Fly by Wire

Chapter SIXTEEN

Sorensen was in tight formation as they stepped carefully through a tapestry of jagged metal and twisted wires. A woman nearby was using a handheld GPS to lay down markers for a reference grid. She glanced up as they passed and everyone nodded cordially.

"There's one more thing I want to show you," Davis said.

He stopped at the piece he was after. It was ten-feet long, two-feet wide, tapered slightly at one end. The materials involved were a combination — metal framework acting as the base for a composite surface. Two actuator rods poked out, bent and sheared off.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's called an elevon, a primary flight control. Your standard airplane has a different arrangement, but again, the C-500 is a flying wing design. It doesn't have a vertical tail."

"So this controls the airplane aerodynamically?"

"Right. A number of these surfaces along the trailing edge of the body control both the pitch axis, for up and down, and the roll axis for turning. Now — look at this part." He showed her where the trailing section was warped. "I won't bore you with the details, but this surface was damaged in flight. I can tell by the way it failed — it's deformed in a very uniform, consistent way. I found another elevon that shows the same unnatural twist."

She bent down and ran her fingertips over the bowed edge. "So what does that mean?"

"One very significant thing. This is what happens when a flight control surface is under extreme load. Gs were being put on the airplane— I suspect right before impact."

"Gs?"

"Sorry, pilot talk. Gs refers to acceleration. It can be in any of the three axes, but in airplanes we're usually talking about pitch, what you feel in the seat of your pants."

"So in this case, the pilot was trying to pull up?"

"Exactly. In the seconds before this thing hit, one of the two pilots was pulling back desperately on the control stick." Davis stood straight and pointed out over the long, extended debris field. "And hitting at such a low angle — I'd say they came damn close to making it."

Sorensen stood and took it all in.

The sun came out momentarily, and the steady breeze continued its sweep over the accident scene. It seemed almost like a cleansing, a reminder from above that the destruction here was no more than a temporary blight. In time, everything would revert to its natural state, green grass and blue sky.

Davis said, "You see, Honeywell, it's easy to get lost in the bits and pieces, the metal fatigue and fuel lines. But, without getting too philosophical, you have to remember that there was a human element to this crash. There always is."

Sorensen nodded thoughtfully. She pulled down the hood of her jacket and let it fall over her back. A few rebellious strands of blonde fluttered in the breeze. One wisp came over her eyes, and Davis watched her wipe it aside with the back of a wrist. It was a curiously feminine gesture, designed no doubt to avoid fingertips that had to be black with soil and soot.

"Yes," Davis found himself saying.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'll help you."

The briefing in the Situation Room took place promptly at eleven. The entire National Security Council was in attendance, minus the vice president who was returning from Bangkok in light of the crisis, but still ten hours away.

The day's intelligence and news reports had not added much to what was already known at this mornings emergency session. Twenty-one refineries hit, massive collateral damage, one primary suspect behind it all. Every news anchor in the country was backed by a photo image of Caliph. The crisis had bumped global warming, health care policy, and tensions in Pakistan right off the media map — nobody cared about any of that when they couldn't fill up their gas tanks to get to work or drive the kids to T-ball practice.

After a few formalities, Darlene Graham gave them her man.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce Dr. Herman Coyle. Dr. Coyle is formerly a professor of Petroleum Engineering at the University of Texas, and now serves as chairman of the OMNI think tank. He is an internationally recognized expert on energy security, and has published a number of papers regarding vulnerabilities and weak points in the design of our country's energy infrastructure. Dr. Coyle—"

Graham yielded the podium to a man who was a good six inches shorter. Coyle was slightly built and wore wire-framed glasses. A textbook receding hairline split two tangles of dark gray hair that sprouted wildly on the sides, giving the appearance of twin bird's nests above his ears. As Truett Townsend studied Coyle, he was encouraged. Here was a man about to brief the president of the United States who hadn't even bothered to stop at a hallway mirror and run a hand through his hair.

"Good morning, everyone," Coyle said. If he was nervous about a rushed briefing to the national command structure, he didn't show it. Coyle began without notes in a voice that was clear and confident — not bravado, but rather the simple strength of a man who knew what he was talking about. "Director Graham has asked me to give my thoughts regarding what occurred last night. As she implied, I am something of an expert on such matters. In truth, of course, if I was really so insightful I would have seen these attacks coming in their exact form and insisted on countermeasures."

The president said, "I can assure you, Dr. Coyle, there will be more than enough blame to go around."

"Yes, I suppose so. To begin, let's admit that most Americans have a limited knowledge of refined fuels. You all know that high octane is better than low, and at some point you've spilled a few drops on your shoes at the pump. But there is great complexity to this industry, and inherent to that, great risk."

DNI Graham broke in. "Dr. Coyle wrote a report outlining specific threats to our refineries."

"I think I read it," the president said. "One scenario had to do with an acid cloud."

"Yes," Coyle picked up. "We uncovered the blueprint of a plot some time ago that involved attacks against domestic oil refineries. The scenario went something like this — pressurized anhydrous fluoride tanks were targeted. If these could be breached, the result would be a cloud of vaporized hydrofluoric acid, highly toxic and traveling on the wind."

General Banks said, "So is this what we're up against, Dr. Coyle? I heard at least one report of a toxic cloud outside a California refinery."

"I think I can say quite definitively, no. There have been two, perhaps three reports of some kind of toxic vapor, but these are almost certainly secondary effects. Oil refineries are a chemist's playground of hazardous substances. The smallest breach can easily lead to fire, and the smallest fire can quickly become a superheated catastrophe. Once a chain of destruction has been initiated, collateral damage will be widespread and indiscriminant."

Graham said, "I thought refineries were getting away from the more hazardous chemicals for that very reason."

"Precisely. In the case of anhydrous hydrogen fluoride, most no longer use it, and the remaining facilities concentrate security measures around these holding tanks. What we saw last night was not an 'acid cloud' attack. It was something else."

President Townsend shifted in his seat. If this guy had any other reports sitting on shelves gathering dust, he was going to read them soon.

"First of all, the refineries targeted were not our largest. Most would be considered mid-range in terms of capacity — a hundred fifty thousand to two hundred fifty thousand barrels a day. It stands to reason that these facilities were chosen because their level of security was less stringent than what would be found at larger sites. Once inside, the attackers appear to have gone after the crude heaters. A good choice, really," he admitted, his grudging admiration obvious.

"What's a crude heater?" someone asked.

"It's just what you'd think — a large furnace that heats the primary feed of crude oil."

The president sensed bad news coming but felt compelled to ask, "How important are these heaters?"

"To realize their significance, one has to understand the basic industrial process. Refining petroleum involves distillation, much as a Tennessee moonshiner uses heat to separate his white lighting from the remains. Crude oil is first heated to begin the refining process. As the temperature rises, the flow is routed into distillation columns, the tall cylindrical stacks most of you are familiar with. At progressive stages in this heating process, different compounds — that is, different types of fuel — are fractioned and recovered. In the end, the remains undergo what is called 'cracking,' which involves using various catalysts to increase yield — it's the kind of thing only petroleum engineers care about. But the salient point is that these primary heaters are the workhorses of the entire refinery. Without them, the operation shuts down. And replacing these units amid acres of toxic rubble will take considerable time."

"How long?" the president asked.

Coyle rubbed his temple, giving Townsend the impression of a man who had been calculating all morning. "The level of damage will take a few days to accurately assess. And it will vary considerably from one plant to another. But to get all capacity back on line — I estimate at least six months."

"Jesus!" General Banks said. "Where was the security?"

Coyle said, "You have to understand, General, refineries today are highly automated. I toured an average facility last week — a hundred thirty-eight thousand barrels a day. It was a twenty-four-seven operation run by six engineers from a control room. At night, there might be a few dozen others on the property, mostly wrench-turners and a limited number of contract security men. The level of training for guards at these facilities is a mixed bag — some companies take it very seriously, others less so. Regulatory oversight is minimal."

The room sighed collectively, and President Townsend recognized one piece of legislation that would find its way to the Hill this week.

"Last nights disaster could have been worse," Coyle argued. "Many of the largest facilities along the Gulf Coast were spared."

Townsend asked, "So there won't be any serious disruption to our gasoline supply?"

Here Coyle paused. His head went down and he seemed to study the base of the podium for a moment. Something in the question had disrupted his form. When he spoke again, his pace and demeanor were markedly different. He was now lecturing, a parent scolding a wayward child.

"This, Mr. President, is the tune I have been playing to deaf ears for years. Mind you, it is only the theory of one academic, but hear me out." Coyle left the podium and began meandering back and forth, his hands now moving freely for emphasis. "Our country has been the dominant economic and political force in this world since the end of World War II. It is my contention that this is a direct result of our system of transportation. The roads allow a flow of goods and materials that no economy on earth — even the most advanced European democracies — can match. America invented and embraced the mass-produced car, and our way of life, both at work and leisure, now revolves around it. But this great advantage we have made for ourselves will, I fear, soon become our Achilles heel."

Coyle finally stopped for help. He pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "As I now speak, we have likely lost between eighteen and twenty percent of our domestic refined gasoline output. The price of a gallon of gas will likely rise by fifty percent within two weeks — for those who have access. Regional shortfalls are inevitable, and gas will be unavailable for short periods in the hardest hit areas. With immediate action, I project a midyear decrease in domestic GNP of between three and four percent on an annual basis. A moderate recession given no other complications."

A chorus of muted expletives tarnished the air. Then silence.

President Townsend eyed Coyle. Most of the wonks who gave him briefings were no more than speculators who reminded him of weather forecasters — if they made enough predictions, sooner or later they'd be right. His gut impression was that Herman Coyle was different. Coyle knew where this storm was headed. Townsend said, "All right. What should we do?"

"There is a precedent," Coyle said. "In the last few years, a number of hurricanes have struck the central Gulf Coast. In 2008, Gustav and Ike sequentially shut down fifteen and nineteen percent of our refinery output. Of course, these facilities were only lost for a matter of weeks. Still, gas prices rose significantly and spot shortages existed, particularly in the Southeast."

"I remember Atlanta being hit hard," said Spector, a native Georgian.

"And in charting our course," Coyle contended, "there is more to consider. Much has been made of the fact that no new refineries have been built in our country since 1976. In fact, the number of active refineries has been cut in half in that time. The remaining facilities are, of course, far more efficient than before. The downside is that these refineries operate near maximum capacity. We have little option of 'ramping up' production."

"It's all because of too much environmental regulation," Chief of Staff Spector chided.

"Actually," Coyle argued, "the cumbersome oversight process is only a minor nuisance. Like the rest of our economy, the market for petrochemicals has globalized. Simply put, it is cheaper for us to buy foreign refined products, incrementally, than to produce them ourselves." Coyle turned to Townsend. "With these factors in mind, Mr. President, there are four steps we must take immediately."

Coyle waited for a cue from his commander-in-chief.

Townsend nodded.

"First, we must protect our remaining facilities against further attack"

General Banks piped in, "I've already been in touch with the National Guard Bureau. I think they're in the best position to handle it, but if we need to augment with active duty forces, I'll see to it."

The president had only one addition. "All right. But I want every refinery locked down tight by tonight."

Coyle nodded approvingly. He said, "Second, we must fast-track all repair work. Corporations must not be hogtied with toxic cleanup plans from the EPA or safety audits from OSHA."

There was no dissent around the conference table. There wasn't a politician in Washington who, at least at some point in his or her career, hadn't relished the chance to tell EPA and OSHA to go jump in a toxic lake without a safety line.

"Third, we must procure every barrel of foreign excess capacity we can get our hands on. This must take place at both the governmental and corporate levels."

Again Coyle's directive went unchallenged. The room remained silent for his final decree.

"My last suggestion," he said, "requires an understanding of the term 'forward cover.' Simply put, it is the amount of time that the refined petroleum in our system will stretch given standard rates of usage. Yesterday, we had a forward cover of twenty-one days."

The president wanted to be sure he understood. "You're saying the gasoline already in the pipeline will last us twenty-one days?"

"Essentially, yes. Since we still have significant production in place, and with the purchase of additional stores on the global market, the effect on supply should be manageable. However—" Coyle parked at the podium again and his voice rose for emphasis, "this all makes one assumption. Mr. President, you must appeal for calm. Americans will be inundated for weeks with images of these attacks, images of lines at gas pumps. As I said, there will be spot shortages due to kinks in our distribution network. Any panic, any mass hoarding of gasoline or other refined products will exacerbate the problem. It could quickly wipe out our safety margin and induce a catastrophic shortage."

President Townsend said, "So you want me to make an appeal for calm."

"It is vital, sir." Coyle then made eye contact with the rest of the table and his thin lips puckered as if he had encountered something distasteful. "Any missteps, ladies and gentlemen, will result in a most dire crisis."

Townsend had the distinct feeling that Herman Coyle was telling them not to screw this up. It was probably good advice.