by Peter Hernon
Thompson used the analogy of spokes on a wheel. What he called the Memphis Fault was a new spoke of the New Madrid Seismic Zone.
Walter Jacobs said, “This is going to scare the hell out of a lot of people. How do we tell the public that Memphis is sitting right on top of a newly discovered fault? Anybody got some ideas on that?”
Atkins noticed the slight catch in his friend’s voice. His face was gray. The fear in the room was almost palpable. Atkins felt it, too.
“None of this goes public. That’s out of the question,” said Paul Weston. “There’d be an unnecessary panic.” It was the first time he’d spoken, the voice deep, strong, authoritative. Atkins was struck by his dark eyes, how they focused and rarely blinked. The man was impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, vest, and wingtip oxfords. Most of the other earth scientists in the room were considerably more casual in their clothing. Jeans, loose-fitting sweaters, and Vibram-soled hiking shoes predominated. Weston looked more like a banker than a geologist.
“We need to make sure of our data before we make any public announcements,” Weston said. “I can speak for the entire commission in that regard.” He repeated his earlier admonition that none of this discussion leave the room.
“I disagree here, Paul,” Jacobs said, swallowing down the thickness in his throat. “Half the people in this city live in brick homes. There isn’t one high-rise downtown that’s built up to California’s earthquake code. We get a major shake, these people are gonna be buried. We got to let them know.”
“I’ve never thought it was a good idea to withhold information from the public, even when it’s potentially alarming,” Atkins said. “I’d rather err on the side of giving them all the data they can use. Even the most minimal things, like how they can reduce earthquake hazards in their homes.”
Weston looked up from his papers and seemed to be taking in Atkins for the first time. His brow furrowed. “It’s not a question of withholding information. It’s making sure that it’s accurate.”
“I’d say Guy Thompson’s computers have already done that,” Atkins said testily. He could tell that Weston didn’t like this line of discussion.
“What about aftershocks?” another geologist said impatiently. “That was a pretty big jolt this morning up by Kentucky Lake. A magnitude 5.1. I’d like to set up an array of seismographs to see what’s happening.” The idea was to saturate the area with instruments to get a precise read on the depth, direction, and intensity of the seismic activity.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Guy Thompson. “We’ve had at least forty small tremors up there since five this morning, none of them much more than a magnitude 2, but a real swarm.”
“Let’s be sure to check the dam up there,” Jacobs said, irritated with himself for just remembering that important detail.
“I’ve already taken care of that,” Weston said.
Relieved, Jacobs nodded his head. “Glad to hear it. That’s one place we sure don’t want trouble.”
“Are we prepared to talk about energy projections?” one of the geologists asked. He’d been sitting quietly in a corner, writing notes furiously. He was young, late twenties, and wore a garish sweater. Atkins recognized him, but didn’t remember the name. He was from the University of Chicago.
Measuring how much energy remained locked in elastically strained rocks was a complicated, time-consuming procedure, but it was vital to calculating whether the potential for another big quake was still stored in the ground, whether it was wound up like a coiled spring.
Someone suggested doing a GPS survey to measure any horizontal or vertical displacements in the crust. The Global Positioning Satellite system allowed for minute measurements of changes in the earth’s surface, one of the best ways to check for rock strain. If the crust was rising, or uptilting, it meant energy was still stored in the ground.
“Anyone know when the satellite system’s back on-line?” Atkins asked. An unusually large solar flare had shut the system down several days earlier. Fallout from the flare had also played havoc with power grids along the East Coast.
“Four more days,” said a voice at the back of the room. “The solar wind is still very strong. None of the satellites are operational.”
Atkins turned around to see who’d just spoken. A woman was leaning against the wall in the back of the room. She had straight blond hair and was wearing a denim skirt and tweed jacket. Good-looking, about thirty. A briefcase and laptop were slung from her shoulder. No one had seen her enter.
Everyone in the room was dumbfounded to see Elizabeth Holleran standing there, wondering where she’d come from, how she’d gotten in.
Weston rose halfway out of his chair. “This is a private meeting.”
Holleran recognized three or four of the men from conferences they attended together. One of them came to the rescue. She vaguely remembered him.
“Hi, Elizabeth,” said one of the USGS geologists who’d flown in from California. “This is Doctor Elizabeth Holleran of Cal Tech and about the best trencher I’ve ever met. She’s doing some great carbon-dating work on the Pacific Coast near Los Angeles. Had a dynamite paper published on the subject a couple months back in Earth Sciences.”
“I want to know how she got in here,” Weston said, his voice laced with anger.
Holleran apologized for the interruption. She explained about the tunnel and the door.
Weston got up, hurried to the door that led to the tunnel, and pulled it open. He saw the assembly of grad students, sitting on the steps. “I want you all out of here immediately,” he said, slamming the door and locking it.
“They really couldn’t hear anything,” Holleran said, sorry to get the students in trouble. It was impossible to hear through the closed door.
Weston repeated his request for Holleran to leave. “I’m sure you can understand why we’re meeting here and why we must insist on strict secrecy. You weren’t invited.”
“I need just five minutes,” Holleran said. “This is important.” She’d been wondering how she was going to do this ever since she got on the airplane the day before. She figured the best approach would be straight on, just lay it out and try not to fixate on the huge professional risk she was taking.
“I’ve been given data that predicted a major quake on the New Madrid Fault sometime around January twentieth. What I keep asking myself, what I can’t get out of my head, is whether the earthquake you just had down here was a fore-shock to an even bigger event.”
Atkins could only stare at her. Is she really serious about this? He wondered. Jacobs and the others had the same reaction.
Holleran, strangely, started to relax. Without hurrying, she began with the telephone call she’d gotten from Otto Prable three days earlier; then she quickly and concisely summarized his data on maximum solar activity occurring on or about January twentieth, a window that coincided with a period of extremely strong lunar pull. It was Prable’s opinion that these powerful forces could trigger a quake in an area already under maximum stress. And based on earlier GPS readings that indicated an uplift in the crust, the New Madrid Seismic Zone was clearly under stress. Holleran likewise mentioned Prable’s observations about strong changes in electromagnetic fields and the extended period the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers had been near flood stage, exerting steady pressure on the fault.
“I know how implausible this must seem,” she said in conclusion. “I’ve only managed a brief look at Dr. Prable’s probability analysis. I’ve brought all his data with me.”
She’d spoken for about four minutes without interruption. But everyone in the cramped, overheated room was transfixed.
Breaking the silence, Walt Jacobs asked, “Is Prable the guy who used to teach at Cal Tech?”
Holleran nodded.
“He was a physicist, wasn’t he?”
“Geophysics.”
She started to say more, but Paul Weston angrily interrupted. “This man Prable isn’t even a seismologist, and you’re telling us he predict
ed the earthquake.” He shook his head derisively. “You’ve taken quite enough of our time.”
Holleran knew she needed ice in her veins to pull this off. It was turning ugly, but she’d blow everything if she lost her temper.
“Otto Prable’s analysis says a period of maximum stress will occur sometime around January twentieth. That’s nine days from now. You’ve just had a major quake. I’ll tell you this, that magnitude 7.1 sure caught my attention back in Los Angeles. A moderately large earthquake exactly where he said one was likely to happen. Professionally, I think his methodology sounds like science fiction. I didn’t even take it seriously—until that quake. I still believe it was probably luck. He made a good guess, but let’s assume, for discussion, that maybe he was on to something, as totally far-fetched as that sounds. Didn’t you have a magnitude 5 just this morning somewhere around here? I keep asking myself, could these be foreshocks?”
She let that thought hang there a moment, staring each man in the room straight in the face. They were all watching, waiting. Paul Weston kept lowering his head and frowning.
“At the very least I’d want to see what Prable had to say,” Holleran said. “I’d want to look at his data just to be on the safe side. I’m sure it will be badly flawed. But I think it would be negligent not to examine it. The man was brilliant. I’ve got his entire computer file on CD-ROM disks. We can download it right here.”
She caught John Atkins’ amused half-smile. The look irritated her. It was as if he were telling her, ‘You’ve got yourself into a fine mess, girl, so what in the hell are you going to do to get out of it’?
“What happened to Otto Prable?” Atkins asked. The name was familiar. He thought he might have met him at a seminar. Weston and some of the others looked pretty bent out of shape. Atkins couldn’t help admire how well the woman was handling herself even if what she was saying sounded completely off the charts.
“He’s dead,” Holleran said. “He was in ill health. He took his life.”
Livid, Weston slammed a fistful of papers down on the desk. He’d had enough.
“I’ll be writing a letter to your department chairman about this,” he said. “That’s a promise. Now will you leave immediately, or do I have to call the police?”
“That’s not necessary,” Holleran said. She picked up her briefcase and laptop. “My department chairman is George McGintry. I suggest sending him an E-mail. It’ll be faster.”
MEMPHIS
JANUARY 11
3:46 P.M.
AS SOON AS THE EMERGENCY MEETING ENDED AT the University of Memphis, Seismic Safety Commission Chairman Paul Weston got into a waiting car. He was driven to an airplane hangar set back in a remote corner of Memphis International Airport. Weston was escorted to a rear door, where a young man with a cell phone and a clipboard ushered him inside.
Tad Parker, the governor of Kentucky, had landed only minutes earlier. His private Learjet was parked in front of the hangar.
Two other men were waiting in the empty, unheated building. Stan Marshal, the older and more nervous of the two, was a seismologist, a big man who wore a snap-brimmed cap. Mark Wren was both an engineer and a geologist. They worked for Weston and had just returned from Kentucky Dam. Their overcoats were buttoned to their necks. It was cold enough inside to see their breath.
Parker had flown in from Frankfort, the Kentucky capital. His presence in the city was a secret.
The governor, always immaculately groomed, was wearing one of his trademark double-breasted suits. A big man, six-foot-four, he’d retained the athletic good looks of his youth when he was a starting point guard for the University of Kentucky basketball team. A conservative Republican, Parker had been elected governor twice by huge majorities and was starting to raise serious money, much of it from Wall Street, for a run at the presidency. Insiders figured he had a good chance. Kentucky’s economy was booming, thanks in large part to Parker’s decidedly low-tax, pro-business stance. The incumbent, President Nathan Ross, was unpopular. Parker was on a roll.
He’d delayed a fund-raising trip to California to talk to Weston. Only his closest advisers were aware that he was in Memphis.
The governor curtly greeted the geologist. He’d worked hard to get Weston appointed head of the powerful five-state Seismic Safety Commission. Two of his biggest campaign contributors, the CEOs of major engineering companies, had lobbied for Weston so he’d done them a favor, albeit reluctantly. He found the man’s coolness off-putting. Parker didn’t like Weston, but he had no reason to criticize his performance. He seemed competent and on top of things.
The commission, unique in the country, crossed both state and federal lines and had complete authority to assure that new public buildings and structures met seismic safety standards. They were also in the process of retrofitting some older structures, including several major bridges across the Mississippi. Their jurisdiction also extended to the big TVA dams in the five-state region.
“What’s the situation at Kentucky Dam?” Parker asked.
Weston said, “We’ve got some cracks in the base wall. They opened up after the main shock. We’re trying to get them repaired and reinforced as quickly as possible. It’s nothing that can’t be handled.”
He’d spoken with slow deliberation. If anything, he almost sounded upbeat about it.
“You’re sure those cracks can be repaired?” Parker asked.
“Yes, governor,” Weston said in his crisp, efficient voice. “It’s going to take a couple weeks to do it right. We’ve moved a lot of heavy equipment in already. I should mention that people are starting to talk. They know there’s a problem at the dam. One of the marina operators up there, a woman, is making some noise. She’s talking to people. Wants a public meeting.”
“What’s her name?” Parker asked, interested.
“Lauren Mitchell.”
“Maybe she’s right. Maybe we ought to have a meeting,” Parker said, considering the idea, weighing its possibilities.
“Let people know what’s happening. Tell them the truth. That there’s been some damage, but it’s being taken care of and there’s no danger. You have any problem with that, doctor?’’
“None, sir. I couldn’t agree more.”
Parker’s eyes locked on Weston, drilled into him. “You think we could have another bad quake up there any time soon? A big one strong enough to knock out that dam?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Is that a hedge?”
“It wasn’t meant to be, sir,” Weston said. “The statistical odds are hugely against another strong quake. In terms of seismic energy left in the ground, it’s almost an impossibility.”
Parker made his decision.
They’d repair the dam as rapidly as possible. He wanted the work completed in two weeks. He didn’t care what it cost. He’d get the other governors to go along and approve the funding, a state-federal match. The governors had to vote to approve expenditures to repair earthquake damage. They’d also need the TVA’s okay, but that had never been a problem.
Parker raised another subject. “Should we consider an evacuation from the towns below the dam until the repairs are finished?” he asked.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, governor,” Weston said. “The cracks aren’t a threat to the dam’s structural integrity. I think an evacuation order would cause unnecessary hardship and create panic.”
Parker mulled it over and said, “All right. Keep me informed.”
The meeting was over. Within moments Parker was back on board his Learjet, getting ready to return to Kentucky. He’d put off that fundraiser to California for a few days to give him time to tour the quake damage in his state.
Relieved to see the governor depart, Weston knew he hadn’t been totally forthright. He’d downplayed the damage at the dam and was lucky Parker hadn’t pushed him for more information. The cracks—five of them—were thirty feet long and leaking. They were running pumps to keep the water level low enough inside the dam
’s inner wall to make the repairs.
He was going to send Marshal and Wren back there immediately to make sure the work was completed as quickly as possible. They were pushing their luck, and they knew it.
MEMPHIS
JANUARY 11
5:00 P.M.
THE FAMOUS MEMPHIS “DRY” RIBS WERE THE specialty of the house at the Blue Sax Grill, a Beale Street institution. With a panache that was part of the atmosphere, the waiters served steaming platters of meat rubbed in spices. Located on the ground floor of an old drugstore, the place wasn’t cheap. John Atkins had gone to the Blue Sax for an early dinner to avoid the crowds. A tall waiter with mahogany skin and a white apron took his order and shouted a few clipped words to the kitchen: “Half order, beer.”
It was only late afternoon, but Atkins wanted to turn in early. He’d declined Walt Jacobs’ invitation to join him and his wife for dinner at their home. He was exhausted for one thing. For another, they both needed to get up before dawn to catch a helicopter for Mayfield, Kentucky, just across the Tennessee line. He and Jacobs and a team of four other seismologists were going to set up an array of seismometers. They wanted to place fifteen instruments on a line running roughly from the extreme southwestern tip of the state due east to Kentucky Lake.
The area had been extremely active with aftershocks. They hoped to get more precise readings on exactly what was happening deep in the ground. The biggest jolt so far was the magnitude 5.1 earlier that morning.
The waiter had just brought his order, placing the heavy plate piled high with ribs in front of him, when Elizabeth Holleran introduced herself.
“May I join you?” she asked.
Atkins hesitated, trying to suppress a groan.
“If you’d rather not,” Holleran said.