Stuckey pondered a moment. "The diversion of millions of kilowatts is quite complex and involves intricate lead and frequency control with correct timing. Though most of the excess power surge will be grounded, we'll still be throwing a heavy overload on our own systems."
"Can you do it?" Villon persisted.
"Yes." Stuckey shrugged in defeat. "But I fail to see the purpose in cutting power to every city between Minneapolis and New York."
"Five seconds," Villon said, ignoring Stuckey's probing remark. "You have only to shut off electrical energy to the United States for five seconds."
Stuckey gave a final glare of defiance and leaned between the engineers seated at the console and twisted several knobs. The overhead television monitors brightened and focused on varied panoramic views of city skylines.
"The contrast seems to lighten as you scan from left to right," noted Villon.
"The darker cities are Boston, New York and Philadelphia." Stuckey looked at his watch. "It's dusk in Chicago and the sun is still setting in Minneapolis."
"How will we know if full blackout is achieved with one city under daylight?"
Stuckey made a slight adjustment and the Minneapolis monitor zoomed to a busy intersection. The image was so clear that Villon could identify the street signs on the corner of Third Street and Hennepin Avenue. "The traffic signals. We can tell when their lights go dark."
"Will Canadian power go off as well?"
"Only in towns near the border below our interconnect terminals."
The engineers made a series of movements over the console and paused. Stuckey turned and fixed Villon with a steady stare. "I will not be held responsible for the consequences."
"Your objections are duly noted," Villon replied.
He gazed at the monitors as a cold finger of indecision tugged his mind, followed by a torrent of last-second doubts. The strain of what he was about to do settled heavily about his shoulders. Five seconds. A warning that could not be dismissed. Finally he cast off all fears and nodded.
"You may proceed." Then he watched as one-quarter of the United States blinked out.
Part II
THE DOODLEBUG
MARCH 1989
WASHINGTON, D.C.
There was a feeling of helplessness, almost fear in Alan Mercier's mind as he worked late into the night, sifting through a stack of military recommendations relating to national security. He couldn't help wondering if the new president was capable of grasping realities. Declaring national bankruptcy was asking for impeachment, no matter how desperately the nation required the act.
Mercier sat back and rubbed his tired eyes. No longer were these simply typewritten proposals and predictions on eight-by ten bond paper. Now they became decisions affecting millions of flesh-and-blood human beings.
Suddenly he felt impotent. Matters of vast consequences stretched beyond his view, his comprehension. The world, the government had grown too complex for a mere handful of men to control adequately. He saw himself being swept along on a tidal wave that was racing toward the rocks.
His depression was interrupted by an aide who entered his office and motioned toward the telephone. "You have a call, Sir, from Dr. Klein."
"Hello, Ron, I take it you don't have enough hours in the day either."
"Right you are," Klein came back. "I thought you might like to know I have a lead on your expensive gizmo."
"What is it exactly?"
"I can't say. No one around here has the vaguest idea."
"You'll have to explain."
"The funding came to the Department of Energy all right. But then it was immediately siphoned off to another government agency."
"Which one?"
"The National Underwater and Marine Agency." Mercier did not respond. He went silent, thinking.
"You there, Alan?"
"Yes, I'm sorry."
"Seems we were only the middleman," Klein went on. "Wish I could give you more information, but that's all I found."
"Sounds devious," mused Mercier. "Why would Energy quietly switch such a large sum of money to an agency concerned with marine science?"
"Can't say. Shall I have my staff pursue it further?" Mercier thought a moment. "No, better let me handle it. A probe from a neutral source might encounter less hassle."
"I don't envy you, tangling with Sandecker."
"Ah, yes, the director of NUMA. I've never met him, but I hear he's a testy bastard."
"I know him," Klein said. "That description is an understatement. You nail his hide on the barn door and I guarantee half of Washington will present you with a medal."
"Talk has it he's a good man."
"The guy is no idiot. He skirts politics but keeps the right company. He won't hesitate to step on feet, 'damn the torpedoes' and all that, to get a job done. No one who ever picked a fight with him came out a winner. If you have evil thoughts in his direction, I suggest you have a strong case."
"Innocent until proved guilty," said Mercier.
"He's also a tough man to catch. Almost never returns his phone calls or sits around his office."
"I'll think of a way to pin him down," Mercier said confidently. "Thanks for your help."
"Not at all," said Klein. "Good luck. I have a feeling you'll need it."
Every afternoon at exactly five minutes to four, Admiral James Sandecker, the chief director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, left his office and took the elevator down to the tenth-floor communications department.
He was a bantam-size man, a few inches over five feet with a neatly trimmed red beard matching a thick head of hair that showed little indication of white. At age sixty-one, he was a confirmed health nut. He nurtured a trim body by downing daily doses of vitamins and garlic pills supplemented by a six-mile morning run from his apartment to the tall, glassed headquarters of NUMA.