Digital Winter

by Mark Hitchcock

  “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

  Pickett rose and headed for the door. “Stubborn. Bullheaded. Intractable.” He opened the door, stopped, and fired one parting shot. “Thank you, Roni.”

  Once again, tears rose. Roni hated being emotional. She seldom wept, but the stress and strain were eroding her emotional foundation. She picked up the letter and turned to read from the light of the window.

  Then she wept again.

  21

  An Idea

  Jeremy jogged the concrete floors of the underground facility of Mount Weather. It was a slow jog, a thoughtful jog, meant more to jostle the mind and work out problems than to work up a sweat. The pale artificial light gave the place an otherworldly feel. The place would be brighter with Roni. Every place was brighter with her, but she had made the decision he knew she would make.

  He worried about her. Here he was safe. Soldiers guarded the facility inside and out. Blast doors were closed. Here he had food, power, warmth, a bed…but no wife. Roni was in the thick of things. She was in a city already known for having one of the highest crime rates in the country, confined to a hospital with glass doors and few security guards, if any. He wanted to protect her, but he couldn’t do it living like a mole in a burrow.

  Something else had been eating at him. He spent most of his time trying to do two things. First, he worked on defeating the Moriarty worm. It made no sense to get computers up and running just to have them downed the first time they connected to a network. Second, he had been assigned to oversee plans to create a workable communications system between heads of state in different countries. It was proving to be an impossible task. Even if they came up with a plan, they had no way of sharing that with the Russians, Chinese, or any other country. Most communication between countries was done by satellite relay.

  One avenue remained open: oceanic communications cables. The first underwater cable had been laid in 1850. Optical fibers were used now, replacing less dependable copper. In 2010, every continent had been connected, including Antarctica. The problem rested with the telecommunication equipment at the ends of the cables. They were knocked out like all the other electronics in the world. Unless the equipment was deep underground or hardened in other ways, it was little more than a dust collector. Jeremy pushed ahead on the assumption that other countries would have the same idea.

  He also had another idea, and today he was fleshing it out with each stride. Two miles into the jog, he decided to air the concept. He altered course and stode to a side conference room assigned to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In the previous twelve hours, the key players of JCS—most of whom had been key aides to the original JCS—had arrived by various means and immediately set up shop. The president relieved Holt and Jeremy of the temporary JCS standing, making Jeremy a happy man. He had felt out of his depth. General Holt remained part of the group as an advisor.

  The door to the conference room was closed. Jeremy took a moment to slow his heart and ease his breathing before giving a hard knock, just as he learned at the Air Force Academy.

  “Enter.” The voice was gruff.

  Jeremy stepped in. Seated around an oak conference table sat the chairman, the vice chairman, the chief of staff of the Army, the chief of naval operations, the commandant of the Marine Corps, and the chief of staff of the Air Force, all recently appointed to those positions by the president. General Holt sat to one side. A couple of stars didn’t make one a big wig with this group.

  “What is it, General?” Admiral Archie Radcliffe, the new chairman, was Navy through and through.

  “Submarines.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sir, in our meeting with the president this morning you said all ships were disabled and those in transit were adrift.”

  “Correct. Nav is out, electronics are out. Only mechanical controls work. The nuclear reactors shut down as designed.”

  “But the subs spend almost all their time underwater, right?”

  “Yes. They’re nuclear powered. They can stay down as long as they want, but we can’t contact them.”

  “We don’t need to, Admiral. They’ll try to contact us and won’t be able to. What do they do in a case like that?”

  “They assume a war and try to assess the global situation.”

  “Which they can’t do, because there are no communications. They’re equipped to monitor communications of other navies, right?”

  Radcliffe thought for a moment. “Yes, but that may just drive them deeper, unless…”

  “There will be no engine noises from surface ships. No aircraft carriers, warships, cruise ships, or even fishing boats. Would they assume that an attack would render every ship useless?”

  “No. If they feared a nuclear exchange, they would sample the air for radioactivity. If they don’t find anything…”

  “Would they return to base?”

  “Possibly. Likely.”

  Jeremy smiled for the first time in days. “Then we have a way to send envoys.”

  “You expect me to send a boomer or fast attack into a hostile foreign port?”

  “Maybe. I’d start with a friendly port. Travel on the surface. Fly a flag. Approach with an open hand. Their vessels are going to be out of commission too—except their subs.”

  “The goal being?”

  “Communication, sir. It will be easier to defuse the situation face-to-face, and we can exchange information about rebooting the digital world.”

  “I think he’s onto something, Admiral,” Holt said.

  “Maybe. We’ll talk about it. Thank you, General Matisse.”

  Jeremy slipped from the room and hoped he was right.

  The letter was handwritten. The words bore no indication of haste. It was a letter written after much thought and soul searching. Each line was equidistant from the one above it. The margins narrow. It was a letter written by a man of detail, focus, intelligence, and love. Roni recognized the script as her husband’s. The cursive was tight and lacked flair. It was the handwriting of a punctilious man. Jeremy had the neatest handwriting Roni had ever seen. She had adopted the rushed script that had become the joke and hallmark of physicians in the US. Every loop, descender, and ascender reminded her of the careful, cautious, dedicated man she married. So different they were, so connected nonetheless.

  An ache grew in her, spreading from the hot center of her gut to the tips of her fingers and toes. She missed him more than she thought humanly possible. They had been separated for longer periods, but the world had been normal then, not like it was now.

  It took Roni several moments to focus beyond the appearance of the words to their meaning. She read the letter for the fourth time since receiving it.

  My Dear Roni,

  I gave orders that this letter be given to you in the event that you chose to stay at the hospital. I figured you’d be there and not at home. I’m no good at predicting the future, but I know the love of my life. I suppose dynamite couldn’t budge you. This disappoints me, but it is a selfish disappointment. I am never happy when we’re separated, but this is by far the worst. I can’t even pick up a phone and hear your voice. I imagine your work has been demanding beyond words. I hope you are finding time to rest and eat. The hospital and your patients are blessed to have you.

  I am safe and busy helping get things up and running again. Things are just as Rex said they would be.

  Rex. Their code word. Not long after they married and Jeremy began earning higher ranks and more responsibility in digital warfare defense, he said there might be times when he would be called in to work on things he couldn’t talk about or go to a place he couldn’t discuss. “Should that happen, I’ll phone or send word and use the word Rex in conversation. It means that I might be gone for a few days and not to worry.”

  “Why would I worry?” she deadpanned.

  “You wound me.” He laughed. Now, as she continued reading, she wished she hadn’t joked about it.

  I worry about you and pray
for you every time you come to mind, and you come to mind every few minutes. Please know this: I love you now and forever. As I consider everything our marriage has been, my only sorrow has been that I have not been able to adequately explain my love for Jesus and my need of Him. He has been the steel in my spine since high school. My faith has made me what I am and freed me to love you even more. You’ve been patient with me, never mocking, but also never accepting.

  Roni, I do not wish to bring more pressure into your life or start a theological discussion. I just ask [Here the even spacing of the words faltered] you to consider all we’ve discussed over the years of our marriage. When I look at what has happened to the world, I’m reminded of many things in the Bible—things too long to discuss in this letter, but you’ve heard me speak of them before.

  Roni, you are the beat of my heart. I love you more today than when we married, something I thought was impossible. I want the best for you: safety and comfort. Over the years we’ve had discussions and playful banter, but I need you to consider the matter seriously.

  Remember, kid, distance may put miles between our bodies, but not our hearts.

  All my love,

  Jeremy

  An emotional stew boiled in her. She felt the warmth of his love as if he were standing in the room; she also felt the cold chill of his concern. Something had Jeremy worried, something beyond the catastrophic events surrounding them. What was he seeing that she couldn’t?

  A soft knock on her door pulled Roni’s attention from the letter. She quickly folded it again. “Come in.”

  The door opened slowly, and Cody’s face appeared between the jamb and door.

  “Hey, you. Where have you been?”

  He left the door open as he walked in. “I’ve been playing in the children’s wing.”

  “Did you have fun?”

  He shrugged. The kid was big on shrugging. “I guess. People up there are unhappy.”

  “The patients?”

  “Them too. I meant the doctors and nurses. They look scared.”

  Roni pushed back from the desk and patted the seat Pickett had been sitting on a few minutes before. Cody climbed in, his feet dangling a foot above the floor. “It’s a scary time, Cody, and the doctors and nurses are tired. They’ve been working for a long time. Most haven’t seen their families for days.”

  “How come?”

  “They live too far away, and the cars don’t work anymore.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure. Something has happened that makes anything with a computer chip or electronics quit working.”

  “Like the lights?”

  “Yes, like the lights.”

  He studied her for a moment. “You’re sad too, aren’t you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve been crying. I can tell. Your eyes are all puffy and stuff, just like my mommy’s when she would cry. You know…after my daddy…”

  “Yes, I know.” She smiled. “Okay, you got me. I’ve been crying, but I’m okay now.” She stood. “Let’s go see if there’s any food in the cafeteria. If not, we’ll steal a soda.”

  “Okay. I like the cheese and crackers.”

  “Okay, we’ll steal some of those too.”

  As they walked from the office and down the corridor toward the cafeteria, the lights came on.

  “God bless the US Army,” Roni said. For some reason, the phrase “God bless” warmed her.

  Twenty minutes later, Roni was back in the OR, working on the first of six patients assigned to her. This was why she stayed, she reminded herself. These patients needed her.

  A small voice in the back of her head said, And you need Jeremy.

  Jeremy took a bite of a tuna sandwich as he sat alone at a table in the cafeteria. The president entered, and everyone in the space stood. Barlow put them at ease. He wasn’t alone. With him were his wife and two adult children and grandchildren. The latter had arrived only an hour before. The kids seemed fascinated with the underground facility, and Barlow seemed to enjoy giving the tour. The president, however, looked wan and thinner. He waved off any inquirers about his health. “I’m fine. Just feeling the weight of it all.”

  Jeremy wasn’t so certain.

  The sight of the president’s family made Jeremy think of Roni, something he did frequently.

  He worried about her constantly.

  Act 3

  Eight Weeks

  22

  Placing Blame

  Military technicians had taken two weeks to get communication working through undersea cables. The president had issued a state of emergency, and the military used it to commandeer communications facilities and anything else they needed. Jeremy had led one of the teams working on the transatlantic cable. He lacked the expertise needed to cobble together the necessary parts to make what he thought of as transmitters, devices that could send signals through fiber optics. He did, however, have the knowledge to rebuild the computers necessary to make the system work. It was no walk in the park, and Jeremy had never had to be so creative. Just finding motherboards that didn’t look as if they had spent a couple of hours in a microwave proved daunting.

  He received help from FEMA, which made sheltered equipment available. General Holt oversaw the rebuilding of a military network. Much of it had been hardened—yet one more reason to be thankful for paranoia—but powering the system proved more difficult. The military had not been paranoid enough. Still, things began to fall together.

  By the middle of the third week, EMN—a new acronym Holt coined for the Emergency Military Network—was functioning with some success. The network was an adjunct to Slipper, which was still being rebuilt. The JCS and the president had communications with several key military installations, including NORAD. Their equipment was already underground, as were those in other locations dedicated to continuity of government. Every new connection was a reason for celebration.

  The number of airworthy craft was limited, but there were enough to overfly many urban areas. Teams of military personnel were sent to debrief state governors and mayors of major cities. They returned with troubling reports and bleak forecasts.

  Jeremy sat at a computer, checking and double-checking the safety of the EMN. Terminals could be connected only to previously approved servers. No computer or server touched the Internet. Moriarty dwelled there, waiting for the next opening.

  “We ready?” Holt stepped into Jeremy’s office.

  “Yes, sir. Any minute now. I’m transferring connections to the sit room.”

  “Good. The president wants you there in case something goes wrong with the connection.”

  “Yes, sir. Things have been stable for several hours. I’ve been chatting with my Russian counterpart.”

  “How are they doing over there?” Holt moved to the terminal. An image of an empty room was on the computer monitor.

  “Not good, General. Not good at all.”

  “Anything the president should know before the video conference?”

  “Many things, sir. Way too many things.”

  Holt’s lips formed a line. “Let’s go. I want us to be in the room when POTUS gets there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sit room seemed too large for the few people in it. Barlow entered with Vice President Grundy. No one else.

  “We good to go, Jeremy?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. The camera is ready to go.”

  “Microphone?”

  “On the table, sir. The techs tell me they’ll be able to hear you just fine.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear him.” He moved to the long table. “My regular seat good enough?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barlow and Grundy sat. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  The large monitor on the far wall lit up, revealing the Russian version of the sit room. It was dim, as if lit from battery-powered lights that flickered. In a moment, a short, thin man entered and sat in a chair. Two other men entered with
him. All looked as if they had just finished eating a large bowl of lemons.

  “Mr. President,” Barlow said.

  Bogdan Arturovich Vysotsky greeted Barlow with a string of obscenities, all in English. The tirade continued for a full minute. Jeremy tried not to stare, but he couldn’t keep from looking at his president. The man sat in his chair, unmoving at first, and then began to study his fingernails as if bored.

  Vysotsky continued to spew venom, and Barlow let him. Finally the Russian president had to stop for air.

  “Impressive, Bogdan Arturovich. You may have used every English swear word in existence. Did I detect a few Russian slurs in there as well? Yes? How cosmopolitan of you.”

  On the monitor, a translator began to relay the message when Barlow slapped his hand on the conference table. He hit it with enough force to move the microphone an inch. “No! No translator! You just proved you can handle English as well as any longshoreman. I assume you can speak and understand more civil terms.”

  Vysotsky leaned forward as if intending to climb through the camera and throttle the president. He stabbed a finger at the lens. “This is your fault, Barlow. The streets of my country are littered with the bodies of our great citizens. They starve to death. They freeze to death. They turn on each other and on their government. All because of your American aggressiveness.”

  “You don’t believe that, Bogdan. We didn’t attack you.”

  “It was your EMP satellites that have crippled us. Yours and the Chinese—”

  “And it was yours that knocked us off the grid. Do you think we would do this to ourselves?”

  “We had to retaliate.”

  Barlow didn’t blink. “Retaliation, eh? Is that what you’re going with, Bogdan? Really? Retaliation? For a politician, you are a lousy liar. You didn’t retaliate. Those satellites went off because of a computer worm. I’m sure your people have already told you that.”

  “Yours shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

  “And neither should yours!” Barlow bellowed the words. “But they were, and now we are where we are.”