Pipeline (3 page)

The system was now down.

Studley jumped out of his chair and crossed the length of the executive suite in just a few long strides. He made it to the radio console.

Just as he got there, all lights in the prison disappeared. The prison’s closed-circuit television monitors then emitted an initial low whine as they darkened to a tiny central white spot.

“What the fuck is going on?” Studley shouted as he grabbed the backup battery-charged walkie-talkies. “This is GP Four. We’ve got a serious problem. I’ve lost all energy in the complex.”

Studley’s heart started racing when he heard the chaotic jumbled response. Six or seven radios talked at once. Not only from his own hallway officers; Studley recognized voices from corrections officers posted at different locations in the prison’s sprawling acreage.

“No lights…towers.”

“Monitors down in GP Two.”

“Unable to sound alarm.”

“Telephones nonfunctional.”

Pete Studley and Robby Henderson didn’t see it coming. But they heard it.

The sounds were unmistakable. First they heard the quick, trampling cadence of large numbers of running footsteps. The sound was like that of the pulsating panic that would occur if someone yelled “Fire!” in a packed movie theater. The two officers could make
out the strange, high-pitched tremble of the metal railings installed along every inch of GP IV’s granite corridors. The reverberations were caused by the stampeding feet of out-of-control humanity.

Next came the gunshots. The
tap-tap
of pistol fire from different corners of the building seemed to accelerate to a frenzy before going suddenly silent. The popping sounds were unreal, almost playful. But there was no doubting the reality of the emotion-charged, throaty sounds of screaming men. The noise was overwhelming, the agonizing decibels ricocheting off the building’s bare cement walls. Outside the building, somewhere on the campus, automatic weapons were being discharged.

Pete Studley and Robby Henderson did not need to exchange a word. They knew where the noise came from; the crushing roar of oncoming humanity was a direct result of the malfunction of the prison’s electronic cell locks. The two men unholstered their .38-caliber Smith & Wesson sidearms and pointed each barrel to the door.

Neither stood a chance. They may well have killed four or five of the inmates pouring through the door, but they could not get the rest. Of all of the guards on duty that night in GP IV, only Tom Rivers survived by cowering in the oasis of the men’s-room stalls. The bodies of Pete Studley and Robby Henderson were found twenty-four hours later, beaten to a pulp.

All four eyes had been gouged out of their sockets by sharp-nailed human fingers.

WASHINGTON, D.C.
JUNE 16, 11:00 A.M.
THE WHITE HOUSE

President Eugene Laurence strode into the White House Cabinet Room at a brisk clip. His lanky, patrician good looks communicated
a constant aura of success. Gene Laurence was New England blue blood through and through. People guessed his origins by just one look at his preppy shirts, penny loafers, and the bifocals perched on his aquiline nose.

But unlike most of his eccentric Boston upper-class brethren, Gene Laurence had an easy manner. He was a rare breed, a break from generations of genetically selected disdain. Gene Laurence actually liked other people.

Laurence’s political communications machinery fanned the flames of his outgoing and friendly reputation. They habitually had him entering his next appointment late on the pretext that he was “unable to tear himself away” from ongoing conversations—Gene Laurence could talk to anybody, cabinet secretaries, policy wonks, a housewife, or a group of hospital nurses.

Laurence was a people guy. His political persona hovered above his administration’s reputation for toughness.

For all its bragging about constitutional checks and balances, America was a country with an imperial presidency. Very few world heads of state had concentrated within their office the arsenal of political, economic, and military power that the White House’s resident had.

And it showed. Wherever the president went, martial music played, flags were raised, audiences stood. Even inside the whirlwind pace of the West Wing, the president’s entrance into a room demanded that everyone—from senior cabinet secretaries and members of Congress to Supreme Court justices—immediately rise to their feet.

Not today, though. The minute he walked through the Cabinet Room doors, the president knew his day would only worsen.

This morning, the six men and two women presently in the Cabinet Room did not even notice the president’s arrival. They sat, clustered and spellbound, in front of a television tuned to CNN. Upon entering, President Gene Laurence said nothing. He was instantly transfixed by Anna Hardaway’s face. With no makeup and ragged
from exhaustion, the reporter stood in front of bedlam at Los Angeles International Airport.

There were people everywhere.

Her reporting was half fact, half emotion. As with CNN anchor Bernard Lewis’s award-winning 1991 transmission from Baghdad as the bombs rained down on the city, President Laurence had the immediate impression he was watching history in the making.

“We’re sliding into full-scale dread here in California,” reported Anna Hardaway, her voice a low monotone. “I’m speaking in the plural today because this reporter isn’t—can’t be—impervious to what is happening across the state. The blackouts, which began three and a half days ago in Los Angeles, have spread like wildfire. San Diego, Sacramento, Fresno, Long Beach, Santa Ana are now also without power. But I want to point out that CNN’s David Mallaby in San Francisco told me just a few hours ago that the lights are still on there.

“I’m standing in front of LAX, usually one of the nation’s busiest airports. All flights into and out of California have been canceled. Security, air traffic control, baggage belts are all out of order. The chaos you see behind me is repeated in homes and offices everywhere.

“Our modern lives are dominated by electricity. And people across California are finding out what it means to live without power. We can’t reach anybody here; families are unable to talk to each other, offices are incapable of making business decisions. Cell phones are on their last remaining charge and slowly petering out. The Internet is no longer available. Telephones work, but many homes have cordless telephones and most office telephones use electrically powered switchboards.

“And since we can’t reach other people, we’re without information. Car radios are still working, but that can’t last long as automobiles begin to run out of gas and lose battery power.”

CNN cut to anchor John Randsom at headquarters, in Atlanta. His lips quivered as he tried to formulate the right question. Like
most Americans, he felt he was watching his country melting before his very eyes. Any and all questions would sound banal. So he just asked her to continue.

“Please go on, Anna.”

“John, we Californians are prisoners in our state. Cars are unable to be filled with gas, banks are unable to dispense money, and grocery stores are unable to sell food because their cash registers are shut tight. Traffic is gridlocked, as automobiles have been abandoned on freeways because streetlights just off the interstates’ thousand exits don’t work. We’ve had a few, sporadic reports of food looting in supermarkets, but I can’t imagine that won’t become more widespread as families across this huge state start to panic.”

Anna Hardaway’s attention was suddenly diverted by somebody on her production team.

“Hold on, John,” she said into the camera. Hushed whispering could be heard from her microphone as Hardaway leaned halfway out of the camera frame. In a voice clearly not meant for the audience, CNN’s spectators heard her emit a plaintive “Oh my God.”

“John, I have CNN’s Katherine Wu on my cell phone, standing by in Sacramento. I don’t want to risk losing her, so I will just put my microphone near the phone’s speaker.”

Anna Hardaway fumbled as she unlatched her lapel mike and placed it on the cellular phone. The transmission was poor, but the voice could be made out.

“…reports of a massive problem at California’s huge maximum-security facility here in Sacramento. I’m unable to make it to the prison because police have all roads blocked. According to my sources, sudden electrical failure at the California correctional facility resulted in a terrifying malfunction of the jail’s locks. Rather than fastening the jail’s doors, the power outage instead caused the bolting mechanisms of the prisoners’ cells to release. The result has been a massive prison break. Anna, we’re talking about thousands of the most hardened criminal elements in the state.

“Reports are scarce and shocking. But from what I can tell, utter bedlam occurred when the jail lost power around ten thirty last night. Prisoners poured out of their cells, killing anything on their way out of the facility’s buildings. This modern jail does not have walls—it has a high-voltage killer electric fence. But presumably that fence failed last night.

“It’s our understanding that the correctional facility is a war zone. We have heard that hundreds, maybe even thousands, of prisoners and corrections officers were shot dead—some by escaping criminals, others by panicked guards using automatic fire. There is no way to know how many are dead. But, more worrying, there is no way to know how many murderers, gang members, and other violent elements escaped last night.”

Holding the cell phone and microphone in her hand, Anna Hardaway was ashen. She was unsure whether her reporter was done. But the voice continued.

“Sacramento is a city now gripped by fear…”

“Turn it off,” ordered Gene Laurence’s voice from the other side of the cabinet table.

The eight persons in front of the television jumped to their feet, embarrassed that they had not seen the president of the United States entering the room.

They had all heard the reporting from California. It hung over the room like a dark cloud. Gene Laurence stuck out his index finger and just pointed to the chairs around one end of the long, elegant conference table. Isaiah J. Tolberg took the seat next to Laurence. To Tolberg’s left sat the secretaries of energy and defense and the attorney general. Across the table, the secretary of state and the directors of the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation pulled out chairs.

Tony Ruiz was already leaning back in one of the smaller seats arrayed along the room’s back walls, directly behind Tolberg, when Gene Laurence interrupted his motion.

“Sit down at the table, Tony. This isn’t a formal cabinet meeting.”

“Thank you, sir,” stuttered Ruiz. Seeing the disapprovingly raised eyebrows of Attorney General Mort Levinson, Ruiz surmised that he wasn’t the only one surprised by the president’s invitation to his twenty-nine-year-old domestic advisor.

“Okay, talk to me, Senator,” said the president, looking only at Tolberg. His lips were tight.

Tolberg was dead serious. He had not slept a minute the previous night.

“Mr. President, you saw the CNN report. It’s accurate. Most of California’s cities are without any power and San Francisco will go down before the end of the day. I don’t have to tell you the consequences; you can imagine them. Hospitals are on generators that will peter out in the next twelve to twenty-four hours. There are practically no communications inside the state—that means no emergency communications either. We’ve had reports of various deaths in nursing homes; the elderly are unable to withstand the hundred-degree heat. Needless to say, sir, offices are closed, airports are shut, and vehicular transportation is at a standstill.

“This will get worse before it gets better. The prison break is a disaster that is only just beginning. We’ve heard numbers like over a thousand killed on prison grounds. That means that roughly two thousand prisoners are unaccounted for. The only thing that the TV reporter had wrong is that there is already massive looting in San Diego, San Jose, and South L.A.,” added Tolberg. “Violence is inevitably going to escalate when the escaped inmates of Sacramento State start mixing with the general population. California is a tinderbox about to explode.”

“Don, first things first,” interrupted the president, looking at Don Romer, the secretary of defense. “We need to control the violence. Do we mobilize the National Guard?”

“Done, sir. I spoke to Governor Moravian an hour ago and he signed the mobilization orders. I’ve also spoken to the governors of
Oregon, Arizona, and Nevada. They are willing to help. If we make the request, and Governor Moravian approves, they will mobilize their National Guards and send them across the border into California.”

“How long will it take to get the situation under control?”

“It’s going to take a while, Mr. President. Getting troops into the streets will take three, maybe four days.”

The president winced.

“Fast, Don. Make it faster.”

He turned to Bob Mieirs, the secretary of energy, and raised his eyebrows.

“We’re working on it, Mr. President,” said Mieirs. “Utility companies all over the country are diverting grid energy westward. Natural gas headed to the northeast from New Orleans is now moving to California. The secretary of state,” Mieirs said, raising his hands in a sign of gratitude toward Roselee Rainer, sitting across the table, “has spoken to our friends in Mexico. They are going to accelerate gas into California and Texas in the northern pipelines from Hermosillo and Chihuahua.”

Bob Mieirs paused, exhausted. He ran his fingers through his short brown hair. He hadn’t yet broken the bad news.

“I’m going to need two days to get the gas to California. Once there, it will be another two or three days before the juice converts into distributable electricity.”

The table looked at him, aghast. Five days! California could not last that long.

The president paused for a moment. Looking at Tolberg, he started issuing a rush of orders.

“Isaiah, help me out if I miss something. Roselee, your people at State need to be clear in our messages to the rest of the world. This is a screwup, a hiccup. But it will pass. The United States is, one, open for business, and, two, still vigilant and still strong. And call President Alvarez in Mexico to thank him.