Digital Winter (41 page)

“That is the problem. There are too many people. Governments and aid organizations must be able to work quickly. This is the best way.”

“Manufacturing will take some time,” said the Belgian. She was petite but known to have a bite.

“A good observation, but I have a surprise for you. There are hundreds of millions of chips just waiting to be used.” Liam enjoyed their confused looks. “A company in North Korea already has a stockpile of the tiny chips. This is not a new idea. It has been talked about in many countries.”

“They will make the chips available to us?” the Chinese rep asked.

“Yes, they will. They were starving even before things went dark. They are in a difficult way. We have what they need.” A dark figure appeared at the back of the conference room. Liam stared for a moment. No one else saw Eli Shade.

Shade was smiling.

J
eremy had seen many aircraft in his career and flown on several, but this was his first time in the rear seat of a USAF F-15E. He had been told the fighter was one of several sequestered in underground hangers. The military couldn't house all aircraft in hardened, below-grade facilities, but they knew enough to keep some underground. This F-15 had been sheltered in Nebraska. Jeremy was thankful for forward-thinking paranoids.

He had traveled by car to Thurgood Marshall International Airport near Fort Meade, a civilian airport pressed into service. Not that commercial planes were flying these days. The trip across the country passed quickly once Jeremy adjusted to the small confines of the cockpit and the gut-turning takeoff. Thankfully, the pilot showed no desire to give Jeremy the ride of his life. Being a general had its perks.

There had been almost no conversation on the trip. The pilot, an Air Force captain, looked weary. Jeremy didn't need to ask. Men like him had been on constant duty since the Event. They had seen too much.

From the air, Coronado looked like a vacation spot. Jeremy was pretty sure the view from the ground was less spectacular. As the F-15 banked for approach, Jeremy saw a bay full of small boats. “What's with the boats, Captain?”

The answer came through Jeremy's helmet speakers. “Fishing, General. A lot of people along the coast have taken up fishing to eat. A few of the commercial fishing boats are operating, but most are still out of commission. Not enough parts to go around.”

Jeremy had done his research on San Diego. In some ways, it had fared better than most megacities. The eighth-largest metropolis in the country, it was populated by people in every financial strata and from almost every country in the world. Its mild climate made it one of the most survivable cities. It had one other advantage: It was a military town, and bases were the first to receive power. The Navy operated several bases in the county. San Diego was Navy country.

But they also had their own set of challenges. Population for one and minimal agriculture near the city for another.

North Island Naval Air Base had been one of the busiest of the military installations and had made progress in getting planes into the air. Navy personnel moved around the buildings and aircraft. Most of the aircraft looked as if they hadn't been moved in nearly a year. They hadn't.

A sailor in a Humvee waited near the taxiway. The pilot rolled the aircraft from the runway to the tarmac and stopped near a fuel truck. It was good to see more vehicles in operation, disheartening to consider how many gathered dust. Mechanical and electrical supplies trickled in to most bases according to their perceived importance to national security, relief work, and proximity to the warehouses. Some factories were producing parts but at a limited rate. Those in the first areas to receive power had to rebuild much of their equipment, and ironically, they depended on other factories that made the parts.

The man by the Humvee came to attention as Jeremy approached, brought up a salute, and held it until Jeremy responded in like kind. “General, I'm Petty Officer First Class Irwin Dupont. I have been assigned to drive you to your location.” Jeremy noticed the man had a sidearm strapped to his hip. He glanced around the field and saw every sailor was packing. He understood. He still wore one when he went into DC to see his wife.

Jeremy retrieved a piece of paper from the flight suit he had been required to wear. “Know how to find this place?”

The petty officer took the note, studied it, and then handed it back. “Yes, sir. High cotton.”

The comment raised Jeremy's eyebrow.

“Sorry, sir. Something my mother used to say. It's in the high-rent district.”

“I thought all of Coronado was…high cotton.”

“Yes, sir, it's just that some areas are more high-rent than others. This is top-of-the-line digs, sir.”

“Give me a minute to get out of this suit, and then we'll go see how the other half live.”

Dupont gave a sad smile. “Lately, sir, the other half have been living like everyone else.”

“Understood, Petty Officer. I haven't forgotten.”

“I bet they have quite a view.” Jeremy craned his neck to see the upper floor of the tower. “Do you know which building they're in?”

“Yes, sir.” He pointed at the ten-story structure. “Each building has its own address.”

“Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Begging the general's pardon, but my orders are to escort you and provide protection.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Sir, please don't make me choose between an Air Force general and a Navy admiral.”

Jeremy chuckled. “I think I know how that would turn out.”

“Yes, sir. The admiral has two stars.”

“Figures. Let's go.”

Jeremy was surprised to see the power on in the building and said so.

“The whole city came online when the base did. That's true for areas around the other bases. The rest of San Diego is still hit and miss.”

“So the elevator must be working. Good. I'd hate for you to have to carry me up ten flights of stairs.”

“The general looks pretty fit. I doubt you'd need my help.”

“Who said anything about needing help?” He pushed the elevator call button. As he waited, he could see damage done to the lobby and windows.

“Things got rough,” Irwin said.

“You should see DC.”

A few minutes later they exited the elevator and stood before the door to the condo from which the e-mail to Jeremy had originated. Irwin knocked. Hard.

“Who is it?” A male voice.

“Mr. Elton? My name is Jeremy Matisse. I'm with the Air Force.”

“Air Force? How do you know my name?”

“Open the door, sir, and I'll be happy to explain.”

There was a pause. “What is this about?”

Petty Officer Irwin raised his voice. “Please, sir. The general needs to speak with you.”

“General? Okay, hang on.”

Jeremy listened as Stanly Elton unlatched several locks. The door opened an inch. “Identification.”

Jeremy pulled his military ID from his pocket. “I'm for real, Mr. Elton.”

The man opened the door. “Come in.” He sounded abashed. “Sorry. I'm afraid I've become overly cautious.”

“Understandable.” Jeremy stepped into the condo. It was neat and clean. For some reason, he expected to see a mess. “Are you Stanley Elton?”

“I am.” He motioned to a place behind Jeremy. “This is my wife, Dr. Royce Elton.” He nodded in the direction of a middle-aged Hispanic woman. “This is Rosa. She is a friend of ours.” The woman looked frightened.

“Doctor?” he said to Royce.

The woman wore clothes designed for a slightly heavier woman. There were dark circles under her eyes. The woman gazed at the sidearms the men carried. She looked frightened too. “PhD. I'm a geneticist.”

“Ah. I married a doctor. A surgeon.” Jeremy smiled. He looked around the space. Well appointed, well furnished. A view of the bay out one window, a view of the ocean out the other. This was the domicile of the rich. Then he saw an empty electric wheelchair. His gaze lingered. Few things drew attention like an empty wheelchair.

“My son's,” Elton said. “He's in his room.”

A sense of relief ran through Jeremy.

Elton continued. “He doesn't need the wheelchair. In fact, he hasn't touched it in months.” He paused. “It's a long story.”

“Mr. Elton, do you have a computer on the premises?”

“Yes. Several of them. Actually, my son has them. I don't use computers at home. I get enough of that at work…
got
enough of that at work.”

“May I ask what you do, sir?”

“I was an accountant. Not much need for that now. My wife teaches at UCSD. Not much use for that either.” He glanced at his wife. “I suppose I should offer you a seat, but I'd like to know why you're here.”

“We received an e-mail from this location. It was addressed to me.”

“I don't see how that's possible, General. I haven't sent any e-mails. We've…the building has had power for only a few weeks, and we don't have access to the Internet. I guess the servers were wiped out or something.”

Jeremy noticed the man's self-editing. “This didn't come over the Internet. It came over a secure military network. Most people don't know it exists.”

“I don't know anything about it. How could I access a secret military network?”

“That's one of my questions. To send this message, someone had to hack into the system. Trust me, that's almost impossible.”

“I can't help you, General. I can operate the basics of a computer, and I'm really good with accounting software, but that's it.”

“Yet you have several computers in your home.”

“True, but they're not for me. They belong to my son.”

“Could he have sent the e-mail?”

Elton said no. “He's…he's special.”

Jeremy cocked his head.

Elton broke eye contact. “Donny is not like other people. He's an adult, but he's more of a child. He barely speaks and seldom makes sense.”

“That might explain it.”

Elton looked at Jeremy again. “What's that mean?”

“The message had only one word:
Oatmeal
.”

Dr. Royce Elton gasped.

Roni Matisse finished her shift in the Mount Weather medical facility. Sitting on the sidelines while at Mount Weather was out of the question. Since college, her life had been spent on the edge. She seldom worked to exhaustion, but she always stayed busy. Even on her days off from the hospital she felt the need to do something constructive. After only a few days at the facility, she asked for medical privileges. The staff was glad to have her. She made frequent trips back to DC as promised but spent half her time in the underground facility. Although the facility had a fully functioning operating room, it was seldom used. Roni had assisted with two appendectomies and one gallbladder removal. There had been several injuries, mostly among FEMA workers on the surface. For the most part, medicine in the facility was undemanding.