Powerless by Tim Washburn

the rear doors open.

C HAPTER 15
    The White House Situation Room
    Wednesday, September 29, 10:56 A.M .
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    P resident Harris is doing his best to block out the ongoing conversations while his mind spins through numerous scenarios—none of them good. Cut off power to millions of people on a hunch? Force all planes to ground, stranding thousands of people hundreds of miles from their destination? Announce to the nation that our modern life is about to be thrust back to the Dark Ages?
    The President is stirred from his thoughts when several loud gasps replace the chatter. He glances up to see several hands pointed toward one of the television screens tucked into the front corner of the room. “What is it?” President Harris stands and works his way around the table toward the television. A large banner is superimposed on the bottom of the screen: “Fiery Crash in Seattle.” “Oh my God,” he mutters. “We need sound,” he shouts to the room.
    A switch, somewhere deep in the recesses of the Situation Room, is thrown and the voice of the CNN reporter floods the room. “Authorities say all radio communications were lost as one aircraft was landing and the other was taxiing onto the runway for takeoff. Both jets collided and instantly broke into flames. No word yet on which airlines or what flights or even the type of aircraft involved. Also, there has been no official word on the number of casualties, but I would think they would be numerous. This is Ron Bloom reporting live in Seattle. Now back to . . .”
    The sound fades, leaving the conference room quiet as a tomb. President Harris paces the length of the room. He stops near the rear and pauses before turning to face his advisors. “I want all flights grounded this minute. I also want all power grids switched off within the next thirty minutes. Stop all trains, whether they are powered by the electrical grid or not. If we can’t communicate with them we’ll have a dozen more disasters on our hands. Have those in charge begin shutting down all nuclear facilities. Admiral Hickerson, activate the National Guard in every state. I don’t care how much heat we take over this decision. We have to do what’s best for the country. I want updates every thirty minutes. My staff will draft a statement and I will address the nation as soon as possible.”
    The President exits the Situation Room and everyone starts to talk at once. Scott Alexander is at the President’s elbow as they walk toward the staircase leading to the first floor. “Mr. President . . . should we be concerned about the panic your address to the nation could cause?”
    The President ignores the question as they make their way up the stairs and through the maze of hallways that make up the West Wing.
    In the Oval Office the President collapses into the chair behind his desk. Alexander takes a seat in one of the flanking chairs. President Harris swivels to look at the sun streaming through the windows. It’s a beautiful fall day in the nation’s capital.
    The President rakes his hands through his hair and speaks without turning to face his old friend. “What the hell are we supposed to do, Scott?”
    â€œWe’re doing everything that can possibly be done, sir.” Alexander pauses as he tries to frame the words for his next statement. “We should think about moving you to the bunker.”
    The President swivels around in his chair. “I will do no such thing, Scott. And I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about it.”
    â€œYes, sir . . . but, Paul, we’ve been friends for most of our adult lives and I know how stubborn you can be. At the very minimum, we should start preparations for a move in that direction in the coming days.”
    President Harris gives Alexander a withering look. “We need to work on what I’m going to tell the nation, Scott. That’s our focus right now. How the