Digital Winter (16 page)

Roni had no doubts.

T
he VH-60N Whitehawk helicopter landed on the helo pad a short distance from the West Wing. President Nathan Barlow, his wife Katey, the secretary of state, and Chief of Staff Frank Grundy were moving toward it before the craft fully settled. Secret Service agents accompanied them. The helicopter pilot, a Marine colonel dressed in the Marine's Blue Dress Charlie/Delta uniform, met the president with a salute. Barlow returned it and followed Katey into the craft. Three minutes later, the aircraft was airborne and thundering over DC.

Barlow gave no indication of tension. He sat in his chair, his wife in the swivel seat opposite his own. He smiled and patted her hand. They had followed this procedure once a year. Even the president of the United States had to practice, although there was little for him to do except walk where he was told to. The military and Secret Service took care of the rest.

The flight would be short. Mount Weather was less than fifty miles from DC. By air, the trip would take less than thirty minutes even using an indirect course.

Out his window scrolled a scene he never imagined—DC in the dark. Like all cities, DC had its share of temporary power outages, but never the entire city. He might even have found that acceptable if DC had been the only city affected. The whole country was dark except for those buildings that had auxiliary power. Lights blazed inside the White House, but out here only hospitals, airports, and a few other buildings glowed with power. The streets were dark except for the headlights of the mass of cars bound in traffic. Red and blue lights of emergency vehicles flashed in the blackness.

“What a mess.” Katey's voice had a tremor. “It looks like a scene from a science-fiction movie.”

“If only it were.” Barlow closed his eyes, completing the blackness. What lay ahead of him was a situation no president had ever faced before. The government made plans for almost every kind of contingency, even the loss of power along the Eastern seaboard. He knew of no simulation that had lights going out everywhere.

The moment Barlow stepped into the VH-60N, the helicopter's call sign changed. It was now Marine One, a craft run by the Marine Helicopter Squadron 1—HMX-1. This craft and another like it had been equipped with specialized communications gear and defensive weapons. It was an amazing piece of equipment and one of Barlow's favorite ways to travel.

“Marine Two is airborne and five minutes behind us,” Frank said. He had received the news over his specialized government cell phone. “The VP and his wife and COS are aboard.”

“Cabinet members?”

“All due to depart within minutes.” Frank spoke like a man used to trouble.

Barlow just nodded and thought about the place he would be spending the night. Mount Weather was nestled into the Blue Ridge Mountains not far from Bluemont, Virginia. In the 1800s it had been used as a military weather station. Over the years it had grown into something much more. Other continuation-of-government sites were scattered around the country, places where leaders could continue to govern the US during times of crisis. Over the decades the places and roles of these sites changed.

Mount Weather was one of the best-known secrets in the world. Technically, it was the emergency headquarters for FEMA, and it appeared in the US budget as such, but conspiracy theorists believed it to be much more—and they were right about many things.

The Mount Weather facility had two faces, one aboveground and one below. Below the buildings and large antennas, behind the ten-foot-high chain-link fence with its crown of razor wire, under the watchful eye of the best security teams the country could produce was a facility few ever saw and no one talked about.

FEMA's national radio system, a communications network linking key federal public-safety agencies and the military, was located there. The buildings on the surface were designated Area A and covered 434 acres. Below grade, dug first in 1936 by the US Bureau of Mines with work that continues to the present day, was Area B, an underground city with 600,000 square feet of habitable space. Deep beneath the Virginia soil, not far from Virginia State Route 601, it was a complex that included apartments, dormitories, cafeterias, a hospital, a water and sewer system, and even a transit system. Hundreds could live here for several months without concern about food and water.

Power wasn't a problem. It could produce its own electricity with generators and kept enough fuel on hand to keep them running for months. The government also had access to large amounts of diesel and gas reserved for the continuation of leadership.

It was remarkable in every way. Nonetheless, it wasn't the place Barlow wanted to end his presidency. He rubbed the center of his chest and then his left shoulder.

“Are you okay, sir?” Frank leaned close.

“Sure. Why?”

“You were massaging your shoulder and chest.”

Barlow waved him off. “A little indigestion. I get it from time to time. Stress and food don't go together well.”

“We'll have the doctor look at you after we land.”

“No ‘we' won't, Frank. I'm fine. I know my own body. I get indigestion now and again. I know what it feels like. I'm good. However, should I decide to have a heart attack, you'll be the first to know.”

“Excuse me,” Katey said.

Barlow winked at her. “
After my wife
, you'll be the first to know. She outranks us both, you know.”

“I can live with that.” Frank tightened his lap belt.

“Still the nervous flier, Frank?” The president grinned. “We'll have the doctor look at you when we land.”

“If God meant for men to fly, we would have been born with parachutes.” He leaned back. “When we leave the West Wing, I will give up my days of flying.”

As if offended, the helicopter bounced in the air.

Barlow looked out the window again. “I don't think the city has been this dark since Jefferson was president.”

“It doesn't look right,” Katey said. “It looks all wrong somehow.”

Barlow lifted his eyes. “At least there's less light pollution. The astronomers should be happy.”

“They need power too, Mr. President. Telescopes are moved by electric motors, photos are all digital, and—”

“I got it, Frank.”

The thrum of the two General Electric T700-GE-701C turboshaft engines driving rotors with a fifty-three-foot diameter vibrated through the craft. Within five minutes of liftoff, the helicopter reached its cruising speed of 150 knots. Barlow watched the dark terrain scroll beneath them as they flew northwest from DC. Dark.

DC, dark.

Silver Spring, dark. McLean, Reston, Ashburn, Purcellville—all dark.

Scenarios ran through Barlow's brain, not one of them good. He longed for a message that read, “Oops, our bad. Blew a fuse. World will be up and running in fifteen minutes.” Barlow was too much of a realist to hope for very long, and he had been in politics too long to be an optimist. Something bad had happened. This was no accident. It was an attack by an unknown individual or group.

He tried to imagine what the people below were doing. Most were probably at home in bed, expecting power to return by morning. The media had gotten word about the extent of the blackouts, but only people with battery powered radios or who listened to the news in their cars would have heard. Most, he assumed, were still in the dark about the extent of problem. He paused to smile at his pun. Humor, even if it lasted only a second, was appreciated.

Barlow had flown here only a few times, once to see the new improvements to the FEMA operations and twice as practice for a day like this. The compound had several areas for helicopters to land. They would set down on pad M4 near the center of the aboveground complex. The other pads were associated with parking lots and were farther from their target building.

“Please prepare for landing.” The pilot's voice came over the cabin speakers. “We've been cleared for final approach.” Of course they had. One didn't keep POTUS circling a government facility, waiting for permission to touch down.

The chopper slowed and began its descent to the compound. It rocked in a stiff breeze, but the pilots kept the craft steady. They were the best the Marines had to offer and had special training and skill to fly this and other helicopters kept at the ready of the president and key government officials.

Another glance out the window showed several buildings with lights on. Most of the others, especially the older ones, sat in darkness. The surrounding Virginia forest, lit only by the silver light of a three-quarter-moon, appeared menacing, an amorphous monster ready to dine on the emergency center.

“What's that?” Katey had her face close to the window by her seat. At first, Barlow looked down and saw nothing unusual. “What's what?” She was looking up.

“In the sky. I saw a light. I can still see it, but it's not as bright.”

The others in the cabin tried to catch a glimpse out the window.

“I see it. Odd, it's like a large, dim star.”

Katey shook her head. “It's not a star. It wasn't there before.”

“There's one over here too. It just flashed on and then almost blinked out.” Frank craned his neck. “It's like a ring of smoke, but not quite.”

“I see two more,” Secretary of State Brent Baker said, his bald head pushed to the window.

“What are they, Nathan?” Katey sounded nervous.

“I don't know. If I didn't know better—” He swore and snapped up the handset next to his seat. “Colonel, this is the president. Get this bird on the ground now—
right now
!”

Before the pilot could comply, the craft's engine coughed, and the tail pitched right and then down. A loud tone poured from the cockpit area and filled the cabin. “W
ARNING
,
POWER LOSS
. W
ARNING
,
POWER LOSS
. W
ARNING
,
POWER
—”

It ceased as fast as it had begun. Barlow heard the pilot order, “Autorotate.” The lights in the cabin blinked out. “Brace yourselves! We're going down.” Then came the words no one in an aircraft wants to hear: “Mayday, mayday, this is Marine One declaring an emergency. We have lost all power…”

If Barlow was right, the mayday was a waste of time. The radio would be as dead as the engine.

Barlow snapped his head around and looked at the rapidly approaching ground. He was no pilot, but he knew the helicopter had slowed too much for autorotation to work. There wasn't enough forward speed to drive the air through the rotors. The 20,000 pound craft was headed for a hard landing. Their only advantage was they had almost completed their descent. Only thirty feet or so remained. He hoped it was less than that.

The impact was twice as hard as Barlow imagined. Marine One hit the ground wheels down, bounced a few feet up, and then tilted to its right side. Barlow was too frightened to close his eyes. Before the window hit the ground a dozen feet from the helipad, he saw the rotor slice into the ground and shatter into innumerable sharp pieces.

His head bounced off the cabin wall, sending bolts of pain through his head and neck. For a moment he thought the blow had knocked his eyeballs from their sockets.

The gibbous moon shone through the windows on the other side of the cabin, casting an ivory glow on the face of his unconscious wife. “No. Dear God, no. No…” Blackness filled his eyes.

A
t Fort Meade, Colonel Jeremy Matisse had been ready to enter one of the nondescript buildings a hundred yards from the landing pad in the east parking lot. A soldier had been waiting in a Humvee a safe distance from the rotor blast. He saluted as General Holt, Jeremy, and Senator Ryan O'Tool approached the vehicle. O'Tool returned the salute and Jeremy had to resist the urge to remind the man that the salute was for the general and not him. To the sergeant's credit he held the salute until Holt returned it.

News that O'Tool would be accompanying them to Mount Weather had been discouraging. O'Tool was a powerful man in the senate, but to Jeremy he was mostly an annoyance. When the call to move to Mount Weather came through, it was revealed that heads from both houses of congress would be joining them. Since O'Tool was at USCYBERCOM, Holt was ordered by head of the Joint Chiefs to bring the senator along. In an impressive display of discipline, Holt simply replied, “Yes, sir.”

“This is a bit of an adventure, isn't it, gentlemen?” O'Tool looked more like an eight-year-old headed to Disneyland than a ranking member of the senate in a global crisis. The man struggled with his harness. Jeremy had to help him before the UH-1N utility helicopter could lift off from Fort Meade.

“I don't see it that way.” Holt kept his voice even and devoid of emotion. He was in full command mode. Jeremy knew the feeling.

“Oh, come on, General. I thought you military types loved conflict and action.”

“We don't avoid it, Senator, but that doesn't mean we're blind to the dangers.” Holt met O'Tool's eyes. “How long did you serve in the military?”