Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 10
With Dakota on his heel, he went down to the rifle-line and opened his pack. He pulled his cooking set from the pack and started warming some water. He then pulled a dehydrated meal out of the ammo can. He took the ultra-lite hammock and down quilts from his pack and set up his “hang” from two of the legs that support the cover over the line. No need for a tarp, I guess. The water was about done getting to a boil. He started his food on the rehydration process, and then he headed up to the office. On the porch, he reached into the steel thirty-two-gallon can he used to store Dakota’s food and filled up her other bowl for her. Phil transitioned from prosthetic to crutches to give his stump and skin some breathing time.
Using the small flashlight that he always carried, he opened the correct safe and pulled out one of his AR pistols. He preferred those over short-barreled rifles for the legality of carrying them loaded with his Concealed Pistol License. Might as well. He always had a pistol on him, usually a Glock 19 or Smith & Wesson M&P 2.0, depending on which holster he felt like wearing that day. But an AR pistol was the same caliber as a rifle, and this one had a flashlight and red-dot site on it. He closed the safe and office and then went and closed the front gate. It was finally at full dark, which happened early in the fall in the Northwest. He went back down to the rifle line. Not exactly the hunting trip I was hoping to be on next week, he surmised. Phil ate and turned in early, Dakota perching on a piece of carpet that normally covers one of the concrete benches. Usually he slept like a log in the hammock, but not that night.
Now, what? Carmen thought, as she and Dr. Schwartz trekked south, near the west side of Highway 99. They were walking from the hotel row near SeaTac Airport to a church in Des Moines that had an outreach program listed in the yellow pages. Along the way, they were quickly discovering a lot about the damage caused by the quake—and a little about each other. This’ll make the third detour through a neighborhood. She was losing patience. It was supposed to be a four-mile walk. Zig-zagging around every sinkhole, downed power pole, and flattened bridge had effectively doubled that. They weren’t the only ones headed south. There was a collective group, somewhat resembling cattle, headed towards… wherever it is that cattle head to, she thought.
She also noticed that the wheels on the doc’s suitcase were starting to wobble and squeak. She was glad to be using her Navy-issued “sea-bag.” As bulky as it is, it beats dragging luggage around. The mood was downright depressing. They could sense a high level of anxiety, and the events of the day still seemed too hard to believe. The “cattle” were crying, which added to the misery.
They had just entered another neighborhood off the main drag a few minutes earlier and made a left turn, headed south. Up ahead, the “cattle” were starting to pile up. There was probably a crowd of thirty-five or so people jammed up against two cars that had been parked in the form of a blockade. There was a gap of perhaps five feet between the two vehicles, one an older light-green Honda Civic, and the other red, Mazda pick-up truck. The neighborhood was an older one, but it didn’t look particularly run down. Not like in Huntington Park…She was thinking about her hometown near Los Angeles and the fact that if this same neighborhood were located there, every house would have barred windows and doors.
The petite, twenty-year-old had joined the Navy two years earlier, in an attempt to break “the cycle.” She was the oldest of six kids and helped her mother with the others. Her father was a career “banger” who she hardly ever spoke with. When she was ten, he started serving what turned out to be four years of a twelve-year-sentence. After that, not talking to him was easy. The Navy was safer than the Army, in her reasoning. She had no idea what a Culinary Specialist did, but she became one anyway. Why did they have to create such a mouthful of words just to say “cook,” she often wondered.
“Five,” was all the guy on the low-rider bicycle said as they approached the choke point. “Each,” he continued, realizing they were together.
“Yo, I ain’t payin’ you no five dollars just to walk down the street!” she stated, her inner-L.A. Latina emerging.
The three teens running the scam suddenly looked on edge. The one on the bike stood up. The bike had been deceiving. He still had one foot on each side of it and was every bit of 6’1”, despite britches that sagged enough to show his boxer shorts. This made Schwartz’s eyes widen just a bit. He gave Carmen a look that said, “Shut the hell up.”
“Here, I got it,” he said, reaching with his left hand into his coat pocket and pulling out a single twenty-dollar bill. He handed it to the teen holding the cash. He paused and stared at the kid for about five seconds, when it finally dawned on him that they weren’t in the “make change” sort of business.
Carmen had a bit of a stare off with the one on the bike as she and Schwartz passed right through. After they had moved about a hundred feet past the choke point, she whispered to Schwartz, “You’re lucky they didn’t roll us. When we get away from everybody—and I mean everybody—you need to break your cash up.”
“I’m not an idiot,” he said smartly. “I only pulled out one bill.” To demonstrate, he pulled a fat wad and jewel-laden money clip out of his right-side pants pocket.
“Put some in each shoe,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. She took a glance around and back to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Put some more in each pocket. Hide that money clip. And hide that watch, dude,” she chastised.
Schwartz stopped. “Doctor,” he said smartly.
“Huh?”
“Not dude,” he continued. “Doctor. You may call me doc, doctor, Dr. Schwartz, even plain-old Schwartz, if you must. But you may not call me dude.” He started walking again, as if to show who leads the way.
“Whatever,” she muttered, shaking her head. Jack ass…
They finished zigging and zagging through the neighborhood and came out on 24th Avenue. A local told them the church was only about a third of a mile farther south. During their four-mile turned-seven-mile walk, they had both been probing the other with questions, looking for “intel.” While she was headed back to her ship in Slaughter County, he was trying to make his way back to the north end of the Olympic Peninsula. They both confirmed their own suspicions that they were from polar opposite walks of life. Most importantly, they both figured out that they annoyed each other to the ends of the Earth.
It was finally past sunset as they approached the church. They saw a collection of canopies and tents set up in the southwest corner of the parking lot. There was a soup-line. They got in line behind what was well over a hundred people. Like Schwartz, many of them were dragging suitcases along.
“Soup?” the middle-aged gentleman behind the table said as they stepped under the awning.
“Yes, thank you,” Carmen said, speaking for both of them. Serving food to others for two years had taught her a lot about treating your food servers respectfully. “Is there a shelter or something around here?” she asked the man.
“Not normally. But today isn’t a normal one, is it?” the man said with a small smile. “We’ve set up some cots in those tents over there. And the honey-buckets are over there, too. Good luck, friends.” He’d handed them their soup and turned his attention to the next people in line.
Carmen and Schwartz had meandered over to the area with the cots. Most of them were claimed, mostly by people who didn’t look particularly homeless. They wandered to the far back corner and sat side by side on one bunk, since they couldn’t find two near each other. They sipped soup quietly. Schwartz reached into his laptop bag and pulled out two bottles of water. “Here.” He handed a bottle to Carmen.
“Thanks.” She paused for a moment. “And thanks for paying the toll.” She was being sincere. There were several more moments of silence while they watched the coming and going of travelers and what was probably local people who’d lost their homes.
It’s getting full. He may be a prick, but we need to stay together. She broke the silence. “Maybe we should just share this cot tonight…”
Schwartz looked at it, and then at her, hesitant.
“Not at the same time. I mean take turns—but stay here… together,” she explained.
Schwartz took a good look around and turned back to her. “Yeah…I think you’re right. Listen, I need to go find the honey-bucket. Would you mind watching my stuff?”
“Sure. Be back in five so I can go, too.” She watched the doc wander off, wondering how likely this alliance was to last. “And don’t throw away your water bottle.”
9
Just the Beginning.
Tahoma’s Hammer + 10 Hours.
“We’ve set-up complete isolation around Dry-dock A. No one can get within seventy yards of it without going through the control point at Monsoor Avenue. We got another crane to the dock and reset brows so that we could get people into the ship. Ship’s force did the best they could to keep the spill contained. Several thousand pounds of cable fell into the ship—right into the open Reactor Compartment. There were multiple systems damaged, which obviously caused multiple coolant system spills.” Director Thrall paused to make sure everyone in the room was paying close attention. “We’ve lost folks. Six people aren’t accounted for. All of them were working in the El Paso.” The NERD wore a serious look on his tired face, as did all the close to one hundred men and women in the EOC.
“Did the spill become airborne?” Marie asked.
“Negative readings so far, Ma’am,” the director responded.
“Mr. Harper, what is the update on the docking aspect to all of this?” she asked calmly. Did I eat today? I had a protein-bar… Was that today? What time is it? Stop. Listen, she told herself as she snapped out of it.
“The ship is approximately six feet farther north on its setting than it was before the first earthquake. We were able to get an approximate figure on that by referencing the markings along the side of the dock. It’s pretty obviously been moved around and reset at a bad angle across the setting and with a list to starboard. Due to the unknown radiological readings and issues we haven’t gotten onto the ship yet. We’re going to re-task some of our shipwrights who have the correct nuclear qualifications tomorrow. They’ll need to get on top of the ship and set up some targets and take some readings before we can give you accurate measurements, Captain.” The man sounded tired.
“Very well, Dock Master. What about the caisson? No dancing around it—just shoot straight.”
“That’s an easy one, Ma’am. We need to get the divers to gut that broken one out with the floating crane so we can bring the backup one over from Pier 4 and set it in place. I personally checked it just an hour ago. It seems to have weathered everything without damage.” Broken was a soft word for the state of the dry-dock’s caisson. It had been ripped open like a tuna can.
“So, the dock stays flooded until then? I need a solution, Mr. Harper, not another problem.”
“We’re tossing some ideas around, Captain. I’d appreciate another day to give you the options with pros and cons.”
“Okay,” the Captain said, moving the meeting along. “What about the other docks?”
“Well, the second most pressing flooding issue is F. Right now, the other docks are maintaining enough of a pump-out to not flood. C is flooding due to dry-dock basin damage, but the barge with the reactor compartment on it is stable and moored. The barge didn’t sustain any damage because its setting was simply a series of two-inch thick lumber boards bolted to the dock floor—no setting to rock in or fall out of per se.”
He continued. “D and F are both flooding at the caisson. We’ll confirm our theory with the divers tomorrow, but we think the shaking jostled them out of having good seals, maybe even slip out of their notches. We also theorize that the shaking managed to toss debris into the sills. Rocks, logs, broken chunks of granite and concrete from the docks themselves—things like that. However, F’s leak is very high up and a lot bigger than D’s leak is.” Harper didn’t state the obvious—losing a carrier to a flooding dry-dock would be catastrophic, both in terms of physical damage and to national defense.
Marie paused to think. Everyone sat respectfully quiet, waiting for the next question. More than a few had caught the Captain’s case of the yawns.
She shifted gears. “I understand our sheltering plan worked well?” She looked for a nod from the EMCO to confirm. “It’s been the first long day in what will be a countless string of them. I suggest everyone go down to the ball fields and get some rest. I asked Captain Reese to make sure you senior leaders had two tents ready. I want you all staying together, ready to share information. As if today wasn’t challenging enough, we need to be thinking about aftershocks, and I want you all to pretend that the Hammerhead just fell. What is our plan for that eventuality?”
“Lastly…” She paused and looked down for a minute, searching for words. There were clocks for a dozen different time zones on the wall. All anyone could hear were the second hands as they punched away time. “Keep in mind the people we lost today. Not just the El Paso—we have people missing. We think there may have been some facilities workers in the foundry. And from what I’m hearing about Pierce County, it’s highly likely we have staff who were on leave today who are now gone—forever. Everyone has lost someone today. I won’t presume to tell you what to believe, but I suggest you all say a prayer to your higher power tonight.”
Marie stood up, which told the room the meeting was over. The bulk of the senior-management core filed out and headed down the hill to the sheltering camp. About a dozen stayed behind, volunteering to take the first nightshift of what was now a beefed-up watch rotation.
Marie went to comms and found the duty technician. “Get me NavSurf on a secure channel. I’ll be over by the status board.” If the pump-wells quit running, we’re screwed.
Payton and Savannah had decided to leave for her father’s house in the morning. They had carefully re-packed all the items into the bags he’d made for them. The night air and drizzle had turned the apartment cold, so the girls had bundled up in pajamas and coats. Savannah was in a hand-me-down Hello Kitty winter coat, and Payton was wearing her big, tan, “inside-the-house” button-up sweater she used in lieu of a robe. Payton went through flashes of being too hot and too cold, a side benefit of pregnancy. The sweater could be opened to help regulate temp.
Lighting some candles, Payton had taken a hint from the bags and started preparing for the next day’s journey. She filled up all the worn-out cloth Safeway shopping bags with every bit of food from her cupboards that would fit, including the staples and spices. Under protest, Savannah started taking the bags the one flight down and three spots over to their older gold Acura. As her daughter was doing that, Payton started filling water bottles—the pressure in the sink was definitely down to a trickle. Everyone must be filling water bottles, she thought. Am I too late?
Next were clothes. They each owned one suitcase, both of which were gifts from her mom. Mom, I need you right now, she thought. Savannah had returned.
“Baby, go empty your unicorn backpack and put some toys and coloring stuff in it,” mother instructed daughter. She filled the suitcases. Can’t have too much underwear, she thought, dedicating probably half of the available room to panties, bras, and socks. We might be there…a week? We can stretch three sets of pants and shirts a week. Toiletries, medicines, and toothbrushes followed.
They made a few more trips hauling the rest of the stuff to the car. She noticed various people inspecting the apartment complex. Must still be safe, she surmised. Payton wanted to leave early since showers were going to be out of the question. She knew her dad had a generator and a well. They went to bed somewhat earlier than normal, having filled their bellies on mac-&-cheese from the cupboard. The little camping stove her dad had put in her bag had already proven its worth.
Around 12:30 A.M.—Wonder how much longer this thirteen percent phone-charge will get me—they were awakened by a decent aftershock. They were sleeping together in Payton’s bed and had made their way back to the bathtub to ride it out. As they were calming themselves down afterwards, they heard a series of explosions around town.
“Mama?” Savannah stuttered, a look of fear wrinkling her face.
“Shhh, baby, I know,” Payton murmured quietly.
They tried going back to bed, but a while later they were woken to loud violent pounding on the apartment door. She could hear a man yelling out there, but the words were muffled.
She ran out and opened the door. The thought that someone dangerous could be there had not occurred to her. “What!” she yelled, having to step out to see who it was.
The only person was a firefighter decked out in their gear about three apartments down, pounding, yelling, and moving. When he heard her, he stopped and turned. “Mandatory evacuation! Five minutes! Let’s go!”
“Wait! Why?” she yelled back.
“Mama?” Savannah was at the door.
She could hear the firefighter repeating that same instruction over and over as he moved along the complex. She realized she heard other firefighters and deputies repeating the process all over the complex just as she noticed the orange glow from the east. There were fires all over the place. The gas lines must have blown up, she thought. There were sheriff’s cars and fire trucks all over the multitude of apartment complexes that covered the mile of hill-side.
“Baby. Grab your coat! Now. We gotta go,” she instructed.
“But, I—”
“Now!” Payton screamed at her daughter, cutting her off. “We need to move!” She was trying to manage panic so that her daughter wouldn’t freeze up. As far as she knew, the place could blow up at any second. Or the hill could come sliding down. It was only God’s guess what else might happen. We need to go.
