OVERLOAD.

ARTHUR HAILEY.

PART ONE.

1.

Heat!.

Heat in stifling blanket layers. Heat that enveloped all of California from the and Mexican border in the south to majestic Klamath Forest, elbowing northward into Oregon. Heat, oppressive and enervating. Four days ago a hot, dry thermal trough a thousand miles long, three hundred wide, had settled over the state and sat there like a brooding hen. This morning-a Wednesday in July-a Pacific frontal system was supposed to shove the heat wave eastward, introducing cooler air, with showers on the north coast and in the mountains. It hadn't happened. Now, at 1 p.m., Californians still sweltered in temperatures from ninety degrees to well over a hundred, with no relief in sight.

Throughout cities and suburbs, in factories, offices, stores and homes, six million electric air-conditioners hummed. On thousands of farms in the fertile Central Valley-the richest agricultural complex in the world-armies of electric pumps gulped water from deep wells, directing it to thirsty cattle and parched crops-grain, grapes, citrus fruits, alfalfa, zucchini, a hundred more. Multitudes of refrigerators and food freezers ran unceasingly. And elsewhere the normal electrical demands of a pampered, spoiled, convenience-oriented, gadget-minded, power-guzzling populace continued unabated.

California had known other heat waves and suryived their consequences. But in none had demands for electric power been so great. "That's it, then," the chief electric dispatcher said unnecessarily.

"There goes the last of our spinning reserve."

Everyone within hearing already knew it. And everyone, in this case, included regular staff and company executives, all crowding the Energy Control Center of Golden State Power & Light. Golden State Power-or, more often, GSP & L-was a giant, a General Motors among public utilities. It was the wellspring which produced and distributed two-thirds of California's electric power and natural gas. Its presence was as familiar in the state as sunshine, oranges and wine, and usually taken just as much for granted. GSP & L was also rich, strong and-by self-description-efficient. Its all-pervasiveness sometimes earned it the sobriquet "God's Power & Love."

The Energy Control Center of GSP & L was a security-restricted, underground command post, once described by a visitor as like a hospital operating theater mated with the bridge of an ocean liner. Its centerpiece was a communications console on a dais two steps above floor level. Here the chief dispatcher and six assistants worked. Keyboards of two computer terminals were nearby. The surrounding walls housed banks of switches, diagrams of transmission line circuits and substations, with colored lights and instruments announcing the present status of the utility's two hundred and five electrical generating units in ninety-four plants around the state. The atmosphere was busy as a half dozen assistant dispatchers monitored a constantly changing mass of information, though the sound level remained low, the result of engineered acoustics.

"You're damn positive there's no more power we can buy?"

The question came from a tallish, muscularly built, shirt sleeved figure standing at the dispatch dais. Nim Goldman, vice president, planning, and assistant to the chairman of GSP & L, had his tie loosened in the heat and part of a hairy chest was visible where the top buttons of his shirt were open. The chest hair was like that of his head-black and curly with a few fine wires of gray. The face, strong, big-boned and ruddy, had eyes which looked out with directness and authority and most times-though not at the moment-with a hint of humor. In his late forties, Nim Goldman usually appeared younger, but not today because of strain and fatigue. For the past several days he had stayed at work until midnight and been up at 4 am; the early rising had required early shaving so that he now had the stubble of a beard. Like others in the control center, Nim was sweating, partly from tension, partly from the fact that the air-conditioning had been adjusted several hours ago in deference to an urgent plea-originating here and transmitted through TV and radio to the public-to use less electric power because of a grave supply crisis. But, judging by a climbing graph line of which everyone in the center was aware, the appeal had gone mostly unheeded.

The chief dispatcher, a white-haired veteran, looked offended as he answered Nim's question. For the past two days two dispatch aides had been continually on phones, like desperate housewives, shopping for surplus power in other states and Canada. Nim Goldman knew that. "We're pulling in every bit we can get from Oregon and Nevada, Mr. Goldman. The Pacific Intertie's loaded. Arizona's helping out a little, but they've got problems too. Tomorrow they're asking to buy from us.

"Told 'em there wasn't a snowhall's chance," a woman assistant dispatcher called over.

"Can we make it through this afternoon ourselves?" This time it was J. Eric Humphrey, chairman of the board, who turned from reading a situation report developed by computer. As usual, the chairman's cultured voice was low-key in keeping with his old-Bostonian aplomb, worn today as always like a suit of armor. Few ever penetrated it. He had lived and thrived in California for thirty years but the West's informal ways had not dulled Eric Humphrey's New England patina. He was a small, compact person, tidy in features, contact-lensed, impeccably groomed. Despite the heat, he wore a dark business suit complete with vest, and if he was swhating, the evidence of it was decently out of sight.

"Doesn't look good, sir," the chief dispatcher said. He popped a fresh Gelusil antacid tablet in his mouth; he had lost count of how many be had had today. Dispatchers needed the tablets because of tensions of their job and GSP & L, in an employee-relations gesture, had installed a dispenser where packets of the soothing medicine were available free. Nim Goldman added, for the chairman's benefit, "If we do bang on, it'll be by our fingernails-and a lot of luck."

As the dispatcher had pointed out moments earlier, GSP & L's last spinning reserve had been brought to full load. What he had not explained, because none there needed to be told, was that a public utility like Golden State Power & Light had two kinds of electrical reserve "spinning" and "ready." the spinning reserve comprised generators running, but not at full capacity, though their output could be increased immediately if needed. The ready reserve included any generating plants not operating but prepared to start up and produce full load in ten to fifteen minutes.

An hour ago the last ready reserve-twin gas turbines at a power plant near Fresno, 65,ooo kilowatts each-bad had its status raised to 11 spinning."

Now the gas turbines, which had been coasting along since then, were going to "maximum output," leaving no reserves of either kind remaining.

A morose-appearing, bulky man, slightly stooped, with a Toby jug face and beetling brows, who had listened to the exchange between the chairman and dispatcher, spoke up harshly. "Goddammit to hell! If we'd had a decent weather forecast for today, we wouldn't be in this bind now." Ray Paulsen, executive vice president of power supply, took an impatient pace forward from a table where he and others had been studying power consumption curyes, comparing today's with those of other hot days last year.

"Every other forecaster made the same error as ours," Nim Goldman objected. "I read in last night's paper and heard on the radio this morning we'd have cooler air."

"That's probably exactly where she got it-from some newspaper! Cut it out and pasted it on a card, I'll bet." Paulsen glared at Nim, who shrugged. It was no secret that the two detested each other. Nim, in his dual role as planner and as the chairman's assistant, had a roving commission in GSP&L which cut across department boundaries. In the past be had frequently iwaded Paulsen's territory, and even though Ray Paulsen was two rungs higher in the company hierarchy, there was little lie could do about it.

"If by 'she' you mean me, Ray, you could at least have the good manners to use my name." Heads turned. No one had seen Millicent Knight, the utility's chief meteorologist, petite, brunette and selfpossessed, come into the room. Her entry was not surprising, though. The meteorology department, including Ms. Knight's office, was part of the control center, separated only by a glass wall.

Other men might have been embarrassed. Not so Ray Paulsen. He had climbed up through Golden State Power & Light the hard way, starting thirty-five years before as a field crew helper, then moving up to lineman, foreman and through other management positions. Once he was blown from a power pole during a mountain snowstorm and suffered spinal injuries which left him with a permanent stoop. Night college classes at the utility's expense cowerted young Paulsen to a graduate engineer; across the years since then his knowledge of the GSP & L system had become encyclopaedic. Unfortunately, nowhere along the way had he acquired finesse or polished manners.

"Bullshit, Milly!" Paulsen shot back. "I said what I thought, just like always-and would about a man. You work like a man, expect to be treated like one."

Ms. Knight said indignantly, "Being a man or a woman has nothing to do with it. My department has a high record of forecasting accuracy -eighty percent, as you perfectly well know. You won't find better anywhere."

"But you and your people really screwed up today!"

"For Chrissakes, Ray," Nim Goldman protested. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

J. Eric Humphrey listened to the argument with apparent indifference. The chairman never said so specifically, but sometimes left the impression he had no objection to his senior staff's feuding, providing their work was not impaired. There were some in business presumably Humphrey was one-who believed an all-harmonious organization was also a complacent one. But when the chairman needed to, he could cut through disputes with the sharp knife of authority.

At this moment, strictly speaking, the executives now in the control center-Humphrey, Nim Goldman, Paulsen, several others-had no business being there. The center was competently staffed. Actions to be taken in emergency were well known, having been worked out long ago; most were computer-activated, supplemented by instruction manuals conveniently at hand. In a crisis, however, such as the one GSP & L was facing now, this place with its up-to-the-second information became a magnet for those with authority to get in.

The big question, still unresolved, was: Would demands for electric power become so great as to exceed the supply available? If the answer proved to be yes, entire banks of substation switches would necessarily be opened, leaving segments of California without power, isolating entire communities, creating chaos.

An emergency "brownout" was already in effect. Since 10 am the voltage supplied to GSP & L consumers had been reduced in stages until it was now eight percent below normal. The reduction allowed some power saving but meant that small appliances like hair dryers, electric typewriters, refrigerators were receiving ten volts less than usual while equipment wired for heavy duty was being deprived of nineteen to twenty volts. The lower voltages made everything less efficient, and electric motors ran hotter and more noisily than usual. Some computers were in trouble; those not equipped with voltage regulators had already switched off automatically and would stay that way until normal voltage was restored.

One side effect was to shrink television pictures in home receivers, so that they failed to fill the screen. But over a short period there should be no lasting damage. Lighting, too-from ordinary incandescent bulbs-was slightly dimmed. An eight percent brownout, however, was the limit. Beyond that, electric motors would overheat, perhaps burn out, creating a fire hazard. Thus, if a brownout was not sufficient, the last resort was load shedding committing large areas to total blackout.

The next two hours would tell. If GSP & L could somehow bold on until mid afternoon, the time of peak demand on hot days, the load would ease until tomorrow. Then, assuming tomorrow was a cooler day -no problem. But if the present load, which had been climbing steadily all day, continued to increase . . . The worst could happen.

Ray Paulsen did not give up easily. "Well, Milly," be persisted, "today's weather forecast was ridiculously wrong. True?"

"Yes, it's true. If you want to put it in that unfair, ugly way."

Millicent Knight's dark eyes flashed with anger. "But it's also true there's an air mass a thousand miles offshore called the Pacific High.

Meteorology doesn't know very much about it, but sometimes it throws all California forecasts out of whack by a day or so." She added scornfully, "Or are you so wrapped tip in electrical circuitry you don't know that elementary fact of nature?"

Paulsen flushed. "Now wait a minute!"

Milly Knight ignored him. "Another thing. My people and I gave an honest forecast. But a forecast, in case you've forgotten, is just that-it leaves some room for doubt. I didn't tell you to shut down Magalia 2 for maintenance. That's a decision you made-and you're blaming me for it."

The group by the table chuckled. Someone murmured, "Touche."

As they well knew, part of today's problem was the Magalia plant. Magalia z, part of a GSP & L facility north of Sacramento, was a big, steam-driven generator capable of putting out 600,000 kilowatts. But ever since it was built some ten years earlier, Magalia 2 had been a source of trouble. Repeated boiler tube ruptures and other, more serious malfunctions kept it frequently out of service, most recently as long as nine months while the super-heater was re-tubed. Even after that, problems had continued.

As one engineer described it, operating Magalia 2 was like keeping a leaking battleship afloat.

For the past week the plant manager at Magalia had pleaded with Ray Paulsen to allow him to shut down number 2 to repair boiler tube leaks-as he put it, "before this jinxed tea-kettle blows apart." Until yesterday, Paulsen had adamantly said no. Even before the present beat wave began, and because of unscheduled repair shutdowns elsewhere, Magalia 2's power had been needed for the system. As always, it was a matter of balancing priorities, sometimes taking a chance. Last night, after reading the forecast of lower temperatures for today, and weighing everything, Paulsen gave approval and the unit was shut down immediately, with work beginning several hours later when the boiler had cooled. By this morning, Magalia 2 was silent and leaky pipe sections had been cut from several boiler tubes. Though desperately needed, Magalia 2 could not be back on line for two more days.

"If the forecast had been accurate," Paulsen growled, "Magalia wouldn't have been released."

The chairman shook his head. He had heard enough. There would be time for inquests later. This was not the moment.

Nim Goldman had been conferring at the dispatch console. Now, his forceful voice cutting clearly across others', he announced, "Load shedding will have to begin in half an hour. There's no longer any doubt. We'll have to."

He glanced toward the chairman. "I think we should alert the media. TV and radio can still get warnings out."

"Do it," Humphrey said. "And someone get me the Governor on the phone."

"Yes, sir." An assistant dispatcher began dialling.

Faces in the room were grim. In the utility's century-and-a-quarter history what was about to happen-intentional disruption of service had never occurred before.

Nim Goldman was already telephoning Public Relations, over in another building. There would be no delay about warnings going out. The utility's PR department was geared to handle them; although, normally, the sequence of power cuts was known only to a few people within the company, now they would be made public. As another point of policy, a few months ago it had been decided that the cuts-if and when they happened-would be known as "rolling blackouts," a PR ploy to emphasize their temporary nature and the fact that all areas would be treated fairly. The phrase "rolling blackouts" was a young secretary's brainchild, after her older, more highly paid superiors failed to come up with anything acceptable. One of the rejects: "sequential curtailments."

"I have the Governor's office in Sacramento, Sir," the dispatch assistant informed Eric Humphrey. "They say the Governor is at his ranch near Stockton and they're trying to reach him. They'd like you on the line."

The chairman nodded and accepted the telephone. His hand cupping the mouthpiece, he asked, "Does anyone know where the chief is?" It was unnecessary to explain that "chief" meant the chief engineer, Walter Talbot, a quiet, unflappable Scot now nearing retirement, whose wisdom in tight situations was legendary.

"Yes," Nim Goldman said. "He drove out to take a look at Big Lil."

The chairman frowned. "I hope nothing's wrong out there."

Instinctively, eyes swung to an instrument panel with the legend above it: LA MISSION NO- 5. This was Big Lil, the newest and largest generator at La Mission plant fifty miles outside the city.

Big Lil-Lilien Industries of Pennsylvania built the huge machine and a news writer coined the descriptive name which stuck-was a monster delivering a million and a quarter kilowatts of electric power. It was fuelled by oil in enormous quantities which created superheated steam to drive the giant turbine. In the past Big Lil had had its critics. During the planning stages experts argued it was sheerest folly to build a generator so large because too much reliance would be placed on a single source of power; they used a non-scientific simile involving eggs and a basket. Other experts disagreed. These pointed to "economies of scale," by which they meant: mass-produced electricity is cheaper. The second group prevailed and, so far, had been proven right. In the two years since it began operating, Big Lil had been economical compared with smaller generators, magnificently reliable, and trouble-free. Today, in the Energy Control Center, a strip chart recorder showed the heartening news that Big Lil was giving its utmost, running at maximum, shouldering a massive six percent of the utility's total load, "There was some turbine vibration reported early this morning," Ray Paulsen told the chairman. "The chief and I discussed it. While it probably isn't critical, we both thought he should take a look."

Humphrey nodded approval. There was nothing the chief could do here, anyway. It was simply more comfortable to have him around.

"Here is the Governor," an operator announced on Humphrey's telephone.

And a moment later a familiar voice: "Good afternoon, Eric."

"Good afternoon, Sir," the chairman said. "I'm afraid I'm calling with unhappy . . ."

It was then that it happened.

Amid the bank of instruments under the sign LA MISSION NO- 5 a buzzer, urgently insistent, sounded a series of short, sharp notes. Simultaneously, amber and red warning lights began blinking. The inked needle Of NO- 5's chart recorder faltered, then descended steeply.

"My God!" someone's shocked voice said. "Big Lil's tripped off the line."

There remained no doubt of it as the recorder and other readings slid to zero.

Reactions were immediate. In the Energy Control Center a high speed logging typewriter came to life, chattering, spewing out status reports as hundreds of high voltage circuit breakers at switching centers and substations sprang open at computer command. The opening of the circuit breakers would save the system and protect other generators from harm.

But the action had already plunged huge segments of the state into total electric blackout. Within two or three successive seconds, millions of people in widely separated areas-factory and office workers, farmers, housewives, shoppers, salesclerks, restaurant operators, printers, service station attendants, stock-brokers, hoteliers, hairdressers, movie projectionists and patrons, streetcar motormen, TV station staffs and viewers, bartenders, mail sorters, wine makers, doctors, dentists, veterinarians, pinball players . . . a list ad infinitum-were deprived of power and light, unable to continue whatever, a moment earlier, they had been doing.

In buildings, elevators halted between floors. Airports, which had been bursting with activity, virtually ceased to function. On streets and highways traffic lights went out, beginning monumental traffic chaos.

More than an eighth of California-a land area substantially larger than all of Switzerland and with a population of about three millioncame abruptly to a standstill. What, only a short time ago, had been merely a possibility was now disastrous reality-and worse, by far, than feared.

At the control center's communications console-protected by special circuits from the widespread loss of power-all three dispatchers were working swiftly, spreading out emergency instructions, telephoning orders to generating plants and division power controllers, examining pedal-actuated roller system maps, scanning cathode ray tube displays for information. They would be busy for a long time to come, but actions triggered by computers were far ahead of them now.

"Hey," the Governor said on Eric Humphrey's telephone, "all the lights just went out."

"I know," the chairman acknowledged. "That's what I called you about."

On another phone-a direct line to La Mission's control room-Ray Paulsen was shouting, "What in hell has happened to Big Lil?"

2.

The explosion at the La Mission plant of Golden State Power & Light occurred entirely without warning.

A half hour earlier the chief engineer, Walter Talbot, had arrived to inspect La Mission No. 5-Big Lil-following reports of slight turbine vibration during the night. The chief was a lean, spindly man, outwardly dour, but with a puckish sense of humor and who still talked in a broad Glaswegian accent, though for forty years he had been no nearer Scotland than an occasional Burns Night dinner in San Francisco. He liked to take his time about whatever be was doing and today inspected Big Lil slowly and carefully while the plant superintendent, a mild, scholarly engineer named Danieli, accompanied him. All the while the giant generator poured out its power-sufficient to light more than twenty million average light bulbs.

A faint vibration deep within the turbine, and differing from its normal steady whine, was audible occasionally to the trained cars of the chief and superintendent. But eventually, after tests which included applying a nylon-tipped probe to a main bearing, the chief pronounced, "It's naething tae worry over. The fat lassie will gi' nae trouble, and what's necessary we'll see to when the panic's bye."

As he spoke, the two were standing close to Big Lil on metal gratings which formed the floor of the cathedral-like turbine ball. The monstrous turbine-generator, a city block in length, sat perched on concrete pedestals, each of the unit's seven casings resembling a beached whale.

Immediately beneath was a massive steam chest with high pressure steam lines going in from the boiler and out to the turbine, as well as other service facilities. Both men were wearing hard hats and protective ear pads. Neither precaution, however, was of help in the explosion which occurred with a deafening roar an instant later. The chief and Plant Superintendent Danieli took the secondary force of a dynamite blast, originating beneath the main hall floor, which initially breached a three-foot diameter steam line, one of several running from the boiler to the steam chest. A smaller lubricating oil line was also pierced. The explosion, combined with escaping steam, produced an overwhelming noise, deep and thunderous. Then the steam, at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit and under pressure Of 2,400 pounds per square inch, rushed through the gratings on which the two men were standing.

Both died instantly. They were cooked, literally, like vegetables in a steamer. A few seconds later the entire scene was obscured by dense black smoke from the ruptured oil line, now burning-ignited by a spark from flying metal.

Two plant workers, painting on a scaffold high above the turbine room floor and in danger of being overcome by the rising black smoke, tried to clamber blindly to a walkway some fifteen feet higher. They failed, and fell to their deaths below.

Only in the plant control room-two hundred feet away and protected by double doors-was total disaster averted. The fast reactions of a technician at No. 5's control panel, aided by automatic devices, ensured that Big Lil was shut down without damage to the turbine generator's vital components.

At the La Mission plant it would take several days of inquiry-a painstaking sifting of debris by experts and questioning by sheriff's deputies and FBI agents-to discover the explosion's cause and circumstances. But a suspicion of sabotage would emerge quickly and later be proven true.

In the end, the accumulated evidence provided a fairly clear picture of the explosion and events preceding it.

At 2:40 that morning, a white male of medium build, clean-shaven, sallow-complexioned, wearing steel-rimmed glasses and in the uniform of a Salvation Army officer, approached the main gate of La Mission on foot.

He was carrying an attache-type briefcase.

Questioned by the gate security guard, the visitor produced a letter, apparently on Golden State Power & Light stationery, authorizing him to visit GSP & L installations for the purpose of soliciting funds from utility employees for a Salvation Army charity-a free lunch program for needy children.

The guard informed the Salvation Army man that he must go to the plant superintendent's office and present his letter there. The guard gave directions on how to reach the office which was on the second floor of the main powerhouse and accessible through a doorway out of sight from the guard post. The visitor then left in the direction indicated. The guard saw no more of him until the visitor returned and walked out of the plant about twenty minutes later. The guard noticed he was still carrying the briefcase.

The explosion occurred an hour later.