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do you want me to do?”
    Zeke points to an almost-complete table on the other side of the workshop. “How about a delicate sanding on that table?”
    â€œYou got it.” He walks to the workbench area and begins thumbing through the different grits of sandpaper arranged in an organizer. Zeke watches his father as he carefully removes a piece of sandpaper. As a teenager he chafed against that sternness, stiffness, or whatever it was, but now he admires his father for his decisiveness, his attention to detail. His hair is grayer and thinner, the creases on his forehead are a little deeper, but his mind appears to be as sharp as ever.
    As Zeke turns away and carries the now-smooth board to the radial arm saw, the lights in the shop flicker again. He glances back at his father to find him staring at the light fixtures as if it’s a problem with them. Not likely, with his careful electrical work, including precise voltages for each run of the wire.
    â€œWe have a backup generator, right?” Zeke says.
    â€œYes, it’s tied into the propane tank. As long as we have propane, we’ll have power. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He returns to sanding. Then he stops. “Could be a tree grounding out one of the high lines,” he mutters.
    â€œWhat’s that, Dad?”
    â€œNothing, just talking to myself.” Then, “When we first moved down here, the electrical service was spotty, but they built a new substation outside of town that was supposed to fix it. And it did. I hope it’s not something else.” There’s a new note of concern in his voice.

C HAPTER 9
    The White House Situation Room
    Wednesday, September 29, 9:13 A.M .
    Â 
    P resident Harris steps into the Situation Room with Ambassador Nelson in tow. Every head in the room turns at their entrance and some people begin to stand, but the President waves them down. There are some raised eyebrows at the appearance of the British ambassador. Scott Alexander slips into the room behind them and takes a seat toward the rear. The President nods to the advisors arranged around the large conference table, pulls out the chair with a presidential seal embroidered on the back, and sits. Ambassador Nelson, half a foot shorter and about sixty pounds heavier than the President, takes the chair next to him.
    The cold fluorescent lighting reflects off the polished wooden surface of the large table, which is surrounded by a dozen leather swivel chairs. Another thirty or so chairs are parked along the outer perimeter of the rectangular room, hugging the light-colored walls, which are dressed with a dark wood wainscoting along their bottom. There are large video displays mounted around the room, but the front wall is reserved for a much larger white screen lit by an overhead projector. Dark blue carpet runs from wall to wall, alleviating some of the coldness of the room.
    â€œWho’s on the videoconference?” the President says.
    A staffer quickly hands him a typed sheet that details the names and their job titles, along with short bios. He scans down the list, passing over one bureaucrat after another until his eyes alight on the two Ph.D.s on the list. He scans their brief biographies. Most of the others taking part in the videoconference will be just background noise—these two will have the answers , the President thinks. He rereads the bios of Dr. Samuel Blake at the Space Weather Prediction Center and Dr. Sarah Garcia, an air force major at that agency’s weather center.
    â€œThirty seconds, Mr. President,” someone shouts over the murmur of voices, which die down. The large screen is divided into boxes showing the faces of the videoconference participants. The President scrutinizes the faces and focuses on trying to sort out who’s who. Before he can ask, a name and a title appear under each box.
    The boxes are arranged horizontally, with four frames per row, two rows stacked vertically. There are