Powerless (5 page)

 

H
ard against the southern shore of the Sunndal fjord in northwest Norway lies one of the country's most advanced hydroelectric plants. A majority of Norway's power is generated by water, and most of the power plants are dug in along the coastline of the Norwegian Sea. Their distance from the more habitable southern portions of the country results in the need for long runs of high-voltage electrical lines to reach the more populous areas.

Engineers Lise Brekken and Baldor Amundsen are a couple of hours into their shift manning the minimalist control room of the massive power-generating plant when a flurry of alarms begins blaring. Lise, thirty-two, is a tall and athletic woman who has the Nordic features of her ancestors—well-defined facial structures with a square jaw, icy blue eyes, and long blond hair twisted into a ponytail. Her face tightens with concern.

“What the hell?” Baldor shouts over the noise. Lise glances at him and shrugs. She turns her focus to the keyboard in front of her, searching for the source of the alarms. Baldor, whose hairline only stopped receding when it ran out of real estate, picks up the phone to notify the plant director, then joins in the search on his own computer.

There had been an occasional alarm during their tenure, especially during periods of increased solar activity, but nothing like this.

They both glance up when their boss bursts through the door. Alrek Dahlmen, a short man who is nearly as tall as he is wide, hurries to where the two engineers are sitting and looks over their shoulders as the alarms continue.

“Shut it down,” he shouts. “Shut everything down.”

“But, sir, that will leave most of Oslo without power,” Baldor says.

“Shut the damn thing down, or Oslo will be without power for the next year.”

Lise and Baldor begin the process of shutting down the massive generators, but the three main generators stop suddenly of their own accord. The control room goes dark until the battery-powered emergency lighting flashes on. All of the computer screens flicker and go black as the alarms stop. The three of them stare at the dark monitors.

“What the hell happened?” Dahlmen says.

“We don't know. The instruments recorded several power spikes before the alarms started going berserk,” Lise says.

Alrek, notorious for his disdain for women in the workplace, dismisses her comment and turns to Baldor. “Explain, please.”

“I can't, sir. It's like Lise said. Everything was fine until it wasn't.”

Dahlmen plants a fisted hand on his hip. “How severe were the power spikes?”

“On the edge of acceptable limits, but nothing we haven't seen before, sir.”

Dahlmen turns to leave. “I want a full report, and I want it now,” he shouts over his shoulder as he exits the control room.

Lise and Baldor stare at each other in the dimness of the dead control room.

“What the hell are we supposed to put in the report he demands?” Baldor says.

Lise sighs. “Better yet, how the hell are we going to produce a report? Every computer in the building is dead.” Lise turns to Baldor. “How long do you think we'll be without power?”

 

Z
eke slams the phone down and starts fumbling through the medicine cabinet above the stove. His hand lights on a bottle of aspirin and he yanks it from the cabinet as several other medications rain to the floor. He grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and hurries out the door, Lexi running alongside. The beauty of the day goes unnoticed this time as he runs down the path and kneels next to his mother.

“Has he said anything?” Zeke works to pry the cap off the aspirin bottle.

“He moaned a couple of times, but I don't think he's awake. What's wrong with him, Zeke?”

“I don't know. Has he had any health problems lately?” He finally gets the lid free and dumps three aspirin into his sweaty palm.

“No, but you know how your father is. I'm not sure he'd tell me if he was having any symptoms. He's so dadgum stubborn sometimes.”

“Mom, open his mouth so I can slip some aspirin in.”

She lifts her husband's head and pries his mouth open. Zeke slides the three aspirin inside. He gently places the water bottle to his father's mouth and dribbles enough water in to begin dissolving the pills.

“Why the aspirin, son?”

Zeke fiddles with the cap to the water bottle. Then he covers his mother's hand with his own and turns to face her. “Aspirin will help to thin his blood if he's had a stroke or a heart attack.”

His mother moans and looks away. Zeke checks his father's pulse again, and it might be wishful thinking, but his pulse seems stronger. He wipes the sweat from his father's brow. In the distance, the sound of an approaching siren.

“Mom, stay with him. I'm gonna meet the ambulance.” She glances up as he stands. “It's going to be okay, Mom.”

Now if he only had the same reassurance for himself. The siren sounds closer as he reaches the middle of the gravel driveway.
Hurry, goddammit!

The sun beats down as Zeke strains, searching for the ambulance. He is not a religious man, not after everything that he had witnessed, but he looks up at the cobalt blue sky and offers a brief, silent something to whomever or whatever might be listening. Then he sees the ambulance, a little more than a quarter mile away, and releases the breath he had unconsciously been holding.

He squats to wrap his arms around Lexi and rake his fingers through her thick, curly coat as tears wet her fur. She licks his face and he hugs her tighter. This is not the first time he's waited helplessly for the arrival of an ambulance. He stands as it turns into the drive and the siren dies in mid-whoop.

Two paramedics jump out, one male, one female. Both are young and athletic and they begin grabbing medical equipment from a side compartment of the ambulance.

Zeke steps up close. “We're going to need the stretcher.” The woman yanks open the back door and tugs the stretcher from the clamps on the floor.

“Can you explain what happened?” she says. Ramirez, according to the name tag pinned to her white uniform shirt. Petite and dark haired. She loads medical supplies onto the gurney.

“My mom saw him collapse as he was walking up the path in the backyard,” Zeke says. “I checked his pulse—it's weak but it seemed to be regular. I also gave him three aspirin as soon as I could.”

“You did good,” she says. “Can you fill me in on his medical history as you lead the way?” Zeke grabs the front of the gurney and begins pulling it around the side of the house. He recites what little he knows of his father's health history.

The gurney bounces over several exposed tree roots as they round the house and make their way down the path. The other paramedic, a white guy named Dotson, according to his name tag, appears to spend all of his off time at the gym and seems content to allow his partner to ask all the questions. Zeke's mother stands to allow the man room to operate. He sinks to his knees and begins reaching for equipment from the bags with one hand while his other feels for a pulse at the neck. With a pair of heavy scissors, the man snips the length of Robert Marshall's T-shirt and begins attaching a series of leads to his chest.

Ramirez grabs a blood pressure cuff from one bag, whips the gray band around Robert's thin arm, and inflates the cuff. She one-hands a stethoscope into her ears and places the business end next to the cuff. A hiss of air escapes as she gradually deflates the blood pressure monitor. “Ninety over sixty,” she says to her partner as she reaches for a bag of IV fluids.

Zeke can't tell from her tone if that's bad or good, but he doesn't want to interrupt them to ask. She swabs his father's other arm with an astringent antiseptic and begins searching for a vein, finding one near his elbow after several flicks of her middle finger. She plunges the large needle into his arm and attaches the line from the IV bag, handing it up for Zeke to hold.

“Let's get him on the stretcher,” Dotson says as his eyes focus on a monitor where a steady stream of green-lined peaks and valleys traces across the screen. Zeke hands the IV bag to his mother and kneels down to help the paramedics maneuver his father. He's somewhat surprised at how light his father is. He was never a large man, but Zeke never considered him fragile until his arms reach under his upper body. Together, he and Dotson lift him onto the gurney.

Ramirez pushes a lever with her foot and all three pull on the top rail of the stretcher. Zeke glances down and is surprised to discover his father's eyes open. He leans over and kisses his forehead. “You collapsed in the yard. You're on the way to the hospital.”

It's hard to tell how much he understands, but he nods weakly. The three push the stretcher up the slight incline of the path and back around the house. Zeke looks back to see his mother shuffling up the trail, her head down and her shoulders stooped.

“C'mon, Mom,” he says. “You ride with him in the ambulance and I'll grab the pickup and follow.” She catches up to them as one of the paramedics swings the rear doors open.

 

P
resident Harris is doing his best to block out the ongoing conversations while his mind spins through numerous scenarios—none of them good.
Cut off power to millions of people on a hunch? Force all planes to ground, stranding thousands of people hundreds of miles from their destination? Announce to the nation that our modern life is about to be thrust back to the Dark Ages?

The President is stirred from his thoughts when several loud gasps replace the chatter. He glances up to see several hands pointed toward one of the television screens tucked into the front corner of the room. “What is it?” President Harris stands and works his way around the table toward the television. A large banner is superimposed on the bottom of the screen: “Fiery Crash in Seattle.” “Oh my God,” he mutters. “We need sound,” he shouts to the room.

A switch, somewhere deep in the recesses of the Situation Room, is thrown and the voice of the CNN reporter floods the room. “Authorities say all radio communications were lost as one aircraft was landing and the other was taxiing onto the runway for takeoff. Both jets collided and instantly broke into flames. No word yet on which airlines or what flights or even the type of aircraft involved. Also, there has been no official word on the number of casualties, but I would think they would be numerous. This is Ron Bloom reporting live in Seattle. Now back to . . .”

The sound fades, leaving the conference room quiet as a tomb. President Harris paces the length of the room. He stops near the rear and pauses before turning to face his advisors. “I want all flights grounded this minute. I also want all power grids switched off within the next thirty minutes. Stop all trains, whether they are powered by the electrical grid or not. If we can't communicate with them we'll have a dozen more disasters on our hands. Have those in charge begin shutting down all nuclear facilities. Admiral Hickerson, activate the National Guard in every state. I don't care how much heat we take over this decision. We have to do what's best for the country. I want updates every thirty minutes. My staff will draft a statement and I will address the nation as soon as possible.”

The President exits the Situation Room and everyone starts to talk at once. Scott Alexander is at the President's elbow as they walk toward the staircase leading to the first floor. “Mr. President . . . should we be concerned about the panic your address to the nation could cause?”

The President ignores the question as they make their way up the stairs and through the maze of hallways that make up the West Wing.

In the Oval Office the President collapses into the chair behind his desk. Alexander takes a seat in one of the flanking chairs. President Harris swivels to look at the sun streaming through the windows. It's a beautiful fall day in the nation's capital.

The President rakes his hands through his hair and speaks without turning to face his old friend. “What the hell are we supposed to do, Scott?”

“We're doing everything that can possibly be done, sir.” Alexander pauses as he tries to frame the words for his next statement. “We should think about moving you to the bunker.”

The President swivels around in his chair. “I will do no such thing, Scott. And I don't want to hear another goddamn word about it.”

“Yes, sir . . . but, Paul, we've been friends for most of our adult lives and I know how stubborn you can be. At the very minimum, we should start preparations for a move in that direction in the coming days.”

President Harris gives Alexander a withering look. “We need to work on what I'm going to tell the nation, Scott. That's our focus right now. How the hell do I tell the people that life as they know it is going to disappear and the strongest nation on earth can't do a damn thing about it?”

 

T
ransJet Flight 62 is off the coast of southern Newfoundland destined for Paris after departing from Dallas. The Boeing 747-700 is on autopilot, cruising at 33,000 feet at a speed of 460 knots. Captain Steve Henderson has flown this route enough times to do it with his eyes closed. He turns to his copilot, and current lover, Cheryl Wilson. He removes his headset and motions for her to do the same.

“How about a romantic dinner in Paris?”

Cheryl rolls her eyes. “How many romantic dinners have we had in Paris? I'm more interested in a nice, private room-service dinner.”

He frowns.

“In the nude?” she says.

He smiles. “I think I like that idea better.”

Both in their midforties, they've been paired up in the cockpit for the last eight months. Each of them is recently divorced, he for the first time and she for the second. Both ex-spouses had voiced the same complaint—too much time away from home.

Without warning, an intense light flashes through the cockpit, momentarily blinding them. At the exact moment of the flash, the autopilot disengages and the aircraft decelerates. They both quickly clap on their headsets.

“What the hell was that?” the captain says as he wrestles with the controls, trying to maintain airspeed and altitude.

“I don't know.”

He reaches over to toggle a series of switches. “Autopilot will not reengage.”

Both scan the instruments searching for any indications of damage to the critical components of the plane. Cheryl toggles the radio button on the wheel to talk with Steve but finds dead air. Frustrated, she yanks off her headset. “What's wrong with the radio?”

He pulls his headset off. “I don't know, but the autopilot won't reset. The satellites can't seem to get a fix on our position.”

“Could've been a solar flare. There's supposed to be increased solar activity, but I've never seen anything like that.”

“Me, either. Think it had some effect on satellite tracking and communications?”

“It may have. Try the radio again.”

He clamps the headset on and punches the radio button on the wheel. “Gander Center, TransJet Flight 62.”

Static.

“Gander Center . . . TransJet Flight 62. Please acknowledge.”

Gander Center is Newfoundland's air traffic control for all transcontinental flights flying the busy air corridor.

Steve pulls the mike away from his lips. “Cheryl, check to see if you have a cell signal.”

“In the middle of the ocean?”

“Just check. We need some way to communicate.”

She pulls her phone from the side pocket and lights the screen. “Nothing.”

“What the hell is going on?” Steve stabs at the button on the radio, scanning through all available frequencies.

“Anything?”

Steve shakes his head and looks at his copilot. “We're screwed. We're flying blind in one of the busiest flight corridors in the world.”