Aurora(8)
Lest anyone, including Thom, think for a moment that his delusions of grandeur were serious, he would often point them out, to himself and others, in mildly self-deprecating jokes. Thom did not seriously consider himself on a par with Edison or Christ. He was kidding.
Sorta.
One of the hallmarks of Thom’s public persona was a famous, somewhat exaggerated case of dyslexia. It made for good press, though it wasn’t entirely true. Mostly, he just disliked reading and was easily distracted, so he often found himself re-reading paragraphs three or four times in a row or, worse, skipping over them entirely if they began to bore.
He had no such struggle with direct conversation, however, and had learned at an early age that if someone sat down, looked him in the eye, and told him something, he had a far greater chance of retaining it. As soon as he could afford it, he turned to the idea of paid advisers, experts who would give him an hour of their time and patiently explain a concept, pastime, or industry to him. Renaissance art, the sport of cricket, and brain–computer interface were all introduced to him in this way, with an expert in the field patiently walking him through the basics. At first, he was happy to compensate them, but, as happens, once he got rich he suddenly realized he didn’t need to pay for anything anymore. People just did it for free, reaping the dubious benefit of being within the inner circle of the Great Man.
So it was that Dr. Divya Singh, of the Defense Science Board, ended up on the TV screen in the back of Thom’s bespoke Chevy Suburban at 11 a.m. on the morning of the event.
“Thanks for taking a minute, Divya. I know you’re busy,” Thom began.
Dr. Singh nodded tightly, in a let’s-get-to-the-point manner. Thom could see from her background that she was in her office in Arlington, headquarters of the National Science Advisory committee, of which she was co-chair. Around her were a number of computer monitors and TV screens. Reams of bound paper covered her desk. Singh, in her late sixties, was old-school and still found it easiest to think with a manuscript and a highlighter in her hand.
“How long ago did you hear?” she asked.
Thom glanced at his watch. “Forty-seven minutes.”
“You’re going to Hayward?” Singh asked, referring to the largest private airfield in the San Francisco area.
Thom shook his head. “Everybody’ll go to Hayward or Buchanan. There’ll be a lineup and they won’t be able to take off for hours. That’s why I hangar at Half-Moon Bay. It’s farther, but it’ll be just us and the air-show guys.”
“Smart. OK, what do you need to know?”
“I understand the CME itself. But I need to know everything about the impact and the effects on infrastructure.”
Dr. Singh looked up, muted her microphone, and shouted something to someone off-camera. The place was a swarm of activity all around her. Thom could see hands reaching into the frame, giving her things, taking scribbled notes from her, and the images of people moving in and out of her office reflected in the window behind her. She unmuted.
“Sorry. OK.” She thought for a second, then did her best to summarize. “At impact, the electromagnetic surge will begin in the polar regions and travel north and south along the lines of the magnetosphere. The flux fields will change rapidly in intensity and induce massive geomagnetic currents to flow into and through any interconnected electric power grids.”
“Meaning power stations and substations?”
“Oh, God, much more than that. Any power-generating or power-relaying structure or wire that is not equipped with a sufficient capacitor is going to blow out.”
“Any power structure or wire?” he asked.
“Yes. Everything from a nuclear power plant to your coffeepot. If it’s connected to the grid and turned on, it will blow.”
“But there are capacitors in place, aren’t there? To trip the system in case of a sudden surge?”
“Of course there are,” she said, trying not to let her irritation show. Thom pretended not to see it. He knew she didn’t have time for this, not in the slightest, but he also knew that, like many in her job, she felt a certain obligation to the super-rich, who could theoretically change the entire trajectory of her research and career based on a momentary whim or whiff of good feeling.
She continued, trying to keep her tone level. “But the capacitors would have to be able to handle a sudden and prolonged surge of fifty amps per circuit.”
“What percentage of capacitors can handle that?”
“For sustained bursts? Zero. They haven’t been invented yet.”
“What has the government done to prepare for this?”
“The House passed an excellent bill in 2010, the Grid Reliability and Infrastructure Defense Act. It was never brought to the Senate floor.”
“Let’s talk post-impact. Where will it be worst?”
“In this country, the most intense areas of effect will be the northeast corridor from Boston to D.C. and the upper Midwest—Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, Ohio—gradually diminishing through Western Pennsylvania, with breakdowns accelerating again closer to the East Coast.”
“So the West Coast is OK?”
“Not at all. It’s somewhat better situated in terms of the length of line between transformers, which is a good thing, but seawater is highly conductive, and where the ocean touches land, the ground conductivity will go berserk. Magnetically induced current will work its way inland in a matter of minutes. You should plan for the complete collapse of the West Coast.”