Digital Winter (26 page)

“It makes no difference, Mr. Vice President.” Rouse's words were firm. Jeremy doubted if a bulldozer could move the guy off an opinion. “And it's not just the general citizenry.” He looked at Barlow. “There is an eighty-five percent chance that the military will fragment.”

“Meaning?” Barlow pressed.

“Some units of the military may take it upon themselves to mark off a territory.”

Holt huffed. “American warlords? Not possible.”

“I hope you're right, General. I really do. For the first time in my life, I've started wishing I were wrong.” He looked away but continued speaking. “The next area of concern will be health issues. Without power, sewage can't be processed properly. Much of it will be funneled into oceans and lakes. Clean water may become a problem. Almost all utilities manage water with electric pumps controlled by computers. Some things could be done manually if the utility workers show up. But they may not if they fear for the safety of their families.

“Police effectiveness will be diminished. Radio operation is out. Patrol cars don't work. What are they to do with people they arrest? Many police stations have holding cells with no windows and steel doors. People could die in those. Even the facilities with bars instead of solid doors will face overcrowding. Has anyone thought about the prisons?”

No one spoke.

Rouse continued. “There are nearly three million people incarcerated in US prisons and jails. For every 100,000 people in the country, 700 are incarcerated. Prisons are without power. The cells are locked shut. I assume officials can open individual cells manually, but what do you do with the prisoners? How do you feed them? How do guards communicate?”

Jeremy hadn't thought of that. He wondered what else he hadn't thought of.

“Regions with enclaves of survivalists and anarchists will be particularly dangerous. Survivalists have been preparing for just this kind of emergency, and they're armed, which means they can take what they want from others. In the cities, gangs and criminal mobs will have power equal to the police, maybe greater. Do you want me to carry on?”

“Is FEMA prepared for this?” Barlow's face suggested he already knew the answer.

The director of FEMA didn't hesitate. “No, sir. Not by a long shot. We have stores of food, but not for 315 million people. We have some generators, but they weren't hardened. We have a lot of work to do to get those things running. My best guess is that only a quarter of my staff and field workers are available.”

“You're guessing?” Grundy furrowed his brow.

“Yes, Mr. Vice President. We all are. I can't communicate with my office in DC, Security, or our ten regional directors.”

The president's eyes traced those around the table. “Monica will be in soon. We found her at her office. Not much she could do there, but she wouldn't leave the helm. Maybe she has some Homeland Security info for us.” He took a deep breath. “Do you have suggestions for us, Dr. Rouse?”

“Yes, but I imagine you've already considered them, and if not—well, I don't think you're going to like them.”

“I don't like any of this,” Barlow admitted.

Rouse pursed his lips. “First, the obvious. I recommend doing whatever is necessary to protect the strategic oil reserves and the fuel reserves at our military bases. It will take a fair amount of fuel to keep generators running once they've been repaired. And once this is over—if it ever is—it will be some time before oil production and transportation are back online.

“Next, thought will need to be given to protecting food reserves and farmland. For the first time in history, our farmers could be in danger from hungry hordes. Most will be safe for a while because many farms are somewhat isolated and transportation is limited.

“Then…” Rouse took deep breath and exhaled. “I also think you need to prioritize areas and cities vital to recovery and write off the rest.”

“I don't think I like where you're headed with that.” Barlow's words were cold.

“I don't either, Mr. President, but emergency personnel know they can't save everyone. It's fine to want to, but it can't be done. Survival and recovery of the country is at the top of the list. Let's not fool ourselves. People have died, and many more will die. There isn't a thing we can do about that, but we
can
save many. We need to designate areas as camps for refugees fleeing crime-riddled neighborhoods, places where we can protect people.”

“You know about the conspiracy theories that say your organization has concentration camps for US citizens.” Grundy's gaze was steady.

“Yes I do, Mr. Vice President. The claims are bunk. We have staging areas for our workers, and that's it. We need a presidential order and a directive to the military to allow us to use large buildings—office buildings, college campuses, sports arenas, anything and everything where we can put people for their safety and where we can feed them. We can't go door-to-door to every home and apartment. Once we have enough vehicles working, we can start transporting any who are willing to go with us. But…” For Rouse to pause wasn't a good sign.

“Just say it, Dr. Rouse.”

“We need to start with areas populated by well-educated people, food suppliers, and workers who can get things done.”

“And those who don't fit those categories?” Grundy pressed.

Rouse simply shook his head.

Barlow inched forward in his seat. “You're asking me to designate certain populations as more important than others. We don't do that in this country.”

“Sir…” His face reddened. A moment later he slammed his notebook shut. His next words came out rapid-fire. “I don't enjoy this, Mr. President. I'm facing an impossible situation. It's the Wild West out there. In a few days we have gone from being a world power to being a third-world country. Money is meaningless. No banks are operating. No ATMs work. Babies are crying for milk, and I can't do anything about it. All I have is limited information and research that barely applies. I'm open for ideas. Anyone think they have a better feel for this than I do?”

Grundy started to speak, but Barlow put a hand on his arm. Silence followed the outburst.

A moment later, Rouse said, “I apologize, sir. I guess I'm a little stressed.”

“You're doing a great job, Wade.” Barlow spoke like a father. “We're all dealing with things beyond our worst nightmares. I can't argue with anything you said. You've helped clarify things for me. This is chaos theory at its worst.”

Something occurred to Jeremy. “Dr. Rouse, I haven't seen your family here. As a cabinet member you have a right—”

“They're dead.” The man stared at his closed notebook.

“Wade…” Barlow began. “I hadn't heard. I—”

“They were on an airliner. My wife was flying back from London. She had the girls with her. They were already in the air over the Atlantic when the order to ground all craft went out. The first wave of EMP pulses hit before the plane could turn back. They never arrived.” He stood. “I need a moment, Mr. President.”

“Of course, Dr. Rouse.”

O
nly the most life-threatening conditions warranted surgery. Still, there were too many of those. Some surgeries could be delayed. Even cancer surgeries, except those of the skin, had to be postponed. Appendixes, however, cared nothing about the lack of electricity. Neither did stab and gunshot wounds. Those operations were performed under battery-powered light. Key vital signs were monitored the old-fashioned way: Blood pressure was monitored with manual sphygmomanometers and stethoscopes. EKG monitors were replaced with two fingers on the carotid artery. When possible, surgeries were done under spinal anesthesia and other chemical means.

The greatest weight fell on the anesthesiologists, who had to sedate and monitor patients. Scalpels worked with or without power. Electrocauterization was out. Small-vessel bleeding had to be handled in other ways. IVs dripped fluid without help of pumps. Roni was beginning to feel like a field surgeon during World War I.

Her last patient had come through fine, but Roni and her team felt as if they had just finished a marathon. Surgery had become an entirely new experience.

She stripped off her gloves and surgical gown and exited the OR. Dr. August Pickett waited for her. With him were three uniformed men. US Army.

“Did the surgery go well?” Pickett smiled. It seemed fabricated.

“Not the way I like to do business, but he should be fine. Who are your friends?”

“They haven't said. They just asked for you.”

Roni's heart stumbled as if it forgot its natural rhythm. She assumed this had to do with Jeremy, but she didn't know if the news was good or bad.

A young man with sergeant stripes asked, “Are you Dr. Roni Matisse?”

“I am.”

“Would you please tell us your husband's name?”

“Colonel Jeremy Matisse, United States Air Force.”

The young man nodded. “And where is he stationed?”

“I don't know where he is now. Normally he works out of Fort Meade.”

“Very good, ma'am. I know I sound overly cautious, but do you have ID?”

“You could have started with that and skipped the questions,” Roni said.

He offered a patronizing smile. “No ma'am, I couldn't.”

“I have my hospital ID. My driver's license is in my locker. Don't have much use for it this week.”

“No ma'am, of course not. Hospital identification will be fine.”

She showed the plastic laminated ID with her picture and name.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“How is my husband?” She had resisted asking the question as long as she could.

“He is well and has asked that we bring you to his location.”

“Which is?”

“I'm afraid I can't say,” the sergeant said as he glanced at Pickett.

“I don't understand. How do you plan to get me there?” Roni took back her ID.

“We have a vehicle, ma'am. Some military vehicles are still working.”

She didn't ask how. She was sure he wouldn't say.

“If you'll follow me.”

He turned and took two steps. Roni didn't move. Her mind, however, hit top gear.

The soldier turned. “Ma'am?”

“Hang on, Sergeant. Give me a sec.”

“My orders were to bring you right away.”

“I get that. Sit tight for a second.” She studied the shine of the corridor floor.

Pickett stepped closer. “You should go, Roni. We'll get by.”

“I know.” She felt as if she were wearing concrete pants. Thoughts buzzed like bees in a jar. “I have a boy with me.”

The sergeant retraced his steps. “Excuse me, ma'am? I was told you didn't have children.”

“We don't. It's…”
How to explain this
. “The social system in the area has failed. I can't send the boy to foster care.”

“You didn't tell me this, Roni.” Pickett looked to be somewhere between peeved and puzzled.

She smiled as sweetly as she could. “That's because I've been keeping it a secret from you.” Pickett didn't return the smile. “Look, the kid lost his mother when this all started, and his father was a cop who had been killed in the line of duty. He has no family. Social services is dead in the water, and sending him to some home that has no power and rotting food in the refrigerator would be cruel. And…he's kind of grown attached to me.”

“And you to him, it sounds like,” Pickett said.

“I suppose. I haven't thought about it that way. Not until now.”

“Ma'am, my orders are to find you and deliver you to the general.”

“General? I told you my husband is a colonel.”

“Not anymore, ma'am.” He looked at Pickett. “Doctor, will the boy be safe here in the hospital?”

“As safe as any of us are. Most of us can't get home. We have others in the children's ward—”

“Forget it.” Roni raised her gaze. “I can't leave the hospital. I won't leave the boy.”

The sergeant smiled. “The general mentioned you might say that. I'm under orders to ask you to reconsider, ma'am.”

“Tell my husband there is nothing I want more than to be with him, but I can't leave now. We've already lost too many doctors and nurses. I refuse to leave patients on their beds. I can't. I wouldn't be able to face myself when all of this is over.”

“Understood, ma'am.” The sergeant held out his hand, and one of the other soldiers handed him an envelope. “He asked me to give this to you if you refused to accompany us.” He passed the missive to her. Her name had been written on the envelope—in Jeremy's hand. Her heart skipped, and she wanted to hug it like a junior-high girl with her first love note.