Tim Washburn - Powerless

“Sam, we have reports of power outages in Alaska and Northern Canada as well as rolling blackouts all along the eastern seaboard.”

“This storm is moving much faster than I thought possible.”

“You think solar flares might be causing it or is this the leading edge of the geomagnetic storm?”

“I don’t know. I would find it hard to believe that the CME is already here. I told the President we probably have another eight hours. And I thought that was a safe estimate. What does the latest data tell us?”

“That’s just it, Sam. Not only is ACE dead, but as recently as five minutes ago, the Solar and Heliospheric Observatory was no longer broadcasting information.”

Dr. Blake stands. “SOHO’s dead?”

“We don’t know. NASA is working to reestablish communication. They don’t know if this is an anomaly or if the satellite is fried. My bet is that the satellite is toast.”

“Damn.” Sam thumbs his glasses farther up his nose. “I think the plasma storm could hit much sooner than we thought.” He brushes past Kaylee, on a beeline back to the conference room. Kaylee follows.

Sam flips on the camera, clips on the microphone, and inserts the earpiece in his ear. “Can anyone hear me? Hello? This is an emergency. Is anybody listening?” He turns to Kaylee. “How does this thing work?”

“I think it has to go through the satellite for them to hear you.”

“Well, we know that’s not going to work.” He yanks off the microphone and removes the earpiece. “See if you can get in touch with Major Garcia. Maybe she can work this up through the command, if I’m unsuccessful.”

“What are you going to do?” Kaylee shouts after him.

“I’m going to try to contact the President.” In his office, Sam scoots around his desk and sits. He taps the mouse to wake the computer but stares at the screen. Then he launches Google and types in a search phrase. When the results appear, he reaches for the phone and punches in the digits.

“Hello, you’ve reached the White House. All operators are currently…”

Point Lepreau Nuclear Generating Station

Maces Bay, New Brunswick, Canada

Wednesday, September 29, 12:15 P.M.

On a point of land jutting into the Bay of Fundy, part of the Atlantic between New Brunswick, Canada, and Nova Scotia, sits Canada’s only Atlantic coast nuclear reactor. Three years behind schedule and one billion dollars over budget on the latest refurbishment, the CANDU 6 reactor has just recently been restarted, generating 630 megawatts of electricity.

Pierre Gagnon, a slender man of French descent, and three other employees are manning the state-of-the-art control room that rivals even the most sophisticated control rooms at NASA headquarters. The front wall contains lights, dials, and gauges by the hundreds, all to prevent a nuclear mishap. Set away from the wall, taking up most of the middle portion of the room, is a large desk that contains the group data displays, or computers, which provide feedback from the nearly three thousand other sensors scattered throughout the plant. Gagnon is manning the main desk while swiping through cell phone pics of his recently born second son.

Without warning, the front wall lights up with warning lights and a siren sounds just before the power to the control room dies.

His cell clatters to the desk. His coworkers, who had been making progress notes at the main display, freeze in place when the lights extinguish. The automatic diesel generator kicks on to relight the control room. The backup generator powers only the control room so the nuclear plant can be safely shut down.

Although there are numerous built-in fail-safes to halt the fission of nuclear material during a power loss, the staff is drilled repeatedly on what to do when the plant loses electrical power. All four workers scurry about the room trying to put those lessons into play.

The monitors flicker back to life. “Power’s out for the entire plant,” Gagnon shouts.

“Did the control rods drop?” one of the other workers shouts over the noise.

“Negative on the control rods,” Gagnon says. “They have not released.” The control rods are suspended above the core by electromagnets and are designed to drop with the sudden loss of electricity. Constructed of materials such as hafnium and boron, the rods control the rate of fission.

“What about the injector system?” another worker asks.

“Waiting on computer reboot to know for sure, but why didn’t the rods drop?” Gagnon says. Although they have drilled endlessly on these emergency measures, it’s not the same when the real thing happens.

“Think the safety line on the rods is still in place from the refurbishment?” Antoine Cassel asks.

“Oh shit,” Gagnon yells. “The gadolinium nitrate was not, repeat not, deployed. The injection system failed.”

“What the hell is going on?” Cassel says. “All of those damn systems are supposed to kick in automatically.”

His question goes unanswered as Gagnon grabs one of the numerous telephones and places the call that no employee wants to make. As soon as the phone is answered, Pierre says, “Sir, the reactor is still active without the cooling systems. We are facing the real probability of a core meltdown.”

TransJet Flight 62, near the coast of Scotland

Wednesday, September 29, 12:33 P.M.

Captain Steve Henderson wipes his brow. “Plot a course to London Heathrow.”

“We’re not going to Paris?” Copilot Cheryl Wilson asks.

“Hell no, we’re not going to Paris. I’m not flying this plane over half of Europe with no navigation or communications.”

Cheryl reaches for the book containing the maps of Europe as the captain uses his left hand to dial through the radio frequencies. “Glasgow Center, TransJet Flight 62… come in.” Nothing. He dials another frequency. “Glasgow Center, TransJet Flight 62, please acknowledge.” He dials another and tries again. Not a peep.

“Check your cell phone again, Cheryl.”

She reaches across the maps to extract her cell phone from the side pocket of the fuselage. “No service,” she says as she tucks the phone under her leg.

“So much for room service in Paris,” he mutters.

She glances at him. His mouth is clenched and his broad shoulders are trembling from the constant strain. “We can do this, Steve. We need to use the same landing procedure we’ve used a hundred times.”

“What happens if one pilot panics and doesn’t follow protocol?”

“We’re all professionals, Steve. I don’t think we need to be concerned with someone panicking.”

“I’m glad you’re so self-assured.” His size-fifteen shoes are working the pedals, battling a nasty crosswind.

“Come to a heading of one-two-zero,” she says in her calmest voice.

“Turning to one-two-zero.”

Cheryl traces their path on the map with a red manicured nail. “We’re going to skirt Glasgow to the east, then turn south.”

“Sounds like a plan. Keep an eye out the window for other traffic if you can. Please.” Steve takes a deep breath before punching the button that triggers the cabin intercom system. “Folks, this is the captain speaking. We have been diverted to London.”

The groans from the cabin can be heard through the closed and locked cockpit door. “I apologize for the inconvenience. We should be on the ground in London shortly, where ground personnel will assist you.” He punches the cabin intercom off.

“You did good, Steve. Normal voice, no sense of panic.”

“Thanks.” The intercom light flashes and he hesitates before answering.