Arthur Hailey: Overload

He glanced toward the chairman. "I think we should alert the media. TV and radio can still get warnings out."

"Do it," Humphrey said. "And someone get me the Governor on the phone."

"Yes, sir." An assistant dispatcher began dialling.

Faces in the room were grim. In the utility's century-and-a-quarter history what was about to happen-intentional disruption of service had never occurred before.

Nim Goldman was already telephoning Public Relations, over in another building. There would be no delay about warnings going out. The utility's PR department was geared to handle them; although, normally, the sequence of power cuts was known only to a few people within the company, now they would be made public. As another point of policy, a few months ago it had been decided that the cuts-if and when they happened-would be known as

"rolling blackouts," a PR ploy to emphasize their temporary nature and the fact that all areas would be treated fairly. The phrase "rolling blackouts" was a young secretary's brainchild, after her older, more highly paid superiors failed to come up with anything acceptable. One of the rejects: "sequential curtailments."

"I have the Governor's office in Sacramento, Sir," the dispatch assistant informed Eric Humphrey. “They say the Governor is at his ranch near Stockton and they're trying to reach him. They'd like you on the line."

The chairman nodded and accepted the telephone. His hand cupping the mouthpiece, he asked, "Does anyone know where the chief is?" It was unnecessary to explain that "chief" meant the chief engineer, Walter Talbot, a quiet, unflappable Scot now nearing retirement, whose wisdom in tight situations was legendary.

"Yes," Nim Goldman said. "He drove out to take a look at Big Lil."

The chairman frowned. "I hope nothing's wrong out there."

Instinctively, eyes swung to an instrument panel with the legend above it: LA MISSION NO- 5. This was Big Lil, the newest and largest generator at La Mission plant fifty miles outside the city.

Big Lil-Lilien Industries of Pennsylvania built the huge machine and a news writer coined the descriptive name which stuck-was a monster delivering a million and a quarter kilowatts of electric power. It was fuelled by oil in enormous quantities which created superheated steam to drive the giant turbine. In the past Big Lil had had its critics. During the planning stages experts argued it was sheerest folly to build a generator so large because too much reliance would be placed on a single source of power; they used a non-scientific simile involving eggs and a basket. Other experts disagreed. These pointed to "economies of scale," by which they meant: mass-produced electricity is cheaper. The second group prevailed and, so far, had been proven right. In the two years since it began operating, Big Lil had been economical compared with smaller generators, magnificently reliable, and trouble-free. Today, in the Energy Control Center, a strip chart recorder showed the heartening news that Big Lil was giving its utmost, running at maximum, shouldering a massive six percent of the utility's total load,

“There was some turbine vibration reported early this morning," Ray Paulsen told the chairman. “The chief and I discussed it. While it probably isn't critical, we both thought he should take a look."

Humphrey nodded approval. There was nothing the chief could do here, anyway. It was simply more comfortable to have him around.

"Here is the Governor," an operator announced on Humphrey's telephone.

And a moment later a familiar voice: "Good afternoon, Eric."

"Good afternoon, Sir," the chairman said. "I'm afraid I'm calling with unhappy . . ."

It was then that it happened.

Amid the bank of instruments under the sign LA MISSION NO- 5 a buzzer, urgently insistent, sounded a series of short, sharp notes. Simultaneously, amber and red warning lights began blinking. The inked needle Of NO- 5's chart recorder faltered, then descended steeply.

"My God!" someone's shocked voice said. "Big Lil's tripped off the line."

There remained no doubt of it as the recorder and other readings slid to zero.

Reactions were immediate. In the Energy Control Center a high speed logging typewriter came to life, chattering, spewing out status reports as hundreds of high voltage circuit breakers at switching centers and substations sprang open at computer command. The opening of the circuit breakers would save the system and protect other generators from harm.

But the action had already plunged huge segments of the state into total electric blackout. Within two or three successive seconds, millions of people in widely separated areas-factory and office workers, farmers, housewives, shoppers, salesclerks, restaurant operators, printers, service station attendants, stock-brokers, hoteliers, hairdressers, movie projectionists and patrons, streetcar motormen, TV station staffs and viewers, bartenders, mail sorters, wine makers, doctors, dentists, veterinarians, pinball players . . . a list ad infinitum-were deprived of power and light, unable to continue whatever, a moment earlier, they had been doing.

In buildings, elevators halted between floors. Airports, which had been bursting with activity, virtually ceased to function. On streets and highways traffic lights went out, beginning monumental traffic chaos.

More than an eighth of California-a land area substantially larger than all of Switzerland and with a population of about three millioncame abruptly to a standstill. What, only a short time ago, had been merely a possibility was now disastrous reality-and worse, by far, than feared.

At the control center's communications console-protected by special circuits from the widespread loss of power-all three dispatchers were working swiftly, spreading out emergency instructions, telephoning orders to generating plants and division power controllers, examining pedal-actuated roller system maps, scanning cathode ray tube displays for information. They would be busy for a long time to come, but actions triggered by computers were far ahead of them now.

"Hey," the Governor said on Eric Humphrey's telephone, "all the lights just went out."

"I know," the chairman acknowledged. "That's what I called you about."

On another phone-a direct line to La Mission's control room-Ray Paulsen was shouting, "What in hell has happened to Big Lil?"

The explosion at the La Mission plant of Golden State Power & Light occurred entirely without warning.

A half hour earlier the chief engineer, Walter Talbot, had arrived to inspect La Mission No. 5-Big Lil-following reports of slight turbine vibration during the night. The chief was a lean, spindly man, outwardly dour, but with a puckish sense of humor and who still talked in a broad Glaswegian accent, though for forty years he had been no nearer Scotland than an occasional Burns Night dinner in San Francisco. He liked to take his time about whatever be was doing and today inspected Big Lil slowly and carefully while the plant superintendent, a mild, scholarly engineer named Danieli, accompanied him. All the while the giant generator poured out its power-sufficient to light more than twenty million average light bulbs.

A faint vibration deep within the turbine, and differing from its normal steady whine, was audible occasionally to the trained cars of the chief and superintendent. But eventually, after tests which included applying a nylon-tipped probe to a main bearing, the chief pronounced, "It's naething tae worry over. The fat lassie will gi' nae trouble, and what's necessary we'll see to when the panic's bye."

As he spoke, the two were standing close to Big Lil on metal gratings which formed the floor of the cathedral-like turbine ball. The monstrous turbine-generator, a city block in length, sat perched on concrete pedestals, each of the unit's seven casings resembling a beached whale.