Powerless (7 page)

 

C
aptain 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
.

 

A
ll 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.”

 

S
ome 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 direction. “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.

 

 

 

S
amuel Blake is seated in his office reading through the latest data when Kaylee Connor taps on the door.

“Sam, we have reports of power outages in Alaska and Northern Canada as well as rolling blackouts all along the eastern seaboard.”

“This storm is moving much faster than I thought possible.”

“You think solar flares might be causing it or is this the leading edge of the geomagnetic storm?”

“I don't know. I would find it hard to believe that the CME is already here. I told the President we probably have another eight hours. And I thought that was a safe estimate. What does the latest data tell us?”

“That's just it, Sam. Not only is ACE dead, but as recently as five minutes ago, the Solar and Heliospheric Observatory was no longer broadcasting information.”

Dr. Blake stands. “SOHO's dead?”

“We don't know. NASA is working to reestablish communication. They don't know if this is an anomaly or if the satellite is fried. My bet is that the satellite is toast.”

“Damn.” Sam thumbs his glasses farther up his nose. “I think the plasma storm could hit much sooner than we thought.” He brushes past Kaylee, on a beeline back to the conference room. Kaylee follows.

Sam flips on the camera, clips on the microphone, and inserts the earpiece in his ear. “Can anyone hear me? Hello? This is an emergency. Is anybody listening?” He turns to Kaylee. “How does this thing work?”

“I think it has to go through the satellite for them to hear you.”

“Well, we know that's not going to work.” He yanks off the microphone and removes the earpiece. “See if you can get in touch with Major Garcia. Maybe she can work this up through the command, if I'm unsuccessful.”

“What are you going to do?” Kaylee shouts after him.

“I'm going to try to contact the President.” In his office, Sam scoots around his desk and sits. He taps the mouse to wake the computer but stares at the screen. Then he launches Google and types in a search phrase. When the results appear, he reaches for the phone and punches in the digits.

“Hello, you've reached the White House. All operators are currently . . .”