Tim Washburn - Powerless

The President swivels around in his chair. “I will do no such thing, Scott. And I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about it.”

“Yes, sir… but, Paul, we’ve been friends for most of our adult lives and I know how stubborn you can be. At the very minimum, we should start preparations for a move in that direction in the coming days.”

President Harris gives Alexander a withering look. “We need to work on what I’m going to tell the nation, Scott. That’s our focus right now. How the hell do I tell the people that life as they know it is going to disappear and the strongest nation on earth can’t do a damn thing about it?”

TransJet Flight 62, south of Newfoundland

Wednesday, September 29, 10:59 A.M.

TransJet Flight 62 is off the coast of southern Newfoundland destined for Paris after departing from Dallas. The Boeing 747-700 is on autopilot, cruising at 33,000 feet at a speed of 460 knots. Captain Steve Henderson has flown this route enough times to do it with his eyes closed. He turns to his copilot, and current lover, Cheryl Wilson. He removes his headset and motions for her to do the same.

“How about a romantic dinner in Paris?”

Cheryl rolls her eyes. “How many romantic dinners have we had in Paris? I’m more interested in a nice, private room-service dinner.”

He frowns.

“In the nude?” she says.

He smiles. “I think I like that idea better.”

Both in their midforties, they’ve been paired up in the cockpit for the last eight months. Each of them is recently divorced, he for the first time and she for the second. Both ex-spouses had voiced the same complaint—too much time away from home.

Without warning, an intense light flashes through the cockpit, momentarily blinding them. At the exact moment of the flash, the autopilot disengages and the aircraft decelerates. They both quickly clap on their headsets.

“What the hell was that?” the captain says as he wrestles with the controls, trying to maintain airspeed and altitude.

“I don’t know.”

He reaches over to toggle a series of switches. “Autopilot will not reengage.”

Both scan the instruments searching for any indications of damage to the critical components of the plane. Cheryl toggles the radio button on the wheel to talk with Steve but finds dead air. Frustrated, she yanks off her headset. “What’s wrong with the radio?”

He pulls his headset off. “I don’t know, but the autopilot won’t reset. The satellites can’t seem to get a fix on our position.”

“Could’ve been a solar flare. There’s supposed to be increased solar activity, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Me, either. Think it had some effect on satellite tracking and communications?”

“It may have. Try the radio again.”

He clamps the headset on and punches the radio button on the wheel. “Gander Center, TransJet Flight 62.”

Static.

“Gander Center… TransJet Flight 62. Please acknowledge.”

Gander Center is Newfoundland’s air traffic control for all transcontinental flights flying the busy air corridor.

Steve pulls the mike away from his lips. “Cheryl, check to see if you have a cell signal.”

“In the middle of the ocean?”

“Just check. We need some way to communicate.”

She pulls her phone from the side pocket and lights the screen. “Nothing.”

“What the hell is going on?” Steve stabs at the button on the radio, scanning through all available frequencies.

“Anything?”

Steve shakes his head and looks at his copilot. “We’re screwed. We’re flying blind in one of the busiest flight corridors in the world.”

NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center

Wednesday, September 29, 11:08 A.M.

Sam turns his chair to the window and stares at the sun-painted peaks of the Rocky Mountains. White patches from an early season snowfall glint in the midmorning sun.

Without turning in Kaylee’s direction he says, “Where’s your family?”

“New York.”

“Manhattan?”

“Yeah. And my brother’s at Stanford.”

“Do you have any relatives living outside the city?” Sam’s voice has taken on a soft tone.

“I have an aunt and uncle in Wisconsin. My mother’s sister.”

“You should probably call your parents and tell them to start making their way to Wisconsin, Kaylee. I don’t think they want to be in New York City when the power goes out.” He turns to face her. “Tell them what’s happening, and tell them to hurry. I don’t know if your brother will have time to fly to Wisconsin, but you need to call him, too.”

“What about your family, Sam?”

“My ex-wife and two girls are in Southern California. A sister in Missouri. My sister should be okay where she is, but I’m going to call the ex and tell her to head up to the cabin her parents own in the mountains.” He removes his glasses, rubbing the pinch points on his nose. “There’s a well and a generator. At least I can tell them to stock up on gasoline. Once the fuel’s exhausted, there’s a mountain stream near the cabin.”

“What are we going to do, Sam?”

He pulls out his wallet and thumbs through a stack of credit cards. He works the gold Amex from its slot and slides it across to Kaylee. “Have Daniel grab a couple of people and go shopping. Tell them to buy as many gas containers as they can and fill them to run the generator on-site. Tell him to purchase as much water and canned food items as he can. Spread the purchases around. Have them take the big panel truck parked out back.”

“Worried about raising a few eyebrows?” Kaylee says.

“Maybe. The panic will start when the President delivers his address to the nation.”

“When’s that going to be?”

“Hopefully pretty quick. I don’t think we have much time.”

Kaylee takes the credit card and leaves the room. Sam pulls his cell phone from his pocket and turns again to face the mountains. When he looks at the screen he’s somewhat surprised to find he still has cell service. He scrolls through his contacts and winces at all the names. He stops on his ex-wife’s name and punches the call link.

They divorced almost five years ago, and the reasons why still elude him. Grown apart was her excuse. His two children—Abby, now fifteen, and Gracie, thirteen—had the unfortunate experience of suffering through their parents’ divorce. Over the years, both Teresa and Sam have mellowed enough to be civil to each other. The kids spend the summers with Sam, and one weekend a month he flies to Southern California.

“Hello, Sam,” his ex-wife says in her raspy voice. Neither of them has remarried but the children recently told him their mother is now dating one man steadily.

“Hi, Teresa. I wish I were calling with better news…”

The White House, the Oval Office

Wednesday, September 29, 11:42 A.M.

President Harris, his sleeves rolled up and his yellow tie loosened, sits behind his desk as a steady stream of advisors moves in and out of the Oval Office as if it had a revolving door. Everyone is attempting to carry on business as usual. Scott Alexander sits on one of the two muted-yellow sofas filling one side of the office, listening. Between guests, the President will sometimes ask his opinion, but otherwise he remains a spectator. He glances down at the thick sheaf of papers resting in his lap and riffles the pages with his thumb. Enlil is the name given to the latest computer simulation. Alexander has read the report from cover to cover—twice—coming away with the same impression each time: we’re in deep shit.