Digital Winter (5 page)

Jeremy motioned for him to try.

“USCYBERCOM plans, coordinates, integrates, synchronizes, and conducts activities to direct the operations and defense of specified Department of Defense information networks, and prepare for—and when directed, conduct—full-spectrum military cyberspace operations in order to enable actions in all domains, ensure US/Allied freedom of action in cyberspace, and deny the same to our adversaries. The command is charged with pulling together existing cyberspace resources, creating synergy, and synchronizing war-fighting effects to defend the information security environment. USCYBERCOM is tasked with centralizing command of cyberspace operations, strengthening DoD cyberspace capabilities, and integrating and bolstering DoD's cyber expertise.”

“Word for word, Ogilvy. Homeland Security handles threats to commercial cyber security. We focus on military—”

The lights flickered and then went out.

“Remain seated.” Jeremy ordered.

Darkness lasted thirty seconds before the lights came back on, slightly dimmer than before.

“Is this a simulation, sir?” someone in the group asked.

Jeremy didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the general and on the tech sergeant who appeared almost magically at the door. The sergeant whispered in Holt's ear. The general nodded then rose.

“The base is now on lockdown.” He looked to Jeremy. “Colonel, get someone to take these people to the cafeteria and join me in the sit room.” He exited with the senator on his heels.

Roni worked with feverish determination, clamping several bleeders around her patient's liver. She was determined to save the Amy look-alike, mostly because it was her job but partly because she had been unable to do anything for the real Amy so many years ago.

She kept her head down and her eyes directed into the abyss of blood and tissue that was the woman's abdomen. She called for surgical instruments with a soft but authority-laden tone. Each tool was quickly but carefully laid into her gloved hand. Med school had given her a new perspective on many things. One was that all people, regardless of age and ethnic background, looked pretty much the same on the inside. Women had a few organs men did not and vice versa, but everyone came equipped with one heart, one spleen, one stomach, one spine, and one liver. All of those had been damaged in this patient.

“She's still bleeding.” Dr. Marc Middleton was assisting.

“I can see that, Marc. It's kinda hard to miss. Hang another unit of blood.” The last comment was directed to a surgical nurse. “This girl's liver is a mess.”

“She may be beyond hope,” Middleton said. “We've got patients lining the walls in pre-op.”

“I know that too. Clamp.” The surgical nurse placed a vascular clamp in her hand. “Jan?” Roni cut her eyes to the anesthesiologist.

Jan's fifty-eight-year-old eyes took in the digital information on her monitors. “BP is 102 over 80. She's dropped another five points. Respiration is normal. Pulse is 123 and thready. That should come down as soon as we get the blood volume up. We may need to deepen her sleep to get the pulse down so she's not pumping herself dry faster than we can fill her up. Still—”

“Suction.” Roni applied the clamp and searched for other bleeders. Things had gone south quickly. The woman seemed to be trying to die. Every time Roni clamped another oozing vein, a new one appeared, most likely from the increase in the pressure. The woman's BP rose and fell like a roller coaster.

The patient was beyond Roni's skill, beyond any surgeon's skill. Middleton was right. Other patients needed her, but Roni couldn't give up. Not now. Dr. Mayer's sad eyes played in her mind; her voice rang in her ears.
We did all we could
…She hated those words but had said them plenty of times herself. She didn't want to say them again, but she knew she would before this day was over.

The lights went out. One of the nurses gasped. A second later, the emergency battery-powered lights over the door marking the exit came on, casting the OR in harsh lights and stark shadows.

“Great. As if this weren't challenging enough.” Roni kept her head down, eyes straining to distinguish one blood-covered organ from another.

“Monitors are off,” Jan said. She placed gloved fingers to the side of the patient's neck. “If the generators don't kick in soon, we'll be doing this surgery old school.” A second later, she added, “I'm gonna need a BVM.”

“Someone help Dr. Barry with the Ambu bag.” Roni stood still, her hands deep into the patient's abdomen. “Come on, come on. Someone kick the emergency generator.”

Seconds passed like geological ages before the lights came back on. The sound of the respirator sounded like music.

“Resetting the monitors.” Jan's fingers worked the electronic devices around her.

“Duration?”

“I make it to be about twenty or thirty seconds. Seemed longer, but I don't think things were down long.” Middleton leaned over the surgical area. “We still have bleeders.”

Roni didn't answer the observation. There was nothing to be said. She was losing the battle.

The phone in the surgical room sounded, and one of the nurses answered. “OR-3.” She listened. “Understood.” She hung up and turned to Roni. “Power is out in the city.”

“The whole city?”

The nurse shrugged. “I assume so. That was the head of ER. He said we need to prep for an influx of trauma. There are likely to be accidents and the like.”

“A train wreck wasn't enough—now we have to lose power?” Roni shook her head as she searched for the next bleeder.

“They'll have the power on soon,” Middleton said. “It's not our first power outage.”

“I hope you're right,” Roni said. “DC has enough problems without trying to get by without electricity, especially in January—” The pit of her stomach dropped. “Suction!” She blinked as if doing so would remove the image of blood rising in the patient's abdominal cavity like water filling a sink.

“That's arterial,” Dr. Middleton said.

“You think?” Roni pushed her hand deeper and behind the woman's organs, searching for what she didn't want to find. When she did, her heart came close to stopping. “There's a breach in the descending aorta. She's bleeding out. Hang another unit. I'm thinking endograft.”

Her fingers traced the abdominal aorta. Middleton pushed the intestines to the side. Blood poured into the space with every beat of the woman's heart.

“Dr. Matisse—”

“Don't say it, Doctor. I'm not giving up.”

“Doctor.” He put a bloody hand on Roni's. “The descending aorta has been crushed in several spots. The moment you stop the flow there it will break loose elsewhere—if not from the aorta itself then in another dozen bleeders.”

“I won't give up.”

Middleton sighed and then called for several aortic stents.

“This will work, Marc.”

He shook his head. “No it won't. I'll help you do whatever you call for. You know that. But it won't work. There's just too much damage.”

A half hour later, the patient died.

Roni removed her soiled surgical gown and gloves and donned new ones. OR-5 had another patient waiting.

“The IRS is always changing the rules. They have more than a hundred thousand employees to keep busy. A simple tax structure would put a bunch of them out of work.” Stanley stepped into the elevator near his office on the twenty-fifth floor of the Mission Financial Building near the heart of San Diego. The elevator had one glass wall overlooking San Diego Bay, its waters bejeweled by sunlight. Stanley still loved the view and watched the man next to him. He tended to distrust anyone who didn't pause to notice beauty.

“Including you?” The man turned to the window, his eyes drawing in the scenic waterscape.

Stanley laughed and put a hand on Ben Joiners's shoulder. The man was wide and tall and waddled more than walked. His body was out of shape, but he was the intellectual equal of anyone Stanley had ever met, and Stanley moved among the intellectual elite of the business world—people who used their brains to make money by the truckload.

“There's more to my work than taxes, Ben. Businesses like yours need everything from investment advice to legal counsel. OPM has more than just accountants. We have attorneys and investment brokers. We do more than count your money—we help you make it.”

“You sound like a television ad.”

“I suppose I do. I love my work. I tend to get carried away. But that's attracted a lot of people to our firm. That and confidentiality. We never discuss your business with any of our other clients.”

“Even if they pay more than I do?”

“It's a matter of principle, not money, Ben. A couple of times I've threatened to break ties with customers who have tried to use me or my firm for what amounts to industrial espionage. No one has ever pressed the issue. They need the same commitment to secrecy as you.” He pressed the button for the first floor.

“But you do work for other people in industrial real-estate development.”

Stanley nodded as the elevator began its descent. It was an executive car available only to certain people in his firm. “Yes. We have six of your competitors on our books.”

“Which competitors?”

“I won't tell you that, Ben. That's my point. I don't talk to them about you, and I won't talk to you about them. That's the deal.”

Ben narrowed his eyes. “There are other high-end accounting firms, you know.”

Stanley nodded. “There are. I can have my executive assistant send you their contact info if you'd like.”

This time Ben laughed. “Just testing you, Stanley.”

“I know. I'll have contracts drawn and sent to you for review by day's end. Then—”

The elevator lurched and slowed.

“Wha…what's happening?” Ben placed a hand on the side of the cab to steady himself.

The elevator's emergency lights came on, dim in the bright of the day.

“I…I don't know. The elevator stopped moving.”

“I figured that part out.” Ben looked at the floor-indicator lights over the door. “Does this happen often?”

“No. Well, once before. In 2011, a power company employee working on the grid that feeds the city made a mistake and pulled the plug on San Diego. Lasted for better than a day.”

“Anyone get stuck in elevators?” A bead of sweat appeared on Ben's forehead.

“Yes. It even happened here. No worries, though. This is a modern building, which means—”

The elevator lurched again and began a slow descent.

Ben pulled a handkerchief from his suit coat and dabbed at his brow. “That didn't take long. Power must be back on.”

Stanley moved closer to the glass wall of the cab and looked down. “I don't think so. Traffic lights are still out.”

“Then…?”

“Our elevators have emergency power. All the elevators in the building will be moving to the first floor. The power will probably be back on soon.”