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“Look at this.”
Delun aims his flashlight at Jing’s hand. It looks like Jing is holding … what?
Some very fine strands of … thread? Silk?
He gently touches the material, and instantly knows what it is.
Graphite.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers.
A black utility van comes in, slides to a stop. It’s followed by two others.
From the lead van a uniformed military officer comes forward, with another man wearing a dark, two-piece suit. Each are carrying phones in their hands. The man with the suit looks determined yet friendly, but the military officer—Shit, is that man a general?—Delun thinks with terror, spotting epaulettes with two large yellow stars and a wreath on his broad shoulders. The man comes up to him and says, “Are you the engineer in charge?”
“Yes, sir, Zhang Delun, of the State Grid Corporation.”
“What happened here?” he asks.
“Sir, approximately thirty-five minutes ago, the electrical grid suffered massive failures at three switchyards and one substation.”
The general growls. “At the same time?”
“Yes, sir.”
The civilian says, “Any idea of the cause?”
Delun gestures Jing to come forward, and he holds out his hand. The general says. “What am I looking at?”
“Graphite fibers, sir,” Delun explains. “Enough graphite fibers like this, distributed over sensitive sites like a switching station or substation, can cause it to fail, creating a power blackout.”
The civilian peers down. “And how are these graphite fibers distributed?”
Dejiang swallows. His mouth is dry. “Considering how many sites were struck, and at the same time, I would think … er, I would say, that a series of bombs, sir. From a ground attack, perhaps. Hidden mortars. Or tossed grenades.”
The general says, “Or from the air. Like the Americans did to the Iraqis, and NATO did to the Serbs. An act of war, this is.”
The civilian says, “How long before power can be restored here?”
Delun feels sweat trickling down his back. “Normally, a day or two, but …”
The general snaps, “But what?”
The sweat down his back seems to flow faster. “Sir, some of these switchyards needed vital equipment insulated just to prepare for such an event. Two years have passed since the request was made for such an upgrade. If the insulation had been installed, power could be returned in a day. Now … depending on the damages, perhaps up to a week, sir.”
In the harsh illumination from the spotlights, the general looks like he’s about to explode, but Delun is pleasantly surprised when the civilian smiles and says, “A week?”
“A week, sir.”
The civilian takes out a thin black leather wallet, extracts a business card, hands it over. Zhang Delun examines it in the light.
It has a name—Huang Zemin—and a phone number.
He says, “Call me at any time, night or day, to get the personnel and equipment you need, or to override any fool who is causing you trouble. If you can restore power in two days or less, you will be handsomely rewarded. Have I made myself clear?”
Delun is afraid to move, afraid his hand holding the business card might tremble.
“Extremely clear, sir,” he says, and Huang, the civilian, gives him a gentle slap to the shoulder and says, “Now, we mustn’t keep you from your vital work.”
