Digital Winter

by Mark Hitchcock

  “What’s to become of us?”

  Pierce shrugged. “As I understand it, fame, fortune, and world domination. After that, I don’t know. Sooner or later we die, but that’s true for everyone. What matters now is surviving one more day. Right?”

  Liam gave a slight, slow nod.

  “Okay, you’re the boss. Or about to be the boss. I’ll take care of my part; you take care of yours. I’m the behind-the-scenes guy. Your new advisor, aide, whatever. Make up a title. The important thing is that you appear in control of everything.”

  The lights brightened. Pierce raised an eyebrow. “And so it begins. The building now has power.”

  “How?”

  “I have no idea. I gave up trying to figure that out. Here’s what I know. Do as you’re told, and you see the sunrise. Don’t, and you’ll be taking a dirt nap.”

  “You American’s have a way with words. Not a good way. Just a way.”

  “I can open the door again.”

  “NO—please don’t.”

  Pierce smiled, but Liam saw no real joy in it. Deep in the man’s eyes, he saw terror.

  27

  The President Needs a Friend

  To Jeremy’s surprise, the facility doctor and nurses didn’t take the president to the infirmary but to his apartment. He noticed that medical staff loaded the president on a gurney, covered him from foot to chin with a white sheet, and covered his eyes with a towel. It took a moment to realize they were doing their best to conceal his identity.

  “We’ll take care of it from here, General.” The doctor said the words as if they were an order. The medic tried to sound in control, but majors seldom gave orders to generals, even new generals.

  “I stay with him. At least for now.”

  The doctor said nothing, but his expression made a speech.

  They covered the distance from the common area to the president’s suite in short order. They didn’t run. That would bring more attention. Instead, they walked at a brisk pace.

  Katey Barlow waited with the door open. She looked ghostly: eyes red, face pale, tremulous hand to her lips. She stepped aside as the medical team entered. A muffled, “I’m fine, baby,” came from the man on the gurney.

  “You’d better be.” Her words were saturated with tears.

  Jeremy followed the medical team to the bedroom door and stopped at the threshold. He knew his limits. Inside the room was a simple bed, a pair of nightstands and—to Jeremy’s surprise—an oxygen bottle, heart monitor, and an IV stand. A table to the side held several instruments, including something that looked like an EKG machine.

  It made sense. The facility was meant to house hundreds, including the president. Electronic medical equipment had survived in the hardened structure. Jeremy couldn’t imagine doing this kind of medical work without the proper instruments. Then he thought of Roni. She had done plenty of that.

  He heard a sniff behind him and turned to see Katey standing in the middle of the small living room. “He’s talking. That has to be good.”

  “He always talks. He jokes that after he dies he’ll still be making speeches.”

  “Here, sit. The doctor will let us know what’s going on soon. I’ll stay with you.”

  She sat. “I’ve called the kids. They’ll be here any minute. They’ll want to know what happened.”

  As she finished the sentence, there came a knock on the door. “I’ll get it.” The president’s two children waited on the other side of the threshold. Teddy Barlow was two inches taller than his father but had more resemblance than difference. He looked as his father must have in his early thirties. Abigail Barlow-Tate was shorter than her mother and looked half the weight. At first, Jeremy thought he was looking at a teenage girl, but then he saw the lines around the woman’s eyes and mouth. He stepped aside. The two went to their mother’s side. She hugged them both.

  Jeremy closed the door and took a seat in a side chair.

  “They’re in there with Dad now.” Katey sniffed, nodding at the closed bedroom door. “I don’t know how bad it is. General Matisse was with him.”

  He inched forward on the seat and told what little he knew.

  “He just collapsed?” Teddy looked like a man who couldn’t decide between anger and heartbreaking sobs.

  “Yes, sir. We were walking and talking. We sat on a bench in the common area. He said, ‘Oh, no,’ and then fell forward. I broke his fall and sent for the doctor.”

  “He was…I mean…” Abigail’s lip trembled.

  “Yes. He was alive and semiconscious. By the time the doctor arrived he was fully awake again.”

  “Was he…is he in pain?” Teddy pressed.

  “Some, and he was breathing on his own. I can’t tell you what’s wrong.” He looked at Katey. “I assume you know more than me.”

  Katey nodded. “Yes, he’s been having—”

  “Mom! You know Dad told us not to talk about this with anyone.”

  “Don’t ‘Mom’ me. General Matisse is one of your father’s advisors. Besides, he was there when your father needed him.” She faced Jeremy. “You may have saved his life for a second time.”

  “I just called for help and tried to make him comfortable. That’s all I could do. My wife is the doctor in the family.”

  “Nathan told me. Still, I think you have a right to know. The president has been having heart problems. He denied it for a long time. Symptoms developed after his last annual physical. He kept them to himself. All of this stress has made things worse.”

  “Is that why there’s medical equipment in the bedroom?” Jeremy pushed back in the chair and spoke softly.

  “Yes. He doesn’t want people in the compound to know. He thinks it would undermine his leadership. The key medical staff knows and the vice president. Oh, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

  “I see.” Jeremy had suspected as much. He had even discussed it with General Holt.

  “General…may I call you Jeremy? Rank seems so unimportant at a time like this.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “I…I don’t know how to ask this. You did a wonderful job at Secretary Baker’s memorial service, and General Holt tells us you are a spiritual man. I…”

  “You’re asking me to pray for the president?”

  Tears trickled down her face. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  The living room filled with more people. The first to arrive was Frank Grundy. The VP looked three shades paler than the last time Jeremy had seen him and more haggard than when Jeremy helped pull him from the helicopter crash that nearly killed the then chief of staff. He hesitated at the doorway, and his eyebrows twisted in confusion.

  Jeremy stood as Grundy entered. “Mr. Vice President. They got word to you?”

  “Word?” He took two steps into the room and froze. “I’m here to talk to the president…What happened?”

  Katey glanced at Jeremy. “The president has experienced a medical episode.”

  “What’s that mean? A medical episode?”

  “He collapsed.” Jeremy filled him in. “Mrs. Barlow was just telling me that he’s been unwell for some time but keeping it secret.”

  “That I knew.” Grundy looked stressed when he came in. He looked worse now.

  Another knock. This time the VP opened the door. Admiral Archie Radcliffe, head of the JCS gave the same puzzled look as Grundy. They exchanged glances. Grundy faced Jeremy. “You’re with me, General.” He pushed past Radcliffe. The two men followed in his wake. Grundy stopped midstep and turned to speak through the still-open door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Katey. I just have to have a short meeting. I promise. I’ll be right back.”

  Jeremy caught sight of her nodding. Then he closed the door.

  Grundy led the two military men to the seating area where Jeremy had received his impromptu promotion from Barlow. He didn’t sit, which meant Radcliffe didn’t sit, which meant Jeremy remained on his feet.

  “Is he still able to lead?” Grundy’s words were sh
ort and sharp.

  Jeremy’s first urge was to shrug but that didn’t seem appropriate. “He was unconscious for a few moments.”

  “What constitutes a few moments.” Radcliffe snapped the question.

  “Less than a minute, sir. When he came to, he was confused. That passed in seconds. He asked to be helped up, but I refused. I sent for help and kept him still.”

  “Did he seem like himself? Intellectually, I mean.”

  “I believe so. His sentences were complete and clear. He seemed aware of his surroundings.”

  “Good. Good.” Grundy exchanged another glance with Radcliffe.

  “General Matisse—Jeremy—I know you’re not a doctor, but give me your best guess. Was it his heart? What’s your gut tell you?”

  “That’d be my guess. I’m not sure it was a typical heart attack. Maybe arrhythmia? I hesitate to say even that much.”

  “I understand.”

  Jeremy decided to risk a question. “This may be above my clearance, but if you didn’t know about this, why are you here?”

  “He didn’t answer his office phone and there’s been…an event.”

  “More EMPs?”

  “No.”

  Jeremy got the idea. Once the real Joint Chiefs had made it to Mount Weather, he had been relieved of that responsibility. It felt like Christmas. “I see you two have some things to talk over. Unless you need me, I’ll excuse myself. I promised to sit with the family for a while.”

  The vice president cleared his throat. It was enough to freeze him in his tracks. “What I’m about to tell you is above top secret and doesn’t fall in your service area, but I’m going to need advice. By that, I mean the president is going to need it.”

  “We all need it,” Radcliffe said.

  Jeremy’s blood chilled. This sounded bad.

  “Syria has launched a missile attack on Israel.” Grundy looked like a man sipping acid for lunch. “Admiral Radcliffe and I were called to the communications area to receive the coded message. That’s why we didn’t know about the president.”

  “How bad is it?” Jeremy wished the men would sit. He could use a chair.

  “Too early to tell,” Radcliffe said. “Intel on the ground has relayed some information to one of our subs in the Mediterranean. The sub’s radar picked up the missiles while they were airborne. Info is in short supply. We can’t do flyovers. The satellites we use to monitor the area…well, you know. CIA has been in touch with their contacts in Mossad. We know that Tel Aviv and Haifa have been hit, as well as some smaller cities. We assume that the Syrians are using Iranian Fajr-3 and Fajr-5 missiles. There’s a good chance Tel Aviv was hit with a Zilzah-2. That beast carries a thousand-pound warhead.”

  “Early reports from the ground indicate several buildings were hit. The Syrians used their old trick of sending missiles with ball bearings in the warhead. Increased casualties.” The VP finally sat. Discussing the attack seemed to wear him down. “This wasn’t an attack to shake up their neighbors or to make a point with Israel. The more I know, the more I believe it is the beginning of war.”

  “But why?” Jeremy lowered himself into a chair. His stomach roiled. His heart pounded like an airplane piston.

  “You want my guess?” Radcliffe said. “Israel has always been quick to punish aggression against them. They have the best technology and intelligence in the area, but that’s all gone. The loss of power and computers and nearly everything else has hamstrung them. They’re more vulnerable than ever before. But that leaves us with a question, General Matisse.”

  Jeremy stared at Radcliffe. “You want to know how Syria could have missiles ready to fly and onboard guidance able to hit their targets.”

  “Precisely. You got an answer for me?” Radcliffe’s gaze bored into Jeremy.

  “They would have had to keep the missiles, or at least the electronics, in a hardened area. Or they found a way to rebuild their electrical systems faster than we can.” He paused. “No, Admiral Radcliffe, I don’t have an answer for you. If you asked me if this was possible I would have told you no.”

  “And you would have been wrong.” Radcliffe crossed his arms.

  “Yes, sir. I would have been wrong.”

  “If I asked if Iran could launch missiles on their own, would you tell me no?”

  Jeremy straightened. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. General Holt and I studied this at length, and we were both convinced that what you describe couldn’t happen.”

  “He’s still at Fort Meade?” the VP asked.

  “Yes. The president sent him to oversee the reconstruction of our computer network. The NSA database is still good. It’s kept underground, but our analysis software took a beating, as did the computers that run it. He has people working around the clock, rebuilding whatever they can.”

  Grundy rubbed his face as if doing so would wipe away his memories. “This is the one thing the president and I have never agreed upon. I’ve always thought we backed Israel too much, and he said we didn’t back her enough.”

  Radcliffe pressed his lips into a line. Jeremy imagined gears turning in the man’s big head. “You know, sir, you may be the one calling the shots.”

  “The president isn’t dead, Admiral.”

  “Of course, sir. I know that, but if what Jeremy is telling us is even close to accurate, he might be incapable of making the tough decisions.”

  Grundy took in a deep, noisy inhalation. His chest expanded. “If it comes to that, I’m ready, but I will not write the president off until I have to. Understood?”

  Radcliffe dipped his head an inch. “Understood, sir, but it’s my job to keep the decision makers apprised of all military options. I take that obligation seriously.”

  “What military options do you see? Mobilizing forces is a little more difficult these days.”

  “True,” Radcliffe said, “but we have a sub in the vicinity. We could put cruise missiles where they would do the most good.”

  Grundy shook his head. “Israel has three Dolphin-class diesel-electrical boats, and they just received two more AIP Dolphin-class boats. They can launch their own cruise missiles.”

  “Yes, sir, assuming that none of them were in port or surfaced to recharge batteries. Much of the sub fleet is not AIP.”

  “I hate to show my Air Force ignorance of Navy things, but what is AIP?”

  “Air Independent Propulsion,” Radcliffe said. “Nuclear subs can stay down for months. They make their own oxygen and water. They come to port only for provisions. Diesel-electric boats run on engines on the surface and electric motors beneath the waves. Their submerged time is limited. AIP allows non-nuclear subs to stay submerged longer.”

  “Do we know how many of their subs might have been vulnerable when the EMP pulses went off?”

  “Not exactly. The Navy keeps track of those things, but much of that information was lost. CIA might have some idea, but I think we’ll know soon enough.”

  “How so?” Grundy squirmed.

  “All we have to do is count the number of cruise missiles slamming Syria.” Radcliffe seemed to enjoy the taste the statement left in his mouth. “Lots of destruction means their subs are all safe. No missiles, then…well, you get the idea.”

  “Gentlemen?”

  Jeremy turned to see Teddy Barlow approaching. “My father wishes to see you.”

  They stood. Jeremy addressed Grundy. “I wish I had a better answer for you, Mr. Vice President. I really do.” He started to walk away.

  “General Matisse. My father asked to see you also.”

  Jeremy blinked several times and then looked at Grundy and Radcliffe. There was nothing to say. Jeremy became the caboose in the train of power walking to the president’s apartment.

  28

  Jonesin’

  Eight weeks after the lights went out, Roni’s world was still a mess. She had a few advantages on the rest of the people in the city—the rest of the people in the world. The hospital’s generators had become a priori
ty in the city. Dedicated doctors from other hospitals who had found their way to Harris Memorial had brought mixed messages. The bad news: All but a few of the hospitals had been boarded up. Doctors, nurses, techs, and support staff walked away to care for their own families. The military, police, and fire moved many patients to the few hospitals like Harris Memorial that could still function, albeit at reduced efficiency.

  There were stories of great courage and sacrifice, as well as horrible tales of patients left to die in their beds, neglected by the only people who could help them. One new arrival mentioned paramedics who had walked from the firehouse to the hospital to care for as many as they could. Their training, while extensive in trauma, was limited. Still they did what they could. In her own hospital, heroes rose. Ambulatory patients picked up the slack created by missing nurses and volunteers. Some work they couldn’t do, but they could empty bedpans, make beds, or just sit and visit those in worse shape than they.

  Jose Lopez was one such hero. Recuperating from surgery that removed cancer and a good bit of his stomach, he began to make rounds as soon as he was able to walk. At first, he just went from room to room and offered to pray for any who would let him. Those who blamed God for the crisis often swore at him. Especially those who had lost loved ones. He never walked out. He listened. He nodded. He wept with them. If they allowed it, he read aloud from their favorite books. He never took offense. Jose found a way to make the most depressed person laugh. He had even drawn a few guffaws from Roni, who had begun her own war with depression.

  Jose spent part of his days doing menial work, including mopping vomit from the floors or helping run the laundry. Shamed at her own stereotyping, Roni wondered if the Hispanic did this kind of work for a living. Turns out, he held a PhD in civil engineering. “I wish I had specialized in mechanical or electrical engineering. I would be more useful. Not much need for what I do.”

  “You do plenty, Jose. You have the superpower of humility.”

  “I never thought of it that way. Mostly, I want to do what Jesus would do in this building.”

  Roni had just smiled, but the words grew roots in her mind. She might have been able to dismiss it as naive religious talk, but the words of Jeremy’s letter kept them alive.