Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 13
Crane was using the manila rope to pull the boat over to where the dry-dock stairs met the current waterline. At his feet were three personal floatation vests, a ten-horse small boat engine, a paddle, and a partially filled can of mixed-gas. Two of the radiation techs were coming down the stairs with a couple more following. All were carrying a fairly full plastic bag. Crane was just about to climb over the stair’s handrail and step into the ten-foot Livingston when he heard “Stop!”
The closest tech, a man in his forties, was coming down the stairs with a younger female following. Each had a plastic bag. Like Crane, they were decked out in a full suit of yellow coveralls, booties, rubber gloves, and half-face respirators. They looked like Minions but without the farmer overalls. “You need to take a reading on your dosimeter first. Just call it out. Tomi here will record it.”
“Sorry,” Crane hollered through the respirator. “I’m just a poor dumb shipwright. Name’s Crane,” he said, changing the topic.
“Rick,” the man stated.
“Rick, as soon as I’m in the boat, hand me that stuff, motor first,” Crane instructed. “Let me get the engine running warming up before you climb in.” Crane donned one of the floatation vests, read his dosimeter, called out his reading to Tomi, and climbed over the rail. He stabilized his balance and turned to receive the motor. Once he had it set, he set the clamps down on the transom to make sure it stayed put. Rick handed him the fuel and a wood paddle that was sitting there. Crane primed the engine and got it started on the first pull.
Rick and Tomi had put on their float vests and were waiting for Crane to give them the sign. He held the dock’s stair rail, using his stance to hold the boat steady while they climbed in. Every one to two minutes, Rick and Crane would call out their readings to Tomi, while she recorded it on a clipboard with a pencil.
Crane drove them around the dock in a pre-arranged pattern so that Rick could take samples of water and make swipes on the hull of the sub. He would screw the lid tight, tape the lid’s seam, write on the vial, and set it into a pre-labeled spot of a gridded case. Very efficient, Crane thought.
While they were near the broken caisson, Crane took photos. He was issued a camera for this task, something that wasn’t normal. Cameras in the shipyard were tightly controlled. He looked around and started to have an idea about something they could do. I need to get back to the woodshop first, he thought. If we have enough timbers, it might just work.
“Where’s Paw-paw?” Savannah asked, confused about why he wasn’t there.
“He’s at the gun-range, baby,” her mother replied, hoping she was right. They had just taken sponge baths in the kitchen. The faucets weren’t working, and Payton wasn’t sure exactly how to start and hook up the generator. She opted to warm the water up on the stove, which ran on propane. Watch him walk in, she thought, knowing in her mind that a little embarrassment would be okay in exchange for knowing he was fine.
The little pump on the water-bob in the bathtub was easy enough to figure out. They decided to warm some water in Phil’s big saucepot that he normally made his extremely average spaghetti sauce in. Payton had a second pot boiling since she was unsure if the tub water was safe to drink. Better safe than sorry…
The Walker ladies used some of the boiling water to make ramen noodles and took their washcloth baths while the noodles were cooling. Payton opened the curtain at the sliding glass door and was taken back by what she saw. Her dad’s back porch was gone, laying in a heap about ten feet below. It was a fast lesson in the new-world—don’t let Savannah go anywhere without checking it out first.
Once the un-boiled water was a bit cooler they washed their hair, using the sink to catch the rinse water. She figured the septic would work until it didn’t. She knew it had always worked during power outages when she was a teenager.
Her phone was dead. She knew it was around 10:00 AM, thanks to the fact that her old-fashioned dad still believed in owning at least one battery-operated clock. Should we go look for him? She thought for a while longer. Finally, she got up and began filling grocery bags with cans of food that had spilled out onto the kitchen floor. “Grab your stuff. We’re going to the gun range,” she told her daughter. Please be there.
It was late morning and the rain was steady, casting the world in a dreary gray—drearier than normal. So far four range members had drifted in, two with spouses. Fred O’Conner—“Airhead Fred,” Phil sometimes called him, due to the oddball things that floated out of his mouth—was the first to show. He hadn’t received Phil’s text plea for help. He just had a feeling, so he packed up his wife in their twenty-one-foot Jayco travel trailer and came to the range at first light.
When he showed up, Phil was guarding the thug in the dirt parking lot. “I kinda felt sorry for the kid,” Fred told Phil a little later.
“Why?” Phil could only wonder what he was about to hear.
“It was like a chihuahua picking on a pit bull,” Fred began, “and the pit bull making the chihuahua lay in the rainy mud for four hours.”
“Oh, Airhead,” Phil said, smiling. “I’m glad you’re here, buddy.”
“I still can’t believe the deputy just let him go,” Fred said.
“Yeah. Before you showed up, I took photos of him, his license, and every tattoo I could find without removing his pants.” Phil shuddered a little upon saying that. “Turns out he’s related to the Matthews, one of the patriarch families out here. I know several. Some are okay, others…not so much. I’m not too worried about it. They know better than to come after me. In fact, I think they’ll probably tune him up a bit just for being stupid.
“Say, Fred…” Phil continued. “Think you can hold down the fort here and let me borrow your truck while I take off to find the girls? People keep strolling-in. At some point I just need to leave, probably within the next half hour or so.”
“Sure, boss! Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, bud.” Phil’s mind was travelling in about twelve directions. He needed to find Payton and Savannah, but he also needed to decide what was happening here. People were just coming out, as if they sensed the natural defensibility of the property. People like Jerry Horst, who had shown up with “toys.” Jerry was a HAM radio guy. When Phil greeted Jerry at his truck, he noticed a generator and several car batteries and plastic boxes in the back. While I’m home I need to get my generator, too, Phil thought. Jerry laid out a whole plan for setting up antennas and power supplies, and the whole conversation made Phil’s head start to spin. The world needs, nerds, too, he realized.
As people slowly trickled in, Phil realized he needed to make a decision. I don’t want to camp here forever, he thought. But…this is fairly defendable, and there’s strength in numbers. What he was hoping was that the board officers would all show up so he could take a quick vote on what to do. But there was no guarantee any of them would show up.
He had been assigning tasks to people. He had Craig Wageman digging several slit trenches in Bay 9 with the backhoe. That would help with potty needs for the day while he thought through the long-term plan. They could move a couple of the Costco-style tarp-shelters over the trenches to provide privacy. As people did their business, they could cover their waste with dirt from the trench. It wasn’t ideal but neither was having people start to create “cat-holes” all over the property.
He had Fred go up to the field and surrounding area to inventory the materials up there. The place had become a collecting yard over the years, as members donated materials in lieu of working their required participation time. There was PVC, lumber, fencing, piping, even an old wood stove. It wasn’t like going to the hardware store, but they could rough in some facilities. He planned on having someone hop in the zero-turn mower and give the field a trim. He wanted to use some PVC pipe and plastic sheeting to make a greenhouse for his “winter starts,” which were still at home.
Phil was already worrying about fuel. They might be able to scrounge sixty to eighty gallons of gas, if they were lucky, plus some propane. He had another ten five-gallon jerry cans of gas at home. He found that those and the additives “Pri-G” or “Pri-D” were the best way to store small quantities of fuel. The club had about fifty gallons of diesel available for the tractor. Things were not looking so bright if the members wanted to turn this into a working camp.
“Phil,” the radio crackled. On his hip was one of the range’s little Retevis Model 777 radios. They transmitted in UHF, on about one-watt of power. They were good for the property and not much else. Ugh, how’ll we recharge these? One more thing to worry about…
“Yeah?” he replied. It was Stephanie Webster, who was watching the office while her husband Tim took a better look at the broken septic trailer.
“You have a visitor. It’s a deputy. Also, please check the hand-pump on the well-head. It doesn’t seem to be working very well.”
Great… “I’ll be up in three.” I hope its Charlie. Phil started the John Deere Gator and headed back to the front half of the property. He made it clear to everyone there that shooting was suspended, which ensured that people could move freely while performing work. He took the southern back route out of the field and moved across the rifle line from the right, crossing a road that paralleled it after the road started near the gate. He banked left up the road instead of crossing the line and then turned into the parking area. There was the familiar green medium-SUV the local deputies were using now.
“What’s up, brother?” he greeted Charlie, giving him a quick “bro-hug.” It was a sign of respect, especially considering the role Charlie had played in saving Phil’s life.
“I heard you spared a poor innocent soul today,” the giant, good-looking deputy said, smiling.
“Ah, yes, I thought you might find your way out here. So, you heard, huh? What took you so long, Sergeant?” Phil asked.
“Been a long two days. Plus, I’m not sure if you know this, but I moved to graveyard when Mike McLaffin retired about three weeks ago.”
“Roger that. The next shootout needs to happen on graveyard. Got it,” Phil cracked. Both men chuckled a bit before turning to a more serious tone.
“So, Phil,” Charlie led in, “what are your plans for out here?”
“Well, I think I’m still thinking about that. As you can see, members have started drifting out here,” Phil mentioned, pointing towards Tim over by the destroyed restroom building. “Let’s take a ride while we’re talking.” Charlie looked at his car, hesitant to stray too far.
“We’ll be in the Gator,” Phil reminded him. “We won’t go far.”
“Okay,” Charlie said, trusting Phil.
Phil turned the little cart around and started driving towards the southwest corner of the property. He thought about his friendship with the deputy. They’d known each other for years from competing in practical shooting competitions. They’d been students at some of the same classes over the years, and Charlie had even taken some of Phil’s classes when he was feeling rusty. But it was the bridge thing that had sealed their bond. Phil snapped out of it when he got to the corner.
He climbed out of the gator, and his guest followed suit. “What do you see here?” Phil asked. They were looking at the corner of the property, where it met the shoulder of Canal Vista Highway and veered due east along the neighboring property’s border.
“You mean besides a flimsy wire fence? I dunno. Trees. Huckleberry. The neighbor’s mail-box, the highway, the house just down the road…”
“The southern approach,” Phil explained. “We can build a fighting position right here in the brush under the trees and have a clear view of the highway all the way down to that curve. The range already has tons of sand and hundreds of bags. A little spray paint for the bags, maybe a tarp—and our lookouts would never be seen.”
Charlie nodded. The two men got back into the gator, and Phil took him to the back field. They pulled up to Fred at the far end, about three hundred yards away.
“Hey, ya, fellas!” Fred exclaimed after shutting off the mower. Fred shot a lot of the shooting sports and knew full-well who Charlie was.
“Hey, Fred, whatcha up to?” Charlie asked.
Fred shot Phil a look and answered after getting a nod. “I’m mowing this area down to hay, and we’re going to build a greenhouse up here—a big one. Like one of those big “high-tunnel” kinds…except the budget model.”
Phil took over. “See that spigot over there?” Charlie looked where Phil was pointing and acknowledged. “Well, we’ve been installing those all over the place for years. We have water, so we’ll grow food up here. Not just the greenhouse but a big garden, too. As I’ve shown you, we’ll put in fighting positions. We’ll let people park their trailers in the action bays, set up showers and latrines. Maybe a school of sorts to keep the kids busy. I just need to talk to the board, first. If they show up. But I may have to decide without them. People are here already.”
They hopped back into the gator so that Fred could get back to work. They continued to discuss the potential for the property as Phil dropped Charlie off at his patrol vehicle.
“Hey, bud, I think I need to get back to town,” Charlie said. “I’ll swing by tonight, if things don’t get crazy.”
“Yeah, I’m going to head home. If Payton’s not there, I’ll be heading to town to find her,” Phil replied. “Oh! My truck is just a bit down Salal Road and undriveable. I’ll get to it in a day or two.”
“Don’t sweat it. There’s hundreds of cars stuck all over the place.”
The two men made their good-byes, and Phil watched Charlie turn right onto the highway and take off to the north. He turned around and started to head into the office when he heard another car approaching. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Payton’s gold Acura pull in. Two offspring down, one to go, he thought, smiling for the first time that day.
12
Autopilot.
Tahoma’s Hammer + 1 Day.
Maersk. Cosco. NYK. Hanjin. All of the world’s shipping companies reacted with real time satellite communications, redirecting their cargo ships bound for Portland, Tacoma, Seattle, Everett, and Vancouver. Suddenly San Francisco, Oakland, Long Beach, and San Diego all had to double their capacity for shipping traffic. That was only half of the problem. The trucks capable of handling the containers were still on the way to the destruction zone. Worse yet, many of them were trapped or straight up destroyed during the devastation. Once the shipping industry realized the lack of trucks was the new constraint, they started redirecting from the East Coast. They also started sending goods bound for the eastern side of the country through the Panama Canal.
The reverse flow of goods was equally affected. Items scheduled to leave the destroyed ports were now rerouted, if they were found at all. Commerce with Asia and the Far East suddenly slowed. Goods worth hundreds of millions of dollars slowed to a crawl in their travels, and so did the flow of money. Compounding this was the fact that hackers were already taking advantage of the issues emanating from the crisis. It wasn’t just Amazon and Microsoft who were hit. Portland was home to Intel and other major chip manufacturers. While their roads were mostly usable, Portland and Vancouver were suffering from the power outages, too. Criminals that would use malware, trojans, and other malicious code to steal money and industrial property were already hard at work.
The US Federal Government had started to put all their FEMA plans into play on the day that the hammer struck. By Hammer + 1, they had already found a number of anticipated but unmitigated obstacles. Helicopters just didn’t have the range to get supplies or assistance as far north and west as they needed to be. The air, sea, and land transport routes and ports were all out of commission, some permanently. It would take weeks to months to get runways and highways cleared and repaired. Additionally, power outages in every major city west of Denver had caused a slight panic in those states, which was made worse by the doom and gloom media reports. Supplies sat at FEMA storage sites and on runways untouched and unmoving. The famous photo of thousands of cases of water sitting on a Puerto Rican runway for months after the 2017 disaster was now a slight hiccup in comparison to the wasted resources throughout the US after Tahoma’s Hammer fell.
The Princess cruise ship listed heavily to starboard, and there was a bright rainbow sheen surrounding it for several hundred feet. There were tugboats tending to floating containment booms, trying to keep the fuel from completely escaping. It was a losing battle fought throughout much of Puget Sound. That’ll kill all the fish, Tony thought. Not good, which was neither the first nor last time he’d thought “not good” that day.
Jason’s original course had been aimed at Seattle’s Pier 66. As they got closer, the two men knew they would have to adjust course to the north. The devastation of Seattle had left them both silent, at a complete loss for words. Buildings looked like steel skeletons, barren of their glass. The entire city was in a haze from smoke, with many columns of it still floating through the top of the film. Large fires—towering infernos—were visible and unattended. Buildings were written off as strategic losses. Structures meant to stay on piers were now submerged. Paul McCartney won’t be fishin’ out of the Edgewater Hotel, anymore, Tony thought. They could see throngs of people and emergency vehicles around the waterfront. Seattle’s most famous skyscape icon—the Space Needle—was conspicuously absent. Tony’s heart was in his stomach.
“Take me north,” he said from the little boat’s bow. “We’ll land up at that park.” He hoped Jason couldn’t see him shedding tears.
Jason complied without comment. He was still trolling, not sure of what navigational hazards they might find. They had lost count of the number of trees, bodies, and other debris they had brushed against on the trip over. After another twenty-five minutes at trolling speed they finally reached Olympic Sculpture Park. The footbridge that led over the railroad tracks to the top of the hill was lying in a pile of concrete.
