Powerless (9 page)

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.”

 

C
opilot 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 procedure. 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.

 

S
cott 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.”

Carter stands from the sofa on shaky legs. “I will, Mr. President.” He turns and shuffles out of the office.

President Harris turns to Alexander. “Scott, will you get Janice on the line, please? I guess our decision to notify the public is now moot.”

“I will, Mr. President.” His reply is a raspy whisper as he steps behind the desk and dials the phone. He murmurs a few words into the handset. “Line one, sir.”

The President pauses before picking up the handset. “Scott, where's the First Lady?”

“Over at the Park Hyatt giving a speech to a group of college students.”

“Call her detail and tell them to hustle her back to the White House.”

“Yes, sir.”

President Harris punches the button. “Janice, alert all of the law enforcement units across the country to be on emergency status. Explain what is going to happen and tell them to prepare for the worst. This country may be overrun by lawlessness. I also want you to order a national emergency alert.”

“What's changed, Mr. President?” she says.

“According to Dr. Blake, it may already be happening. I don't know how much time we have, but do what you can.”

“I will, sir.” The phone goes dead in his hand.

President Harris pushes up from the sofa and shuffles over to the windows, muttering, “God have mercy on us all.”

 

J
unior Hickman, a large, barrel-chested man, climbs into the bucket truck to make one final line connection before he and the crew break for lunch. With the temperature hovering around thirty-three degrees, he's working in a sleet-snow mix interspersed with a bone-chilling rain. He gives a thumbs-up to the other two men on the crew and, using a joystick attached to the bucket, begins his ascent toward the new high-voltage line they're building along Route 2, on the outskirts of Fairbanks.

Junior, a twenty-five-year veteran lineman for Alaska Power and Light, has experienced the extremes of Alaskan weather. The day-after-day cold that seeps into his bones during the winter months and the battles with swarms of mosquitoes during the summer. He extends the boom to near-maximum capacity to reach the lower wire. Because the HVDC—high-voltage, direct current—line is not yet energized he forgoes the elbow-length rubber gloves and doesn't bother with the rubber shields in the area he will be working. To finish this section of line, Junior needs to pigtail a bridge line between two wire terminations so the electrical current can travel from one section of line to another.

The cold, wet conditions make it difficult for Junior to get a firm grasp on the six-foot piece of heavy cable. He slips the wire over his shoulder and works on one end at a time. With a specially designed clamp he secures the first end. He jogs the joystick to position the bucket closer to the other end for the final connection. With his right hand, he reaches for the suspended cable to attach the other end of the pigtail. As his wrench meets the clamp's bolt the two fuse together. Almost instantaneously, Junior Hickman is vaporized by over one million volts as the unseen geomagnetic storm slams into Fairbanks.

The nonmetallic fiberglass bucket, specifically designed not to conduct current during electrical repair work, suffers no ill effects. However, the small joystick handle was not subjected to the same design specifications. The bucket is parked within a hair's distance from the power line, and the surge of electricity arcs to the handle and instantly melts the wiring. As the massive power surge searches for ground, the current races down the truck's boom, killing Junior's coworker, who had been leaning against the truck sipping a cup of coffee.

The third coworker, who had been standing some distance away, stares, his mouth agape, uncertain what he has witnessed. One immediate thought surges through his mind: those lines weren't due to be energized for another three months. He fumbles for his cell phone and, because his hands are shaking so violently, has to hold the phone with both hands to punch in 911 with his thumb. He puts the phone to his ear while his mind spins for a valid explanation. The phone is dead. He pulls it away and glances at the screen to see the words
NO SERVICE
in the upper left corner.

The worker, in his third month on the job, turns in a tight circle, not sure what to do. He steps toward his coworker on the ground. It's clear he's dead, or at least his chest is still, but there's no way in hell he's checking for a pulse. He kneels down, calling out the man's name, his voice rising an octave with each repeat.

A thought hits him—
the company radio
.

He jumps to his feet. His hand is within six inches of the damp, silver, elongated door handle when he jerks his hand back. He backs away and stumbles several steps before slumping to the damp ground.