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his parents. His father is unconscious. The dappled sunlight casts shadows across his father’s ashen face.
    â€œWhat happened?” Zeke says as he scoots a little closer.
    â€œI don’t know. I was looking out the kitchen window when I saw him just collapse.” Zeke’s heart breaks at the sight of tears streaming down her cheeks.
    He reaches a hand out to his father’s neck and is shocked by the coldness of his skin. His fingers fumble for a pulse: thready but persistent.
    Zeke gets to his feet. “I’m going to call an ambulance.” He runs toward the house, wishing, for the first time since he moved down here, that he had a cell phone.

C HAPTER 12
    The White House Situation Room
    Wednesday, September 29, 10:25 A.M .
    Â 
    P resident Harris returns to the Situation Room and sits wearily in one of the leather chairs. The director of the National Security Agency hurries into the room and takes the seat next to the President. He leans in to whisper to the President.
    â€œWhat?” the President shouts.
    All heads turn in his direction. “When?” he says in a softer tone. President Harris sags against the back of the chair as the NSA director finishes the conversation and pulls away.
    The room is silent and the participants of the videoconference are frozen in place. The President jerks to his feet and places both palms on the table. “I was just informed—”
    The NSA director leans over to put a hand on the President’s arm. President Harris scowls and pulls his arm away.
    â€œI think everyone in here has the necessary clearances, Charles.”
    â€œNot everyone,” the NSA director says, nodding toward the front screen.
    â€œWell, I just cleared them. The National Security Agency’s satellite surveillance system is dead in the water.”
    A few surprised gasps.
    â€œThat means we have no way to track what our enemies are plotting. And God knows we don’t lack for enemies. I want a detailed plan to further minimize the damage.”
    The President sits. “Dr. Blake, what the hell is going on? You do work for the Space Weather Prediction Center, don’t you?”
    Sam Blake meets the challenge head-on. “Yes, sir. I’m not going to argue semantics with you, Mr. President, but we are hindered by the lack of working instruments. I will tell you for certain that we are being hammered by solar flares stronger than any since the advent of electricity. These solar flares could play havoc—”
    â€œHold up, Sam,” the President says before turning to the West Wing staffer who had materialized at his side. The young man, his suit coat buttoned and his red tie cinched tight to his throat, hands President Harris a single sheet of paper. The President puts on his reading glasses and quickly scans the contents as the room grows quiet. He lays the paper on the table, removes his reading glasses, and looks up at the monitor. “The good news continues. Most of Boston is without power. More solar flares, Sam?”
    â€œYes, and all this is a precursor to the much larger main storm. What’s happening in Boston and what’s already happened at the NSA is only the tip of the iceberg. The FAA is also reporting radio interference in the northern latitudes between ground stations and aircraft.”
    President Harris turns to the director of homeland security. “Janice, what’s the plan?”
    Janice Baker’s hair looks like a bird’s nest and the wrinkled white blouse she’s wearing is decorated along the front with a coffee stain reminiscent of a Rorschach blot. Although her outward appearance is sometimes considered frumpy, she has a razor-sharp mind and the ability to adapt to rapid changes with concise, bold moves. She moves to the edge of her seat and rests her forearms on the table. “Sir, this is so far outside of our bailiwick. Tracking terrorists or stopping a terrorist threat we can do,