Tim Washburn: Powerless

“Yes, please. And would you request the ambassador stay?”

Barbara raises her eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, and please tell him what I have is urgent.”

Barbara buzzes the office. “Sir, Mr. Alexander would like a brief word with both you and Ambassador Nelson,” she says when the phone is answered. Scott overhears the President’s portion of the conversation. Hears the surprise and the developing anger in the President’s voice.

“Sir, he said it is very urgent.” She listens, then replaces the phone. “Go right in, Mr. Alexander.”

He takes a moment to straighten the lapels of his charcoal suit before pushing through the door to the Oval Office. A short, wiry man who always seems to be in motion, Alexander crosses from the hardwood floor onto the custom-made carpet and shakes the proffered hand of Ambassador Nelson. He takes a seat in one of the chairs flanking the two sofas occupying one side of the famous office.

President Harris stares at him. His famous smile is nowhere to be found. “What’s this about?”

“I’m sorry for intruding, Mr. President. But we may have a developing emergency.”

The President darts his eyes toward their guest.

“I think this also concerns Great Britain,” Alexander says.

Ambassador Nelson scoots up to the edge of the sofa. “Don’t tell me the damn Iranians are threatening nuclear destruction again.”

“No, Mr. Ambassador, at least not that I know of.”

The ambassador relaxes.

“It could be much worse.” Scott pauses. “A little over three hours ago, the sun released a massive ejection of plasma that may be heading straight for Earth.”

“May be?” the President says.

“Yes, sir. We seem to be having a satellite issue preventing the scientists from accurately predicting where it may hit. But—and this is more than speculation—if this plasma storm hits, the result could be devastating to most if not all of the countries north of the equator and possibly farther south.”

President Harris clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Ambassador Nelson, would you please excuse us for a brief moment?”

The ambassador pushes his short, wide body up from the sofa and quickly exits the Oval Office.

The President stands. “What the hell, Scott? Was that necessary?”

“Mr. President, Paul, this goes beyond our borders. We need to begin preparations, and his country may be facing the same potential devastation.”

President Harris paces to the windows. He’s a big man—a former college offensive lineman who still looks as if he could suit up and play today. Except for the slight limp, the result of a nasty cut block that ruptured his ACL. He looks dapper, as always, in a dark navy suit, white shirt, and club tie. “Damn it, Scott, you just said you didn’t even know if it’s going to hit here. He’s probably out there calling the prime minister.”

“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.”

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.

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?”