by Jan Coffey
Alanna continued. “Meanwhile, near London, some of the first ground-based magnetometers were monitoring the behavior of the Earth's magnetic field. Surprisingly, quasi-sinusoidal oscillations of the magnetic field lines lasting for periods of a few minutes were recorded continuously for several hours, as if some celestial musician had plucked the strings of the Earth's magnetic guitar.”
“That single event, occurring over 140 years ago, was three times more powerful than the strongest space storm in modern memory, stronger than one that many in this room might remember, the one that cut power to Quebec in 1989.”
She glanced at Phil who moved next to her.
“Here is a little background for the non-techies in our audience today,” he said. “Space storms or solar storms, as they’re sometimes called, are linked to twisted magnetic fields in the Sun that suddenly snap and release tremendous amounts of energy. These charged particles race outward. We call this expanding bubble of hot gas ‘plasma.’”
Alanna took over. “In 1859, four crucial elements combined to make the strike such a major event. First, the plasma that was ejected from the Sun hit the earth. That was relatively routine. The speed of the plasma strike, however, was more unusual. The blob of plasma came at an exceptionally high speed. It took only 17 hours and 40 minutes to go from the Sun to the Earth.”
“That is the second element. Solar storms typically take two to four days to travel the 93 million miles,” Phil explained. “This plasma strike took less than a day.”
Alanna continued. “Third, the magnetic fields in the plasma blob—the scientific name, by the way, is coronal mass ejection—anyway, the magnetic fields in the mass were exceptionally intense.”
“And the fourth, most important, ingredient,” Phil said. “The magnetic fields of the coronal mass ejection were opposite in direction from the Earth’s fields.”
“The result of the combination of these four elements of the strike in 1859 was simply this…the planet’s defenses were overwhelmed.” Alanna paused for effect as the screen went dark.
“But that was then, you might be thinking. And you’d be correct.” Phil started again. “In 1859, the technology was practically neolithic compared with today’s technology. No satellites, and no GPS systems. No TV feeds, no automatic teller machines relying on orbiting relay stations, no delicately balanced and overstressed power grids. No cell phones, no telephones, for that matter. No, at that time, the telegraph was only fifteen years old.”
“Now, could this happen again and what are the potential consequences?” Alanna asked. “First of all, yes, it could definitely happen. In fact, based on a forecast issued by the NOAA Space Environment Center in coordination with an international panel of solar experts, the next solar cycle will be thirty to fifty percent stronger than the last cycle, and it will peak at the end of this year to the middle of next year.”
“Scientists at NOAA have issued cycle predictions only three times,” Alanna continued. “In 1989, a panel met to predict Cycle 22, which they picked to occur that same year, and the scientists met again in September of 1996 to predict Cycle 23. And in April of 2007, Cycle 24 predictions were made.”
“A new field of study has enabled scientists to better predict the severity of the next cycle,” Alanna added. “The field of study, called helioseismology, allows researchers to see inside the Sun by tracking sound waves that are reverberating inside the Sun itself, creating a picture of the interior. This is very much the way ultrasound creates a picture of an unborn baby. Using this, the scientists can predict for the first time the strength of the solar activity cycle.”
“Now,” Phil broke in. Some of you have that look on your faces that says, ‘The scientists over at NOAA seem to be doing all the work. Why are we pumping more than $560 million into these people’s project?”
“Wait a minute, Phil. If they’ve given us that much money, how come I’m still taking the bus to work every morning?” Alanna’s sharp question elicited a laugh from the crowd.
No one seemed to have fallen sleep. That was always a good thing, she thought.
Suddenly, a close-up visual of the STEREO satellite lit up the screen.
“Just to remind my colleague here, STEREO is an acronym for Solar Terrestrial Relations Observatory. Our project is the third mission in NASA’s Solar Terrestrial Probes program. And that is quite a tongue twister,” Alanna smiled. “We call it STP.”
“That’s STP,” Phil repeated with emphasis on the last letter and getting another laugh. “We’re not in the sex education field.”
“Our two-year STEREO mission was launched last year. The twin satellites are already showing us a revolutionary view of the Sun-Earth system.” Another image came up on the screen. “As you can see here, these are the two nearly identical observatories, one ahead of Earth in its orbit, the other trailing behind. Between the two of them, we’re able to trace the flow of energy and matter from the Sun to the Earth.” She motioned at the screen. “Here is a 3D image of coronal mass ejections blasting through space toward us. As I said, these are eruptions of matter from the Sun that can disrupt communication and defense satellites in orbit, as well as power grids on the ground. These eruptions can shut down everything that we depend on in our day-to-day living. And we’re not talking about conveniences; we’re talking about communication abilities and power that drive everything in our society.”
“But you’re still asking, this is one expensive set of cameras.” Phil chirped in. “Isn’t there an economy model that will do the same thing?”
“Phil’s next career is mind reader,” Alanna commented. “But as you can tell, he’s pretty bad at it.” With a smile, she turned her attention back to the screen. “Coronal mass ejections, CMEs, can blow up to ten billion tons of the Sun’s atmosphere into interplanetary space. Traveling away from the Sun at speeds of approximately one million miles per hour, they can trigger severe magnetic storms as they collide with the Earth’s magnetosphere.”
The next image showed the Earth under attack by magnetic storms.
“This is the most important point. What STEREO will do for us is to provide an essential and timely warning,” Alanna told the group. “With the warning that the STEREO satellites provide, we can activate the technology that we have available to head off potential disaster. Acting either unilaterally or in cooperation with nations across the globe, United States can take the necessary steps to protect ourselves and the electrical media that we all depend on. But all of this has to happen before the CMEs reach us.”
They were far from done, but Alanna thought they had whet enough of the audience’s appetites that they could now launch into some specifics of design and monitoring, as well as where the money was going now that the mission satellites were safely orbiting in space. Introducing the others in her group and quickly outlining the segments of the presentation that they were going to cover, she then stepped aside, allowing her people to do their jobs.
Her hand moved to her jacket pocket. Standing in the deep shadows at one side of the room, she thanked God that she hadn’t felt her cell phone five minutes earlier. She tried to ignore it, but it didn’t stop. Her cell phone vibrated back to life again.
She knew who it was. She was certain what it was about. Ray had been determined to find a way for them to go away. He told her he loved her. He wanted her with him.
Alanna looked at the full conference room, at the audience enthralled by the science and the adventure that she’d played a large part in creating. She glanced up at the large pictures of the satellite on the board, at the smaller model in front of their podium. This mattered too much. She’d learned to cope with life without Ray but, as painful as it would be, Alanna didn’t think she could do without this.
She took her cell phone out of her pocket and checked her incoming calls. He hadn’t left her a voice mail. She found the message he’d sent her the day before. The one she could use to contact him. She typed in a text message in response.
I
am so sorry Ray but I can’t go. Ever. I love you.
Alanna sent the message and then shut off the phone. This was best for her, for her grandmother, and for Ray, too.
It’s over, she thought.
CHAPTER 22
FEAR
Istanbul, Turkey
The hotel had to be a relic of Turkey’s Ottoman days. In its finest moments, it might have had a one-star rating, but that had to be at least fifty years ago.
When the car pulled up on front, Steven suggested to Kei that she stay in the car, but she was having none of that. They went into the small lobby. A glass door to the left led to a tearoom that was apparently closed in the afternoon.
From what Steven could tell, the clerk working the front desk was chief cook and bottle washer in the place. If the presence of the waiting uniformed policemen had flustered the man, the sight of Americans arriving in a car out front seemed to be more than the desk clerk could handle. As they approached the desk, the clerk looked as if he was ready to bolt.
Neither of the two policemen spoke any English, but Steven explained through Tansu to the one in charge why they were here and what they wanted them to do. Joe Finley stood in the background, listening intently to the conversation.
The two policemen were dressed in navy blue pants and nylon jackets, with pale blue shirts and navy ties. Each wore a silver badge on his chest and an ID clipped to his jacket. Steven noted that the more senior officer, perhaps a year or two older than the other, was watching him sympathetically as he listened. The officer ordered his subordinate to write down the information. Steven hoped this was a sign that they were taking the business seriously.
“After we’re done here,” the translator told them, “they need to have you come to the station to fill out paperwork. This officer is very sorry to have to inconvenience you with details, but he has his procedures that must be followed.”
“Then we can go up to his room first?” Steven asked.
Tansu repeated the question.
The policeman nodded and said something to Steven before speaking sharply to the desk clerk, who reached behind him for a key.
“What did he say,” Steven asked.
“He says that it is important that you disturb nothing, in case he needs to call for the detectives to come and inspect the room.”
Steven nodded.
“Your son…he is good man.” The desk clerk told them in broken English as he turned with the key in his hand. “Rent paid up…for next week. He is okay. He won’t pay rent if he not come back. Smart. Good with lira.”
“I cannot come over,” he said to Steven, stumbling with the words and then speaking rapidly in Turkish to the translator.
“He’s saying he’s the only one working today. He can’t leave the front desk,” Tansu translated. “Your son’s room is on the second floor. At the top of the stairs, turn left. His is the last door on the left.
Kei reached out to take the key, and the clerk said something else to the policemen.
“The room is very small,” Tansu said. “He thinks not everyone will fit in at one time.”
They could barely fit in the front lobby, Steven thought.
“I’d like for us to go up first,” Kei told Steven. The translator conveyed her request and the policeman shrugged and gestured toward the stairs.
As they made their way to the second-floor, Galvin asked Tansu to bring up the topic of advertising in the newspaper and the television, and to ask them if he could offer them a ‘gift’ for their efforts and a subsequent reward for positive results. He wanted them motivated. He also wanted her to be making phone calls to the newspapers and getting everything lined up.
At the top of the stairs, Joe excused himself, saying he needed to report in that they had made contact with each other. “The Consulate wants to stay informed, in case they can help expedite things from Ankara.”
Steven nodded. The policemen and Tansu waited in the narrow hallway by the stairs, and the Galvins walked down toward the room, stepping over trash and bottles stacked outside of rooms.
“We gave him enough money before this trip to stay at Ritz Carlton,” he grumbled under his breath. “He won’t get away with it this time. He’s grounded when he gets back.”
Steven was relieved to see the hint of a smile on his wife’s face at the thought of grounding the twenty-three-year old. Kei had always been so full of life, until Nathan’s disappearance.
The door to a shared bathroom stood open in the hallway. The strong scent of disinfectant wafted out. There were no numbers, but Steven had no trouble finding Nathan’s room.
His hand shook. Doubts about their son’s safety were already planted deep in his stomach, but for Kei’s sake Steven nodded with assurance before putting the key in the hole.
A musty smell wafted out the moment the door was opened. The room was indeed very small. The bed was made and a polo shirt lay on the shiny pale green coverlet. There was a small window on the far wall. A faded, threadbare curtain hung across it. The corner of Nathan’s suitcase was visible beneath the bed. Some tourist brochures, a Turkish language book, a map, and some change were spread on a table beneath a mirror against a wall. A sport jacket was draped on the back of a chair beside the table, and a shirt lay neatly folded on the seat. By the window a bulky sweater sat on top of a small chest of drawers.
Kei walked in ahead of him.
“Housekeeping must only come in when someone moves out,” Steven commented, noticing the coating of dust on the few pieces of furniture. He followed his wife in and closed the door. A towel hung behind the door from a small brass hook.
Kei started across the room, but stopped and picked up the shirt off the bed. She held it up to her face, and Steven thought she was going to cry. She didn’t. Still holding the shirt, she went around the bed to the table. Steven looked under the bed. A suitcase and a duffel bag had been stuffed under there. Crouching on the floor he pulled them out. Inside the bag, he found only a few clothes.
“Steven, look at this.”
He looked up. Kei was standing with the folded shirt in her hands. On the seat of the chair, he could see Nathan’s passport and wallet. In an instant, he was beside her. The wallet had Nathan’s driver’s license, credit and bank cards, as well as some American dollars and Turkish lira.
“What does this mean?” Kei asked, a note of rising panic in her voice.
He sat down on the bed, unable to think. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with a logical explanation why Nathan would go away without these essentials.
Suddenly, Kei dropped the clothing in her hand and moved across the room to the chest of drawers. With her back to him, she was looking at something next to the folded sweater. He watched Kei put her hand to her throat.
“What is it? What did you find?” he asked in what he hoped was a steady voice.
“His…” Her voice broke.
“Kei?” He saw her stab at tears.
“His shaving bag. Toothbrush, even his contact lens case and glasses. They’re all here.” She held up a chain and a medallion for him to see. “Nathan always wore this.”
“Yes, but he told us that pickpockets are a big problem here.” He realized he was making excuses. “Maybe—”
“Something has happened to him, Steven.” She moved back to him and took the things out of his hand. “What are we going to do? How are we going to find him?”
The tears were streaming down her face now. All he could do was gather her in his arms and hope that his money would be enough to bring their son back.
CHAPTER 23
DESPAIR
New York Presbyterian Hospital
“Even though I’m the one who suggested the technique, you should know that therapeutic cloning is very experimental,” the pediatrician told David.
“What is it exactly that will happen?” David asked. He knew that both doctors had been on the phone a number of times with their counterparts in Germany.
“First, we
obtain DNA from Leah. This step of the procedure can be done right here at New York Presbyterian. We send the DNA to the clinic in Germany where they insert it into an enucleated egg. Once the egg containing the patient’s DNA starts to divide, embryonic stem cells will be harvested. From this stem cell, the researchers at that clinic will generate a kidney that is a genetic match to Leah’s.”
“And that’s what they use for the actual transplant?” David asked.
The pediatrician nodded. “Yes, the kidney transplanted into Leah should have almost no risk of tissue rejection.”
“Has this procedure been done before?”
“Yes. The process is nearly five years old. There’s been a fifty percent success rate for those over twenty years of age, and the early statistics are much better, even, for younger patients.”
“And what are the risks?” David asked.
The two men exchanged a look, and the nephrologist was the one who spoke again. “There are cases where the early steps of culture fails, but these people are absolutely the best at this technique. They have the best success rate anywhere. The actual risk to Leah isn’t what happens in the end, but the wait time. Frankly, Mr. Collier, it will be a challenge to keep her alive for that period of time.”
David tried not to let his hopes crumble into dust. “What kind of time frame are we talking about?”
“Generating the transferable kidney could take anywhere from two to six months—if everything progresses without a hitch. They’ll let you know when they’re ready for her.”
“And where does she have to be during this time?” David asked.
“Once we stabilize her, she could be in any clinic or hospital where there’s access to round-the-clock dialysis,” the pediatrician explained. “The doctors at the clinic in Germany will do the actual transplant surgery there, and she’ll have to remain with them for a minimum of six weeks, possibly longer, for follow-up tests and studies.”
David thought about the job offer and the man behind the scenes who was paying for this procedure. He wondered how long they would be willing to wait before asking him to start in his position. He couldn’t leave Leah—not like this.