Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

COUNTDOWN TO ZERO HOUR 14 HOURS AND 52 MINUTES

PRESIDENT DAWSON NEEDED to project strength to three hundred million Americans when, in truth, he was terrified.

“My fellow Americans, good evening.”

He’d gotten used to delivering speeches before large crowds in grand rooms with ornate decor. Now the room was empty but for his chief of staff and an aide. The room was small—one camera, no teleprompter. The presidential seal hung on the wall behind him, but beyond that, there was nothing but the chair he sat in; not even a desk to lean forward on. There were no reporters to ask follow-up questions; he had no way to gauge reactions. It was a moment stripped down to its very essence: One man talking to a nation.

“Today, the unthinkable happened,” he began. “We lost two hundred and ninety-five souls in a tragic plane crash, and my heart goes out to their families and friends who know all too well what beauty and joy was taken from this world in their passing. By now, you’ve likely seen the videos and messages circulating online and in the media from some who were on the flight. It’s hard to watch. I cannot imagine the fear and pain those aboard must have felt. I am sorry their loved ones have had to see it. But it was ultimately a gift to us all and I am grateful to them. By bearing witness, they showed us exactly what happened on that plane and why it went down, removing all speculation and second-guessing.”

President Dawson paused.

“Flight Two-Three-Five’s captain suffered a medical emergency at thirty-five thousand feet and became incapacitated immediately. Control of the aircraft was lost at that time. The rest of the crew was not able to regain control. As a result, the plane crashed. It is that simple, that tragic. That is what happened.”

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, interlocking his fingers.

“This was not an act of terrorism. Firsthand accounts we’ve all seen from those on the flight confirm this, as does all intelligence from the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, Homeland Security, and initial reporting from the NTSB. This was not an attack on our nation. This was an isolated event. This was an accident.

“We did not know that in the beginning. At that time, we knew nothing. And with what little we did know, I made the decision to ground all commercial aircraft nationwide. I do not regret it, even if in hindsight it might seem extreme. I do not and will never take any of your lives for granted. But considering what we do now know, I am lifting the nationwide ground stop on all air traffic. It is safe to fly.”

He paused again, letting that sink in.

“The tragedy of the crash should be enough pain and trauma for a nation for one day,” he continued, sitting upright, placing the palms of his hands on his knees. “But unfortunately, my fellow Americans, we are being tested further.

“Coastal Airways Flight Two-Thirty-Five crashed about fifty miles north of Minneapolis, Minnesota, in the small town of Waketa. The debris field and damage done to that community is extensive—but the brunt of the plane’s impact was delivered to the Clover Hill nuclear power plant. Let me be clear: There has not been a reactor breach. I repeat, none of the reactors are open. The air quality in the surrounding areas is currently within EPA standards. But significant damage to the facilities has occurred, and on-site at Clover Hill, there is atmospheric radioactivity that exceeds EPA standards.

“In order to maintain control of the situation, the staff at Clover Hill are taking important preemptive steps. Listen closely. In the next twenty minutes”—Dawson pulled up his sleeve and checked his watch—“that’s… approximately two p.m. eastern, one p.m. central, eleven a.m. Pacific—Clover Hill will be venting built-up hydrogen gas from one of its auxiliary buildings. This is a necessary preventive step to ensure continued safe plant operation. But as a result, the level of atmospheric radioactivity for Waketa will exceed EPA standards. Earlier, Governor Koerner declared a state of emergency for Minnesota. I am now declaring a national state of emergency and am issuing a mandatory evacuation order for all citizens of Waketa and anyone within a twenty-mile radius of the plant.

“As you are planning your route, be advised,” he continued, taking a note from his pocket, “a seventeen-car pileup has closed I-35 at Appamatok to all traffic in both directions. Avoid this area—you will get stuck in traffic. Instead, to go east, take Bugle Road to Hubbard into Big Falls. To go west, Medena Line Road to State Route Nine into Maple Grove.”

Dawson folded the note. “Now, let me be clear,” he continued. “If you are outside of the evacuation zone, there is no need to leave. Please stay where you are and do not clog the roads. Out of an abundance of caution, shelter in place with your windows closed. But please keep the roads clear so those in the evacuation zone can get out.”

His mind flashed to the snapshot details of this town that had been on the monitors in the bunker Situation Room. Small town, Main Street people. Their whole lives turned upside down. They didn’t ask for this. This was so unfair.

“If you are inside the twenty-mile radius, please, do not panic. Simply gather your loved ones and evacuate. This is mandatory. This is for your own safety. And your safety will remain paramount for all of us today. We are with you. You are not alone.”

The people of Waketa were on their own.

A small group of neighbors gathered in the street comparing notes, floating theories, wondering what would come next. They were in a blackout. The only thing everyone knew for sure was that there had been a loud boom and everything shook, then the power went out, and then, a little bit later, the sirens came on. Any other details were sketchy.

There were rumors about a plane crash; some said they’d seen the plane. And supposedly there was a huge pileup on I-35, and something was wrong at the plant. But those bits were all unconfirmed hearsay, blanks filled in by word of mouth.

Because in reality, no one knew what had happened. No one knew they were in imminent danger. And no one knew they were supposed to evacuate.

“Where’s Rand?” asked Rand’s next-door neighbor.

Rand’s wife, with their ten-month-old on her hip, pointed west. “Took the truck to see if anyone needed help. He swears what he heard was a jet engine.”

“But that big? That’d be a big plane.”

“Well, did he find anyone? Was it a plane?” asked another neighbor.

Rand’s wife shrugged. “You got a phone that works? He hasn’t come back, so…” She shrugged again.

“Ginny, I found it!”

Everyone turned. Across the street, LeRoy came down his front-porch steps, leafing through the wall calendar Clover Hill sent out each January to every Waketa household. In the back of the calendar were several pages of important information on what to do in the event of a plant accident.

“Well, what’s it say?” Ginny asked her husband.

“Says… it says the PNS, prompt notification system, should tell us—”

“That’s that text thing they send out,” said Rand’s wife. “We can’t get texts.”

“It says here, ‘If you hear the sirens, it could only be a test. The first Wednesday of every month’… no, that’s not it,” LeRoy muttered, skimming for anything that would be actually useful.

“Well, if we do have to evacuate,” Ginny said, “our car’s low on gas.”

Rand’s wife shifted the baby to her other hip. “Oh, and there’s no power—”

“Mm-hmm,” Ginny said, nodding. “No power, no pumps. We wouldn’t make it halfway to Big Falls.”

“Okay. Okay, here,” LeRoy said, holding the calendar up. “Says ‘Hearing a siren does not mean you should evacuate. It means turn on your television and listen for instructions.’”

“But we don’t have TV. Here, give me that.”

Ginny took the calendar from her husband, and the neighbors read it over her shoulder, trying to make sense of what to do. Suddenly, up the street, Rand’s truck came flying around the corner, practically on two wheels. They watched him tear up the street and come to a screeching stop in the middle of the road; a cloud of dust followed a second later.

“What happened?” his wife asked, frightened by the expression on Rand’s face as he rolled down the window, waving for everyone to come close. He put his finger across his lips for them to keep quiet and turned up the volume, and a deep, calm voice with a slow, methodical drawl came out of the truck’s CB radio.

“… medications. Government-issued IDs. Anything your family may need and can’t get elsewhere. Turn off all lights, appliances, and water. As you leave, tie a white towel or cloth on your front door. Emergency workers will see this and know everyone in your house has left. The order is for twenty miles in all directions…”

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, everyone listened to the instructions Marion laid out. Instructions that confirmed their worst fears. The neighbors immediately scattered to their homes to get ready to evacuate, but just as they were jogging up front porches and over front yards, they heard a noise and stopped.

Looking up, they saw three military helicopters headed their way. All three dangled massive payloads. All three were moving fast.

“C’mon. We gotta go,” Rand said, ushering his wife and baby inside. “You know that help ain’t for us.”

The control room at Clover Hill was abuzz with activity, and a constant low murmur filled the room as everyone prepared for venting. Engineers and operators called out meter and gauge readings, checking and double-checking the figures as they moved from panel to panel with purpose. Most ignored the communications staffer who ran in with a sat phone.

Breathless, the comms guy said, “Ethan, the batteries sent from Red Top are here.”

“Great,” Ethan replied, too busy to look up from his calculations.

The comms guy held out the phone. “They want to talk to you. They want to know where to put them.”

“Put them—what? Where are they now?”

“They’re airlifting them in. By helicopter. There’s three.”

“There’s three helicopters with batteries currently over Clover Hill?” The comms guy nodded. Ethan shrugged. “Okay. Well, just have them put them on the grounds somewhere out of the way. We don’t need them now and I can’t deal with it.”

Everybody kept working and the comms guy was almost out the door when Joss and Ethan both suddenly looked up, clearly thinking the same thing.

“Wait!” they yelled in unison.

The comms guy turned.

“Get me on a radio with one of their pilots,” said Ethan.