Fault Line

by Sarah Andrews

  “How big a quake would that take?”

  “Six point five or better. Maybe a seven. This morning’s was a five point two. The actual rupture was downstairs a few kilometers, if not ten. Just made all that lake-bed sediment the city’s built on jiggle like jelly.”

  “Did this morning’s quake give you new information you’ve just added in there?” I asked. He had penciled in a section of dashes that continued the line of the Warm Springs fault to the south, from just west of the state capitol downtown toward the Convention Center and most of the other tall buildings in Salt Lake City, just as he had said.

  “No, that’s some mapping that was done years ago. It got left off of this map.”

  “Why?”

  Logan de Pontier fixed his green eyes on me and gave me a probing look. “That’s a good question,” he said, his voice suddenly tight. “That’s a really good question. Guess you’d have to call it a difference of opinion.”

  “A scientific disagreement?”

  Logan did not answer me.

  I turned and looked out across the Salt Lake valley. A valley filled with a network of cracks just spoiling to rupture. A valley in which perhaps a million people lived, most in houses made of unreinforced brick. I drew in a breath and released it. I asked, “Quake that size, how many people killed?”

  “Official estimate? Up to eight thousand immediately, another forty-four thousand injured. Twelve billion in damage, six more in economic losses.”

  “Homeless?”

  “I don’t even have that number. Say also thirty percent of businesses fail within the next year. Families separated, dispersed.”

  We stood in silence for a while, burdened by our knowledge. Finally, I said, “But this morning’s quake was a little one.”

  Logan’s chest moved with a deep sigh. “Yes. Let’s just hope it was the main event and not a warm-up for something bigger.”

  I SETTLED IN on the rock next to Logan and asked him all the other questions I could think to ask, but after a few minutes, I had exhausted my knowledge of earthquakes and what causes them and decided to angle for a business card and call him later, when I’d read a little more.

  Down below, I saw a taxi moving up the road toward Faye’s house. It pulled up by her walkway, then stopped. Faye climbed out, turned, paid the driver.

  “That’s my friend,” I told Logan. “The one who owns the Porsche and the house. I guess I’ll go on down and see what’s happening.”

  “Wait, I’ll come on down with you. I’m done here for today.”

  We started down the trail together. As Faye started up the walk toward her house, she looked up and spotted us. Pilots have good eyes. I waved. She stopped and waved back, changed her course for the foot of the trail, and arrived perhaps a minute before we did. As I got close enough to see her face, I saw that her lips were swollen from crying, although those who had not met her before might think she was possessed of the kind of bee-stung lips women pay plastic surgeons big money to create for them. Her eyes were hidden behind a set of aviator sunglasses. She presented one of her more formal smiles. “Hi, Em,” she said. “Who’s your friend?”

  I made the introductions. “This is Logan de Pontier. He’s a geologist with the Utah Geological Survey. He’s checking to see if you’re going to get a new rock garden in your living room.”

  Faye tipped her head forward and gave me a “Drop dead” look over her sunglasses. “What are you saying, Em?”

  I made a sheepish gesture toward the hill. “Landslide.”

  “What landslide?”

  “That landslide. Don’t worry—it’s not expected to come this way anytime soon. Right, Logan?”

  Logan slipped into his official tone. “Technically speaking, it’s a debris flow.”

  Faye looked from Logan to me and back again. “All I need.”

  For a man who had been so garrulous, Logan was quickly growing terse. “Well …”

  Still not smiling, Faye said, “Well hell. Why don’t you come on in and have a beer and tell me all about it?”

  “I’d like to, but I can’t.” He turned toward me. “If you want … I could … you know …”

  Faye continued to stare at us over the tops of her glasses. “Just give her a business card, Logan. I’ll make sure she gets in touch with you.”

  I snapped my head toward her and gave her a dose of storm cloud with my eyebrows.

  She indulged herself in a snarl. “Em, I am having one hell of a day. You are having one hell of a life. Mr. Fellow Geologist here has some information for me, and God knows what he has for you. We want to stay in touch with him, now don’t we?”

  I could feel heat and pressure building across my forehead and hoped the blush would not show.

  Logan cleared his throat and quickly pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “The UGS is in the book of course, but here’s my card, and please do call if you have any more questions.” Having rediscovered his aplomb, he added, “As a matter of fact, a bunch of us are getting together after work for some beer and pizza, kind of compare notes on our observations today. Be glad to have you—ah, both of you—ah, join us.”

  Palming his card, I said, “Thanks, Logan, but—”

  “But I’ll make sure she shows,” Faye said, completing my sentence for me.

  Logan smiled absently. “Pie Pizzeria. About six. Look for the motley crew in the back.”

  I jammed the card into my back pocket with considerable force and grumbled, “Make mine artichoke hearts and Canadian bacon.”

  11

  I was in the Walgreens drugstore in the Marina District, way in the back. Stuff was coming off the shelves. People were screaming. I ran to the front of the store. There’s a turnstile, and I couldn’t get over it. I thought I was going to die.

  —A young woman describing her experience of the 1989 Loma Prieta magnitude 7.1 earthquake. The Marina District in San Francisco is built on bay fill that was poured behind a seawall to provide ground for San Francisco’s Panama-Pacific Exposition of 1915. Much of the sand for the fill was from dunes. Winddeposited sand grains are known for their highly rounded character and unusually uniform diameter. Like a stack of ball bearings, the material is unstable and tends to settle in response to the call of gravity. It was intended that the seawall and the sand fill be temporary, and, as they were canstructed prior to the inception of engineering codes, the fill was not mechanically compacted. Moreover, it was, and still is, saturated with bay waters, providing the perfect condition for liquefaction.

  Over the years, the seawall has been repeatedly patched, like the Dutch boy applying his fingers to a failing dike. By the end of the seventeen seconds of shaking the Marina District experienced during the 1989 temblor, the seawall had failed in several places, and sand was erupting in liquid fountains through lawns over which, moments before, joggers had been jogging and mothers had been wheeling their baby strollers. Gas pipes broke, and whole square blocks of housing collapsed and caught fire. It is estimated that had the shaking gone on three seconds longer, the entire ground would have liquefied and flowed through the ruptured seawall into San Francisco Bay, taking housing, lawn, joggers, and baby strollers with it.

  JIM SCHECTER SWUNG HIS FLASHLIGHT AS HE CLIMBED THE last few courses of steps that led up to the top of the stadium seating. He wished he had not been quite so quick to give blood for Tommy Ottmeier. Heaven knows, the child needed it, but it had left Jim fatigued, short of breath.

  He was almost to the door through which he must pass before he could start checking the trusses that supported the roof. As with each other item on his mental list, he would search the roof trusses methodically for distorted tubing, cracked welds, anything that would indicate damage caused by the earthquake. He hummed softly as he worked, certain he would discover nothing amiss, happy to be doing a job that would reassure the Olympic committee that their years of careful arrangements, ministrations, and orchestrations could proceed as planned.

  Three steps from the top
, he turned briefly toward the center of the stadium and gave his tired spine a series of twists, relieving the cricks that had begun to set in after four hours of searching for the trouble he knew he would not find. The earthquake had been only a 5.2, after all, barely large enough to trigger the protocol he was now following.

  Below him, in a dramatic sweep, were arrayed the thousands of stadium seats that in three short weeks would be filled with excited spectators applauding, gasping, and cheering in unison. Yes, it would be a huge crowd, but only an infinitesimal fraction of the number who would like to be here. A privileged few had won the seating lottery and each had managed to pony up the obscene cost of the tickets that would enable them to attend the opening-night ceremonies of the 2002 Winter Olympic Games. Right here, in this stadium, with the beauty of Salt Lake City and the Wasatch Range for a backdrop.

  He had to sit down for a minute to collect himself, to fight back the first surge of phobia that was threatening to arise. How he hated doing building inspections. He wanted dearly to return to his usual tasks back in his nice safe office. How he wished the powers that be would quit trying to cut corners on such essential protocols—in this case, assuring that the stadium had ridden out the earthquake without so much as a chink in its plaster—and hire regular staff to do the inspections. It seemed ironic to him that public buildings were still inspected by untrained staff like him, while private structures were governed by much more stringent requirements. Odder yet, this stadium was privately owned, but because it was to be used by the public for the upcoming event, he had been detailed to inspect it under the looser requirements. At least I’m an actual engineer so I can give it a good going-over, he thought. Some of the schools get inspected by janitorial staff. What kind of money-saving measure is that?

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as the therapist had taught him. He said his calming words deep inside his mind. I am safe. I am on the Earth. The Earth loves me. I am safe. There now. There. They were such silly words, but they seemed to work. And it was a good thing that they did, because he didn’t want to have to take a sedative in order to handle being up on the catwalk that would give him access to the roof trusses. If he got sleepy and stumbled, it would be such a long way down.

  Feeling restored and confident, he opened his eyes. Yes, the steps seemed much less steep now. Good. He looked out through the central opening in the roof at the tops of the downtown buildings, at the mountains beyond. The stadium was brand-new and beautiful, another testimony to the goodness of this wonderful community in which he lived. Right here, they had transformed a disused, downtrodden piece of real estate into a spectacular new community gathering spot.

  It would not be long now before it would be filled for the first time. Far below him, teams of workers scurried about, busily erecting the stage and rigging the lights and pyrotechnic effects that would dazzle tens of thousands of viewers here and hundreds of millions more worldwide. This spectacular view would be right there for the whole world to enjoy, appreciate, and admire.

  He rolled his head slowly left, then right, enjoying a nice series of cracking sounds deep in his neck, savoring the moment. He was proud to be in charge of ensuring the safety of all the good citizens who would come here to honor this pinnacle of what had been a great many years’ hard work and sacrifice for the citizens of Salt Lake City—all the disruption due to construction as new highways, bridges, hotels, a light-rail system, and this stadium were built for the event.

  How glorious opening night would be. Just down there, the runner would emerge from the entrance tunnel carrying the burning torch, then would circle in front of the cheering crowds. The light of the torch would illuminate the beaming faces of the best athletes from a hundred countries. His chest swelled with pride. His city was the site for this event. The years of sacrifice and disruption would be gone, the black eye of the bribes and kickbacks taken by the organizing committee forgotten. Yes, this was Salt Lake’s moment, and this special event would honor his city.

  But first, he must inspect the trusses. He had already checked the foundations, which were fine. He had checked the framework members that held the weight of the stands. They were fine. The crossbracing, all perfect. Now the roof trusses were all that remained to be examined. It was an easy job, a piece of cake. Except for the—He stopped. Breathed. Cleared his mind. He knew not to even think about the sense of exposure that awaited him on the catwalk.

  Turning back toward the last few steps, Jim raised the tightly focused beam of his powerful flashlight and gave the roof a preliminary scan. Plenty of light bounced in through the wide center opening from the bright winter sky, but he liked to use the flashlight to focus his eye, just in case some telltale crack lurked in the one stray shadow. Yes, yes, fine so far, just as I expected. This great structure was, after all, built by a local firm. Well, a local developer in partnership with a big international construction firm, but that’s how business is done. That is how you keep as much of the profits as possible right here in Salt Lake City while still engaging a company big enough to handle a job of this magnitude.

  Jim circled slowly along the top row, dancing his beam along the steel tubing. When he came to the door that gave access to the trusses, he unlocked it and ascended a metal staircase that let him out onto the catwalk that ran through the trusswork itself. He gripped the handrails and took a deep breath, remembering not to look down, abstracting himself from the fear he would feel if he looked all the way down through the plummeting open space that was all that lay between him and the ranks of seat backs that waited, knifelike, below him. I am on a sidewalk down on the street, he told himself. I am on the Earth, and the Earth loves me. I am safe. He took a breath, exhaled.

  He moved out along the catwalk, checking the first truss. He swung the flashlight beam this way and that, examining the arching ranks of steel tubing. The tubing looked perfect.

  He checked the welds. The welds—

  Jim swung his beam to a joint in the nearest truss, the place where three tubes met a fourth. Held it there. What he saw turned his knees to mush.

  Oh no.

  A crack ran clear through the weld.

  Tightening his grip on the railing, he struggled to steady the hand that held the flashlight. He aimed its jiggling beam now onto the plate that had been placed there to reinforce the mammoth junction of steel tubing. Here he found a curl of paint that had been scraped loose.

  Oh no. Oh no.

  He forced himself to move along the catwalk, to check each of the next three connecting plates. The first showed the same cracked welds and buckled paint; the second exposed a gleaming section that should have been covered; the next—

  Oh no, oh no …

  Jim Schecter unclipped the cell phone from his belt and raised it to his face, tried to concentrate on the way the plastic felt against his skin. He punched two buttons to dial the desk phone of his superior. It rang once, twice.

  “Building Inspection,” announced an officious female voice at the other end of the connection.

  “This is Jim Schecter. Give me Fred Miller.”

  “Oh, hi, Jim. He’s not here. Can I take a message?”

  Jim tried to breathe, his eyes now fixated on the drop below him, every blood vessel in his body dilating, searching for the blood he had gifted as his prayer for the baby boy. “No! No, I—get the file open for the stadium, will you?”

  “Don’t you have that with you, Jim?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Is something wrong, Jim?”

  Jim’s field of vision began to distort. His right eye felt as if it were coated with Vaseline. Hell, he thought, a migraine. Why now? “Hold on a minute,” he gasped. He put the phone back in its holder, forced himself to stand straight, to grip the railing, to move back toward the safety of the stairs. Why now? Why why why …

  Swaying as if the earthquake had returned, he reached the metal staircase and sat down, hugging the upright that braced the railing. Now the rainbows were coming, the b
lurry places. Not for the first time, he wondered at the people who told him how lucky he was that he got only the visual aspects of the migraine and not the pain.

  A voice spoke to him from the cell phone. “Jim? Are you okay?”

  He pulled the telephone back out of its clip. “Okay. I’m back.” Please God don’t let her know what’s happening to me. I’ll lose my job! There was a roaring in his ears. He hallucinated that it was the sounds of the crowds—the parents, the children, the relatives who had come so far to see their heroes perform—at! the people who had been meant to fill this stadium, all the good citizens who had come to cheer the athletes in their triumphant entrance into Salt Lake City, his city. Now those people would not sit in these seats, would not raise the ghostly roaring that filled his ears. He forced himself to breathe, but could not draw his breath below his diaphragm. Somehow, this was all his fault.

  “Jim? Okay, I’ve got the file.”

  “It’s okay,” Jim said. “I’m back by the stairs. I—get Miller to call me when he gets in, okay?” He set the cell phone down on the step beside him. He blinked repeatedly, trying to dispel the strange colors and warpings that danced in his vision. Head spinning, he opened up his clipboard notebook and tried feebly to make notes. The pen seemed to melt out from between his fingers. It dropped onto the page. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to sort out the protocol he was supposed to be following, but he couldn’t remember it.

  “Jim?” said a voice like a gnat buzzing about his cell phone.

  He snatched up the phone, pressed it to his ear, spoke. “Oh. Yes. I’m up in the trusses at the stadium. I … we … just get Fred to phone me first chance he gets, okay?”

  “Fred went home with the flu.”

  I’ll have to go home myself, Jim realized dully. I can’t go back up there until the migraine passes.