Digital Winter

by Mark Hitchcock

  Jeremy hadn’t slept much since arriving at the underground facility. A strange bed in a strange place in very strange world conspired against him. Added to that were his concern for Roni and the constant pressure to nail down the source of the digital worm that had brought so much trouble. He had other duties as well—helping with rebuilding communications and adding his two cents to the military challenges facing the president and his handful of advisors. He hoped more leaders would arrive. Being part of the two-officer Joint Chiefs of Staff was ludicrous, but he knew the president’s goal was to have as full a government as possible in the situation regardless of how ridiculous it might appear on paper.

  One other thing kept him awake this night. At 0900, he was to lead a short memorial service for a man he didn’t know. Jeremy reminded himself that he was no minister. He was a man of faith, a churchgoer, a student of the Bible…but to stand in front of a group and offer words of comfort frightened him.

  He found a Bible in a room used as a library. The people who designed Mount Weather had thought of everything. The book room was filled with novels and history books. He found several translations of the Bible and religious books covering every major belief system. It made sense. The place was meant to hold members of congress and perhaps other dignitaries, people who would hold a wide spectrum of beliefs.

  He thumbed through the New Testament, looking for verses to use as a text and making notes on a legal pad. He recalled some verses used by ministers at funerals he had attended. Psalm 23 would be read. It was familiar even to nonchurchgoers and contained perhaps the most comforting words in the Bible—at least in this context.

  He found verses in 1 Corinthians 15 about the resurrection of the saints. Was Secretary Baker a saint? A believer of any kind? He didn’t know. He had seen the man on the evening news but had never exchanged a word with him. As a colonel in the Air Force, Jeremy carried some weight with the lower ranks, but he was just one of hundreds of colonels. Even his newly minted rank of general was a contrivance. His specialty wasn’t in an area that brought a lot of attention. To most he was just a computer jockey.

  He thought of other funerals he had attended, and he realized he didn’t usually pay much attention to the officiants’ words. This didn’t surprise him. People who mourned were likely to think of their loss. Somber moments tended to shut the ears and open the heart. He wondered if anyone would remember what he said.

  Sometime after 0200, Jeremy crawled into his bed and prayed that God would help him say the right things.

  Then the guilt came.

  The world was inverted. People were suffering and would suffer more in the days ahead. He was safe, warm, fed…and yet he worried about not stumbling over himself.

  Jeremy decided to pray for the family of Secretary of State Baker instead. It seemed a more noble prayer.

  At 0900, Jeremy stepped to a thin metal lectern in the common area of the underground facility and gazed at fewer than fifty people who formed the congregation. Some were FEMA people assigned to the building above, others were military, and a few others were part of the team that kept Mount Weather at the ready.

  “We gather for the somber and important duty of saying goodbye to a patriot, a man who gave himself to the service of our country and died while serving in one of our nation’s most important roles. Some here knew him well; others knew him by name and position only…”

  The crowd faced Jeremy. The president wiped away a tear.

  Act 2

  Eight Days

  19

  Chaos Theory

  Jeremy knew nothing about space-time dilation except from the science-fiction stories he read from time to time, and he doubted he could trust those to explain why the past week flew by yet seemed to move so slowly. Sheltered below grade, he was losing his ability to track time. In the evening hours, the lights in the public areas dimmed to simulate twilight, but there was never any true darkness. If Jeremy wanted that, he had to lock himself away in his room and turn off the lights. He found little comfort there.

  His was one of the few private rooms available. The president had a suite of course, a set of rooms that included an office, bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchenette. Jeremy’s place was like a large dorm room. The VP’s suite had been given to Frank Grundy. The other suites went to speaker of the house—a role filled by Senator Ryan O’Tool until a few key congress members and senators were located and brought to Mount Weather. O’Tool became as much of a president pro tempore as a man could be with only ten senators.

  During the first few days, people were trying to get intel on what had happened and what was going on above grade. Forming a working government on the fly had proved daunting. Jeremy’s admiration for President Nathan Barlow grew by the hour. The man made decisions like a machine, quickly assimilating the sparse information coming his way and adjusting his thinking accordingly.

  Intelligence was coming in, gathered by military personnel on the ground and in the air. Communication was difficult, but the radios and vehicles that had been sequestered below grade were pressed into use. Jeremy had long known that the military and the national government were awash in paranoia. It turned out to be a good thing. Several air bases around the country, including Edwards Air Force Base in California’s Mojave Desert, maintained underground hangers and garages.

  Still, the EMP blasts had done more damage than anyone thought possible. Hardening technology was designed to protect delicate avionics, computers, and communications, but it could never be fully tested. That would require tests with airburst nuclear explosions, which treaties would not allow.

  The scope of the EMP pulses had been a surprise. No one knew if it was possible to harden electrical systems against wave upon wave of pulses from space. The present fear was that once the hardened aircraft and vehicles were out of their bunkers, more pulses might occur. A devious mind would think of such things, which meant that such a scenario was possible. For that reason, only a few military helicopters were exposed during the first few days, and those were used to search for key government personnel.

  By midweek, several Air Force E-3 Sentry AWACS—airborne warning and control systems—were in the air, serving as communication relay stations. They were more limited than satellites, but they enabled some communications between military stations and what government remained. At least they were no longer depending on line-of-sight radio or shortwave radio signals skipping off the ionosphere. The system had holes in it, but it was better than nothing. Jeremy shared the president’s fear that the AWACS could be brought down by more EMPs. Every action had some risk.

  On day three—the president had begun counting the passage of time as days since the power outage, which he dubbed the Event—Jeremy received some of the software and computers he needed to complete his work. His work area had not been in a hardened part of USCYBERCOM, so much of the information he had gathered after the Moriarty worm appeared was lost, but the backup files were kept safe in the NSA data center. His team had created a set of computers for Jeremy to use. What Jeremy needed was the server bank tucked away at Fort Meade, but for now he had to stay put. Fortunately, Fort Meade was close enough for radio communication. At least he had that going for him.

  The long metal table in the situation room at Mount Weather looked as if it could endure a direct hit by a bunker buster. Like every sit room Jeremy had seen, this one had several video monitors. Most were dark. The largest monitor was mounted to a wall at the far end of the rectangular room. At the end of the table stood an Army major who looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month. His red eyes made him look as if he had been on a two-week bender and had just sobered up ten minutes before stepping into the room.

  Major Mark Gilbert had the posture of a man born under a pallet of bricks. He straightened his spine several times during his presentation, but it never seemed to last. Jeremy didn’t know the man, but he was sure he had seen his share of action. An Army Ranger tab was on his sleeve. This was no ordinary soldie
r. He had endured in training what few could and had earned the prestigious tab. Something had bent him.

  “Mr. President, our domestic intel is limited. We have some teams in the streets, mostly National Guard. Our regular units are on alert and protecting ground assets. We’ve done flyovers of several major cities: DC, New York, Chicago, Dallas–Fort Worth, Los Angeles, Denver, and San Francisco. Our assumption was that urban areas will be the hardest hit by the lack of power and transportation.”

  “Was your assumption correct?” Barlow grimaced as he moved in his seat. The busted ribs had to hurt.

  “Yes, Mr. President. We’re seeing rapid growth in crime, violence, and looting. There are reports from every major city we’ve contacted. Of course, every mayor is asking for military assistance. They’re expecting things to get worse.” He paused before pushing a button on a small remote he held in his hand. “This is New York.”

  The image of fires burning in Manhattan filled the screen. The video image skipped from scene to scene. In each one, people had gathered in the streets, at times facing off with police in riot gear.

  Gilbert continued, activating the remote every few moments. The city changed, but the activity did not. “We’re fortunate that it’s January. In the northern cities like New York and Chicago, the cold has kept people indoors. Of course, there’s a down side to that.”

  “Heating?” the president ventured.

  “Yes, sir. Many of the residents in those cities heat their homes with oil. Most have set in a supply, but that will run out soon enough. When it does…” He didn’t bother to finish. “In the South, where the climate is generally warmer, most homes are warmed with forced-air units that run on natural gas. We have yet to determine when that will run out or how long the gas company can keep things flowing without power. Of course, there’s no power to run heat pumps or fans, but clearly, their time is limited.”

  “What’s being looted?” Holt asked.

  “That’s the strange part, sir. Most of the damage has been stores with big-box items: televisions, computers, and the like.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Barlow seemed stunned. “Those things won’t work. Why would anyone steal a fried television set?”

  Gilbert pursed his lips. “It’s hard to say, sir. My guess is that those prone to looting aren’t the sharpest crayons in the box. Or they assume everything will be fixed soon.”

  “Grocery stores?” Jeremy asked.

  “Some, but not many. I imagine that will increase once people realize the power may be off for a long time. Of course, I hope I’m wrong about that.”

  “You’re not.” The comment came from a man in a pair of tan slacks and a white polo shirt. He looked ready to head to the golf course. Dr. Wade Rouse was the director of the Federal Emergency Management Administration. He had been handpicked by Barlow because of his expertise in disaster mitigation (he taught at CalTech) and his no-nonsense thinking. Always polite, always focused, he had been described as a force of nature. FEMA had image problems. Barlow came into office determined to change that, and he needed someone who could sweet-talk members of congress with kind words or intimidate them with his intellect. In any gathering, someone thinks he or she is the smartest in the room. In Dr. Rouse’s case, he was.

  “May I?” He had no need to ask. FEMA would have to deal with much of the fallout. He may have been the second-most stressed man in the room.

  “It’s why we pay you the big bucks, Dr. Rouse,” Barlow said. A few in the group offered polite chortles.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. The study of group and individual dynamics during a crisis is detailed and long. I’ll spare you my dissertation, but here is what I believe we can expect.”

  An open notebook rested on the table in front of Rouse, but he never looked at it. He spoke from memory.

  “As the video footage shows, crowds are massing and the rioting has begun. This is to be expected, as is the increase in frequency. We’re just a few days into what may be a protracted energy outage. People are frightened, and that can cause normally sane people to commit major…indiscretions. The problem will grow worse. Food will be the issue. Looting televisions makes sense at first, but soon people will become concerned about feeding their children. Our citizens are not prone to plan for disaster, no matter how many public service announcements we run. It’s human nature to forget the last disaster and assume no others will occur. New Orleans has suffered for almost ten years because people eventually quit caring. That includes previous administrations. When the wind stops blowing, people start forgetting.”

  “You don’t have a very high opinion of the American citizen,” Barlow said.

  “I know too much to think differently, Mr. President. This is my specialty. It is why you brought me onboard. When you did, I only asked one thing.”

  Barlow nodded. “The right to speak freely to those higher up…I believe you called it the power curve.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m exercising that right now. The worst part of this disaster may be ahead of us.”

  “From more EMP pulses and the worm?” Holt shot Jeremy a glance.

  “I can’t speak to that, General. That’s out of my wheelhouse. But our greatest enemy is our own citizenry. Other countries will face the same problem. The first couple of days, I assumed an invasion was immanent, but then I learned the whole world suffered from the same problem. No doubt they thought we were invading.”

  “Give us a bullet list, Dr. Rouse.” Again, Barlow shifted in his seat. The padding in the chair couldn’t make the president comfortable. Watching the commander-in-chief squirm made Jeremy think of his own back and shoulder. No real damage, but that didn’t mean he was without pain.

  Rouse tapped the table with the back end of his pen and contemplated his next words. “Riots in the cities will increase. The larger the city; the greater the danger. Riots usually begin in late afternoon and last into the night. I believe these will begin soon because the city streets are dark. However, there is still enough moonlight to encourage such activity. There will be fires. Cars and buildings. Grocery stores and restaurants will be targeted—first mom-and-pop shops and then the megastores. People have to eat, and city dwellers don’t grow and store crops. Most can get by for a week. After that…” He raised his hands as if in surrender. “Much of the food will be close to spoiling. Meat has been sitting in powerless refrigeration units.

  “Divisions will occur along racial and socioeconomic lines—”

  “Wait,” General Holt said. “I like to think we’re beyond that.”

  “I like to think the same thing, General,” Rouse replied. “But research indicates we’re not. The poor will resent the rich and assume they have stores of food and will be the first to get power.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Barlow snapped.

  “Of course it is, but people in stress turn on others. Some noble souls will try to help, but they will be overrun by others.”

  Vice President Frank Grundy shook his head. “I can’t believe that of our citizens.” His face was bruised, and his neck was still so stiff from his injuries he had to turn his body to make eye contact with those around the table.

  “I find no joy in this, Mr. Vice President, but it is what it is.” Rouse let the words hang in the air.

  “Somalia. Rwanda.” Jeremy whispered the words.

  “What was that, General?” Barlow fixed his gaze on Jeremy.

  “Sorry, sir. I mentioned Somalia and Rwanda.”

  “Meaning?”

  Jeremy straightened and cleared his throat. He might have the rank of general, but aside from Major Gilbert, he was the low man on the totem pole. “Rwanda was once led by the Germans. When they pulled out, they left a leadership vacuum. The violence between the Hutus and Tutsis in the mid-1990s left a million or so people dead, many killed by machetes. The interesting thing from our perspective is that the violence was not racial. Hutu and Tutsi are both black. It was tribal. Somalia remains a country with no functional government
. It is run by warlords.”

  “Warlords who capitalized on famine,” Rouse interjected.

  Grundy wasn’t convinced. “Those are third-world countries—”

  “It makes no difference, Mr. Vice President.” Rouse’s words were firm. Jeremy doubted if a bulldozer could move the guy off an opinion. “And it’s not just the general citizenry.” He looked at Barlow. “There is an eighty-five percent chance that the military will fragment.”

  “Meaning?” Barlow pressed.

  “Some units of the military may take it upon themselves to mark off a territory.”

  Holt huffed. “American warlords? Not possible.”

  “I hope you’re right, General. I really do. For the first time in my life, I’ve started wishing I were wrong.” He looked away but continued speaking. “The next area of concern will be health issues. Without power, sewage can’t be processed properly. Much of it will be funneled into oceans and lakes. Clean water may become a problem. Almost all utilities manage water with electric pumps controlled by computers. Some things could be done manually if the utility workers show up. But they may not if they fear for the safety of their families.

  “Police effectiveness will be diminished. Radio operation is out. Patrol cars don’t work. What are they to do with people they arrest? Many police stations have holding cells with no windows and steel doors. People could die in those. Even the facilities with bars instead of solid doors will face overcrowding. Has anyone thought about the prisons?”

  No one spoke.

  Rouse continued. “There are nearly three million people incarcerated in US prisons and jails. For every 100,000 people in the country, 700 are incarcerated. Prisons are without power. The cells are locked shut. I assume officials can open individual cells manually, but what do you do with the prisoners? How do you feed them? How do guards communicate?”