Tim Washburn: Powerless

“Take a break for a moment, Dr. Blake. Major Garcia, do you concur with Dr. Blake’s assessment?”

The full-screen shot transitions to an attractive Hispanic woman in her midforties with dark eyes and dark, cropped-short hair. She’s wearing her dress blues with gold oak leaves pinned to each shoulder epaulette. Sarah Garcia’s face is just as serious as Blake’s. “According to our instrument readings, Dr. Blake is correct about the massive size of the eruption. The only area where we differ is in the timing. Earth is already being pummeled by an array of solar flares, and I believe the time frame for arrival may be quicker than Dr. Blake indicated.”

“Dr. Garcia, do you think this solar storm is on a path to hit Earth?” the President says.

“We don’t know for certain, Mr. President. But as Dr. Blake has already suggested, the last information we received from the ACE satellite provides for a very strong possibility.”

“Can we get both scientists on the screen at the same time?” President Harris asks of the crowded room. On command, both faces appear side by side.

“Dr. Blake, what could we be in for?” the President asks.

Sam arms the sweat from his brow. “The plasma storm could be devastating, Mr. President. Massive power grid failures, the loss of communication and navigation satellites… All the water and sewage treatment plants would go off-line, along with all public transportation that relies on the electrical grid. In addition, fuel will become scarce, and pipelines will no longer function. Basically, Mr. President, life as we know it would change drastically.”

“A grim picture, Dr. Blake. Major Garcia, could it be as bad as Sam suggests?”

“I believe the worst you can imagine could occur, Mr. President. All flights need to be grounded soon, due to the potential loss of the navigation and communication satellites. We also need to switch off as many of the power grids as possible in hopes they could be restarted after the effects of the storm pass. But, sir, keep in mind this event will not only occur in the United States. This storm may have devastating consequences for every country north of the equator and possibly those countries farther south. Our systems, basically everything in our lives, are so reliant on electricity that the effects could be catastrophic. There’s also the potential risk of meltdowns at nuclear power plants due to failed cooling systems.”

Silence fills the room.

The President glances over at Ambassador Nelson. Most of the UK’s electricity is produced by nuclear reactors. The ambassador stands, making apologies about having to step out to phone the prime minister. The President nods and returns his focus to the screen. As yet none of the other participants have spoken, until Director of Homeland Security Janice Baker chimes in.

“Mr. President, I believe they’re overstating the effects of something which might not even occur.”

“So, Janice, you want us to sit on our thumbs until the power goes out for however long?” The President’s stern gaze is locked on the director’s face.

“No, sir, but I think we should at least wait until we have confirmation this storm is even going to happen. Imagine the outcry if we order all flights grounded. That in itself will create a nationwide panic—”

“Mr. President,” Dr. Blake says, “we cannot offer absolute confirmation due to the lack of available working instruments. But every moment we wait is critical. We don’t know for certain shutting down the power grids will allow them to escape destruction, but it’s our best option. We haven’t experienced a solar storm of this magnitude since the advent of worldwide electricity. There are many unanswerable questions, but I would suggest, sir, that you call up the National Guard.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs bristles. “Mr. President, most of our National Guard troops are deployed overseas.”

President Harris makes no reply as he mulls over the implications of the coming storm.

NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center

Wednesday, September 29, 9:42 A.M.

Sam slumps in his chair as the reedy voices continue to bicker over the small earphone in his ear. Kaylee, sitting near and listening in, puts her hand on his arm. The room feels as if the thermostat is set to max heat, and a stream of moisture slithers down his back.

“We’re wasting time,” he says to Kaylee.

“Give me a few minutes, Dr. Blake,” the President says.

Sam blushes, not realizing his mike is still active. The nasal voice of the director of homeland security, who has the advantage of sitting next to the President, is the loudest.

“Sir, we need more definitive information,” she says.

Sam covers the microphone with his hand. “Kaylee, run to the observation room and see what’s happening. I need an update, anything I can use to convince these people. And please ask Daniel to bring me another bottle of water.”

Kaylee removes the earpiece, unclips the microphone, and hurries from the room. Sam swivels his chair away from the camera and stares out the window as the arguing continues nearly seventeen hundred miles away. From what Sam can make of the conversation, the President seems to be leaning toward Janice Baker’s assertion that more information is needed. A possibly fatal mistake. Kaylee returns and slides a pile of papers across the desk. Sam takes a moment to digest the latest information as Daniel slips in and places a bottle of water in front of him.

Sam says loudly into the mike, “Major Garcia, did you receive the latest update?”

“No, Sam, I don’t have anything. What is it?” she says.

“Another large CME erupted almost five minutes ago.”

“Is that one headed toward Earth, Dr. Blake?” President Harris says.

“Unknown, sir. But with these coronal ejections occurring more frequently we need to act now, Mr. President,” Sam says, his voice laced with anger. “These other CMEs could arrive here much more quickly. Think of the first one as a snowplow clearing the road, sir. The following plasma storms will accelerate as they travel down the cleared path.”

Janice Baker says, “But, Dr. Blake, you’ve said repeatedly you don’t even know if they’re heading toward us.”

Sam addresses the President directly. “Sir, the first indications suggested they are. I wish to God I could say with one hundred percent certainty, but I can’t. I will tell you this: I believe with ninety percent certainty they are racing toward Earth. Do we want to risk everything on a ten percent difference?”

Sam reaches for the water bottle as an eruption of voices fills his ear. Then the President’s voice drowns out all others.

“Dr. Blake, Major Garcia, I’m going with your assumptions. I want a detailed plan to minimize the damage and I want it in thirty minutes. Get busy, people. Dr. Blake, do we have that long?”

Samuel Blake looks at the clock on the wall. “I hope so, Mr. President.”

“I do, too,” President Harris says before the audio connection goes dead in Sam’s ear.

The Marshall home

There have been no power surges during the past few minutes. Zeke puts the sandpaper aside and begins the process of creating another piece of usable walnut. As he turns for the drying shed, he finds his father staring at the subtle shading of the wooden top, a piece of fine-grit sandpaper dangling from his hand.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

His father turns away from the table, absently rubbing his left arm. “I’m fine, son. Guess I just spaced out for a moment.” He stands and lays the sandpaper aside before walking stiffly in Zeke’s direction. “I’m going to run back to the house.”