Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 3
Phil and Dakota went down to the pistol line to make sure his customers weren’t hurt. The pair of older gentlemen weren’t club members, but they were people Phil recognized as public patrons who came out two or three times per year to plink. They were using the pistol line under the watchful eye of Donald Kwiatkowsky, a double-retiree and the Lead Range Officer who normally worked Tuesdays and Fridays.
Phil left the office and walked north-east down a set of stairs. The pistol line was towards the left set-up in a south–north shooting direction. It was under a seventy-foot-long covered patio—enclosed for weather and noise control on three sides. Communication with the rest of the range relied on the use of two-way radios or walking down in person to talk. In the excitement of the moment, Phil had left his radio sitting on the office counter-top.
“You guys okay down here, Don?” Phil asked.
“I think so! We were all just saying that we’re getting a little too old for roller coasters!”
The others were talking quickly, too, and concurring that they were fine. Phil could hear the excitement in their voices. With Dakota glued to his intact right leg, he ran back out towards the path that leads up to the office. He crossed over it to the eastward-pointing rifle line, which had a similar set-up to the pistol line. He walked the 130-foot-wide line, looking at the roof structure for damage and then climbed up the path at the far end that led back to the driveway end of the parking area. It was then that he noticed Tony’s truck still idling in the lot. He hurried over.
“You okay?”
“Holy smokes…” was the only thing that the normally talkative Tony could muster.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Phil said, laughing slightly.
“Um, yeah. Sorry, Phil.” Tony climbed out of the truck. “I’m fine, thanks. Holy schnikies! Whoooo!!! That was my first big earthquake!” He started to laugh as loudly as he talked.
There he is. “Good to hear.”
Phil continued his first scan of the three portable buildings—the office, the classroom, and the restroom. Nothing looked askew at first glance. He looked at the gate at the end of the driveway, which began at the Canal Vista Highway, the main artery to this part of the county. It was a sixteen-foot-wide, welded steel gate that swung up out of the way via chain-driven electric motor. The staff always left it in the up position during the day, but it was now lowered. It must’ve reset itself. “I’ll get the gate for you.”
“Hold up,” Tony said, already walking to the roll-up doors on the driver’s side of the truck. He grabbed six more jugs of water and set them on the ground. “Here.”
Phil looked puzzled.
“Just in case,” Tony explained.
Phil looked at the water, then back at Tony. He’s right. What am I doing? I have things to do. “Thanks, man. I’ll get that gate for you.”
He used the manual-latch override since he wasn’t sure if the power was even on at the gate. Phil motioned for Tony to stop as he approached the gate.
“Take care, Tony. If you run into any issues, come back out. I mean it. I live close by, so I’ll be here sooner or later.”
“Right on, Phil. Thanks, man. I’ll be okay.” Tony waved as he drove out and turned left, back towards Bartlett.
Phil was already sending texts. I hope these make it through. Phil knew that texting required a fraction of the bandwidth and power that voice calls used, and text messages were more likely to reach their intended recipient after a big disaster such as this.
He’d been a widower for five years. Caroline died after a valiant fight with pancreatic cancer that had lasted most of two years. These texts were to his adult children. He sent one to Payton first, because she’s the girl and that’s what dads did. He knew Crane would be fine. He’d always been a resourceful kid. Barring some anomaly like a building collapse, he knew that Crane could handle any challenge the day threw at him. Payton was single, pregnant and had a daughter—a trifecta of issues to deal with on a day like this. Texts sent, he began the process of worrying about his family while he cleaned off his glasses. First, he would finish a quick tour of the range. Then he would get home as soon as possible.
Two-and-a-half minutes after getting into the duty truck, Captains Marie Darnell, Trevor Flowers, and the duty officer were walking into the EOC, or the Emergency Operations Center. It was actually located on the adjoining Navy base in the old four-story officer’s club and barracks. The old O-club had a fire in the early 1990s, and it had wiring issues ever since. In 2014, the Naval Base CO procured funding to tear down an old, unused supply center warehouse and build a new Officer’s Barracks. That facility opened in 2017, allowing the shipyard time to gut and rebuild the old barracks into a new multi-purpose facility. The other floors housed the Apprentice and Employee Development Programs, but the entire fourth floor was turned into a state-of-the-art EOC. The building’s height and position on top of a hill made it ideal for radio communications, both locally and with the bosses in the other Washington. It was also high enough to have a bird’s-eye view of the shipyard from the roof.
There was only one other person there at the moment, that being the person on duty. The emergency planning department of the shipyard was staffed by a team of eight civilians. During nuclear refueling or defueling evolutions, which the shipyard was in the middle of performing on the submarine USS El Paso, the EOC was staffed around the clock. The duty was easy, mostly just being ready to monitor things and start the info-sharing processes if an unplanned event occurred. A small living area was provided, and the duty rotation gave the team a chance to earn a little overtime. Evolutions like this normally lasted about three months. The primary purpose was to contain emergencies related to the nuclear-power program, and natural disasters were often the trigger of the emergency during the practice drills. Those not on duty worked at their normal office inside the shipyard.
“Anything yet?” Marie asked, greeting the duty EMCO, or Emergency Coordinator.
“Just that there’s been some sort of crane accident at Dry-dock A,” he said worriedly. “Waiting for a report, ma’am, but I believe it was tied to the refueling crane.”
This has the potential to be bad written all over it. “ETA on news?” Screw you, Murphy…
“Three minutes.”
“Move along, EMCO. What else?” she asked.
“As you can see on the status board here, we still have power to most of the buildings, but the piers and dry-docks must have tripped themselves.”
“Okay. Get me ‘NavSurf’ on the phone,” she ordered the duty officer, referring to her boss in Washington D.C. It was the fast way to say “Naval Shipyard Repair Facilities,” the designator for that branch of the Navy in charge of all the shipyards. Based out of Washington DC, NSRF was in charge of anything related to maintenance and repair of nuclear-powered vessels. “NavSurf” was the informal nickname for whichever admiral held that position, in this case Vice Admiral David Warburg.
While the duty officer was getting a secure line dialed up, she addressed the EMCO. “Send Group Text One.” That was an order to every cellphone and email in the shipyard distribution system, announcing that all personnel were to perform an emergency “shelter-in-house” and muster. They would then send reports up their respective chains as quickly as possible. They were further directed to send partial reports within fifteen minutes, even if the musters weren’t complete.
By the time the EMCO had complied with this request, several things were happening—the police and fire department radios were passing radio traffic that “wind-shield surveys” were commencing; various emergency managers and high-level department heads were strolling in; and both Captains’ cellphones were starting to blow up with texts.
Payton Walker’s first reaction to the earthquake had been to try calling Savannah’s school. Savannah was only nine-years-old. She needs her mom, Payton told herself, knowing deep inside it was as much the opposite, if anything. On the first try the phone rang continuously with no answer. On the countless tries afterward—twelve? thirteen?— she only got the fast busy signal. Payton was starting to get pissed. She didn’t need this.
Twenty weeks pregnant, Payton found herself single again, unexpectedly, about two weeks earlier. Is un-engaged even a word? She wasn’t surprised. They’d been drifting apart for months. Brenden wasn’t bad, he was just…indifferent. At first, he’d been open to the idea of adopting Savannah as his own, which was extremely endearing to Payton—God knows Savannah’s biological father has never tried to be a part of her life. He didn’t even want to live on the same side of the country. Brenden had taken a better paying job in Pierce County, installing fiber-optic cable along service routes, but the overtime and long commute meant less time together. That’s okay. Marriage is just a sham institution anyway. Brenden is decent, and he’ll still try his best to be involved, like he should be.
Payton inherited more of her mother’s blonde hair and strong will than her brother did. Where Crane was easygoing and got along well with their dad, she and Phil had been in a frozen relationship for half of her life. It was really just the events in recent years that had started the “thaw.” First her mother’s illness and passing, followed by the shooting incident. Recently, it had become apparent since her break up with Brenden that her dad was trying to get the relationship going again.
Brrrrt… [Phil: “Olive, text me back. If this reaches you, and you can’t reply, house first, then range. Let me know about Peaches. That’s an order, love you.”]
Wow. Olive. That had been Phil’s nickname for Payton when she was a girl, based on her middle name, Olivia. Peaches was Savannah, of course. He must be worried. I hate to admit it, but no matter how big of an ass he is, I know he’ll always be there for me.
Payton grabbed her phone and purse and made for the apartment door. I’ll reply later. Here’s hoping I can get to that school.
By the time Crane was out of the dry-dock, the jet-engine-loud evacuation alarm was wailing to the familiar “hi-low” siren that the employees and surrounding community heard tested twice per day, year-round. Only instead of the normal ten-second burst, it was continuing for one minute, then two. Finally, it turned off. It’s way more ominous when it runs that long, Crane thought. The going had been slowed by the multitudes of people trying to evacuate all at once. Some people just couldn’t run up eight dozen stairs as fast as others.
Crane had gotten a text from his dad around the time he arrived at the northeast corner of the area immediately outside the dry-dock. We’ll wait here for the foreman, just like during fire drills. He looked at his phone.
[Phil: “Son, shoot me a quick word to say you’re alright. If you have time, send more than that. You know where I’ll be. Dad.”] Yep. The house or the range.
[Crane: “G2go. Will send more L8R”.]
The trio of shipwrights were now in the throng of things. Several hundred workers, sailors, and managers were already gathering en masse. There was no room for them in the designated area. They flooded every street and available space around all sides of Dry-dock F. Federal workers and contractors alike were scrambling, trying to work through each other and sort themselves into familiar groups. Sailors were responding in kind on the ship. Adding to the confusion was the fact that the two emergency diesel generators that weren’t locked out for repairs and maintenance had somehow managed to turn themselves on. Diesel exhaust was billowing out of its designated chutes, a sight not often seen when a carrier was in dry-dock.
Across WSNS a very similar sight unfolded. Organized chaos was the best way to describe it, which was exactly how a member of the ship’s crew had once described a normal day at sea to Crane. The sailors seemed to be the least bothered by any of it.
“C’mon,” Billy said, dragging his junior co-workers towards the designated smoking area closest to their locker room. “Geoff’ll know to find me here. He’s never gonna find us in this mess.”
Billy lit up a generic low-tar cigarette and jump started his lungs with a little cough on the first drag. Running full speed out of Dry-dock F—ninety-eight stairs—was something he hadn’t done in a couple of decades.
Over the course of the next several minutes, many of the shipwrights from the two crews working on this project had arrived at the smoke-shack. They were fist-bumping and hi-fiving like they’d just won the Super Bowl. Nervous energy, Crane thought. Everybody was hyper and cracking jokes, telling anyone that would listen their version of “living through it,” as if that person didn’t just live through it, too. He was witnessing the after-effects of adrenaline. Pretty soon, everyone’ll be ready for a nap.
“What next?” Crane asked Billy.
“Hrrumphh,” Billy exhorted, suddenly disgusted by the recollection of what had happened last time. “If it’s like 2001…you don’t wanna know.”
Carmen Martinez finally broke her grip from the well-dressed, short balding man who had grabbed her and helped her stay clutched to the column for one-minute of hell. Within a quick moment, people were starting to show the signs of panic and turmoil. The big TV that hung on the wall behind the gate agent had fallen off. Someone is going to be pissed.
Actual screams brought her attention back to the moment. Alarms were resonating, and the high ceilings in the terminal made the noise bounce around even worse. The power flickered, fighting for several seconds to stay on before finally giving up life. This triggered the emergency systems to activate, lighting up emergency exit signs and spot lights.
The screaming got louder as people began rushing…the windows? Carmen pushed her way to the front of the pack—one of the perks of being 5’ 3” was maneuverability. She gasped in horror and forgot to breathe for several moments, not believing her eyes. Oh, my God…
Alaska 2340, the daily hopper from San Francisco, was two seconds from touching down when the earthquake struck. Naturally, the pilots didn’t know something was wrong until too much speed had bled off for a fresh take-off to work. For several seconds the same confusion that struck most people that day had also stricken them. They couldn’t figure out why the brakes weren’t working. If they had lived through the crash, they might have learned that the massive buckling of the ground—while only causing minor cracks in the runway—had been throwing their plane up into the air. This happened thirty-nine times in just under a minute, which was more than enough time to lose a few thousand precious feet of runway. It had also blown out several tires. The high rate of speed, lack of tires, and lack of control from being jostled was too much for the pilots to handle. The tip of the right wing dug into the grass and runway lights, causing a domino effect of tragedy.
The first people to look out the windows had witnessed Flight 2340 cartwheeling off the end of the runway. Carmen caught the huge fireball spreading south. It was eerie, almost like watching it unfold with a mute button. The “Whoompf” and rumbling of the explosion finally began to reverberate through the terminal’s windows about fifteen seconds after the earthquake stopped.
The public-address system boomed. “Attention all patrons and employees of SeaTac Airport! This is Assistant Chief Kim Royce of the Port of Seattle Fire Department! I’m declaring a natural disaster and Mass Casualty Incident! All flight operations are suspended! Everyone stay put and await further instructions!” Carmen could hear the stress in her voice.
The healthy and the walking-wounded we’re starting to react to the cries and pleas for help from the injured. Carmen rushed over to the airplane replica, where a group of men and women were trying to pick it up and get to people. This has to be a nightmare!
Tony had changed his plans. He was going back to the office instead of continuing his route. He was rolling his big Ford F-650 back down the Canal Vista Highway toward Bartlett while simultaneously trying to call in to work. The cell was just kind of hovering in no-man’s land, continuously searching for signal. He glanced down at the truck’s CB radio. Frickin’ CB radio. Who’d a thunk? He wasn’t sure what he was doing, messing with channels and a knob called “squelch” that just played annoyingly loud static. He doubted anyone from work was going to be on the thing anyway.
He decided to concentrate on the road and with good reason. Less than a mile south of the gun range was an S-curve. As he travelled through the second half, he had to hit the brakes. There was a big fir tree laying right across it. The tree had come off a high bank on the east side, running from left to right as Tony stared at it. He could see a couple of pick-ups and cars starting to build up on the other side of it. He switched on his flashers and got out.
“I don’t suppose you have a lumberjack in your back pocket,” he called out across the tree, smiling.
“Nope, no lumberjacks,” the woman replied, playing along. She turned around. “Hey!” she hollered to the rig behind her. “Got a saw?” The woman must’ve heard a reply, because she turned back toward Tony and shook her head no.
Tony had been staring at the tree. He could smell the tree’s pleasant odor strongly at this range. “You know…maybe we could just drag this thing with my truck? I think the truck’s big enough.”
“Oh, yeah. That’ll work alright!” The comment came from a man standing next to Tony that he hadn’t even seen come up to him.
“Dad gummit! Don’t do that, brothuh!” Tony said, laughing. “You scared the hell outta me!”
The man laughed. “Oh—sorry. But, you’re right. Come try to get some people behind us to back up while I cinch up my tow strap.”
