Russell Moran - A Climate of Doubt

“I’m happy to announce that our own Ellen Bellamy will be returning to our studio after broadcasting her show from the Federal Office Building for the past few days. Ellen’s husband, as you know, is Rick Bellamy, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and was gracious enough to enable NBC to broadcast her show from his government office. Just so you know, NBC paid the going rate for the privilege of broadcasting from federal property. We tried to cut a deal, but Ellen’s husband is a tough negotiator.

“I close this segment with a question we all have. What else can go wrong?”

July 30

“This is fucking impossible,” Admiral John Campbell said to Captain Frank Paluzzo, commanding officer of the USS Gerald R. Ford , flagship of Carrier Strike Group 2600. Campbell was the commanding officer of the strike group. The Ford , along with a cruiser and two frigates, steamed across the Pacific for the Sea of Japan, where it would rendezvous with ships of the Japanese and South Korean navies for maneuvers. The purpose of the exercises was to try to convince Kim Jong-un, the boy dictator of North Korea, to pull back on his provocations and nuclear ambitions.

“Do you think that fat kid in North Korea could have something to do with this?” Admiral Campbell asked. “Our previous fix as of a couple of minutes ago showed us 1,200 miles southeast of Japan. Now our satellites show us off the coast of Bermuda. What about our other systems, Frank?”

“Our inertial navigation system shows us where we know we are, 1,200 miles southeast of Japan,” Captain Paluzzo said. “This is one for the books, admiral. I’m wondering if our cold temperature could have something to do with this. I don’t have a clue why this happened. Satellites are satellites, and they’re not programmed to play games. They either work or not, but they never put out wrong positions. I recommend that we contact Norfolk, sir.”

The huge United States Navy base at Norfolk, Virginia was the homeport of the USS Gerald R. Ford and the accompanying ships in her strike group. Like all other areas of the country, Norfolk was blanketed in snow. The lines from the ships to the piers were festooned with hanging icicles.

“This is Naval Station Norfolk, Lieutenant James Stockton speaking. Read you loud and clear, captain. If you’re calling to report a problem with your satellite navigation, sir, let me tell you that we’ve assigned 10 extra officers on radio and phone duty to answer calls from the fleet. I’ve been instructed to tell you to rely on your inertial navigation, and to get a celestial fix tonight if possible.”

“Garmin, Limited, Marilyn Freund speaking, may I help you.”

“This is Steve Bowden, Operations VP of General Motors, may I please speak to your CEO.”

“Jim Blackwell here, go ahead, Steve, although I think I already know what you’re calling about.”

“You mean my cars aren’t the only ones with GPS problems? What the hell is going on, Jim?”

“When my best customer asks me what’s going on, I want to give him a straight answer,” Blackwell said, “but you won’t be happy with my response, which is that I haven’t got a fucking hint, nor do any of my people. I personally called the Rosetta Corporation, the company whose satellites we’ve used for the past year because they’re so reliable. They have no idea what’s wrong. I also called the heads of the other top five GPS manufacturers. They’ve been having the same problem as us. For the time being, Steve, we’re all back to the good old days of pulling into a gas station to get directions.”

“Mr. Blackwell, there’s an emergency call from the Secretary of Homeland Security on the line two,” his assistant said.

“Gotta go, Steve. Homeland Security is calling. As you know, we have a lot of government contracts. I’ll call you when I have something to tell you.”

“This is Jim Blackwell for Garmin, Mr. Secretary. In answer to the question I know you’re about to ask, we’ve lost all satellite communication in all our units, whether shipboard, vehicular, or handheld.”

“Have you been in touch with the other manufacturers, Jim?”

“Yes, sir, and they all report the same thing. Our GPS units simply aren’t working. I called Rosetta Corporation, the outfit that controls most of the satellites, and they claim they’re in the dark as much as we are. How’s the military doing, sir, especially the Navy?”

“Because you have a top-secret clearance and a need to know, I’ll give you the bad news,” Bellamy said. “Naval Operations reports that all ships at sea have lost satellite navigation. Garmin isn’t our only contractor. All the other GPS providers are down too. I think it’s obvious that the problem isn’t with your units or anyone else’s. The problem seems to be with the satellites themselves—or the satellite manufacturer.”

“The goddam thing says to stay on the current road for three more miles,” the man said to his wife, feeling angry because she wanted him to stop at a service station for directions.

They were heading toward a luxury condominium complex in South Carolina where they would vacation for a week at a traded time-share unit. The roads were hilly and there seemed to be a curve every few hundred feet.

“Honey, look at the map on the dashboard,” his wife said. “The friggin GPS doesn’t seem to know what road we’re on. It says Palmer Drive, but I haven’t seen any road signs with that name on it. We just passed a sign that says we’re on Higgins Lane. Hey, slow down.”

The man’s frustration was filtering through to his right foot. They went around a long curve doing 62 miles per hour. As soon as the road straightened, they could see a hedgerow directly in front of them. Unable to slow down on the sudden sheet of ice, the car went through the hedge and careened off a cliff, diving 100 feet to the rocky coastline below.

The local radio station reported the fifth single-car crash that day, all of which resulted in fatalities.

“I have the report you asked for, Bartholomew,” his assistant, Douglas Merriman, said.

“Read it to me Douglas. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you, Bartholomew.”

Bartholomew Martin insisted that all his subordinates call him by his first name, as he called all of them. Occasionally someone would slip and call him “Mr. President,” which would always result in a cold stare from Bartholomew, and occasionally a brief chastisement. Bartholomew Martin was the 46th President of the United States, defeated in a landslide election two years ago by Matthew Blake. Now, instead of a country, Martin leads a group called The Reformers .

The men sat in Martin’s large den, overlooking a fruit tree garden on his compound in Erbil, Kurdistan.

“Both of the two recent tests of the Rosetta satellites,” the report began, “resulted in the weather anomalies that we have experienced. Our solar array field in South Dakota became operational two days ago and resulted in the crash of a weather tracking plane.”

Bartholomew waved his hand.

“Enough minutia that I already know about,” Bartholomew said. “When does the report say that the final transfer will take place?”

Merriman flipped through the pages of the report.

“The present schedule calls for the final transfer in two weeks.”

“That will be all,” Bartholomew said.

He walked from his den out onto the wooden deck. The house was large at 8,000 square feet, far bigger than the typical house in Kurdistan. Bartholomew designed it himself and retained a major architectural firm in Italy to draw up the building plans. He lived there alone, his wife having died a few years before in a mysterious car accident that was never explained. A sudden wind blew across the large deck, making the air frigid at 25 degrees Fahrenheit, the kind of weather that Bartholomew loves. The normal temperature in Kurdistan in July is between 90 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit, which meant that Bartholomew always stayed inside the perfectly climate-controlled house in the summer. What everyone was calling “the weather anomaly” took its toll on the Middle East as well. Although it could be cold in the winter, the temperature seldom fell below freezing. Nevertheless, Bartholomew installed a heating system to ward off the winter chill. One never knows when the temperature may take a sudden dive, he thought. One of the wealthiest men in the world, Bartholomew seldom spared himself the best in creature comforts.