Powerless by Tim Washburn Page A

drilled repeatedly on what to do when the plant loses electrical power. All four workers scurry about the room trying to put those lessons into play.
    The monitors flicker back to life. “Power’s out for the entire plant,” Gagnon shouts.
    â€œDid the control rods drop?” one of the other workers shouts over the noise.
    â€œNegative on the control rods,” Gagnon says. “They have not released.” The control rods are suspended above the core by electromagnets and are designed to drop with the sudden loss of electricity. Constructed of materials such as hafnium and boron, the rods control the rate of fission.
    â€œWhat about the injector system?” another worker asks.
    â€œWaiting on computer reboot to know for sure, but why didn’t the rods drop?” Gagnon says. Although they have drilled endlessly on these emergency measures, it’s not the same when the real thing happens.
    â€œThink the safety line on the rods is still in place from the refurbishment?” Antoine Cassel asks.
    â€œOh shit,” Gagnon yells. “The gadolinium nitrate was not, repeat not, deployed. The injection system failed.”
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” Cassel says. “All of those damn systems are supposed to kick in automatically.”
    His question goes unanswered as Gagnon grabs one of the numerous telephones and places the call that no employee wants to make. As soon as the phone is answered, Pierre says, “Sir, the reactor is still active without the cooling systems. We are facing the real probability of a core meltdown.”

C HAPTER 25
    TransJet Flight 62, near the coast of Scotland
Wednesday, September 29, 12:33 P.M .
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    C aptain Steve Henderson wipes his brow. “Plot a course to London Heathrow.”
    â€œWe’re not going to Paris?” Copilot Cheryl Wilson asks.
    â€œHell no, we’re not going to Paris. I’m not flying this plane over half of Europe with no navigation or communications.”
    Cheryl reaches for the book containing the maps of Europe as the captain uses his left hand to dial through the radio frequencies. “Glasgow Center, TransJet Flight 62 . . . come in.” Nothing. He dials another frequency. “Glasgow Center, TransJet Flight 62, please acknowledge.” He dials another and tries again. Not a peep.
    â€œCheck your cell phone again, Cheryl.”
    She reaches across the maps to extract her cell phone from the side pocket of the fuselage. “No service,” she says as she tucks the phone under her leg.
    â€œSo much for room service in Paris,” he mutters.
    She glances at him. His mouth is clenched and his broad shoulders are trembling from the constant strain. “We can do this, Steve. We need to use the same landing procedure we’ve used a hundred times.”
    â€œWhat happens if one pilot panics and doesn’t follow protocol?”
    â€œWe’re all professionals, Steve. I don’t think we need to be concerned with someone panicking.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re so self-assured.” His size-fifteen shoes are working the pedals, battling a nasty crosswind.
    â€œCome to a heading of one-two-zero,” she says in her calmest voice.
    â€œTurning to one-two-zero.”
    Cheryl traces their path on the map with a red manicured nail. “We’re going to skirt Glasgow to the east, then turn south.”
    â€œSounds like a plan. Keep an eye out the window for other traffic if you can. Please.” Steve takes a deep breath before punching the button that triggers the cabin intercom system. “Folks, this is the captain speaking. We have been diverted to London.”
    The groans from the cabin can be heard through the closed and locked cockpit door. “I apologize for the inconvenience. We should be on the ground in London shortly, where ground personnel will assist you.” He punches the cabin intercom off.
    â€œYou did good, Steve.