and the nurse leads them into a small, private consultation room.

  “The doctor will be in shortly,” she says before disappearing behind a different door.

  The two share a glance but don’t speak. The doctor walks in and introduces himself. He sits wearily and hands across a couple of photographs of Robert’s heart.

  “Mr. Marshall is a lucky man,” the doctor says. “We found eighty-five percent blockage on two coronary arteries, and ninety percent blockage on a third. I inserted three stents to reduce the blockage and improve blood flow. He should feel like a new man.”

  “When will he be able to go home?” Barbara says.

  “We’ll keep him overnight to make sure the incision site clots off.” The doctor stands and shakes both of their hands before leaving.

  “That’s good, Mom. His heart attack could have been much worse,” Zeke says. “If you’ll hand me your cell phone I’ll call Ruth to fill her in.”

  As they exit the small room Zeke powers up the phone. No service. He walks toward the window hoping to get a better signal. No luck. He walks toward his mother. “I can’t get a signal on your cell. I’m going to try a landline phone if I can find one.”

  Zeke hands the phone back to his mother and strolls down the hall in search of a landline phone. He finds one tucked into a corner near the elevator. He punches in his sister’s number and puts the phone to his ear—and hears nothing but the faint echo of his own breathing. He flicks the small white button where the handset rests and listens for a dial tone. Still nothing. He replaces the phone and steps over to the volunteer desk, manned by a pair of white-haired elderly ladies.

  “Are you having phone issues?”

  The one on the right offers him an apologetic smile. “Only if you’re trying to make an outside call. It works for in-hospital numbers but for some reason we can’t get to an outside line.”

  Zeke ponders this for a moment. “This happen when the power went out?”

  “Why, yes, it did, come to think of it.”

  He taps the counter with his knuckle. “Okay. Thanks for your help.” He returns to where his mother is sitting.

  “I can’t get the call to go through. Doesn’t even ring.”

  “That’s strange. I’ve never had any trouble getting through to her.”

  A different nurse appears in the waiting room and leads the Marshalls into the recovery room. Zeke’s father is lying flat on the bed while a nurse applies pressure to the incision site. She’s standing on her tiptoes, placing most of her weight on her outstretched hands. Robert Marshall grimaces under the pressure.

  Zeke says, “I think your old ticker is ready for a marathon now.” He turns to the nurse. “How long do you have to keep pressure on the wound?”

  The nurse blows a stray strand of light blond hair from her face. “Just a few more minutes.”

  Zeke’s mother approaches the bed and brushes her lips across those of her husband.

  “You scared me to death,” she whispers.

  “It’s not my fault I had a heart attack, Barb.”

  “How long have you been having chest pains?”

  “I don’t know. A month or two.”

  Barbara Marshall is on the verge of a scolding tirade when another nurse enters the room.

  “Mr. Marshall, I know you were told that you would be with us overnight, but there’s been a change of plans. The hospital is now running on reserve power and we need to discharge as many patients as possible. The generator is not large enough to power the entire hospital.”

  “I thought there were concerns about his incision site closing off,” Zeke says.

  “We’re going to watch him over the next two hours and then release him to your care. Everything should be just fine,” the nurse says as she turns to the door.

  “What’s up with the power?” Zeke asks.

  “Don’t know. The whole town is without power.”

  CHAPTER 27

  TransJet Flight 62, approaching London Heathrow Airport

  Wednesday, September 29, 2:51 P.M.

  Copilot Cheryl Wilson is rereading landing procedures while keeping a very close eye on the plane’s TCAS system. The Traffic Alert and Collision Avoidance System uses radar to locate the transponders of other aircraft in the area, provided the other plane has the same system installed. “I count six aircraft within range of TCAS.”

  Captain Steve Henderson wipes the sleeve of his shirt across his face. “Well, that’s just fucking great. Are we clear of them?”

  “Yes. Let’s hope everyone follows the normal landing procedu
re. Take us down to twenty thousand.”

  “Descending to twenty thousand. How far are we from London?”

  “About seventy miles. Maintain a heading of one-eight-zero. Are we going to maintain the normal rate of descent or do you want to steepen it?”

  “Let’s go with normal descent and pray everyone else is doing the same.”

  Cheryl quickly calculates their distance from the airport and writes the numbers down on the margins of the map. “Take us down to eighteen.”

  “Descending to eighteen thousand.” He glances in Cheryl’s direction. “This could get dicey. I want your eyes on the sky around us in case there’s an aircraft out there with their transponder off.”

  She leans forward and scans the horizon before looking back to the TCAS system. “We’re clear for now, but I have some bad news. Heavy cloud cover at about twelve thousand.”

  “The good news just keeps coming.”

  “You’re doing fine, Steve. You should be nearing fifteen thousand.”

  Steve glances at the altimeter. “We’re at fifteen.”

  “Good. Maintain your descent.” Within a minute, the plane enters the heavy cloud cover and the cabin is shrouded in whiteness.

  The TCAS screen turns amber as an audible alarm announces, “Traffic . . . traffic.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” Steve shouts. “Pull up, turn, or descend?”

  “Pull up! Pull up! There’s a plane below us.”

  Steve pulls on the wheel and the nose of the large plane eases up.

  “Throttle up!”

  While pulling on the wheel, Steve jams the throttles forward as the warning continues—“Traffic, traffic.”

  Steve glances at the altitude indicator. “Where the hell is it?” The plane shudders and the light for engine four flashes red. “We’re hit! Shut four down now!”

  Cheryl scrambles to kill the number four engine by cutting off the fuel supply, then strains to look out the side window. “How bad is the damage?”

  The audible warning from the TCAS system goes silent, but a series of red lights on the instrument panel flashes repeatedly.

  “Don’t know.” Steve’s jaw is clenched as he struggles to maintain control. “She’s a wobbly bitch. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her in the air.”

  Cheryl puts a hand on his arm. “You’re doing good, Steve.”

  Steve works the throttles, trying to balance engine thrust. “We have to get out of this cloud cover.” He pushes the wheel forward and the nose of the plane tips forward.

  “Easy, Steve. Level off a little.”

  “Find me another airport. We’re not going to make London.”

  Cheryl quickly searches her map, trying to pinpoint their position. She scans the instruments, looking at the altimeter and compass heading then back to the maps.

  “I found a small field near Northampton.”

  “How small?” Steve says as he uses every ounce of energy to control the plane. They’re still socked in with clouds.

  “The runway’s about forty-one hundred feet. I don’t know if we can make that.”

  “We’re going to have to. We’ve burned off most of the fuel, so maybe. What’s my heading?”

  “Come to two-one-zero. By my calculations we’re about five miles from the landing strip.” She stares at the dense whiteness surrounding them.

  At thirty-two hundred feet they break through the heavy cloud cover, and both exhale an audible breath.

  “You see the runway?” Steve looks out the side window, and the damage to the outermost left wing becomes apparent. “The tip of the left wing is sheared off and she’s yawing to the right. I need full flaps to bleed off some speed.”

  Cheryl pushes down the handle that controls flap settings. “Full flaps. Make your heading two-three-zero. We should be about four miles from Northampton.” She points out the window. “I see the airport.”

  Steve follows her outstretched hand and centers his gaze on the long strip of concrete.

  “This is going to be nearly impossible. See any other traffic?”

  Cheryl sweeps the horizon. “No, it looks clear. Slow and steady, Steve. We’re almost there.” Her voice is reassuring, calm.

  He banks the plane in a short, right turn, lining up on the runway as Cheryl deploys the landing gear. A nasty crosswind is playing havoc with his efforts to control the wounded jet. Steve’s feet are pushing one way then the other, using the rudder to control the side-to-side drift. He eases back on the throttles. “Damn, that’s a narrow son of a bitch.” He struggles to keep the nose centered on the runway.

  A computer voice in the cockpit says, “One hundred.”

  “It’s wide enough,” Cheryl says. “Sit her down, nice and easy, like every other time.”

  “Fifty . . . forty . . . thirty . . .”

  The captain eases back on the throttles a little more and pulls up the nose.

  “Twenty . . . ten . . .”

  “C’mon, damn it.” With a squeal, the tires make contact and the nose slowly lowers, touching down. He slams the throttles to the reverse thrust position and uses both feet to stand on the brakes. Sweat is pouring down his face as the jet shudders.

  “Don’t know if I can get her stopped.” His legs are Jell-O as every item not tied down in the cockpit slams against the front bulkhead.

  Steve glances out the window as the rushing scenery begins to slow. His legs are locked against the pedals. “Oh shit,” he says when he glances back toward the front.

  At the very end of the tarmac is a large excavator parked perpendicular to the runway, surrounded by piles of earth. The brakes howl in protest as he continues to stand on the pedals. Slowly, the giant plane loses speed.

  Only a hundred feet of runway remain as the large excavator looms ever larger in the windshield. The plane jerks to a stop. Steve sucks a deep breath and hits the cutoff switches for the three remaining engines. He looks out the cockpit window to see a lone car approaching, lights flashing. He turns to look at the small cluster of industrial buildings, and for some reason the fact that all the buildings are dark registers on his subconscious.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Oval Office

  Wednesday, September 29, 3:36 P.M.

  Scott Alexander is keeping an eye on the breaking news playing on the television in the Oval Office. He triggers the remote and the volume increases as the mayor of New Orleans conducts a live press conference.

  “Mr. President, I’m asking for your help now. Don’t leave us stranded like your predecessor did during Katrina. We need immediate federal help. Half of the Ninth Ward is underwater and the water level is rising. Please, Mr. President, the time to act is now . . .”

  The intercom buzzes. President Harris stabs the button.

  “Director Carter is here, sir.”

  “Send him in please, Barb.”

  The President stands and meets the FEMA director mid-room and steers him to one of the sofas. Alexander kills the sound and tosses the remote on the side table before moving to one of the facing chairs.

  President Harris points toward the television. “Anything we can do about New Orleans, Don?”

  “We’re doing everything we can, sir, but we’re spread thin. The Corps of Engineers is working like hell to replace the pumps, but that’s like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.” Don pauses for a moment, then throws up his hands. “It may be time, sir, to write that area off. If we’re truly going to be without electricity for months or years, New Orleans will become an uninhabitable swamp.”

  “Do what you can, Don, at least while we still have power. How’s the rest of the country?”

  “Nothing good, Mr. President. Most of Alaska is without power, as are portions of Canada and the higher elevations of Colorado. The Canadians are dealing with a potential meltdown at their Atlantic coast nuclear reactor. I put all state FEMA departments on urgent status and all available workers are en route to their designated areas. But I have to tell you, sir,
I don’t know how much urgency there will be without some indication of what is happening. Are you still planning on addressing the nation?”

  President Harris glances at Scott before answering. “We’re still debating the merits.”

  “But, Mr. President, we need to offer the people some type of warning. I haven’t given specific instructions to the state agencies on what to prepare for, but I would like—”

  The intercom buzzes again. The President punches the button, “Yes, Barb.”

  “Sir, there’s a call which came through the White House switchboard from a Dr. Samuel Blake, claiming he needs to speak—”

  “Put the call through, Barb.” He waits for the phone call to be routed through, then punches the flashing button putting the call on speakerphone.

  “Sam, what’s the latest?”

  “I’ve been trying to get a call through for the past hour, sir. I don’t think we have eight hours.”

  “How long do you think?”

  “I think it could happen at any moment, may already be happening. Our remaining instruments are indicating massive spikes in the Earth’s magnetic field. The electrical interference is off the charts.”

  “What are you telling me, Sam? We’re too late to do anything?”

  “Maybe, Mr. President.”

  The President’s shoulders sag. “Okay, Sam, I’ll send out the word. Are you in a safe place?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President. There may be no safe places when the power goes out.”

  Silence. Then the President says, “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure we have safe places, Sam. Take care.” President Harris reaches over and disconnects the call.

  “This is it?” Don asks.

  President Harris nods. Then, in a toneless voice, says, “Make sure we have some way to communicate, Don. Tell your people to be ready for the worst, and tell them to stay out of harm’s way as much as possible.”