“But it is a certainty?”
“This is happening. We’re going dark.”
“We know this, and no one will take their power system off the grid?”
“You try selling a voluntary fourteen-day blackout to your state’s population on just a couple hours’ notice. Listen, I have people here that are—”
Thom barreled over her. “OK, so this happens. What does the government do then?”
She ground her teeth, not bothering to hide her irritation now. But still, she stayed on the line, continuing to play the possible-donor game by a set of rules that were about to not matter anymore.
“FEMA will put the National Response Framework into action. In theory it establishes a complete and effective hierarchy for disaster response. Incident Command System reports to Incident Commander, who reports to DoD, who reports to the executive branch. But that won’t work this time.”
“Why not?”
“They will have no telephones or internet. There will be no centralized leadership. It will be impossible.”
Thom had one remaining question, and it was the most frightening of all. In every scenario he’d studied, the red line was always the same, the clear boundary that would separate the haves from the have-nots, the living from the dead.
“What about water?”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. First, it’ll be gasoline, though. When the grid shuts down, generators everywhere will switch on, including water-pumping systems. But the generators will burn through petroleum supplies fast. There are strategic reserves, of course, but those too will run out, as oil and gas pipelines will be among the most severely damaged structures in the initial EMP.”
“Why pipelines?”
“Long, conductive metal tubes carrying fuel? Why do you think?”
“They’ll explode?”
“If they’re corroded, yes. And anything with cracks in its welding will split, dumping its fuel into the ground. Once the strategic oil reserves are drained, municipal water pumps will cease to function. Freshwater will become like liquid gold.”
“How many dead?” he asked.
“Depends how long it lasts and if they try to run the water pumps twenty-four-seven, which would be suicidal. If they do, think millions dead, just in the U.S.”
“What about globally?”
“I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
“Pretend you have to.”
“No, Thom. I’m not a ghoul. I have to go.”
Without another word, she ended the call.
Thom was left looking at his own face on the screen, a crystal-clear hi-def image that showed the fear in his eyes in crisp 4K detail. He glanced away, his eyes falling on the rearview mirror, where Brady was staring at him again.
Brady had worked for Thom for seven years, and his job description was best described as facilitator. Brady made sure Thom got where he needed to be when he needed to be there, he expedited problems along the path to solution, and he handled the sorts of things that others could or would not. Two decades as a cop with the SFPD gave him access, confidence, and an ability to see through situations in about thirty seconds, to spot liars and dangers that most people took days, weeks, or never to suss out. Brady greased wheels, opened doors, ran interference, and generally made easy the life Thom wanted to live.
What Brady did not do was ask questions. Though he had no intention of breaking his impassive streak today, the things he’d just heard in the back seat of the Suburban pushed him about as close to that line as he’d ever been. The world, it seemed, was about to end, and his boss, his billionaire boss who had access to anyone and everything, was getting the hell out of there.
Brady wondered what Thom thought would become of the loyal employees he was leaving behind. But Brady did not ask. His job was to handle security, and Thom was secure. That was what mattered.
Thom, catching Brady’s eyes in the mirror, started to speak but couldn’t find his voice at first. He tried again. “Traffic looks good.”
Brady looked away. “Yes, sir. Took the spur at Loma Linda and got around a bunch of it.”
“ETA?”
Brady glanced down at the GPS on his dashboard-mounted phone. “Twelve minutes, Mr. Banning.”
Thom nodded and dialed up another call. Lisa, his assistant, answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?” she asked, skipping hello.
“Ten minutes out.” Thom glanced up at the rearview, where Brady’s eyes were seemingly glued to him now, and he winked. “Incentive, Brady.”