Powerless by Tim Washburn Page A

hell do I tell the people that life as they know it is going to disappear and the strongest nation on earth can’t do a damn thing about it?”

C HAPTER 16
    TransJet Flight 62, south of Newfoundland
    Wednesday, September 29, 10:59 A.M .
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    T ransJet Flight 62 is off the coast of southern Newfoundland destined for Paris after departing from Dallas. The Boeing 747-700 is on autopilot, cruising at 33,000 feet at a speed of 460 knots. Captain Steve Henderson has flown this route enough times to do it with his eyes closed. He turns to his copilot, and current lover, Cheryl Wilson. He removes his headset and motions for her to do the same.
    â€œHow about a romantic dinner in Paris?”
    Cheryl rolls her eyes. “How many romantic dinners have we had in Paris? I’m more interested in a nice, private room-service dinner.”
    He frowns.
    â€œIn the nude?” she says.
    He smiles. “I think I like that idea better.”
    Both in their midforties, they’ve been paired up in the cockpit for the last eight months. Each of them is recently divorced, he for the first time and she for the second. Both ex-spouses had voiced the same complaint—too much time away from home.
    Without warning, an intense light flashes through the cockpit, momentarily blinding them. At the exact moment of the flash, the autopilot disengages and the aircraft decelerates. They both quickly clap on their headsets.
    â€œWhat the hell was that?” the captain says as he wrestles with the controls, trying to maintain airspeed and altitude.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    He reaches over to toggle a series of switches. “Autopilot will not reengage.”
    Both scan the instruments searching for any indications of damage to the critical components of the plane. Cheryl toggles the radio button on the wheel to talk with Steve but finds dead air. Frustrated, she yanks off her headset. “What’s wrong with the radio?”
    He pulls his headset off. “I don’t know, but the autopilot won’t reset. The satellites can’t seem to get a fix on our position.”
    â€œCould’ve been a solar flare. There’s supposed to be increased solar activity, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”
    â€œMe, either. Think it had some effect on satellite tracking and communications?”
    â€œIt may have. Try the radio again.”
    He clamps the headset on and punches the radio button on the wheel. “Gander Center, TransJet Flight 62.”
    Static.
    â€œGander Center . . . TransJet Flight 62. Please acknowledge.”
    Gander Center is Newfoundland’s air traffic control for all transcontinental flights flying the busy air corridor.
    Steve pulls the mike away from his lips. “Cheryl, check to see if you have a cell signal.”
    â€œIn the middle of the ocean?”
    â€œJust check. We need some way to communicate.”
    She pulls her phone from the side pocket and lights the screen. “Nothing.”
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” Steve stabs at the button on the radio, scanning through all available frequencies.
    â€œAnything?”
    Steve shakes his head and looks at his copilot. “We’re screwed. We’re flying blind in one of the busiest flight corridors in the world.”

C HAPTER 17
    NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center
    Wednesday, September 29, 11:08 A.M .
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    S am turns his chair to the window and stares at the sun-painted peaks of the Rocky Mountains. White patches from an early season snowfall glint in the midmorning sun.
    Without turning in Kaylee’s direction he says, “Where’s your family?”
    â€œNew York.”
    â€œManhattan?”
    â€œYeah. And my brother’s at Stanford.”
    â€œDo you have any relatives living outside the city?” Sam’s voice has taken on a soft tone.
    â€œI have an aunt and uncle in Wisconsin. My mother’s sister.”
    â€œYou should probably call your