“Go on, please, with whatever list you have. You have the floor. We need everything you’ve got.”
“Yes, sir. Well, I’ve prepared a long list here of what needs to be shut down, just in case. It’s … rather amazing how much of our society runs on computer chips. For instance, all railroads and subways …” He looked up again. “Uh, let me explain that if a vehicle is under computer control when the computer microprocessors—the chips—are hit with an EMP, for a millisecond the wrong orders may be given by the dying computers, which could cause railroad switches to be thrown physically, signal lights to show the wrong thing, port facilities to go berserk, cranes to rumble off on their own or drop loads, and so on. Anything involving computers and heavy equipment has to be stopped. Ships or ferries with computer-controlled engines could get locked in full speed without the ability to shut them down or communicate with the engine room. Bridges, locks, major dams nationwide and their hydroelectric grids—nuclear power plants are especially critical, since all cooling controls could be disabled. Elevators in buildings will stop, most of them between floors. Sewer processing facilities could create tremendous public health problems with effluent spills, and pumps could either shut down or run backward, with valves opening and closing unpredictably. Nuclear naval ships are an exception, since I believe everything there has been completely hardened.”
“That’s the only bright spot?” the President asked with an amazed expression.
“Yes, sir. All critical hospital functions nationwide should be switched to manual backups. No medical procedures should be in progress, unless it’s an unavoidable emergency. Complete loss of the nation’s electric distribution grid is possible, not because of direct failure, but because of the contemporary dependency on computerized switching gear and associated relays.” He turned another page on a heavily inscribed yellow legal pad. “Ah, I would recommend all heavy manufacturing facilities here and in Canada be shut down, and especially anything with critical computer-based containment controls for hazardous materials, such as refineries or facilities producing dangerous gas and liquid products. Certainly all heavy industry should be stopped immediately, because so many containment and safety controls are computer-based. Steelmaking, car assembly, food procesing, and, well, the list is almost endless. Anything with industrial robots, the same. They could do great damage to personnel as their host computers die. Even pipelines should probably suspend operations, especially natural gas pipelines.”
The President had slowly leaned back in his chair.
“Good Lord, Doctor. We’re talking about shutting down the entire country here, and within two hours?”
“Or sooner, sir. I’d recommend that all information-based systems be shut down immediately, and especially the financial market computers. And I need to talk about communications.”
“And if this should go off, how long would it take to restart things?”
“Some facilities which can be run manually could get back up and running within hours. Anything dependent on computers would take weeks, months, maybe as much as six months, because until their computers have been rebuilt and rebooted and tested, you couldn’t take the chance. Mr. President, we’re talking about the instant destruction of nearly all the silicon-based processors in North America, if this is a true Medusa Wave. Even if it’s only a standard nuclear-created EMP, everything on the upper East Coast will be affected the same way, if not hardened. You can’t replace these chips overnight. I doubt there are enough computer chips in stock in the world to replace, inside six months, what we may lose. And that doesn’t even address the cost.”
“You have more, I take it?” the President asked, sounding stunned.
“Yes, sir. Communications are critical. Most military communications systems are hardened, but virtually all the geostationary communications satellites are vulnerable, as are all broadcasting facilities, all uplinks and downlinks, most telephone systems based on satellite longlines and high-speed multiplexing switches, broadcast systems, and …”
The President raised his hand in a stop gesture. “You’re way over my head, Doctor. Tell me the end result.”
“Yes, sir. Almost all telephone service, cellular service, business radio, telemetry radio systems, security monitoring systems, and other forms of telecommunication will cease. Bottom line? We go stone-deaf for many weeks, except for military command and control channels.”
“My God!” the President said. He hesitated a few seconds, his index finger tapping his chin, before leaning forward suddenly.
“Okay, let’s summarize the options. Stanley, you first.”
Stanley Shapiro cleared his throat and held a hand out, palm up.
“First, I think we have to assume this thing is the real McCoy. If it is, I agree with the general that we do need the technology, because if it can be built, someone else is already working on it and will eventually succeed. So if we proceed from the assumption that it exists and we need it, we have to ask if it’s a reasonable gamble to try to defuse the bomb to get the technology. The general tells us there is no risk. If his people can’t turn it off, they can either blow it up, like a conventional weapon, or take it offshore and dump it to explode at sea. I’m assuming there’s time for either option. Problem is, exploding it at Seymour would probably not produce a Medusa Wave, but dropping it at sea might. Thus, even if we decide there is no possibility of accidental detonation in North Carolina, the chance of a Medusa Wave is very high if we take the offshore option. In addition, do we tell the public what’s really going on and ask for assistance in trying to power down as many critical computers as possible, or do we lie and issue calming, soothing B.S. that it was all a false alarm—at the same time we’re frantically looking for a way to turn it off?”
“That’s the crystallization of the issue, Stanley, but what do you recommend?”
“I’d try to defuse it, and blow it up conventionally at Seymour if that doesn’t work. We’re really at risk if we dump it at sea.”
“Should we order an electronic shutdown, though?”
“No, sir. I think a shutdown would cause more problems than it would solve, and, in fact, we don’t even know it would do that much good if the worst-case explosion occurs.”
“General? The Pentagon’s view?” the President prompted.
“Sir, we’re confident that this can be defused or disposed of without a Medusa Wave, as Mr. Shapiro says. With such confidence, it would seem imprudent to trigger a national shutdown panic.”
“Is there anyone here besides Dr. Jensen,” the President asked, “who thinks calling for a shutdown is appropriate?”
The President of the United States surveyed the room, looking each individual in the eye, then spent a few seconds in thought before speaking again.
“Okay, gentlemen. I’ll accept the Pentagon’s assessment that the plan has zero possibility of an accidental detonation, and that we can try to defuse it or then blow it up without causing a Medusa Wave. Therefore, we’ll refrain from sounding a general alarm via the media. But if something changes, I may change my mind.” He arched an index finger at the Press Secretary. “Okay, Joe, work with the doctor here on telling the media what we know, except for where the aircraft is going, and reassure everyone that the device, even if real, will be defused safely.”
Chairs began moving backward as the various principals and aides stood up. The President raised an index finger.
“Ah, one more thing, John.”
“Sir?” the general asked.
“If there is any reason whatsoever to believe that your plans to defuse have become dangerous, any suspicion at all that it might not be perfectly safe to try, then I want the weapon dumped at sea. The sooner you make such an election, the farther out you can get it.”
“Yes, sir. You said to have the aircraft standing by. We will.”
“And the split second that looks like a possibility, I want us to quietly order certain things shut down as a precaution. Get the trains stopped just bef
ore the time runs out and get all air traffic on the East Coast on the ground by twenty minutes prior. Let’s find a way to directly alert hazardous material companies, electrical companies, and communications companies. We won’t have a lot of time, so press into service whomever you can to make this a viable contingency plan which can be triggered by one call.”
The Press Secretary almost leaped to his feet.
“Sir, have you considered our legal liability in this?”
All other murmured conversations suddenly ceased as the President locked his eyes on the Press Secretary across the almost imperceptible electronic gulf between Air Force One and the Situation Room.
“What did you ask, Joe?”
“I’m questioning the legal liability the government assumes if we put out such requests or directives, especially if we alert some and not others. We can’t be held liable for doing something wrong if we don’t assume the duty, unless, of course, there’s already a legal requirement. But if we start issuing such recommendations and damage results and this thing doesn’t blow or doesn’t work …”
“Joe, are we a private corporation here?”
The Press Secretary looked shocked. “Well, of course not, but …”
“We’re the government, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I can’t believe you would even bring this up. The government has no business concerning itself with potential legal liability. None whatsoever! We’ll do everything we can to act within the law, and if anyone wants to challenge the correctness of our actions in court, that’s what the courts are for. Joe, I’m sorry to pick on you, but I want everyone to understand that that question will never be tolerated in this Administration as an impediment to action by any official in any agency. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, get the Canadian Prime Minister and his Transportation Minister and the head of Transport Canada on the horn, brief them, and I’ll talk to them after that. We need them with us on this. Share everything we have. Same with the Mexican government. Now …”
The President looked around momentarily. “Does the media know where we’re sending this aircraft?”
“We don’t think so, sir. But they’ve found out almost everything else.”
“Okay. Prepare a short statement for me to give within ten minutes and alert the networks. I’ll do a live break-in from here on Air Force One. I want to reassure everyone that we’re going to disarm this thing, but I don’t want to mislead anyone. I want them to know we consider it real. And get the Transportation Department moving on contingency plans. If they want to start slowing the system as a precaution, tell them to go ahead.”
“Air traffic, highways, trains?”
“Whatever takes the longest to wind down. If we suddenly find we have to dump it at sea, I don’t want aircraft and trains vulnerable.”
The President glanced over at the general.
“John, where is the airplane right now?”
“They’re currently south of Richmond, sir.” The general touched a switch before him and a plot of the area and the 727’s position appeared on a projected map that seemed to float in front of them. “They’re beginning a descent for landing at Seymour-Johnson. The twenty-five-mile circle around the 727’s symbol is the direct impact area of any blast. He’s still a threat to populated areas, but he’s dragging the threat area south with him.”
The President seemed momentarily stunned. “John, you just got through reassuring me there was no chance of accidental detonation.”
“Yes, sir, as a result of our trying to defuse it. But we still have to recognize it as a nuclear weapon. It could go off for other reasons.”
The President stared at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and tapped a pen on the Air Force One side of the table. Several tense seconds passed before he cleared his throat and spoke. “So what about fallout, General, if that impossible occurrence should occur at Seymour?” the President asked.
“Thanks to the storm, it would rapidly sweep southeastward and out to sea. Charleston and some of northeastern Florida would be affected, but that’s it for primary fallout.”
“Okay,” the President said, getting to his feet once again. “Keep this room hooked up, set up communications links to Seymour, including video from the tower if you can patch it through, and keep me informed. General? You have command of the situation at Seymour, but use the FBI’s negotiators. Brief them on my concerns about Mrs. Henry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, John, we’re all going to pray that your people know how to turn this thing off without setting it off. This is a direct order from your Commander in Chief, okay? If any doubts develop—and I mean any—I want it airborne again and headed east, offshore, instantly. I don’t care how badly we want the technology, I’m only agreeing to this attempt based on your assurance that it’s a completely risk-free operation. I already have my doubts. Tell your commanders, do not press the defusing attempt one inch beyond certainty, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The President sat back in his chair and tried to imagine the bomb flying over Washington, and what would have happened if it had gone off. He had said nothing to anyone else, but it was an immense comfort to know his wife and two daughters were aboard Air Force One and safely away from Washington.
FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.—6:07 P.M. EDT
Once again Donna appeared at Tony’s side with more reports.
“The rest of the crew?”
She nodded. “The captain and the scientist.”
Tony leaned against a door frame. “Go.”
“Okay, the scientist’s name is Linda Ann McCoy, age thirty-three, born in Austin, Texas, father was a doctor, mother a university professor, she’s a recognized world-class expert on atmospheric science and global warming with a long, long list of published credits, a Ph.D. in atmospheric science from the University of California at Irvine, and currently a senior research fellow at the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado, on loan to the NOAA research center also at Boulder. She’s U.S. Government, in other words. McCoy is single, lives in Boulder, and was in charge of this year’s NOAA atmospheric ozone research expedition to McMurdo Sound, Antarctica. She was on the way back from that when she boarded this flight in Miami a few hours ago.”
“I trust she’ll be suing her travel agent,” Tony snorted.
Donna looked up and rolled her eyes. “I believe it comes under justifiable homicide.” She dropped her eyes back to the pages in her hands. “Dr. McCoy has no criminal history, big surprise … no wants, no blemishes, except that she feels the need for speed a lot.”
“Oh?”
“Four speeding tickets in Colorado over the last few years. The Colorado State Patrol knows her well.”
“And the captain?”
“Name is Scott David McKay. Thirty-one years of age, only son of a family originally from Hutchinson, Kansas, born and raised there, U.S. naval officer through Annapolis, graduated number three in his class, highest rank he achieved was lieutenant commander, nine years active duty, last assignment, F-14 pilot assigned to the carrier Eisenhower. Left active duty just under two years ago, joined the Navy Reserve. Mother is deceased. Father was a corporate executive. Also deceased. No remarkable history on his family. Never married. Earned an M.B.A. while on active duty. Started his one-aircraft airline one year ago with money inherited from his father. Lives in Central City, Colorado. No FBI history. FAA record is spotless. No criminal history, no bankruptcies, no wants, no nothing. Solid citizen with a good military history, and his military security clearance is top secret and still active.”
“And we already have Vivian Henry’s history. Any conclusions, Donna?”
She shook her head and grimaced. “Good people, bad timing, Mrs. Henry excepted.”
“There but for the grace of God, Donna …”
“Go any of us,” she replied.
SIXTEEN
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—
6:11 P.M. EDT
Scott McKay flew through the cockpit door with Linda McCoy inches behind and slid rapidly into the left seat, hitting his shin on the center console as the 727 plowed through more rough air above the advancing hurricane.
“Where are we, guys?”
Doc held out the Flitephone handset. “Picking our way through thunderstorms about fifty-six miles north of Goldsboro, North Carolina, at flight level two-eight-zero. Agent DiStefano wants to talk to you.”
Scott snapped his seat belt in place and took the phone, the image of Linda sliding into the observer’s seat visible in his peripheral vision.
“Tony, you there?” the captain asked.
“Yes, Scott.”
He felt out of breath, his heart pounding. “We need to talk, Tony.”
“That’s why I called. Where’s Mrs. Henry?”
“In the back, still, within a few feet of the bomb. She tried to get away from it a while ago … tried to walk to the back of the aircraft … but it wasn’t bluffing about knowing where she was.” He described the heart-stopping countdown and their conclusions about Rogers Henry’s determination to torture her.
“For a second back there, Tony, I thought it was all over, but I keep wondering now whether this whole thing could be a dud, you know? I mean, I know she says her husband could have obtained plutonium to make a bomb, but could he really? I thought that stuff was far too controlled.”
“Scott …” Tony began.
“I’m convinced the bastard has constructed something he wants us to think is real. He’s a genius at covering all the bases and knowing exactly what we’d think of next. He knew how to scare us, but I wish I had a Geiger counter up here. I’ll bet the needle would stay on zero.”
“Scott, listen carefully to me. We searched the Henrys’ home in Miami. We found the garage lab where the device was built. We also found plutonium there. The readings were irrefutable. It was a residual amount, stored in a small lead-lined vault in the floor. There was adequate shielding, remote-controlled loading devices, spare nuclear triggers, the whole works.”
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