Ring of Fire Cascadia: A Disaster Thriller, page 27
Another one of the CVO’s interns, about Reid’s age, was already hopping out to begin pulling cables with the brisk efficiency of someone who didn’t yet realize how exhausted they were. A small group had begun to hustle around the trailers, setting up generators, satellites, and running cables toward the house. They waved to Betsy, but formal introductions would have to wait. There was work to be done.
“Our generator’s set up on this side of the house,” Betsy said, pointing to her right. “There’s a gravel pad behind the woodpile and a second electrical panel inside a box on the wall that my son Beau wired a few years back.”
Tina grinned. “You just earned yourself field tech status. Does Dr. Mercer know about your talents?”
Betsy waved it off. “I used to help my dad around the house. He was a handyman. It’s all in the memory banks somewhere.”
Betsy was beginning to enjoy herself as she found a renewed sense of purpose. As more people spilled out, eight in total, not including the unnamed tech personnel, Betsy took charge. Folding tables were dragged from the garage. Power cords snaked across the yard. Whiteboards were propped on the covered porches.
Tim and Mara set up the comms system on the dining room table, laughing between bickering over who’d mislabeled the satellite receiver boxes. Tina and her intern started unloading solar panels, aligning them with ruthless precision near the open field on the west side of the house. Casey dropped his laptop and swore before apologizing profusely. Betsy jokingly tossed him a bar of soap to wash out his mouth.
She moved between them like a general and a mother, directing without dominating, soothing without softening. Every time she started to think of Duke or Sloan or Reid, she found another cable to help route or room to assign.
“Guest room is already prepped for whoever gets here first,” she said to Mara, assuming she’d occupy it with Tim. “The sunroom has space for four, if you don’t mind foam mats. The living room couch pulls out to make a bed. And don’t worry, there’s enough hot water for now, but shower fast.”
“Hot water?” Casey echoed like she’d just handed him a rare gem. “You’re a saint.”
“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’m a mom.”
By midday, the Mercer home had transformed, and oddly, it was comforting to Betsy. It buzzed with activity, literally speaking.
Cables ran like arteries from generators to outlets, from satellites to routers. The living spaces hummed with computer equipment, fans whirring, keyboards clacking. The ping of incoming data. The murmur of scientific debate. The aroma of stew bubbling in two slow cookers she’d found buried in her pantry.
At one point, Betsy stopped and leaned against the opening to the kitchen to study the activity around her. They were building something here. Not just a substitute for their CVO, but a refuge. A heartbeat for the people who devoted their lives to warning others of the wrath of the planet.
And Betsy?
She was enjoying her role as being part of the action. After passing around a bowl of volcano stew to everyone, she walked outside alone to stand in the front yard as the clouds thickened, looking east toward the Cascade peaks and west toward the Pacific, where Axial hid under the ocean. Her back was sore from helping a little too much, but her mind was sharp despite her concerns.
Where were they? Duke. Sloan. Reid.
She closed her eyes and took a long, steady breath. Repeating their names as if she could summon them to come home to her right that instant.
Winston sat beside her, dutiful and loyal as he adopted the role of comfort dog.
Then, suddenly, her heart leapt.
Tires. A heavy vehicle, like Duke’s. Crunching slowly over the rocks.
Her pulse quickened. Her eyes darted to the treeline. Was it them? Was it?
A tan slab-nosed RV rounded the bend, roof bristling with antennae and a lopsided USGS Emergency Use placard duct-taped to the door.
A Winnebago. The biggest, dirtiest behemoth of an RV she’d ever seen.
She let out a laugh. Really, a half sigh, half grin, as it lumbered into the clearing like a house on wheels.
Tim popped his head out her front door, grinning. “Forgot to mention we brought our own hotel.”
Betsy simply shook her head and smiled. “Well,” she began, “I was wondering where I was going to put all of you.”
She turned back to the yard, her house humming with power and purpose behind her, the ridge quiet above.
They weren’t home yet. But when they got here, they’d find a familiar world waiting.
And a loving wife, mom, and now logistics coordinator for the Cascades Volcanic Observatory Army’s Forward Operating Base, CVOAFOB, ready to do battle against what might be coming their way.
Sixty-Six
April 12
1420 Hours
Evergreen Highway
Near North Bonneville, Washington
“WE’RE THIRTY MINUTES out,” Duke said, eyes locked on the winding two-lane stretch of the Evergreen Highway, which ran along the northern banks of the Columbia River.
After studying the data on the seismic activity they’d experienced at St. Helens, he swapped seats with Reid and took over the driving, After twenty minutes of racing around the base of the mountain, he’d finally relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. Engaging the self-driving function on the truck provided him a sense of normalcy despite the chaos they’d endured that day.
Sloan sat in the passenger seat, her legs curled up beneath her, laptop balanced on her thighs. After the St. Helens seismic activity ceased, she focused her attention to the monster offshore.
The Axial data stream blinked on the screen. Hydroacoustic signatures, inflation rates, gas flux. Even as they neared home, the seamount far offshore demanded her attention more than the prospect of a home-cooked meal and a stiff drink.
“Still seeing a steady, persistent seismic hum,” she said. Her voice was serious as she continued to adopt her professional demeanor. “Gas signatures are climbing again.”
Duke grunted in acknowledgment. He’d finally been able to connect with Betsy until they’d lost their signal around St. Helens. Their call had been brief but sufficient to assure each other that everyone was safe. Although relaxed, he was impatient to get home the closer he got.
They’d taken the long way home, looping east past Mount St. Helens, then down through Carson and past North Bonneville to avoid the devastated urban zones around Vancouver.
The damage reports they’d received via Starlink painted the city as in ruins. Bridges collapsed; neighborhoods flooded; infrastructure buckled. Evergreen Highway out of Vancouver was narrow, cracked, and virtually impassable. To the east of Washougal, the highway was open enough to get them home.
Duke leaned forward as Beacon Rock towered into view through the massive front windshield of the truck. An 848-foot-tall basalt monolith, Beacon Rock was all that remained of an ancient cinder cone volcano that had erupted over fifty thousand years ago. It jutted from the Columbia River Gorge like a jagged monument, its sheer cliffs dark and streaked with moss where not stripped bare by extreme weather. To Duke, it always looked like it was leaning forward, seemingly watching over passersby like them on the highway.
Today, like everything else they encountered, it became unhinged.
An unexpected tremor hit the area like a body blow. The Cybertruck lurched sideways. Sloan fumbled the laptop before dropping it on the floorboard, bracing herself against the dash. Reid and Gigi huddled in the center of the backseat, bent over as if they were preparing for an airplane crash.
Duke grabbed the wheel, knuckles white. Palms sweaty.
“Hold on!” he suggested, more of a demand. He could see large rocks falling from the north side of Beacon Rock. As he focused his attention on the dormant volcano, the hillside across the road, dense with evergreens and layered rock, exploded into motion.
Boulders, trees and torn-up earth came tumbling down. A roaring landslide crashed across the road from the right. It moved like a beast. Fast, thundering, alive.
“Dad!” Reid shouted from the backseat passenger side. “To your right!”
Duke pressed down hard on the accelerator, causing the truck to lurch forward at a rate causing everyone to be slammed against their seat backs. He gritted his teeth, veering left to avoid the landslide, straight into the parking lot at the base of Beacon Rock. Jagged boulders slammed into the highway behind them, tearing up asphalt and crushing a guardrail. Dust and pine needles filled the air as the dirt, combined with large tumbling rocks, slid into the westbound lane of the highway.
Duke slammed on the brakes just as the entire road in front of them became inundated with earthen debris. They took a collective breath and turned in their seats to see what they’d managed to avoid.
But they weren’t safe yet.
A deep, groaning crack filled the air, drawing their eyes upward. Beacon Rock was shuddering, Splitting. Coming apart at the seams.
Chunks of the upper slope fractured off and came raining down, shattering like stone grenades against the ground. A boulder the size of a van slammed into the highway shoulder twenty feet in front of the truck, sending a spray of stones and shale.
“Go back!” shouted Sloan.
Duke threw the truck into reverse. The tires screeched, then bit. He dodged falling rocks as he rushed backward, barely missing a larger boulder that smashed into the corner of the lot where they’d been seconds before. Another boulder rained down, crashing through a small footbridge. Nearby, a tree toppled like a felled giant, branches raking across the edge of the truck with a shriek of bark on metal.
Suddenly, the ground pitched again.
Duke, adrenaline fueled by fear, reacted in an instant. He cranked the wheel hard, using the truck’s drive-by-wire system to pivot in place like a tank. He accelerated up a narrow, pine-needle-covered trail that climbed away from the chaos. A sign for a hiking route flashed past, half-collapsed and unreadable.
Sloan clutched the door with white-knuckled fingers, breath ragged. “I know this trail, Dad.”
“We’ve all walked them. They run all around the ridge.”
Higher and higher using the truck’s all-wheel drive, they climbed out of the danger zone, switchbacking up a trail that wasn’t meant for vehicles, skimming cliffs and slashing through brush. At the top, Duke followed the ridgeline, dropping into what had once been an abandoned rail bed. It was a rough ride, leaving the truck’s suspension wobbling but holding.
It felt like St. Helens had chased them all the way home. Finally, they broke through a tree line into a rocky clearing. Below, stretched out like a Norman Rockwell painting for the Saturday Evening Post, was the Mercer home.
The Columbia River rippled with whitecaps beyond it. They sat for a moment in silence, taking in the view.
Sloan wiped her eyes as emotion overtook her.
Duke exhaled. “Well,” he said, voice gravelly, “it’s all downhill from here.” His humor lifted her spirits.
They eased their way down the trail, dodging limbs and low-hanging branches. At times, Duke detoured through open forest where no path existed. The Cybertruck scraped bark and ground over logs, but it did its part.
When they finally reached the edge of the gravel driveway, the tires’ crunching was like music to their ears. Familiar. Not like the rocks that had threatened to crush them.
Slowly, squinting, Sloan leaned forward, eyes wide. “What the hell?”
Every inch of the front yard was full. Vehicles, trailers, and solar panels glinted in the sun. A satellite dish array had been erected, antennae turned in all directions.
Duke eased forward and stopped at the fringe of the activity. “Your mom said Tim and some guests had arrived. But this?”
After parking, he exited the truck and slowly found his footing. It took him a moment to recover from the frantic ride through a hellish storm of flying boulders.
Betsy Mercer stepped out the front door, wiping her hands on her jeans.
She smiled. Duke smiled back and gave her a half wave. All was right with the world again.
Sixty-Seven
April 12
1800 Hours
Home of Duke and Betsy Mercer
Washougal, Washington
WINSTON RACED PAST BETSY, nearly knocking her over as his stubby legs propelled his sixty-plus pounds off the front porch in a mad rush to greet his bestest friend. As Duke exited the truck to greet his loving wife, the first thing he heard as they stepped from the Cybertruck was the familiar, low rumble of the Columbia River sliding past the bluff. The second thing he heard, barely a beat later, was Winston.
The bulldog let out a wild, gurgling bark and charged across the yard like a cannonball with legs, his jowls flapping like a windsock. Betsy followed behind him, a kitchen towel thrown over her shoulder and eyes soaked with tears of relief.
“You come see me, Sir Winston!” Duke said, grinning and sinking to one knee. His position lasted less than two seconds as the hefty pup, unable to control himself, plowed Duke over. An exuberant Winston snorted, circled him, then redirected full speed toward Sloan, who laughed and caught his wiggling mass against her thighs. He gave Reid and Gigi a bit of a butt wiggle and a passing glance before returning full force to Duke. Duke and Winston were together again. All was right with the world in the bulldog’s mind, too.
Then Betsy reached them.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just wrapped her arms around her husband and held tight, forehead pressed to his shoulder. He dropped his chin against the crown of her head and let out a long, exhausted breath.
“I thought we lost you,” she murmured.
“If I was in danger, I’d never tell you,” he whispered.
She gave him a playful slug with the back of her fist and looked toward Sloan and Reid. She stretched her arms out for them to join in the hugfest.
Sloan watched them with admiration. Her parents, tangled up in relief and fatigue, together again. The weight of the day, from Seattle’s collapse to the near miss at Beacon Rock, settled in her chest. It hit her all at once how fragile it all was. Not the house or the river or the ground beneath them, but the thread that held it all together.
Family.
After Betsy hugged them and gave them a visual once-over to make sure all their limbs were still attached, she warmly greeted Gigi, who appeared to be the one who’d taken the worst beating through it all. She promised to take a look at her wounds and change her bandages.
Duke turned his attention to the house, where several members of the CVO staff had emerged on the front porch to greet them. Led by Tim, it warmed Duke’s heart to see the familiar faces. Yet, from the looks of the vehicles strewn about and the belongings still visible inside them, it appeared the crew had arrived with loads of equipment and very little else. He wondered how much they’d lost.
After some heartfelt greetings coupled with genuine tears, he entered the foyer. Inside, the house was alive.
Not just with people, but with purpose. Power cords ran along baseboards. Laptops hummed on every flat surface. Whiteboards leaned against bookshelves, filled with equations, diagrams, and red-scribbled theories. Tim was chewing sunflower seeds and half-smiling through the chaos.
“Welcome to the Mercer Volcano Observatory,” he said. “The MVO, in your honor, boss.”
Duke raised an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. “Does it have a logo yet?”
“Casey’s working on one.”
“That’s right!” he shouted from the far corner of the room. “Of course, we recruited Winston to be our mascot again.”
They weaved through the home, with Betsy leading the way, while Tim tried to provide an explanation for the organized chaos. The dining room had become a comms center.
The guest room was now a mapping lab as well as sleeping quarters for Mara, Lena, and Tina. All three women were of slight build and agreed to either take shifts sleeping in the queen-sized bed or pack in like sardines. The screened-in porch held three racks of solar-charged backup batteries held in hard-plastic Pelican cases. Wires from an array of satellite dishes were stretched across the lawn and under the screen door, ultimately feeding into a weather-hardened terminal balanced on the kitchen counter.
Mara, stretched out on a lounger, looked up from a portable radar display and gave Sloan a quick salute. “Glad you’re still breathing.”
Sloan laughed at the irreverent greeting. “Likewise,” she replied with a flash of her middle finger. Sloan scanned the setup with a practiced eye. “You’ll want to move this receiver a couple of feet to the left, or you’ll get signal bounce off the porch railing,” she said, gesturing toward one of the solar-fed antennae leading to a dedicated monitor. Its screen seemed blurry. “And you notice how that second monitor’s ghosting? Try swapping it with one Tim hasn’t assigned.”
Tim shrugged and made a mental note to follow her suggestion.
Mara winked at her boyfriend, a relationship they had to keep hidden due to USGS fraternization policies. “You see why we miss her when she’s off chasing lava tubes or tsunamis?”
Sloan felt the warmth in the Mercer home, the newly dubbed MVO, shift away from the stiffness and protocol-driven dynamic at the Vancouver CVO. They respected her. More than that, they were looking to her. And they weren’t subtle about it with Vaughn out of the picture.
They ended the tour where it began in the living room, where a high-resolution feed from NOAA rotated across a wall-mounted screen, focused squarely on the Axial Seamount.
One of the team stood and gestured for Sloan to take his place at the nearest terminal; she immediately called up the Axial Seamount’s current vitals. The seafloor was inflating. The sustained low-frequency vibration being recorded was consistent with microtremors, rising gas emissions, and tilt meters climbing.
She took a deep breath and let out an equally heavy exhale. She was exhausted from an arduous day. Yet she sensed her day was just beginning.
The undersea caldera was breathing harder now. Faster.
