Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 5
There was a long pause. Her eyes drifted past his shoulder as she mulled his words over. “You’d better be right.”
Tony knew that tone and was scared of it. “It’ll be fine, baby. They’re okay, I’m sure o’ it.” I’d better escape while I can. “I’m gonna run home real quick like, and then I’ll call the school. When everything turns out to be fine, I’m goin’ back to work. I drove right past ‘em to come here.”
His wife gave him a wary eye as she pecked him on the lips and headed back to the correct side of the reception counter. She stopped and turned. “You’d better be right,” she repeated with extra emphasis as he headed out the door.
Whew. No kiddin’, I’d better be right. Hell hath no fury… Tony fired the beast back up and made the normally five-minute drive to his house in twelve minutes. He backed in to his driveway, opened his garage door, and off-loaded sixteen five-gallon jugs of water. But—just in case I’m not right, he kept repeating in his mind.
The shipyard’s Emergency Operations Center was abuzz with multiple conversations, most of them urgent. Marie had called for a senior manager’s meeting in the EOC’s larger conference room, to begin at 0930. There were about sixty people crammed into a room meant for forty. Her chair at the head of the table was available and waiting. Everyone knew who sat there. She strode in, hanging her uniform coat on the back of the chair. Most days she wore the same camo-uniform every sailor wore. Some days she would go to meetings or retirement parties out in the community, and on those days she wore her working khaki uniform with the ribbon rack under the left side collar. She was wearing that uniform, which had an odd way of adding to the urgency of the meeting. She sat down.
“NERD, start your report with Dry-dock A, please.” Nobody was giggling. No greetings. No time for that. She wanted to hear from specific people in a specific order.
The Nuclear Emergency Response Director, Jamison Thrall, stood up. “Captain, the crane accident at Dry-dock A did indeed involve the refueling team. They were in the process of raising a rod-cannister up after it had retrieved a spent fuel-rod when the earthquake hit. Those things weigh nearly four thousand pounds when loaded. It swung around like a giant weight and got caught on some of the ship’s structure and piping near the hull-cut. It overloaded the crane, which shut itself down following its own emergency procedures. Now we have a rod-container and crane stuck in an ominous position with unknown levels of damage to the rigging gear. This is unprecedented in even the most experienced team member’s careers.”
“What about the ship and the facilities, Mr. Thrall?”
“Ma’am, we’re going to have to inspect the dock-setting before we do anything. We’ll then need to measure list and trim and have the shipwrights take positional shots on the hull and the refueling complex. My guess is that things walked around a few inches.
“Okay. What about spills?”
“Ship’s force reports some unplanned water in the bilge. Right now, an isolation perimeter has been set up topside of the dock by the shipyard workers, awaiting the dock inspections to clear the way to re-enter the ship.
“Mr. Thrall, do you have one of the encoded/encrypted radios?” the captain asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Find me anytime you have new information. Any time. Understood?”
“Crystal clear, Captain.”
“Dock Master,” she said. “Give me some good news.”
Glenn Harper, the shipyard’s senior-manager of docks and piers, stood up. “Captain, I and my team have stopped by every dry-dock and personally directed the project managers to block off access to all dry-docks pending word from you or me.” He let that sit for a second and then continued. “The pier-side ships and barges are still being inspected. So far, we’re seeing that all the caissons have maintained a good seat-and-seal. Remember, E is already flooded and without caisson at this time.” He was referring to Dry-dock E, which was open to the inlet for several months. It’s caisson—essentially a ship designed to sink in a specific place and plug the dry-dock—was in a shipyard in Seattle being refurbished.
“And the pump wells, Mr. Harper?”
“I can speak to that, Captain.” Standing up with her hand half-raised was Lisa Carpenter, the superintendent of Shop 66, the collection of trades that specialized in providing power, air, water, and most other temporary services to the projects and piers. “Ma’am, the pump-wells checked in via the radios and sound-powered back-up systems. They report a series of pressure spikes and drops that have slowly stabilized. All systems are operational. The transition to back-up power went as smoothly as we can expect. It will take a full day of testing and monitoring to be sure, but we’re fairly confident there are no leaks in the dry-docks.”
The average person looked at a dry-dock as nothing more complex than a concrete bowl with a metal plug. In reality, the dry-docks were built between seventy and a hundred and ten years earlier, mostly on fill material. There was a series of tunnels and pumps running below the shipyard that had to be continuously de-watered. This was imperative year-round anyway, but definitely in rainy season, which usually coincided with higher tides. If the pumps quit working, the docks would slowly fill with water, no matter how well the caisson sealed itself.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Marie said. “I’m hearing from Public Works that the power-plant should be back up on normal power in an hour or two.
The meeting continued for another forty-five minutes. Marie took in every piece of information she could. Representatives from the security and fire departments were there, too. Damage to most buildings was superficial. The Navy had spent a ton of money upgrading facilities for several years; however, for a place this big, it took time. Two building managers were reporting severe damage, and at more than an hour into the event, not every person had been accounted for. Lord, just let that be an administrative issue, Marie thought. No deaths.
The local Slaughter County Department of Emergency Management was already asking for any news. They were extremely aware of the potential for hazardous things to drift from the shipyard into Bartlett in the form of a radioactive cloud. Nobody wants another Fukushima, people, just give me a minute to gather some information…
She had learned that the backup power plant out on the base had lit off two of the three boilers without incident. The third was out of service for maintenance, but it was being brought back online as quickly as possible. As long as we don’t lose our natural gas lines from Olympic Power Administration, she worried to herself. She didn’t want to resort to coal, as they only had a few weeks’ supply of that stored.
She ordered her Public Information Officer to release a statement to the local press and civic leaders to the effect that while there was some damage, initial reports showed no issues, yada, yada, yada. Her final decision of this meeting was to slowly release non-critical shipyard and contractor personnel by zone, so as to not flood Bartlett with too much traffic. People were already starting to slip out anyway.
The meeting had finally broken, and people started to check status boards one final time before they went back down the hill to the shipyard. “EMCO,” she beckoned into the open, not immediately seeing him through the crowd.
“Here, Ma’am,” he said as he scurried over from just inside the Comms Area.
“Two things. First, send out a text and email instructing all building managers to implement the emergency power restriction plan. Secondly, have you heard from Captain Reese?” she asked, referring to the Commanding Officer of the attached Navy base.
“Yes, Ma’am, he says he can support. He’d like to talk it over with you in person, but he’s already concurring.”
“Good. Thank you. Call him back. Tell him to implement Phase One of the Emergency Sheltering Plan. Phase One only, at this time. Setting up the shelters would be a major event—no need to have him start until we’re positive we need to. Tell him I’ll be at his office in fifteen minutes.”
John repeated the orders back to ensure he heard them correctly and then headed towards Comms to make it happen.
“Oh, EMCO, one last thing. Notify the Critical Personnel Distribution List that we’re having a mandatory all-hands muster at 1130 hours in front of Building 855, right in the middle of Monsoor Avenue. Only critical watch-standers and the evaluation at Dry-dock A are exempt.”
4
This Isn’t Fun Anymore.
Quake + 2 Hours.
The line at the ATM was getting longer. I hope there’s still some cash left… Dr. Stuart Schwartz usually carried a minimum of $600 on him. In his line of work, he went to dinners and parties a lot, usually hosted by an actor or singer who wanted his art performed on them. That’s what he called it. Art. Cutting on people’s noses and jawlines in a way that improved their looks without changing their sound was risky. Not just any meat cutter became skilled at it. After his share of a $1,000 dinner provided by a potential client, he usually covered the tip.
The power had come back on about twenty minutes into the event. Schwartz wasn’t sure if it was the actual utility or just generators, and he didn’t much care. This airport won’t be normal for a day or two at least. He needed to get to Portland or Spokane—anywhere with a runway that flies planes to LAX.
He kept staring at his Mariner watch—bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet out of boredom, looking around. The wailing had slowed considerably. The authorities were performing triage by the book. Other than the obvious plane crash, Schwartz wasn’t quite sure if anyone had perished, but there had been a couple of decent traumas in the replica wreckage by his gate. That one guy was definitely concussed, but all the idiots kept worrying about his mangled forearm. The whole scene was almost enough to pique his interest in real medicine again. Almost.
After twenty minutes, he was able to draw the maximum $600 from the machine. His money clip already had $280 in it. He hadn’t reloaded for the trip up because it was Sequim, Washington, not New York or San Francisco. Why the hell would I need all that cash where some redneck meth addict would just steal it anyway?
He took his cash and stepped back to put it away. Yep, that line goes at least a hundred feet farther back than where it was when I jumped into it. I’d better get moving. His first thought was to get snacks and water and find someone who could sell him a bus ticket. Schwartz started to wander back out of Concourse B. Look at all the people waiting to be told what to do. Don’t they realize today is over? They’re not letting anyone use those runways until at least tomorrow. He was somewhat happy about their ignorance, though, because he would have a better chance at grabbing a hotel if it came to that. Schwartz stopped in an airport giftshop and bought several bottles of water and a few bags of bland granola-type mix. It didn’t escape him that many of the shelves were already running out of items.
As if on cue, the airport PA system sparked to life. “Attention SeaTac Patrons. This is the Public Information Officer. All flights are cancelled for the rest of today.” This sparked a collective groan from several thousand people. “Please stay tuned to the local television and radio news reports for update, or you may contact your airline tomorrow morning at six AM Thank you for your patience and understanding.”
Once the announcement was over, most people started to collect their carry-on items and move like a zombie hoard toward the entrance to the terminal. Several were voicing their complaints loudly. Nobody cared. They were all screwed. Schwartz did a slow two-step dance which he dubbed the “SeaTac Shuffle” for about a half hour. He eventually made his way up to the same car rental agency where he had checked in the late-model Lexus not five hours earlier. True to his suspicions, the system was down—Ahhh, yes, the “system.” That magical thing that breaks and screws us all—and the rental agency wouldn’t be renting anything until it was back up. Nobody could point out anyone who could sell him a bus ticket. Do I chance an Uber to the bus terminal? He deliberated his choices for several seconds. Hotel it is. He wandered out of SeaTac Airport, turning right onto International Blvd. under breaking clouds and a glimmer of hope that this would end soon.
Crane noticed that the crowd was pretty big at the mustering-point but that not everybody was stopping there. An hour or so earlier, all shipwrights—and a few, other key trades—had been told by their supervisors and managers that they had two minutes to get into their locker rooms and grab their personal stuff. This had allowed most of them a chance to grab their lunches for a little energy break. When they learned of the “critical trades” muster coming at 1130, the rumors started, and like most rumors, there was a shred of truth at the core.
In his mind, Crane ran over some of the possibilities being tossed around. Conscripted? Who uses THAT word anymore? Held back from leaving? Someone died? What’s a critical trade? Inspections? That last one made the most sense.
After the earthquake, Billy had told him that after the last big earthquake nearly twenty years earlier, they had made key trades stay behind. They had to inspect things like brows, barges, dry-docks, and dock-settings while everyone else got to leave. Judging by the fact that nine out of every ten people Crane saw were walking right past the gathering, Billy was spot-on. He was still surveying the passersby and making small talk with a rigger-diver buddy of his when the Shipyard Duty Officer’s truck backed out of its parking spot under the parapet of Building 855 and slowly reversed towards the crowd. It happened so slowly that people were more curious than worried. The Chevy stopped about ten feet from the crowd, and the officer backing it up got out and just stood there waiting for someone. About two minutes later, Captain Darnell and several other leaders walked out of Building 855. She walked directly to the parked truck, dropped the tailgate, and climbed up, turning around to address the crowd. A junior officer who had followed her out of 855 handed her an electronic megaphone.
“Wow. What a day…” There was a low murmur from the crowd. They all knew what was about to be said. Workers who felt like they were about to get the shaft didn’t generally put off a laughing, friendly vibe. “So, I’ll get right to it. We got lucky. We’ve learned that this earthquake was somewhere in the 7.0 category, maybe higher. Power is out almost everywhere. The various utility companies say there are a variety of causes, mostly trees falling on lines. Some fires, too. Some dams have shut themselves down, apparently—a form of tripping-off for self-preservation. Reports that a plane crashed as it was landing. Locally we haven’t heard of too many issues.”
She continued. “The vast majority of reports mention minor damage—signs falling off buildings, things like that. The Hood Canal Bridge and the newer Tacoma-Narrows bridge are open. Roads are okay in most areas, but closer to the epicenter somewhere north of Tacoma there has been some road buckling. We’ve heard unverified rumors of a landslide in West Seattle. I emphasize ‘unverified.’ We’ve also heard that one of the legs of the Space Needle is showing serious structural damage. We’ve been rocked…rocked hard. There’s no denying that. But it could have been worse.
“What I can’t emphasize enough, though, is that rumors don’t help anyone. Pass along information. Don’t pass along scuttlebutt. That being said, I will lay to rest the rumors you’ve been hearing. I do need to keep you here, and I can’t tell you for how long.”
This caused an audible noise of irritation to rise from the crowd. Billy called it, Crane thought. He would’ve given the old graying shipwright his due credit, but Billy had posted himself over near the closest smoking area. When the collective groan subsided, the Captain continued.
“Folks, I don’t make this decision lightly. I want you to know that. I get it. It sucks, sitting here, watching other people walk by to go check on their families. Believe me… I’m a sailor. I understand your sacrifice.” This statement eased the crowd’s irritation a bit. “We have a real issue here, and I need you. I need your help. Your community—your country—needs you today.” Dead silence from 1,600 people.
She’s good, Cane thought. She just punched us right in the patriotic gut.
The captain continued. “We need some of you to go back into the docks and inspect settings and platforms. We need the portal cranes inspected. We need the piers inspected. We need the Hammerhead crane inspected. We need to verify shore power and industrial power is intact—that the ships have the correct services getting to critical systems.” She paused for a moment to survey the workers. “I think you all get it. And I’m sorry. I hope to be able to send you home by the end of your regular shift, but we’ll stay and get it done as long as it takes. Swing-shift was instructed via the automated reporting system to take care of their families and only come in to work if they have the means to get here safely.
“Here are some of our biggest concerns. For security reasons, there are some things I won’t say out here in the open. But I will tell you that we have some concerns at Dry-dock A that are being monitored. Some of you are probably wondering why your work team is considered critical. It is because of your training. If you’re not an engineer, or one of the rigging, scaffolding, and temp-service trades, then you’re most likely here because we need your nuclear training qualifications. We need you to help us evaluate a situation.”
Crane started to tune her out. Once again, the grunts get screwed into staying while all the superfluous overhead get to leave. Figures. If they have a spill to clean up, why are they letting so many people go home? What about the rest of us? We have families to check on, too.
Crane was worried. This place wasn’t just a job, it was his career—this town was his home. To Hell with earthquakes… It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Thud. The cell phone landed with a small plop on the couch cushion. Tony had just tossed it like a frisbee, annoyed that his multiple attempts to call the school had gone nowhere. He picked the paper he found on the fridge back up. The twins had gone to the Seattle Center. There were several museums, the mono-rail…What on Earth is the Museum of Pop Culture? Isn’t that still called the Experience Music Project? Hell, I wanna go see that… Tony shook it off.
