by Tim Washburn
“Paul, listen to me, please. We were briefed on this right after you took office. The effects might plunge both our countries into darkness for years. I wouldn’t bring this situation to your attention if I didn’t think it was serious. A videoconference is being organized in the Situation Room”—he glances at the heavy gold watch on his wrist—“within the next fifteen minutes. I think the ambassador should attend the conference so he’ll be able to convey the seriousness of the matter to his country.”
President Harris glares at him for a long moment before walking back to the sofa. He grabs the phone on the side table and instructs his secretary to send the ambassador back in.
Scott notices that, like almost every President, he’s aged during the first three years of office. A man who loves to golf and spend time outdoors, the President now has the pallor of a desk jockey. His once-dark hair is now more gray than black and his patrician face displays many new wrinkles. We’ve almost made it through the first term without any major catastrophes, and now that it’s time to mount a campaign for a second term, he looks twenty years older. Scott doesn’t like what the office has done to his old friend.
Ambassador Nelson’s face is a mask of concern when he reenters the Oval Office. “I just received a call from the prime minister, Mr. President. What Mr. Alexander said is correct. Our scientists are working in conjunction with those here in the States to get a better handle on the situation.”
The President’s grim smile betrays his growing concern. “I guess we have an appointment in the Situation Room.”
CHAPTER 7
NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center
Wednesday, September 29, 9:11 A.M.
Doctor Samuel Blake sits in front of the stationary camera, his leg bouncing up and down as sweat pops on his forehead. He wipes it away. The videoconference, which includes the President of the United States, is way outside his normal realm. But the impending storm is forcing everyone out of their comfort zones. Sam runs his hands across the salt-and-pepper razor stubble sprouting from his chin as he stares at the dark eye of the camera lens. He’s seated in the tiny conference room that doubles as a break room, and the aroma of burned coffee only adds to the sourness already churning in his gut. He glances out the window at the majestic Rocky Mountains, displayed in all their glory as the sun paints the ragged ridges in bright light. How can things appear so serene? he wonders.
He stands and shouts down the hall for Kaylee to join him, more for support than anything else. She signals her response with a brief wave as she continues to type on her laptop. He returns to his seat, removes a handkerchief from his back pocket, and polishes each lens of his glasses.
After replacing his glasses, he attaches the wireless microphone and places the small earpiece into his ear. The edges of the paper flutter as he reads through the brief one last time. Without warning, a tinny noise squeals through the earpiece. He reaches to yank out the earpiece but the noise dissipates, replaced by the sounds of human voices. He cocks his head, trying to listen. He doesn’t have the luxury of a video feed displaying the other participants of the conference, just their voices transmitted via some satellite out in space. He hears someone say, “Five minutes,” and he takes a few deep breaths to slow his heart rate.
A soft knock at the door. Kaylee enters the conference room, her face pinched with worry, and sits wearily in one of the chairs outside of camera range.
“There have been two substantial solar flares over the last five minutes from the same region of the sun,” she says.
“What are the effects?”
“Some radio interference, and a small spike in a few of the electrical grids.” Solar flares reach Earth almost instantaneously, while the floating plasma of the coronal mass ejections takes longer.
“This could get bad in a hurry, Kaylee.” He looks at the clock, ticking forever onward. He reaches to his belt, double-checking that his microphone is turned on. “Kaylee, clip the other microphone on in case I need your help.”
She reaches for the mike but struggles to attach it with trembling hands.
CHAPTER 8
The Marshall home
Zeke’s father enters the shop just as all the lights wink out for the second time. Zeke yanks the hearing-protection headphones from his ears. “Second time that’s happened, Dad.”
“Power spike of some sort. Might even be a solar flare. Give it a minute, then try again.”
Zeke shakes his head and stares at the board, smooth as a baby’s butt on one side but raspy as steel wool on the other. “What makes you think it was a solar flare or whatever you said?”
“I don’t. Could’ve been something else, but I know there’s an increase in solar activity. And it happens more than you’d think.” In addition to being a civil engineer, his father has a passionate interest in science. A real nerd, a designation he happily embraces.
“Why would it stop and restart?”
“It’s like a circuit breaker in your house. A sudden spike will trigger the breaker, so you have to reset it. Same principle applies to the electric companies, but the breakers are much bigger with a different configuration, but the same general idea. Too much of a sustained overload and you could fry the transformers.”
Some of that Zeke knew from his days in Afghanistan, where the electrical service had been as unreliable as a 1985 Yugo. But not for the soldiers, who had all the generating power needed, thanks to Uncle Sam. The lights flicker back on and Zeke reaches down and flips the planer’s switch. His dad stands on the out-feed side as Zeke keeps the board straight until the machine’s feeder pulls it into the blades.
Once the board is finished, he hits the kill switch with his knee. “So that’s it? A little hiccup?”
“Hope so,” his father says. “What do you want me to do?”
Zeke points to an almost-complete table on the other side of the workshop. “How about a delicate sanding on that table?”
“You got it.” He walks to the workbench area and begins thumbing through the different grits of sandpaper arranged in an organizer. Zeke watches his father as he carefully removes a piece of sandpaper. As a teenager he chafed against that sternness, stiffness, or whatever it was, but now he admires his father for his decisiveness, his attention to detail. His hair is grayer and thinner, the creases on his forehead are a little deeper, but his mind appears to be as sharp as ever.
As Zeke turns away and carries the now-smooth board to the radial arm saw, the lights in the shop flicker again. He glances back at his father to find him staring at the light fixtures as if it’s a problem with them. Not likely, with his careful electrical work, including precise voltages for each run of the wire.
“We have a backup generator, right?” Zeke says.
“Yes, it’s tied into the propane tank. As long as we have propane, we’ll have power. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He returns to sanding. Then he stops. “Could be a tree grounding out one of the high lines,” he mutters.
“What’s that, Dad?”
“Nothing, just talking to myself.” Then, “When we first moved down here, the electrical service was spotty, but they built a new substation outside of town that was supposed to fix it. And it did. I hope it’s not something else.” There’s a new note of concern in his voice.
CHAPTER 9
The White House Situation Room
Wednesday, September 29, 9:13 A.M.
President Harris steps into the Situation Room with Ambassador Nelson in tow. Every head in the room turns at their entrance and some people begin to stand, but the President waves them down. There are some raised eyebrows at the appearance of the British ambassador. Scott Alexander slips into the room behind them and takes a seat toward the rear. The President nods to the advisors arranged around the large conference table, pulls out the chair with a presidential seal embroidered on the back, and sits. Ambassador Nelson, half a foot shorter and about sixty pounds heavier than the President, takes the chair next to him.
The cold f
luorescent lighting reflects off the polished wooden surface of the large table, which is surrounded by a dozen leather swivel chairs. Another thirty or so chairs are parked along the outer perimeter of the rectangular room, hugging the light-colored walls, which are dressed with a dark wood wainscoting along their bottom. There are large video displays mounted around the room, but the front wall is reserved for a much larger white screen lit by an overhead projector. Dark blue carpet runs from wall to wall, alleviating some of the coldness of the room.
“Who’s on the videoconference?” the President says.
A staffer quickly hands him a typed sheet that details the names and their job titles, along with short bios. He scans down the list, passing over one bureaucrat after another until his eyes alight on the two Ph.D.s on the list. He scans their brief biographies. Most of the others taking part in the videoconference will be just background noise—these two will have the answers, the President thinks. He rereads the bios of Dr. Samuel Blake at the Space Weather Prediction Center and Dr. Sarah Garcia, an air force major at that agency’s weather center.
“Thirty seconds, Mr. President,” someone shouts over the murmur of voices, which die down. The large screen is divided into boxes showing the faces of the videoconference participants. The President scrutinizes the faces and focuses on trying to sort out who’s who. Before he can ask, a name and a title appear under each box.
The boxes are arranged horizontally, with four frames per row, two rows stacked vertically. There are seven people on-screen: director of NASA, director of FEMA, secretary of commerce, and the under secretary of commerce in charge of NOAA, a scientist herself, but a couple of the others President Harris has never met. Joining him in the Situation Room are the other directors—Homeland Security, FBI, SECDEF, SECSTATE, and National Security, whose organization is tasked with running operations in the Sit Room. Of course the chairman of the Joint Chiefs is present in his dress uniform, his chest adorned with an array of colored ribbons. The President takes a moment to survey the faces of those surrounding him before turning his gaze to the screen. He realizes that the only people with real looks of concern are the two scientists.
“Good morning to all of you and thank you for joining us,” President Harris says. A few offer return greetings. “Dr. Blake, I understand you’re the one who initiated this gathering. Will you please explain why?”
The small box representing Dr. Blake zooms full screen, the perspiration on his forehead evident as his face fills the wall. “Thank you, Mr. President. A little over”—he pauses to glance at something outside camera range—“three hours ago we were alerted to a massive coronal mass ejection from the surface of the sun. A CME, for those of you who don’t know, is a storm seething with gas and charged plasma, full of energy particles embedded in a magnetic field.” Sam pauses for a quick sip of water.
“Dr. Blake,” says the President, “most of us have been briefed on solar storms, so why don’t we get to the heart of the matter? Three questions need immediate answers. What makes this storm unusual? Why do you think the storm will hit here? And most important, if it does strike our planet, how long do we have?”
“This storm is different because of its size, sir. It’s massive. The Advanced Composition Explorer satellite—ACE—that orbits about a million miles from the Earth between our planet and the sun, went dark almost two hours ago. It was the only tool we had to determine the storm’s path, and unfortunately it was also the only tool we had available to determine the arrangement of our planet’s magnetic fields. A crucial piece of information we need to determine the severity of the impact.
“So the arrival time is only an educated guess at this point. Some of my colleagues have suggested a time frame for CME arrival at Earth anywhere between one to three days. Several factors play a part in these guesstimates based on speed and size. But the only storm in recorded history of this magnitude occurred in 1859, and the effects of that storm were felt on Earth after only seventeen hours. That estimate was calculated using crude instrumentation, so I don’t know how reliable or precise those observations were. This solar storm is larger than the Carrington event and I believe it will only accelerate as it advances, sometime in the next ten to fourteen hours.”
“Take a break for a moment, Dr. Blake. Major Garcia, do you concur with Dr. Blake’s assessment?”
The full-screen shot transitions to an attractive Hispanic woman in her midforties with dark eyes and dark, cropped-short hair. She’s wearing her dress blues with gold oak leaves pinned to each shoulder epaulette. Sarah Garcia’s face is just as serious as Blake’s. “According to our instrument readings, Dr. Blake is correct about the massive size of the eruption. The only area where we differ is in the timing. Earth is already being pummeled by an array of solar flares, and I believe the time frame for arrival may be quicker than Dr. Blake indicated.”
“Dr. Garcia, do you think this solar storm is on a path to hit Earth?” the President says.
“We don’t know for certain, Mr. President. But as Dr. Blake has already suggested, the last information we received from the ACE satellite provides for a very strong possibility.”
“Can we get both scientists on the screen at the same time?” President Harris asks of the crowded room. On command, both faces appear side by side.
“Dr. Blake, what could we be in for?” the President asks.
Sam arms the sweat from his brow. “The plasma storm could be devastating, Mr. President. Massive power grid failures, the loss of communication and navigation satellites. . . All the water and sewage treatment plants would go off-line, along with all public transportation that relies on the electrical grid. In addition, fuel will become scarce, and pipelines will no longer function. Basically, Mr. President, life as we know it would change drastically.”
“A grim picture, Dr. Blake. Major Garcia, could it be as bad as Sam suggests?”
“I believe the worst you can imagine could occur, Mr. President. All flights need to be grounded soon, due to the potential loss of the navigation and communication satellites. We also need to switch off as many of the power grids as possible in hopes they could be restarted after the effects of the storm pass. But, sir, keep in mind this event will not only occur in the United States. This storm may have devastating consequences for every country north of the equator and possibly those countries farther south. Our systems, basically everything in our lives, are so reliant on electricity that the effects could be catastrophic. There’s also the potential risk of meltdowns at nuclear power plants due to failed cooling systems.”
Silence fills the room.
The President glances over at Ambassador Nelson. Most of the UK’s electricity is produced by nuclear reactors. The ambassador stands, making apologies about having to step out to phone the prime minister. The President nods and returns his focus to the screen. As yet none of the other participants have spoken, until Director of Homeland Security Janice Baker chimes in.
“Mr. President, I believe they’re overstating the effects of something which might not even occur.”
“So, Janice, you want us to sit on our thumbs until the power goes out for however long?” The President’s stern gaze is locked on the director’s face.
“No, sir, but I think we should at least wait until we have confirmation this storm is even going to happen. Imagine the outcry if we order all flights grounded. That in itself will create a nationwide panic—”
“Mr. President,” Dr. Blake says, “we cannot offer absolute confirmation due to the lack of available working instruments. But every moment we wait is critical. We don’t know for certain shutting down the power grids will allow them to escape destruction, but it’s our best option. We haven’t experienced a solar storm of this magnitude since the advent of worldwide electricity. There are many unanswerable questions, but I would suggest, sir, that you call up the National Guard.”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs bristles. “Mr. President, most of our National Guard troops are deployed
overseas.”
President Harris makes no reply as he mulls over the implications of the coming storm.
CHAPTER 10
NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center
Wednesday, September 29, 9:42 A.M.
Sam slumps in his chair as the reedy voices continue to bicker over the small earphone in his ear. Kaylee, sitting near and listening in, puts her hand on his arm. The room feels as if the thermostat is set to max heat, and a stream of moisture slithers down his back.
“We’re wasting time,” he says to Kaylee.
“Give me a few minutes, Dr. Blake,” the President says.
Sam blushes, not realizing his mike is still active. The nasal voice of the director of homeland security, who has the advantage of sitting next to the President, is the loudest.
“Sir, we need more definitive information,” she says.
Sam covers the microphone with his hand. “Kaylee, run to the observation room and see what’s happening. I need an update, anything I can use to convince these people. And please ask Daniel to bring me another bottle of water.”
Kaylee removes the earpiece, unclips the microphone, and hurries from the room. Sam swivels his chair away from the camera and stares out the window as the arguing continues nearly seventeen hundred miles away. From what Sam can make of the conversation, the President seems to be leaning toward Janice Baker’s assertion that more information is needed. A possibly fatal mistake. Kaylee returns and slides a pile of papers across the desk. Sam takes a moment to digest the latest information as Daniel slips in and places a bottle of water in front of him.