Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 31
The caisson team was just trying to buy them time. “It’s no use!” someone down below yelled.
The tired workers down below were out of steam and options. As the water grew higher than the wedges, the wood’s natural buoyancy took over. First one popped. Then another. Soon there were four-foot long wedges floating everywhere, bouncing along as the rapid current took them north. The small boats three-hundred to the north near the shaft workers were starting to jostle as the water crept under them. The thirty workers who had been fighting the flood at the bottom of the caisson started making their way to the dock’s stairs.
“C’mon!” one of them yelled up at the shipwrights. “Time to go!”
Crane looked down at Billy, Tracy, and the others. They were all looking up and down the incomplete scaffold at each other—wet and aching from swinging the big hammers. This started with the hammer, Crane thought. It’s how it ends, too. He started swinging again. Boom! Boom! Billy started swinging again, too. Then Tracy. “Every second counts!” Crane yelled from the top. In all, there were still five shipwrights out there fighting to the end.
As the water continued north, emergency generators and floodlights were added by other teams at the top of the dry-dock. There was a crowd of shipyard workers watching. The high-rankers were out there, too. The shipyard’s Commanding Officer was at the top of the dry-dock stairs, giving men and women blankets and thanking them profusely. She wasn’t trying to hide the tears anymore. Nobody was.
Still, it continued. Boom! Boom! Boom! Five mauls swinging into one-foot wide wedge-backs. It continued several more minutes. More wedges popped out, which sped up the flooding. Soon the flood had reached the north end of the 1,200-foot-long dock. The only place for it to go now was up. The small boats were lightly bouncing against the scaffold to which they were tied, the same one that the shaft-seal crew was working from. The water was approaching the deck-level of that scaffold—about thirteen feet off the ground. At the caisson scaffold it was closer to sixteen feet deep.
The scaffold was bouncing around pretty well now. The lowest two shipwrights had peeled off the scaffold and started swimming for the dry-dock stairs in the cold October flood. They were tired, sore, and hypothermic. Both of them stopped swimming and started treading. Soon they stopped doing that.
“Swim! Swim!” people were yelling from above. A worker driving one of the small boats untied it and fired up the gasoline engine. He sped over and tried to pull the first one into the boat, but he was almost completely dead weight. The small boat capsized. Marie started to run down the stairs. “Captain, no!” It was Captain Flowers. He shot her a look as he passed her at the top of the stairs.
“This better not be because I’m a woman, Trevor!”
“You’re too valuable, Marie! We need you.” He pointed at the crowd. “They need you!” He nudged past her along with several other people, running down the stairs to see if they could help. A few of the workers at the creeping waterline on the stairs had braved the water, swimming out to assist.
Back at the scaffold more wedges had popped out. Tracy had dropped her maul, too tired and cold to grip it anymore. She slipped off the pipe she was standing on, hitting her head on one of the hard metal rings built into the legs. She got knocked out and her safety harness held her suspended in the rising water. Billy looked down and saw what was happening. He unhooked and started to climb down, stopping halfway to try to unhook her harness. She weighed too much for the tired old man, so he opened his pocket knife and began to saw at her lanyard. Just then a wedge shot out and crashed squarely into Billy’s head, sending him flying untethered into the water swallowing the scaffold. Like Tracy, he’d been knocked out. He was dragged under by the swirling vortex that resulted from the rushing water. People up topside gasped in horror. They were screaming—trying to get Crane’s attention.
Back at the shaft seal the mechanics were standing on the scaffold in knee-deep water when they finally finished the torquing evolution. They scrambled over to the lone small boat and climbed in. They made their way over toward the stairs where the shivering rescue swimmers had finished pulling the two shipwrights and small boat operator out of the water. They were pointing drastically at the caisson, trying to get the second boat operator to go find Billy and Tracy.
Crane had dropped his hammer, looking down to see that Billy was gone and Tracy was completely submerged. With numb and frozen hands, he climbed down the scaffold-leg’s connecting rings into the water and took a deep breath. S-so c-c-c-col-d i-it b-b-bu-rns… So cold, it burns, he thought. He unhooked Tracy’s lanyard, but it was too late. She was almost peaceful as she sank away from his weakened grasp. Crane’s last thought was about his father, sister, and niece, as the swirling torrent slammed him into a scaffold leg and shot him submerged down the dry-dock. He was so cold and tired… so so tired…
29
Rubicon.
Tahoma’s Hammer + 16 Days.
When is this horrible “pineapple express” going to end? Charlie asked himself as he ran into the county’s primary EOC in Bartlett. There was a straight deluge coming down, as if someone had set off a firehose that covered half the state. His feet, socks, boots, and pants were soaked as he stepped into the building. The bulletproof glass door closed behind him, drowning out the sound of generators and rain.
Charlie had driven through not one but two check points to get into the parking lot. “Someone stole some of Peterson’s squad cars,” the second gate’s guardsman had told him. Some? Well, that sucks, Charlie realized. Now the criminals will be disguised.
He’d been sent down by the Sylvan precinct watch commander to represent the central county branch of the sheriff’s department. Every police agency in the county had sent several representatives to this meeting, including the Navy bases and Tribal departments. There were also military officers attending. Not just the National Guard but Navy and Marine officers, too. Something’s going on…
The entry into the big center was steamy from all the peace officers filing into it. There was an abundance of wet wool clothing, rain coats, and body heat, which made the foyer feel muggy. He recognized many of them, even the ones from other departments. Everyone was giving each other the standard what’s up eyebrow raise. The women and men filed into a crowded conference room. Even more humid in here, Charlie complained in his own mind. No ventilation.
The room was abuzz with a few dozen conversations. Charlie scanned around himself, listening. Some people were just catching up, but most were either telling war stories from the last two-and-a-half weeks or theorizing about why they were there. Charlie had a feeling that it had to do with the escalating violence and the plan to deal with it. There had been both documented and rumored shoot outs happening all over, including one out in the west end of the county—his zone—just the evening before. The radio chatter was particularly guarded about whatever had happened. He made a stop out at the range earlier in the morning, but other than mud and dirt askew he found nothing out of place. Mud and brush were askew everywhere, he’d told himself. If anything happened here it was cleaned up. The only thing more out of place was Phil’s icy-cold reception and one- and two-word answers—“Nope.” “No.” “Sure.” “Will do.” “Nothing.”
There had been an escalating turf war in the eastern neighborhoods of Bartlett that had resulted in a free-for-all shootout between two gangs the night before, too. Charlie had heard there had been several members from both groups—Hispanic cartels and white bikers—killed or wounded. He figured they’d hear more in a bit.
“Team, we are going to get started,” said Sandy McCallister in her slight, Southern Californian drawl. “We’ll start with an update from the Shipyard’s Public Information Officer, Lt. Commander Hutchins.” A mid-thirties male officer in green camouflage came up to the podium.
“Good morning. The Shipyard Commanding Officer would like to update everyone on the issues we’ve been contending with, particularly because of the level of activity outside our fences for the last several days. We understand that the community has a certain…disappointment…in the misunderstanding of the mission to resupply ourselves. Several days ago, we were able to successfully contain an emergent condition with the refueling operation that was in process on a submarine when the disasters struck.” This caused a murmur that forced him to pause.
“What does that mean?” he heard a voice from the audience say.
“It means that you can disregard rumors you’ve been hearing regarding nuclear power. Things like ‘melt down’ and ‘radioactive cloud’ are vastly blown out of proportion. We’ve been continuously conducting testing and sampling of the shipyard and the community to ensure that everyone is safe.” There was a low skeptical hum coming from the police, politicians, and community leaders packed into the room. “Let me put it into terms you’ll understand. Reactors that aren’t operational don’t melt down. Reactors being refueled aren’t operational.” He was obviously a bit on edge.
“Last night the Navy base’s power generating station ran out of coal, which was our back-up fuel. We’ve been operating on coal because the natural gas lines feeding the region were broken during the events. We’re now operating exclusively on emergency generators just like all of you. Our biggest issue is that the dry-dock pumps have stopped working, which allowed the dry-docks to flood overnight.
“We met a critical deadline on the USS Halsey in Dry-dock F.” He paused for a minute to stare at his notes. The room could tell he was delaying to hold back some emotion. His voice gave the slightest of cracks as he continued. “Both operations have resulted in casualties.” An audible gasp could be heard from several of the audience. “Nine people gave their lives to the community and the nation in service to the Navy. We also have identified several casualties from structural and crane collapses on the day of the events. The shipyard has tried every method at its disposal to notify next of kin, but we need your help. A list of names and home addresses will be posted in the foyer. Copies are limited due to the power issues. I will not be taking questions. Thank you.”
With that, the officer left the podium and the room. Charlie could tell the man was upset about having to make the announcement. He watched Director McCallister step back up to the front. She introduced a pair of other officers, who explained the combined Navy-Marine mission to extract national assets from the Bogdon Submarine Base. They explained that most of the task force had departed, leaving behind two supply ships and two destroyers, as well as a few of the amphibious ships and one littoral combat ship. The operation would take months or years and would surge in size as needed. A battalion of Marines was being left to beef up the security. It was made clear to the community that their sole mission was to protect their base and assets at any cost.
Director McCallister and several police leaders—including Charlie’s own sheriff—then gave a detailed brief regarding the escalating violence across the whole peninsula. There was still no positive word from the feds on when they would be able to ship in assistance. It seemed that the state’s infrastructural damage was far worse than anyone had guessed, and the economic impact caused by the loss of electricity and cyber-capability had affected the country more deeply than anyone had thought possible.
They were indeed updated on the shooting incidents. They not only learned about the shootout in Bartlett, but also about several incidents throughout the county that had been chalked up to less organized crime—theft, revenge, and grudge murders.
Charlie noted that the thing the Director most worried about wasn’t the violent hungry populace or the rising criminal enterprises—it was the banding of people together to provide for themselves. He had been trying to stay awake and passively been listening for the half-hour that they’d rambled on, but their conclusion had snapped him out of it.
“… last thought to ponder,” Director McCallister said. “The people will never be able to provide critical services for themselves. A few will, of course, but not on the scale needed. The people need us. They don’t need a few vigilante groups running around with guns taking the law into their own hands. Their perceived Constitutional rights don’t trump your actual right to be safe doing your jobs. That is all.”
The room broke up and took its time filing out into the foyer as officers and Guardsmen stopped to check the list. Some of them made notes in their pads. Several minutes later Charlie was running his finger down it, not expecting to find what he found. He read it again. And again. “Walker, Crane, 6002 Doug Fir Dr., Bartlett, Emergency POC: Walker, Phillip.”
Stu and Carmen strode into the entry driveway at the Chapel Hill Presbyterian Church near the city of Gig Harbor. They’d been following the crowd, literally. They were both decked out in hunter-camo, waterproof rain gear, and durable, name-brand clothing. The homeowner’s feet were bigger than Stu’s, so he still contended with the rubbing issue, but calluses were starting to build. Sometimes the rubbing didn’t hurt. They were also both sporting waterproof backpacks stuffed with camping equipment and canned goods. Stu hadn’t felt a tinge of guilt about taking the stuff. It can rain as hard as it wants as long as I have this hooded coat.
Stu had even strapped on one of the former owner’s hunting knives, a full-tang survival knife with leather scabbard. He didn’t attach the leg-strap but rather, he had the rain pants pulled up between the scabbard and his pants for easier access. Carmen was armed, too, carrying a Ruger pistol chambered in .22 LR. She had remembered enough about pistol day at Navy bootcamp to know how to load the magazines, work the safety, and rack the slide.
They made their way past the church building to the large parking lot to the south. The heavy rain was pounding on the tents and canopies mercilessly. One of the enclosed canopies sounded horrible, as there were several people coughing relentlessly inside it. Must be a quarantine of some sort…
It’s true, Stu thought in disbelief as he saw the big bus. There was a crowd of people braving the rain. They walked up to someone near the back of the pack. “Does this go north?”
“Not sure,” said the woman. “I hear they run a few to Tacoma and a few to Bartlett every day.”
“Where do they get the fuel?”
“Who cares?”
You’re no help. Stu wandered forward until he found a sign to read near the front of the crowd. “Bartlett: 10:30, 2:30, 6:30, no fee,” he read on one of them. Courtesy of Mar de Paz Services, he read at the bottom. Peaceful Sea? he asked himself, dusting off the junior high Spanish in his mind.
“We may get you to your ship, yet,” he told Carmen. Her eyes were near-dead, but Stu thought he could see a small amount of life in them somewhere.
The rain and softened ground were bittersweet. While it made digging the holes easy, the old Kubota was slipping around quite a bit, losing traction in the muck. Can’t afford the wasted diesel, Phil thought as he finished pushing dirt back into the mass grave. He knew they’d all crossed a metaphorical line the night before. The old days were gone. “Shoot and shovel” is how you handle these investigations now…
The night of and morning after the attack had been a flurry of activity. They moved bodies and picked up the brass, letting the heavy rain wash away the blood. Despite the forewarning of a gun grab, some of the range members were making small waves about the clean-up. They’re not ready to face reality, Phil worried. That’s the thing—it’s still reality even if most of you don’t recognize it. The truth doesn’t care about your feelings.
He’d afforded the bulk of the range members a partial truth—burying the attackers was the proper and humane thing to do. Law enforcement is overtaxed, he told them. The coroner’s office is shut down. We’ll tell the authorities when things are normal again. None of that was false, but he was trying to find a way to keep the sheriff’s office from knowing about the shootout. Phil knew that his best defense regarding how this was handled was “sin of omission”—not lying but also not telling all the details. All personal items found on the attackers were being kept in one of Phil’s personal ammo lockers in a conex box. As far as he was concerned, they were gone from the face of the earth. We will have a much bigger problem if the National Guard comes out here, which will happen when the truth gets out. Not If, but When…
He had just covered the mass grave which contained the bodies of six men and a woman, along with their firearms and all spent ammunition casings that could be found. He shouldn’t have been surprised when two of the attackers turned out to be Harry and his girlfriend. He had no idea how they were connected to the kid from the range break in, and he didn’t care.
He was up in the big field at the top of the hill, just a scant hundred or so meters from the closest of the temporary greenhouses. He drove the tractor over the earth a few times to pack it, careful not to refill the nearby solo grave that they would all be standing around in a few hours. He was extremely angry, not having yet brought himself to full emotion over the loss of Fred O’Conner. He felt horribly for Phyllis, who had not come out of their little travel trailer to face the world just yet. I wonder if I should dig a few more of these…
As he was turning his head to back up, his eyes caught Jerry standing at the door to his Command Post canopy at the far end of the four-hundred-meter-long field. He was swinging his arms wildly, trying to get Phil’s attention. Phil shut down the tractor and looked at his cell phone. There was a text waiting from Jerry, telling Phil to come over and keep quiet about it. Phil slowly controlled his descent off the orange machine and made the muddy hike over to Jerry, stepping into the tent.
