Digital Winter (8 page)

“Could be worse,” Court said.

“Really? How?”

“You should see ER. At least it's quiet in here.”

“Are you sure you're not hurt?” The man in a blue lab coat leaned over Cody.

“I'm okay. Where's my mother?”

“She's behind those doors.” The man pointed to a pair of white doors on the far wall. Cody had watched people being taken back there. None ever came out. “That's where the ER doctors work. Do you know what ER means?”

Cody shook his head.

“Well, it means ‘emergency room.' The doctors here are trained to help people like your mother.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I'm a triage nurse.”

Cody didn't know what
triage
meant, and he didn't know men could be nurses.

“Where is your father? Is he at work?”

“He's dead.”

The man-nurse looked down and then made eye contact again. “I'm sorry. Did he die in the accident?”

“No. He was a policeman and a bad guy shot him. That's when I was eight.”

“How old are you now?”

“Ten. My birthday was last month.”

“Happy birthday. My name is Alan. What's yours?”

“Cody Broadway.”

“Okay, Cody. Do you have any other family in town?”

“No. It's just me and my mom.”

“I see. I have to get back to helping these other people, Cody, so you stay right here. If you need anything, you go to that window over there.” He pointed at a window near the ER doors he indicated earlier. A woman in a uniform sat behind the glass. “You tell her you want to see Nurse Alan. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“One other thing, Cody. As you can see, there are a lot of people here. So it might be a while before I can check on you again. You can be brave, right?”

Cody nodded.

“Are you hungry?” He pulled several one-dollar bills from his wallet. “There are vending machines down the hall. You can get a soda and some chips.” He held out the bills, and Cody took them. He was hungry, and a soda sounded wonderful.

The man walked away, and Cody wondered about the train wreck. He hadn't been on a train. He was in the car with his mother when a pickup ran into their car.

It was a bad day.

W
hen the lights went out, President Nathan Barlow was having an early lunch with his wife, Katey, something he tried to do at least three times a week. During the first two years of his administration, he had averaged one and a half times a week. Fifty-percent wasn't bad for a man whose schedule was timed to the minute and whose average day included at least one crisis. When push came to shove, personal time always took a backseat to state business. Especially these days. Six years of recession teetering on depression had created issues few presidents had faced.

The lights in the residence wing of the White House dimmed, brightened, and then failed. In seconds, the emergency power came on—and the Secret Service locked down the White House.

Barlow had been tempted to approach one of the windows of the second floor and see the effects of the power outage. The family dining room overlooked the north lawn and Pennsylvania Avenue, but he knew the drill. Although the windows were bulletproof, he was to stay away. “No need to broadcast which room you're in.” The Secret Service was paranoid about paranoids and just about everyone else.

He didn't have to get up to know what was happening around the building. They went on lockdown at least once a month because of potential threats. West Wing staff were moved to offices without windows, all doors into the building were locked, and the Marine guards who stood around the perimeter became more than sharp-looking ornaments. Agents dressed in black uniforms and looking more like special ops than Secret Service walked the roof, automatic rifles in hand.

Five minutes later, the phone in the dining room chimed. Barlow answered, listened, and then hung up. He returned to the table and sipped his coffee. He admitted to being addicted to caffeine and had no intention to give it up.

“End of the world?” Katey sipped her tea. She was the most unflappable person Barlow knew.

“Nah, just a power outage in the city. Probably a squirrel in some relay station. That's one mistake the critter will never make again.”

“Don't be cruel, Nathan. Squirrels are cute.”

“I'm not being cruel. Besides, he might have been a terrorist squirrel. His demise was quick. Okay, I don't know that it was a squirrel. Just an outage. No doubt the power will be back on soon. I'm just glad I don't have to commute to work.”

The phone rang again. Again the president listened and thanked the caller.

“Don't tell me—the squirrel was a Republican.”

Barlow sat at the table again but didn't respond.

“Nathan?”

“What?”

“You okay?”

He smiled. “Sure. I'm fine.”

“You look concerned.”

He rubbed his chin. “That was Frank. The problem is a little more widespread.”

“A little more?” Katey set her glass down and spooned some vegetable soup into her mouth. After two years of living with the head of the world's most powerful nation, she had grown used to the constant intrusion of problems. Still, the chief of staff was not prone to exaggeration. “More than a few blocks? The whole city?”

“Much of the East Coast.”

Katey set the spoon down.

By the time Barlow reached the Oval Office, Frank Grundy had a fresh report for him. The chief of staff was a tall, attractive man with dark hair and a square jaw who once admitted that he longed to be president. He served two terms in congress before realizing that he didn't have the political drive to seek the nation's highest position, but he did have the smarts to help someone else get there. He was most effective and most comfortable behind the scenes.

They exchanged greetings and got down to business. “We don't have details yet, but DHS is getting reports from the field that the power grid is in serious trouble.”

“Terrorism?”

“We can't prove it, but that's my suspicion. This isn't confined to one segment of the grid. It's hopscotching around the country.”

“How long before the utility companies have things back up and running?”

“Unknown, Mr. President. That would depend on the actual cause. Secretary McKie asked to see you. I've bumped the afternoon meetings. Traffic is at a standstill, so most people were happy to reschedule.”

“She didn't want to do this on the phone? If the traffic is as bad as you suggest, Monica is going to have a tough time getting here.”

“She wants to do this in person. Police will do what they can to get her here. There's one more thing—she thinks we need to set up a videoconference in the sit room.”

“With whom?”

“Several people, including USCYBERCOM.”

Barlow thought for a moment. “She knows something.”

“Yeah, that's my take.”

“Let me know when she's here.”

Stanley listened to the radio in his Audi Q8. The car was as comfortable as his living room, and the stereo system would be the envy of any audiophile. Despite the eight grand he had spent to upgrade the audio, the sound was scratchy and muddled. The concrete and steel in the basement parking and the twenty-five story building above him didn't help, but he knew the audio shouldn't be that bad. He attributed it to radio stations being on backup power.

He marveled that technology was unwilling to yield to setbacks. A series of national disasters over the decades had pushed the country to make sure that communications continued. The Cold War had been a pretty good motivator too.

Stanley shifted from the San Diego news station to one in Los Angeles. The news was the same: Power was out in San Diego, Los Angeles, and points in between. The lights went out in central California shortly after power was lost here. The radio announcer mentioned how odd that was. In 2011, power loss was felt as far north as Orange County but no more—at least in California. Other states were affected, but he knew more about what his own state experienced than he did about the others.

Stanley switched back to the San Diego announcer just in time to hear him pass on some messages from the mayor's office.

The last outage in San Diego lasted eleven hours in some areas.

Traffic was currently jammed on all major freeways and streets. Estimated time to travel from center city to North County was four hours.

People were asked not to drive if they had less than a quarter of a tank of gas. Gas stations were shut down and unable to pump fuel. Stanley assumed this bit of advice was meant to keep cars from running out of gas while idling on I-5.

The traffic lights at some major intersections had battery backup and would most likely continue working through the night if need be.

San Onofre nuclear power plant had gone off-line as a security precaution.

When power came back online, it would do so in stages. The announcer explained that it wasn't like throwing a switch. It had to be done in stages or the sudden flow of power would activate other safety protocols.

Raw sewage was beginning to spill into San Diego Bay and could begin to pour into the streets. In 2011, more than two million gallons of sewage polluted the coast.

The newsman said something else that caught Stanley's attention. “The blackout covers all of San Diego County and east to New Mexico…”

He had almost missed it. The man had to be wrong. Didn't Royce say the power was still on in the condo? Rosa had said so. That couldn't be right. He tried to remember if the ten buildings that made up the condo complex had emergency power. They didn't in 2011, and he had received no word of an update to the buildings that could explain why his lights were on.

It didn't make sense. Royce must have misunderstood.