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Authors: Sharon Woods Hopkins
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stations we installed to
block any catastrophic cascading failure should themselves fail, well if the Midwest
grid goes, yes, then it’s the entire country.” Billy Dan squinted around the
smoke, then sat back and folded his arms.
Randolph felt his stomach clench as though waiting
for a blow in a boxing match. The whiskey sours began battling with the coffee.
The result was an acid war sloshing around his gut. The more he learned from
Billy Dan, the worse he felt. Bile rose. He reached for his water glass, but it
was empty. He ordered himself to stay calm. “Exactly how many substations are
in our area?”
“There are hundreds throughout rural Missouri with
six major ones in our service area of Southeast Missouri—all keyed to the
Midwest grid.”
“Where are they? Are they in secret locations?”
Billy Dan chuckled. His voice was back to its normal
tone. “You’re kidding, right? You passed one on the way out here. The others
aren’t a secret either.”
Randolph remembered seeing a substation at Center
Junction, near the Interstate. Sitting barely a hundred feet off the road, it
looked so innocent, so unguarded. Although enclosed by chain link fencing, it
seemed so vulnerable to him now. A determined sixth-grader with wire cutters
would have no trouble snipping his way in.
Randolph stared at the notations and writing on the
drawing. In front of him was evidence that somebody who wrote in Arabic had
made a careful study of a transformer schematic, marking the vulnerable points
on it.
Moreover, Rhetta had to be the one to find it in a
dead Arab doctor’s car.
CHAPTER
9
“Tell me, Judge, where did you get this?” Although
Billy Dan spoke softly, his eyes were fixed solidly on Randolph.
Randolph had half-promised Billy Dan he’d tell him
where he got it, but now he really didn’t want to divulge his source.
Especially since the source was Rhetta.
“Let’s just say that someone found it, and that same
someone brought it to me.” He hoped he sounded profound and judge-like, so his
answer would satisfy Billy Dan.
It didn’t.
“Why would anybody have a schematic of one of our
power transformers? And why is there Arabic writing all over it?”
Those were, Randolph conceded, the big money
questions. He stalled, folding the photocopies and picture and returning them
to the manila envelope. He couldn’t answer Billy Dan.
“You must’ve thought it important enough to drive
over here to ask me about it,” Billy Dan persisted. He stubbed out the
cigarette that had an inch of ash dangling on the end of it. He stood and
withdrew a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He slapped a
couple of bills on the table.
Randolph also stood, reached in a back pocket of his
jeans for his own wallet, and added to the funds.
“Let’s talk outside.” Randolph led the way.
Billy Dan followed silently. Once in the parking
lot, he propped himself against the front fender of Randolph’s Artmobile, stuck
a toothpick in his teeth, and waited.
“You need to keep this conversation between the two
of us.” Randolph tucked the manila envelope under his arm while he fished in
his pocket for the truck keys.
Billy Dan perked up.
Randolph unlocked his truck and opened the driver’s
door. He leaned against the door as he continued talking to Billy Dan. “The
original drawing was found in a vehicle belonging to a foreigner. Right now, I
can’t tell you whose car it was, nor the circumstances. What I will tell you,
though, is that you’ve convinced me I need to turn this information over to the
FBI.”
Sliding in behind the wheel and pulling the door
shut, Randolph fired up the truck. While the Artmobile idled, he turned on the
air and punched the window down button. Before Billy Dan could ask more
questions, Randolph said, “Don’t talk to anyone about this.” Randolph wasn’t
sure why he cautioned Billy Dan, except that he felt urgently that the
schematic was significant, that bad
block any catastrophic cascading failure should themselves fail, well if the Midwest
grid goes, yes, then it’s the entire country.” Billy Dan squinted around the
smoke, then sat back and folded his arms.
Randolph felt his stomach clench as though waiting
for a blow in a boxing match. The whiskey sours began battling with the coffee.
The result was an acid war sloshing around his gut. The more he learned from
Billy Dan, the worse he felt. Bile rose. He reached for his water glass, but it
was empty. He ordered himself to stay calm. “Exactly how many substations are
in our area?”
“There are hundreds throughout rural Missouri with
six major ones in our service area of Southeast Missouri—all keyed to the
Midwest grid.”
“Where are they? Are they in secret locations?”
Billy Dan chuckled. His voice was back to its normal
tone. “You’re kidding, right? You passed one on the way out here. The others
aren’t a secret either.”
Randolph remembered seeing a substation at Center
Junction, near the Interstate. Sitting barely a hundred feet off the road, it
looked so innocent, so unguarded. Although enclosed by chain link fencing, it
seemed so vulnerable to him now. A determined sixth-grader with wire cutters
would have no trouble snipping his way in.
Randolph stared at the notations and writing on the
drawing. In front of him was evidence that somebody who wrote in Arabic had
made a careful study of a transformer schematic, marking the vulnerable points
on it.
Moreover, Rhetta had to be the one to find it in a
dead Arab doctor’s car.
CHAPTER
9
“Tell me, Judge, where did you get this?” Although
Billy Dan spoke softly, his eyes were fixed solidly on Randolph.
Randolph had half-promised Billy Dan he’d tell him
where he got it, but now he really didn’t want to divulge his source.
Especially since the source was Rhetta.
“Let’s just say that someone found it, and that same
someone brought it to me.” He hoped he sounded profound and judge-like, so his
answer would satisfy Billy Dan.
It didn’t.
“Why would anybody have a schematic of one of our
power transformers? And why is there Arabic writing all over it?”
Those were, Randolph conceded, the big money
questions. He stalled, folding the photocopies and picture and returning them
to the manila envelope. He couldn’t answer Billy Dan.
“You must’ve thought it important enough to drive
over here to ask me about it,” Billy Dan persisted. He stubbed out the
cigarette that had an inch of ash dangling on the end of it. He stood and
withdrew a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He slapped a
couple of bills on the table.
Randolph also stood, reached in a back pocket of his
jeans for his own wallet, and added to the funds.
“Let’s talk outside.” Randolph led the way.
Billy Dan followed silently. Once in the parking
lot, he propped himself against the front fender of Randolph’s Artmobile, stuck
a toothpick in his teeth, and waited.
“You need to keep this conversation between the two
of us.” Randolph tucked the manila envelope under his arm while he fished in
his pocket for the truck keys.
Billy Dan perked up.
Randolph unlocked his truck and opened the driver’s
door. He leaned against the door as he continued talking to Billy Dan. “The
original drawing was found in a vehicle belonging to a foreigner. Right now, I
can’t tell you whose car it was, nor the circumstances. What I will tell you,
though, is that you’ve convinced me I need to turn this information over to the
FBI.”
Sliding in behind the wheel and pulling the door
shut, Randolph fired up the truck. While the Artmobile idled, he turned on the
air and punched the window down button. Before Billy Dan could ask more
questions, Randolph said, “Don’t talk to anyone about this.” Randolph wasn’t
sure why he cautioned Billy Dan, except that he felt urgently that the
schematic was significant, that bad
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