Digital Winter (21 page)

The early morning hours passed quickly. Roni had little time to do anything. The hospital administrator had put the facility on full emergency protocol shortly after the lights went out the first time. Every department had leaders, usually a doctor and the head nurse. They had trained for major accidents, earthquakes, hurricanes, and terrorist activity. But they had never planned on everything electrical being wiped out. There was no precedent for that. Some New Orleans hospitals had worked without power after hurricane Katrina and the subsequent flooding, but that hadn't turned out so well.

Every hour saw the death of a patient. With every hour the staff looked more like the cast from a cheap zombie movie. Missing sleep wasn't the issue. Medical professionals learned to function with little sleep. It was the stress that was hurting them. Modern medicine rode on a current of electricity that powered everything from digital thermometers to X-ray machines to CAT scanners, defibrillator paddles, and IV pumps.

The strangest and most disturbing events came at the expense of patients with pacemakers. Most died shortly after the electronics were fried. The lucky ones battled irregular heartbeats.

Refrigeration was gone, and while others were concerned about food spoilage, Roni wondered how long their fresh blood supply would last. Roth was right—medicine had been set back. The knowledge was there, but without tools they had been trained to use, most doctors were adrift. Lab work had been reduced to use most rudimentary assessments. Even the microscopes depended on power.

Over the last two hours she had moved from surgery to ICU, to CCU, to MICU, to the ER. The strangest and most noble thing she saw was a pair of paramedics pushing a gurney into the ER. Even in the January cold, the man and woman were sweating. Their ambulance had stopped three miles from the hospital. They had pushed the heart patient the full three miles. Sadly, it might have been a wasted effort.

Roni was not an overly emotional woman, but she felt a powerful urge to find a corner and cry.

T
his is crazy.” Jeremy sat at one of the tables in the cafeteria.

Colonel Jill Sherwin had given him a quick tour of the facility, set up a conference room for them, and briefed them on the sit room and its operation. Two airmen manned the large facility. Jeremy guessed the place was twice the size of the one at NSA/USCYBERCOM and even the one at the White House. Of course, there was a reason for that. Mount Weather was meant to house the president, his cabinet, his staff, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, key congressional members, and their families during a nationwide emergency. The situation room was equipped with the technology to gather information from every military base around the world, from FEMA operations around the country, and probably from a dozen other places that Jeremy was previously not cleared to know about. Most of that technology was useless now. Everything underground had power. Everything aboveground was as dead as stone.

Holt nodded. “You can say that again, General.”

The title stabbed him. He had hoped to wear a star one day but not under these circumstances. “I don't think I can get used to that title, sir.”

“You might as well. Down here there are only two generals.” Holt sipped coffee and picked at a donut. Jeremy couldn't be certain, but he thought he might be the youngest general in modern military history.

Holt must have been reading his thoughts. “Teddy Roosevelt was the youngest president, but he got that distinction because McKinley was assassinated. Kinda takes the air out of the ego.”

“I thought Kennedy was the youngest president.”

“Nope.” The voice came over Jeremy's left shoulder. O'Tool arrived with a tray of food. The cafeteria was close to empty, and that was fine with Jeremy. “Kennedy was the youngest elected president. TR was the youngest at the time he was sworn in.” His tray held a pile of scrambled eggs, hash browns, four strips of bacon, and a bowl of grits. “This is crazy.”

“I was just saying that.”

“One president, one senator-congressman, and two generals.”

“Don't forget the new VP.”

“Right. I'll say this—Barlow is decisive in a time of trouble. That's a good thing.” O'Tool dug into the eggs. “Man, these are good. You guys should get some.”

“Maybe later,” Jeremy said. “I've lost my appetite.”

“Pity. They got a full kitchen back there. It looks like they could feed thousands.”

“That's good for us but not for everyone out there.”

“How long do you think it will take for things to get back to normal?” Another bite of food made it to O'Tool's mouth.

Holt looked at Jeremy. “It might be a long time, Mr. Speaker.”

O'Tool smiled. “I like that title.” He stopped chewing for a moment. “Okay, here's what I don't understand. Some satellites blew up and knocked out power all over the country. The EMP thing. Just how does that work?”

“Starfish Prime.”

“Huh?” It was the only word O'Tool could get past his full mouth.

Holt's gaze lingered on O'Tool. “Ever heard of James Van Allen?”

“No. Should I...wait, the guy who discovered the Van Allen Belt?”

“That's him. Brilliant man. He's known for a few other things, including participating in a military and Atomic Energy Commission test. Starfish Prime sent a nuclear weapon into space, let it explode, and studied the results. There were several such tests—five, I think. In the late '50s there were other high-altitude tests. That was in early July of '62, and it was the first nuclear weapon exploded in space.”

“I'm no scientist, but that doesn't sound wise.”

“In retrospect, it probably wasn't, but in 1961, the Soviet Union announced it would resume nuclear testing. Starfish Prime, Operation Fishbowl, and other experiments provided scientific and engineering data and also told the Russians not to mess with us.”

O'Tool had stopped shoveling food into his face, so Jeremy assumed the story had captured the senator's attention. “So we had EMP weapons back then?”

Holt shook his head. “Not really. The detonation knocked out about a third of the satellites in orbit. A few more went off-line later, including Telestar, the first telecommunications satellites. It also knocked out power in Hawaii, 900 miles away. Film of the event shows the explosion and the subsequent change in the sky's color. Did you notice the moon after the pulses?”

“No,” O'Tool said. “I was hustled down here for my safety. Or so I was told.”

“I saw it, General,” Jeremy said. “The moon was bloodred. Pretty eerie. I get the chills just thinking of it.”

“Me too. Those tests proved that high-altitude nuclear explosions could produce an electromagnetic pulse that could kill satellites and electrical grids. Starfish Prime went off 250 miles above the earth. That's about the same altitude the space shuttles used to fly, give or take a little.”

“Okay, General, let me ask you something.” O'Tool pushed his tray aside and rested his elbows on the table. “Did you know we had such weapons circling the planet?”

“There are close to 1000 operational satellites up there, Senator, and a whole bunch more inactive ones, assuming they're really inactive.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that some of those birds could have been dormant. NORAD can track anything in orbit larger than your fist, but they can't look inside the things.”

“And keep in mind,” Jeremy added, “that the EMP pulses didn't come from our birds.”

“Generals, do we have EMP weapons in space over foreign countries?”

“I honestly can't say,” Holt said.

“Can't or won't?” O'Tool was getting pushy.

Holt set his elbows on the table mirroring O'Tools position. It was an aggressive posture. “I don't know, Senator. I know lots of things—things above top secret—but I am not privy to everything. It's need-to-know for generals just like everyone else, including senators.”

“Okay, let me ask it this way. Do you suspect that we have similar weapons to those that put us back in the dark ages?”

“I would be surprised if we didn't. This goes back fifty years and twelve presidential administrations. It goes back to Eisenhower. For all I know, there are weapons up there that have been forgotten.”

“Isn't that just swell? Crazy way to run a business.”

“It's not a business, Senator,” Holt said. “The military works in a rapidly changing world and is subject to elected officials. Policy often dictates military behavior. Eisenhower warned his successors to watch out for the military-industrial complex. He was right to make the warning, but it's a two-edged sword. Sometimes the military needs to beware the politicians.”

“You don't like politicians, General?” Jeremy couldn't decide if O'Tool was hurt or angry.

“You misunderstand me. I don't dislike all politicians. I'm just saying that the military has to adapt to changes in the world and changes in its own government. It's worked for a very long time, but not always well. One president, like Reagan, wants space-borne weapons. In the age of ICBMs that made sense. It was the cold war. We needed to protect ourselves from the Soviet Union and the rising power of China. Today, our biggest concern doesn't come from technologically advanced superpowers. We haven't lost an American life to China, Russia, or Korea for a long time. We've lost thousands to terrorists using very untechnical means.”

Holt leaned back. “My point, Senator is this. Conventional weapons can be grounded and stuffed in a hanger. Troops can be called home. But space-borne weapons are a little more difficult to deal with, especially those with nuclear warheads. It wouldn't be wise to bring them crashing back to earth chock-full of radioactive material. I can tell you this. We know the Russians and Chinese have put military birds in space. It appears that many of them were EMP weapons. I'm assuming we've done the same. Not this administration. For all I know, those platforms could be twenty years old.”

“And if so,” Jeremy said, “then their onboard computer systems would be well out of date and subject to viruses and worms. Which may explain what happened here.”

“So, if I have this right, scores of these EMP weapons have been flying around up there for, what, decades?”

“That's true for some. There may be newer ones,” Holt said.

“Okay, bottom line this for me, gentlemen. How far down the toilet are we?”

Holt and Jeremy exchanged glances. Holt delivered the message. “Further than I thought possible.”

“Peachy. Just peachy.” O'Tool stood. “Do either of you have any good news?”

Jeremy couldn't come up with any.

After O'Tool left, Holt rose, refilled their coffee cups, and returned to the table. “I want to ask you to do something, Jeremy.”

“Name it, sir.” Jeremy sipped the coffee.

“Something should be said about Secretary of State Baker.”

“You mean like at a memorial service?” Jeremy hadn't seen that coming.

“Yes. The body is in cold storage. They have a morgue associated with the hospital. I know his family would want to take care of these things, but…” His gaze drew distant. Jeremy let him have a moment. “Look, we don't know how long it will take for things to play out. If travel can be resumed, I imagine they will bring the family in. That's how this is supposed to work. The president, VP, cabinet, joint chiefs, and leading congressional members and their families are supposed to hole up to make sure the government continues. I can't imagine the president telling Baker's family they're no longer welcome. Anyway, someone needs to offer some spiritual words, and you know I'm no good at that.”

“I'm not a pastor, General, but I will do what I can. I don't imagine they have a chaplain stationed here.”

“I doubt it. We'll bring it up the next time we speak to the president. I think Baker was a Presbyterian or something like that. You being a Christian and all…well, I thought you might know what to say.”