The superintendent remained at his desk, which had become a communications center.
About ten minutes later the sheriff phoned again. He had just received a radio report that a rubber dinghy, with no one in it, had been discovered in a cove they both knew, around a headland from the plant. “It looks as if the guy has come ashore and figures to get in through your fence,” the sheriff said. “Every man I have on duty is over your way, searching, and I’m coming myself. Don’t worry! We’ve got him bottled up.”
As he hung up the telephone, Bob Ostrander was less confident than the sheriff. On previous occasions, he remembered, the Friends of Freedom leader had shown himself to be devious and resourceful. Coming through the fence, especially in daylight, did not make sense. Suddenly, as realization dawned, Ostrander said aloud, “Scuba gear! That’s why he needed a dinghy. The son-of-a-bitch is coming underwater. The pump house!”
He left his office on the run.
A watch foreman was among those patrolling on the river side of the plant. Ostrander, arriving hurriedly, asked him, “Have you seen anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“Come with me.” They strode toward the pump house. On the way Ostrander explained his theory about an underwater attack.
At the forward extremity of the pump house, where it projected into the river, was an open walkway. The plant superintendent led the way onto it. Midpoint on the walkway was a metal inspection hatch directly above the wire mesh cylinder through which water passed into the pump bay; the two men opened the hatch, then leaned over, looking down. The top of the wire mesh cylinder was visible below them. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Ostrander told the foreman, “Go inside and turn the cylinder slowly.” There was an electric mechanism to do so, operable both from the pump house and the main control room.
Moments later the wire cylinder began to revolve. Almost at once Ostrander could see the first large hole which had been cut. He remained where he was, watching as the cylinder continued turning. When he saw the second hole his fears were confirmed. Running into the pump house, he shouted, “He got inside! Keep the screen going!”
At least, he thought, he would block Archambault’s way out.
His engineer’s mind was icy cool. He stopped, aware of the need for a fast decision, yet taking time to think deliberately, carefully, assessing possibilities.
Somewhere underneath where he was standing, Archambault was swimming, undoubtedly with a bomb or bombs. Where would he direct the bombing? There were two possible targets. One was the pumps, another the condensers further into the plant.
Blowing up the pumps would be damaging enough; it could put all of La Mission’s generators out of use for months. But a bomb in the condensers would be far, far worse. Rebuilding them might take a year.
Bob Ostrander knew about explosives. He had studied them at engineering school and since. A five-pound dynamite bomb, no larger than a loaf of bread, could pass through the pumps and enter the condensers. Perhaps Archambault had released such a bomb, or was about to. All that he needed to do was set the timing mechanism and drop it: it would find its way through the pumps to the condensers.
The condensers had to be protected. To do so meant shutting down the entire plant. Now.
There was a wall telephone in the pump house. Bob Ostrander went to it and dialed 11 for the main control room.
A ringing tone and a click. “Chief operator.”
“This is Ostrander. I want you to hit the trips on all units and stop the circulating water.”
Reaction was instant as the operator protested, “You’ll blow the rupture discs. Besides, we should warn Energy Control …”
“Goddammit! Don’t give me an argument!” Ostrander gripped the phone and shouted, knowing at any moment an explosion might rip apart the pump house or the condensers. “I know what I’m doing. Hit those trips! Hit them now!”
Georgos knew nothing of what was going on above him. He only knew, as the wire mesh cylinder continued to revolve, that his escape route was cut off. Not that he had really expected to escape; he had known from the beginning of this mission that his likelihood of surviving it was slight. But he didn’t want to die in here. Not this way. Trapped …
He thought, with mounting panic: Maybe the mesh cylinder would stop. Then he could cut two more holes. He turned sharply to inspect it.
At that same instant, while turning, his wire cutters, fastened to his wrist by the looped cord, broke loose. The knot had opened …
The cutters were yellow, intended for easy visibility. He could see them falling …
Instinctively, Georgos rolled over, kicked hard and dived, following the glimpse of yellow. His hand was outstretched. He almost had them.
Then he felt a sudden rush of water and realized he had gone too deep and was being sucked into a pump. He attempted to turn back. Too late! The water engulfed and held him.
He let his mouthpiece and air tube go and tried to scream. Water filled his lungs. Then the pump impeller blades, seven feet across, seized him and chopped him into little pieces.
The air tank was chopped up too; the bombs, unfused and harmless, passed through the pumps.
Only seconds later, all pumps slowed and stopped.
In the main control room, the chief operator, who had just punched four red trip buttons one after the other on separate consoles, was glad the responsibility wasn’t his. Young Ostrander had better have a damn good explanation for taking La Mission 1, 2, 3 and 4—producing three million two hundred thousand kilowatts—off the line without warning. To say nothing of blowing all the turbine rupture discs, which would take eight hours to repair.
As he logged the time—3:02 P.M.—the direct line phone from Energy Control Center began ringing. When the chief operator picked it up, a voice demanded, “What the hell’s going on? You’ve put the system into blackout.”
Bob Ostrander had no doubt that his decision to shut down all generators had been the right one. He foresaw no problem in defending it.
Blowing the turbine rupture discs—a safety feature anyway—was a small price to pay for saving the condensers.
Immediately after giving the shutdown order, Ostrander and the watch foreman had inspected the condensers, leaving the pump house to do so. Almost at once they saw a series of metal objects—the cylindrical bombs. Not knowing if they were dangerous or harmless, the two men gathered them up and ran to the river, where they flung them in.
Now, having returned to the condensers, and taking a second look around, Ostrander had time to reflect that nothing yet had happened in the pump house. Presumably Archambault was still down there and capable of doing damage, though it was possible the revolving wire mesh cylinder had diverted him. Ostrander decided: he would get back to the pump house and figure what should be done next.
About to leave, he noticed some small pieces of debris which appeared to have come through the pumps and had collected on a condenser. He was looking at one of the pieces and reached out to pick it up, then stopped. Bob Ostrander swallowed and felt sick. It was a human hand, peculiarly stained.
18
Goodness!—how quickly the time had gone. Karen was shocked to realize it was well past 2 P.M.
It scarcely seemed any time at all since she had promised Nimrod she would go to Redwood Grove Hospital, yet several hours had gone by. Of course, the shopping had taken longer than expected—didn’t it always?—but she had bought a pretty dress at a bargain price, a pair of shoes, various items of stationery she needed, and a necklace of crystal beads which caught her eye. The necklace, which fortunately was inexpensive, would be just right for her sister; she would give it to Cynthia on her birthday, which was coming soon. Then Josie had a list of drugstore items they needed and that consumed still more time. But it had all been successful and Karen really enjoyed the shopping, which they did in a big, colorful mall only two blocks from the apartment building. Another good feature of the shopping mall was that Karen could g
o there directly in her wheelchair, controlling it herself, which she preferred to do.
One thing they did not need to do today was buy food because Karen would be at Redwood Grove during the electric power cuts. It looked as if these were going to be frequent until the OPEC oil mess was cleared up, which she hoped to goodness would be soon.
She hadn’t let herself think too much about all that time she would have to spend at the hospital, but knew she would miss greatly being at home in her apartment. The hospital was reassuring, especially now, with its reliable supply of electricity. Just the same, it was an institution, fairly spartan, and as for the food there—yech!
The hospital food was another reason they were running late.
Josie had suggested, and Karen agreed, that it would be more pleasant if they had lunch at the apartment before leaving and, in any case, lunch at Redwood Grove would probably be over by the time they got there. So, when they came back from shopping, Josie prepared a meal for them both while Karen continued writing a new poem she intended to send to Nimrod.
Now, with lunch over, Josie was busy putting into a suitcase the things Karen would need at the hospital.
With a sudden surge of affection, Karen said, “Josie, what a dear, dear person you are! You do so much, never complain, and give me far more than I can ever give to you.”
“You give me enough, just being with you,” Josie said, without looking up as she continued to pack the suitcase. Karen knew that open displays of affection embarrassed her housekeeper-aide, but would not be put off.
“Josie, stop that and come here. I want to kiss you.”
With a shy smile, Josie came.
“Put your arms around me,” Karen told her. When she did, Karen kissed her and said, “Darling Josie, I love you very much.”
“And I love you,” Josie said, then broke loose and went back to her packing.
As she finished, she announced, “We’re all set. I’ll go down now and bring Humperdinck around. Will you be okay if I leave you?”
“Of course. While you’re gone I’ll make a phone call.”
Josie put the telephone headband onto Karen. Then a minute or two later, as Josie left, Karen heard the apartment door close.
Karen touched the telephone microswitch with her head. In her earpiece she heard a ringing tone, followed by a voice. “Operator. May I help you?”
“I have manual service, Operator. Will you dial for me, please?” Karen gave the number of her telephone, then the number she was calling—her parents’ house.
“One moment.” There was a series of clicks, then a ringing tone. Karen waited for the call to be answered—as it usually was on the second or third ring—but to her surprise the ringing continued. Karen had talked with her mother early this morning and knew that Henrietta Sloan was feeling unwell and did not intend to go to work today, nor did she plan to go out.
Karen thought: the operator had probably dialed a wrong number.
She broke the connection by moving her head against the microswitch and tried again. Again a continuous ring. Again no answer.
Karen tried another number—Cynthia’s. Again, a continuous ringing tone, but no reply.
Unusually, Karen felt a vague unease. She was rarely alone in the apartment and, on the few occasions when she was, liked to be in touch with someone by telephone.
When she had told Josie she could go, she did so without thinking about it. Now she wished she hadn’t.
At that precise moment several lights in the apartment went out, the window air-conditioner stopped, and Karen felt a slight break in rhythm as her respirator switched over from the building’s supply to battery.
With a start, Karen remembered something which both she and Josie had overlooked. The battery on the wheelchair, which had been drawn on considerably during her shopping jaunt, ought to have been replaced immediately after she came in. Instead, Josie had plugged in the chair to the building supply and switched the chair battery to “charge.” However, the battery would need at least six hours of charging to recoup what it had lost this morning; it had had barely one, and now, with external power off, the charging would have stopped.
There was a spare, fully charged battery to the right of Karen’s chair, ready to be installed before leaving for the hospital. Karen could see it. But there was no way she could connect it herself.
She hoped the power would come back on in a few minutes. And, more than ever, she hoped Josie would return quickly.
Karen decided to telephone Nimrod. It seemed likely that the non-scheduled power cut he had said was “possible” and “a long shot” had actually happened.
But when she pressed the phone microswitch with her head, all she got was a recorded announcement. “All circuits are busy. Please hang up and place your call later.”
She tried again. “This is a recorded …”
Once more. The same result.
Karen knew, from having read about it, that whenever there was a widespread blackout, phone lines became clogged because more people tried to use them than the system could handle. Also, many dialed “Operator” to ask what was happening, making it difficult to reach an operator too.
She began to be really alarmed. Where was Josie? Why was she taking so long? And why hadn’t the janitor, Jiminy, come in to see if she was okay, as he always did when anything out of the ordinary occurred?
Though Karen had no means of knowing it, a combination of events had contributed to her predicament.
At 10:45 A.M., while Karen and Josie were getting ready to go shopping, Luther Sloan was arrested and charged with a total of sixteen offenses, all felonies, under Section 693c of the California Penal Code, which deals specifically with stealing gas.
Since that time, Henrietta Sloan, shocked, despairing, totally inexperienced in the matter, had been trying to arrange her husband’s bail. Shortly before noon she telephoned her elder daughter, Cynthia, appealing for help. Cynthia responded by asking a neighbor to take care of her one living-at-home child when he returned from school, then left to meet her mother. Cynthia’s husband was at work and would not be home until evening.
While Karen had been trying to telephone her mother and sister, both were shuttling between a bail bondsman’s office and the jail where Luther Sloan was held.
They were in the visitors’ section of the jail when the power cut occurred, but were unaware of it. The jail had its own standby generator and, while lights flickered off briefly, they came on again at once as the generator started up automatically and took hold.
Only a few minutes earlier, Henrietta Sloan and Cynthia had discussed phoning Karen, but decided against it, not wishing to distress her.
Neither of the two women, nor Luther Sloan, would know about the power cut for another two hours when bail was finally arranged and the trio left the jail together.
A few minutes before the lights in Karen’s apartment went out and her wheelchair and respirator switched over to battery operation, Bob Ostrander had shouted to the chief operator at La Mission plant, “Hit those trips! Hit them now!”
When the operator did, the GSP & L transmission system was deprived, without warning, of three million two hundred thousand kilowatts of power, at a time when the utility was operating with a thin reserve, and on a warm May afternoon with load demand unseasonably high because of widespread use of air-conditioners.
The result: A monitoring computer, recognizing there was now insufficient power on line to meet demand, instantly opened high voltage circuit breakers, plunging a large area of the GSP & L system into blackout.
Karen’s apartment building was in one of the areas affected.
Josie and the janitor, Jiminy, were trapped in the apartment building elevator and were shouting frantically, trying to attract attention.
After Josie left Karen she walked quickly to a service station close by where Humperdinck had been left overnight. The lessee knew Karen and allowed the van to be parked without charge. It took Josie less than ten minu
tes to collect Humperdinck and stop at the apartment house front door, where Karen’s wheelchair could be conveniently loaded.
The wizened old janitor was touching up paint outside When Josie returned. He asked, “How’s our girl Karen?”
“Fine,” Josie answered, then she told him about going to Redwood Grove Hospital because of the next day’s scheduled blackout. At that he put down his paint can and brush and said he would come up to see if there was anything he could do to help.
In the elevator, Jiminy pressed the button for the sixth floor and they began ascending. They were between the third floor and the fourth when the elevator stopped and its light went out. There was an emergency battery-powered lamp on a shelf and Jiminy reached up and switched it on. In its dim glow he pressed every button in sight, but nothing happened.
Soon after, they both began shouting for help.
They had now been shouting for twenty minutes without any response.
There was a small trapdoor in the roof of the elevator, but both Josie and Jiminy were short and, even perching on each other’s shoulders—which they tried in turn—they could move it only slightly but had no chance whatever of getting through. Even if they did, it was unlikely they could escape from the elevator shaft.
Josie had long ago remembered about Karen’s low battery, which made her cries more desperate and, after a while, her tears flowed as her voice became hoarser.
Though they did not know it then, Josie and Jiminy would remain in the elevator for almost three hours until electric power was restored.
The telephone company would later report that, while its emergency generators functioned during the blackout, for an hour after it happened, demand for its services was unprecedented. Thousands of calls went uncompleted, and many who tried to reach operators for information were unable to do so.
Nim Goldman, under pressure on several fronts because of the sudden power failure, thought briefly of Karen and was relieved she had agreed to go to Redwood Grove Hospital early this morning. He decided that later, when things had eased a little, he would phone her there.