Digital Winter (9 page)

Rosa stood at the window facing the Glorietta Cove and gazed at the blue ribbon of the San Diego–Coronado Bridge. Since 1969 it had been one of the gems of San Diego. At night it appeared bejeweled, magical, with blue light that painted the tall concrete columns that held it 200 feet above the calm waters of the bay. A Navy ship moved beneath the span on its way to open ocean.

A thirty-four-inch-high concrete side rail allowed motorists an unobstructed view of the bay. It also made it easy for those weary of life to slip over the edge. Hundreds had done so. From the tenth floor, Rosa could usually see what few could: cars moving across the five-lane road. At night, the red taillights made an image begging to be photographed.

But today, the cars weren't running as normal. Traffic had come to a standstill. Cars sat on the two-mile span. Getting home tonight was going to be difficult. Her husband was on a long haul, guiding his truck through the Southern states for a delivery in Atlanta. He wouldn't be home for days. Maybe the Eltons would let her stay over if things didn't get back to normal soon.

Donny continued his bizarre behavior. He zipped his wheelchair into his room, looked at his computer monitors, and then zipped back into the living room, stopping a few inches from the large windows. Clap. Giggle. Repeat—again and again.

At least he was happy.

Cody Broadway fought tears. Tears were for kids, and he was ten. More than once his mother had told him he was now the man of the house. He took that seriously although he didn't fully understand what the words meant.

More people came into the waiting room. Some were crying. Others were hurt. Outside he could see ambulance after ambulance drive by the window and stop at the rear doors. His mother had passed through those doors while a nurse examined him briefly and then led him to the waiting room. She wasn't as friendly as Alan.

Cody took another bite of a Snickers and then a sip of orange soda. He didn't feel well. For a time, he thought the mix of candy and soda might be upsetting his stomach, but then realized it was something worse—fear.

The tears began to rise again, but he pushed them back. Crying would do no good. Nobody in the full room knew him. He doubted any cared. They had their own problems.

He wished his dad were still alive.

When President Barlow strode into the White House sit room on the ground floor, everyone stood. The Woodshed was a complex of rooms covering 5000 square feet and included offices for National Security Council watch officers and a president's briefing room, a smaller version of the main conference. Renovations began in 2007 and were completed in 2009, but they had begun again, utilizing the latest in communications. Keeping up with technology was an unending task.

“Be seated,” the president said as he took a seat at the head of the long wooden table surrounded by thirteen padded black chairs. Most of them were filled.

The south wall featured a large monitor to facilitate videoconferencing with other heads of state. The sit room was manned every minute of every day by watch teams. More than thirty personnel kept things flowing smoothly.

Contrary to what most believed, the room was used often and not just for emergencies. This was especially true during Nathan Barlow's administration. He loved to pull information from around the world and discuss it face-to-face with his advisors.

The long, dark, wood conference table dominated the tunnellike room. The walls had once been covered in mahogany, but now WhisperWall treatments had replaced the wood. Several smaller monitors lined the east and west walls.

“First question: Is this a terrorist attack?” Barlow leaned back in his chair as if he asked the question every day. He didn't, but he did think about such things frequently. Such was the life of the commander in chief. He looked at the secretary of Homeland Security.

Secretary Monica McKie pressed her lips. “Mr. President, I've received reports from around the country, and there is no indication of a physical attack. No bombs in substations or that sort of thing, but something is afoot.”

She started to say something else when Barlow snapped his head around to Leon Sampson, a small man who looked like someone who was picked on in school. That was an illusion. Only five feet eight, he proved himself tough through a long and decorated career in the Army. He retired from the military with three stars on his uniform. Barlow insisted on calling him by rank. “General?”

“CIA has nothing to indicate this is a terrorist attack. By that I mean we have nothing new. We are all aware of cyber infiltration into power systems of several countries.”

Barlow turned back to McKie. “What do you think is afoot?”

“Leon has it on the money. I suspect a cyber attack, but it's too soon to say with certainty. What we do know is that there is no mechanical problem. I've also checked with NASA and NOAA, and no coronal mass ejections are reported.”

“Could a CME be responsible for outages on both sides of the country?” Barlow leaned into the desk.

“If it was big enough, yes.” McKie didn't flinch under Barlow's gaze. She never flinched. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

“But you don't believe that's the case now.”

McKie shook her head. “No, sir. A CME would impact the world's satellites, and we have no indications of that. More to the point, NASA's Solar Dynamics Observatory satellites are orbiting the sun. We know every burp the star makes, and nothing has been noted.”

The president looked at his hands as if they held the answers to his questions. “So if you're right, some actor has planted programs in our power grid just like before—or did we fail to clean out the Chinese viruses?”

McKie took the question. “Our cyber experts are certain that the previous incursion was adequately dealt with. That was under a different administration, but they did a good job dealing with it. There are thousands of attempts every week to compromise sensitive computers. So far, we at Homeland and USCYBERCOM have kept domestic and military networks clean. Still, we have lost material. Everyone has lost data.”

The large panel monitor on the south wall came to life. “General Holt,” the president said. “Glad you could join us.” A solid-looking man stood next to the general.

“Thank you, sir. Sorry to be late, but I wanted to have the latest report for you.” He glanced at the man by his side. “For those who might not know, this is Colonel Jeremy Matisse. He oversees the day-to-day at USCYBERCOM.”

Barlow leaned on the end of the table. “We've already decided that the blackouts on the East Coast and West Coast are not caused by something natural. We're thinking a cyber attack of some kind. Do you concur?”

“I think it is wise to assume so, at least for now. Early diagnostics haven't found anything in the military networks. If a hostile is involved, the perpetuator appears to have targeted civilian sites.”

“That's bad enough, isn't it?” Barlow asked.

“Yes, sir. Military bases can run on backup power for some time, but all American bases depend on local power.”

A watch officer stepped into the room and handed a note to Frank Grundy, who read it, folded the paper, and set it on the table. “The grid is coming back online. DC will be one of the first areas to get power. It looks like this has been a tempest in a teapot.”

There were smiles around the table.

“Good to hear, Frank. Okay then, so we'll be back to normal soon. Is that right?”

“It appears so, Mr. President.” Frank looked relieved.

Barlow stood. “Thanks for all the good work, folks. Someone get me answers when they become available. Frank, make sure Des is up to speed and has something good to say to the press.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barlow exited the room. As he did, the lights in DC came back on.

T
ell me the truth, General. Was all this done for my benefit?”

Jeremy exchanged a glance with Holt. The man's expression didn't change, but something in the commander's eyes said he couldn't believe the insufferable arrogance of the Senator.

“As I said earlier, Senator, this was not arranged for you. If you'll recall, you arrived early.” Holt's voice remained calm and carried no irritation. Jeremy had no idea how the man could do that.

“But you knew I was coming. You could have had things in place and then executed your plan.” They walked from the situation room back to the general's office. Holt took a seat behind his desk as the senator grabbed one of the two guest chairs. Jeremy decided to remain on his feet.

“Senator, you can't believe that I or anyone in the service would cause millions of people to go without power. No doubt there has been loss of life. Second, if I were to arrange a dog-and-pony show for you, it would be one that made us look like heroes. All we did was kick in a few protocols.”

“You know I'm just giving you a bad time, don't you General?”

“No, Senator, I don't.” He leaned back in his chair and looked a year older than he did this morning.

Jeremy decided to run interference for his immediate superior. “Imagine if things had not resolved themselves so quickly, Senator. I can imagine the computer jockies over at Homeland are rejoicing.”

“Do you exchange information? With DHS, I mean.” In Jeremy's opinion, this was O'Tool's first reasonable question.

Jeremy looked at Holt, who motioned for him to carry on. Holt was brilliant, determined, and a genius at organization. One thing he wasn't was patient. “Yes, Senator, we do. We even drill together. One thing 9/11 taught this country was that the first victim of an attack is communication. Today, everyone who needs to be connected, is connected.”

“That's the way it should be.” O'Tool steepled his fingers. “I look forward to continuing the tour—”

The phone on Holt's desk rang, and the general snapped it up. He listened and then nodded as if the caller could see him. “Good.” He set the phone back in the cradle. “Power is back on in our portion of Delaware.”

The news was good.

Backup generators had kept the power going in Harris Memorial Hospital, but the lighting remained muted. Roni was well into her third surgery when things brightened.

“That's an improvement.” Surgical nurse Loren Grimm looked up from her tray of instruments just long enough to make the comment. “My eyes are killing me.”