The Cauldron

by Colin Forbes

  'The swine,' Brand snarled.

  'Who?' asked Ethan, hardly knowing what he was saying.

  'VB. He slammed the door of the chopper in my face and it took off. Where the hell do you think you're going?'

  Take me with you,' Ethan pleaded.

  Brand rammed his elbow into Ethan's ribs as he attempted to open another door. Ethan staggered back, collapsed on the ground. By the time he stumbled to his feet the Lincoln was driving at top speed down the slope, headlights blazing as it passed through the open gates, turned right onto Highway One.

  Brand drove at manic speed, roared past the drive leading up to The Apex. He never gave a thought to Mrs Benyon, intent only on reaching San Francisco in record time. By his side on the passenger seat was an automatic rifle. If he met a patrol car he'd gun down anyone who tried to stop him.

  His huge muscular frame was tense. He felt the ground under the car shudder, pressed his foot down further. Then he heard the horrendous explosion. Glancing out to sea his eyes opened wide. The ocean seemed to be lifting. He saw the Baja tossed high into the air as though it were a rowboat. The Xenobium bomb beneath it had detonated. The vessel turned turtle in midair, plunged back downwards into the incredibly high mountain of water hurled up by the explosion. It disappeared but Brand kept his nerve as the highway climbed steeply, swinging round dangerous bends without slowing down.

  He was passing Point Sur when the huge massif split in two, creating a canyon through which the ocean surged in a Niagara of water. The lighthouse toppled down inside the canyon, vanished under the water. The sea was now flooding across the highway but Brand didn't slow - he drove through, sending up great gushes of spray which blinded his windscreen. He turned the wipers full on, saw a bend just in time.

  Ahead, along a straight stretch of highway, he saw that a crack was splitting open the road. It was only a few inches wide when he drove over it. In his rear-view mirror he glimpsed the crack widen to a crevasse. Under the Lincoln the ground was shuddering again. He kept the huge stretch limo moving. He was approaching the Bixby Bridge.

  One of the wonders of American engineering, the most often photographed Bixby Bridge was opened for traffic after completion in November 1932. The central arch, over the creek running into the Pacific two hundred and fifty feet beneath it, was a span more than two hundred and fifty feet long. Driving over it cars went thump thump as they crossed the strips of material laid across it to slow down traffic.

  So far Brand had seen no other cars from the moment he had left Black Ridge. Glancing up the mountainside to his right, he gazed in trepidation as a millionaire's modernistic house simply slid down the slope, breaking up as it continued to slide. Inside other fabulous properties the lights suddenly went out as powerlines were fractured. The moon was rising as Brand's teeth were bared in a rictus-like smile.

  He took the bridge at full tilt, ignoring the slow-down strips. He was almost halfway across when the arch began to climb into the air. Gripping the wheel of the Lincoln Continental with all his strength, he drove up the mounting arch, reached the summit, saw a split appearing right across the arch. The Lincoln leapt over the gap, started descending the far side. In a trance of terror, Brand felt the entire structure heaving sideways and seawards. The Lincoln swivelled out of the right-hand lane into the left.

  Brand threw up a useless arm across his head in horror as the whole bridge continued to tilt, then collapsed. He had no time to take his foot off the accelerator as the stretch limo shot over the rails, now at a much lower angle. The Lincoln was a rocket in flight. It hammered into the cliffs on the Carmel side like a shell from a gun, the petrol tank exploded, flames engulfed it from end to end. The relics fell into the boiling ocean below. Where the great Bixby Bridge had once stood there was only a wide gap, the broken structure swallowed up by the Pacific far beneath what had, for so many years, been a marvel of Highway One.

  On the golf links near Spanish Bay, a short time before Ethan had pulled the levers, the Chinook, a large ugly helicopter with a box-like stern, landed on the green where Alvarez had signalled with his torch. Everyone was aboard except for Newman, who stood at the foot of the ladder, staring anxiously back at the hotel for a sight of Tweed.

  'Can't wait much longer,' the co-pilot shouted down from above.

  'You are waiting for a VIP,' Alvarez said, standing beside the co-pilot, flourishing his CIA credentials.

  'A few minutes more. No longer...'

  Outside the lobby in front of the hotel Tweed was enduring the most nerve-racking wait he could remember. Then he saw two men hurrying towards him from the direction of the club. Grenville with Maurice Prendergast.

  'Some minor crisis?' Grenville enquired calmly. 'We saw your lot arriving, rushing about like frightened rabbits.'

  'Some rabbits,' Tweed snapped. 'Both of you go out the back way by Roy's. Board the chopper you'll see waiting on the links. A major earthquake is due.'

  'A major crisis, then,' Grenville responded.

  He stubbed the cigar he had been smoking, followed Maurice who had already started running into the lobby. Tweed walked up and down, counting his paces to concentrate his mind. Then he stopped. An Audi, driven at high speed, jerked to a stop a few feet away from him. Vanity Richmond jumped out, holding a suitcase.

  'I caught your signal when you stood in my doorway - smoothing down your hair. Got trapped behind a juggernaut crawling along the highway. Ages before I dared overtake.'

  'You're here. That's the main thing. Come on.'

  Taking her by one hand, he ran with her into the lobby and out of the door next to Roy's. From the terrace they could see the lights of the big Chinook. Grenville and Maurice were already mounting the ladder.

  'Hurry up!' Newman shouted at them.

  'What the hell do you think we're doing?' Vanity snapped back at him.

  She flew up the ladder, followed by Tweed and Newman. The co-pilot hauled up the aluminium ladder, slammed the door shut.

  Tweed stood at the doorway to the pilot's control area. The rotors were already whirling, faster and faster. He had to shout.

  'What is happening at San Francisco International? A major earthquake is coming.'

  'A special flight has been laid on. There have been shocks in San Francisco,' the pilot shouted back. 'Washington has arranged the flight. We have time to spare.'

  Alvarez put his mouth close to Tweed's ear, kept his voice down.

  'For Washington read Cord Dillon...'

  The Chinook was lifting off, higher and higher, then it began its flight north, over the ocean. Entering the main cabin Tweed had the impression the Chinook had been furnished for top brass. Rows of comfortable double seats lined both port and starboard with a central aisle, occupied the fuselage. Vanity was sitting next to Newman, who waved cheerily. Tweed chose a seat by himself on the starboard side next to a window. It gave him a view of the coast.

  They had passed Monterey and he estimated they must be close to Moss Landing when, looking down, he saw in the moonlight the Kebir, twin dredger with the Baja. As he watched, a tremendous explosion shook the Chinook. The helicopter bucked, but the pilot had it under control within seconds. Paula had moved forward, seated herself beside Tweed just before the explosion.

  'What on earth was that?' she asked.

  "The second Xenobium bomb detonating. Ethan's work. Look down.'

  She leaned over him, stared. The Kebir had keeled over, was wallowing in a turmoil of surf and raging water. As she watched it sank, as though sucked down by some enormous force. A tidal wave appeared, more like a mountain than a wave. It drove forward to the coast, inundated it, continued inland across the flatlands until she could no longer see it. She sat down, let out her breath.

  'It looks like a cauldron down there.'

  'It is a cauldron. Lord knows what's happening to the south of us c'

  The San Moreno earthquake, combined with the detonation of the Xenobium bombs, produced the colossal reaction Professor Weatherby had eventually
feared. The tectonic plate off California was shifted under the coast. The results were catastrophic.

  Starting just north of Los Angeles, a gigantic chasm opened up in the Earth's surface. In certain areas it ran inland, in others it destroyed the coast for ever. LA itself did not escape the devastation. Several buildings constructed of two wings at right angles to each other split apart. Shudderings from the ground travelled up the buildings, increased in ferocity as they reached the tops. The buildings broke in two, one wing going one way, the other in a different direction. Cars parked in the streets were flattened like sardine cans. Because they were office buildings and it was after working hours casualties were light.

  Not so in homes on the edge of the sprawling city. People inside concrete structures were crushed. Further away pictures were shaken off walls, ornaments crashed off mantelpieces, doors broke loose from their hinges. All this was nothing compared with what happened when the chasm opened from Santa Barbara north to San Francisco.

  After being knocked to the ground by Brand at Black Ridge, Ethan was terrified by what he had released. He ran round the back of the mansion, started to climb the hills looming above, despite the height at which the mansion stood. He had reason to be scared out of his wits - he knew what was coming.

  The ocean gathered itself up into one of the most feared products of a major earthquake - a tsunami, the Japanese term for a mighty tidal wave. Scrambling up the slope, he paused for breath, looked back and screamed. A wave higher than Black Ridge, a monster in the moonlight, green with a curl of surf at its summit, rolled majestically forward. At that moment Ethan felt the ground trembling under his feet. Looking down, he saw a huge chasm ripping the slope asunder. The monster wave slammed against the hillslope, struck him in the back, toppled him into the chasm. Millions of tons of ocean flooded down into the chasm. Ethan was drowned.

  When it eventually receded the wave took half the coast with it. A landslide shifted the Gothic mansion of Black Ridge, clawed it down the slope as it broke up into a thousand pieces. Other three-million-dollar houses were sliced off the slope, carrying their inhabitants down into the depths of the ocean. The whole landscape in the Big Sur area was transformed into a series of ugly island crags.

  The chasm continued ripping north, devouring forests, hamlets, highways in the most terrible rampage in the history of man. Ethan had tampered with Nature, had paid the penalty - but so did many others. The earthquake registered 8.9 on the Richter scale. Later, casualties were estimated at 150,000.

  Tweed realized they were in trouble as the Chinook began its descent on San Francisco International Airport. The pilot landed his machine close to a waiting Boeing 747. The plane was surrounded by State troopers holding guns.

  'People are panicking trying to board our plane.' he warned Paula.

  'Poor devils.'

  'Let's just hope we can reach the aircraft.'

  'You'll have to force your way through two files of troopers,' reported the co-pilot who had entered the cabin. 'Just keep shoving until you're inside the 747.'

  'I must look after Mrs Benyon.' Tweed said.

  'I'll help you,' Paula insisted. 'It's chaos out there.'

  It was worse than that, Tweed thought, glancing out of the window. He stiffened. In the distance he saw the lights of a Lear jet moving down a runway. As it passed near an overhead glare light he read the huge letters painted on the fuselage. AMBECO. The jet took off, climbing rapidly as it gained height. Vincent Bernard Moloch was leaving America.

  43

  There is nothing more frightening than a panic-stricken mob stampeding out of sheer terror. As they left the Chinook, climbing down the ladder, the sound of the rotors whirling ceased. It was replaced by another sound. The howl and yells of the vast crowd fighting to board the Boeing. It was every man - and woman - for themselves. The thin veneer of civilization had vanished - the mob was like a mass of savages, pressing against the two lines of armed State troopers forming a narrow aisle leading to the British Airways plane.

  'Follow me!' shouted Alvarez.

  He led the way, flourishing his CIA folder in the faces of the troopers. Behind him came Mrs Benyon, clutching only one of her suitcases. Tweed had hold of one of her arms, Paula gripped the other. Mrs Benyon was remarkably calm. She used her bulk to press her way forward after Alvarez between the backs of troopers struggling to hold back the seething crowd, holding their automatic rifles in both hands, parallel to the ground, to act as a makeshift barrier.

  One American woman, her face contorted with fury, broke through behind Alvarez. A trooper hoisted his weapon to hit her with the butt. Paula grabbed his arm with her free hand.

  'Don't! Please don't hit her.'

  Her voice carried. At that moment the ground under the airport had shuddered briefly, silencing the crowd for a short time. The trooper looked, surprised, then heaved the intruding woman back with his body. She yelled at Paula.

  'Friggin' Brit. You'll get away. You're OK!'

  Paula felt guilty because what the woman had screamed at her was true. If they ever reached the Boeing she would get away while the woman would be left behind. Tweed sensed her reaction.

  'Concentrate on getting Mrs Benyon to safety.' he rapped out.

  The struggle to reach the aircraft went on. At times Alvarez was able to walk a few yards along a clear aisle as Tweed and Paula hurried Mrs Benyon after him. Then the protecting line would give way and Alvarez had to wait as the troopers fought to clear the way. Then he would press forward as control was - briefly - regained. The mob began baying in rising unison.

  'Kill the troopers! Kill the troopers! Kill them!'

  This is turning very ugly, Tweed thought, but he kept the reaction to himself as the nightmare movement forward continued. Paula saw one woman among the crowd in tears. A tall handsome Negro next to her, obviously a stranger, put one arm round her and she buried her face in his large chest. The Negro saw Paula's expression. He waved to her with his free arm, grinned. Paula wanted to burst into tears herself. Then a fresh horror occurred.

  A white man, with a bony, skull-like head, had produced a knife. He was stabbing people at random, forcing his way forward to where the troopers stood. Several of his victims collapsed. He was close to the Negro, who turned round, saw what he was doing. He clenched a huge fist, using his free arm, smashed it against the jaw of the man with the knife. The attacker slumped out of sight, was trampled underfoot.

  'Oh, my God!' she let out.

  'Keep moving,' ordered Tweed.

  The file of troopers, originally forming a straight line to the waiting aircraft, were now bent into a conga-like formation, but still stood shoulder to shoulder. Glancing back, Paula saw Newman close behind, gripping Vanity's arm as he pushed her forward. Her face was twisted in an expression of strain. Lord, I'll bet I'm looking like that, thought Paula. Newman grinned at her, motioned her to keep moving.

  Quite suddenly, Paula was aware of something huge looming above them. It was the Boeing. They had almost reached the plane. Ahead she saw troopers desperately attempting to keep the mob back from the mobile staircase alongside the fuselage. Mrs Benyon gave her bulk an extra heave to force their way through between the backs of troopers.

  'Be careful on the steps.' Tweed shouted in her ear.

  Mrs Benyon reached the foot of the mobile staircase. She mounted them rapidly, one hand still clutching her suitcase, the other holding on to a rail. Paula followed, careful not to look down. Tweed did look down as he climbed the steps. He estimated there must be forty troopers, half on one side, half on the other, keeping the mobile staircase in place.

  Suddenly Paula found herself inside the aircraft, guided to First Class by the female purser who had managed to greet her with a smile. Only then did she realize she was still holding the ticket Tweed had handed her aboard the Chinook, that the purser had checked it swiftly before leading the way. Exhausted, she sank into the aisle seat, determined not to look out of the window. Tweed took the window seat, st
ared out.

  The seething, frightened mob seemed to hem in the plane, but then he observed a fresh line of troopers, holding back the huge crowd of people desperate to board. A woman sat in the aisle seat opposite Paula, several feet away since in First Class the aisle was spacious. The purser was examining her ticket.

  'You are Hiram Bellenger? Hiram is a man's name.'

  'I'm Hiram.'

  A tall heavily built man had slipped aboard and stood by the purser. He smiled broadly.

  'This is my sister. She's taking my seat. I insisted. I can catch the next flight tomorrow. Let me have the ticket.'

  Pulling it from the purser's hand, he took out a fountain pen, crossed out his Christian name, leaving only the letter 'H'. He handed back the ticket to the purser.

  'Her name is Harriet, so now everything is in order. I guess I'd better leave now.' He caught Paula's expression, patted his large bulk. 'Don't look like that, lady. I'll have a few beers in the city, then, as I just said, catch a flight tomorrow. With my bulk aboard the plane would be overloaded.' He smiled again, squeezed Paula's shoulder. 'Safe flight

  Then he was gone and again Paula had trouble controlling her emotions. Tomorrow's flight? Would there be a tomorrow for Hiram? She felt sick. Tweed grasped her hand.

  "The bad and the very good. We've seen them all today.' He looked back. 'Mrs Benyon has fallen asleep. Everyone else is with us. Bob, Marler, Nield, Butler - and Alvarez.'

  'I don't understand the number of times Alvarez has got away with waving his CIA folder.'

  'I'll explain later. And Vanity is seated next to Bob. She looks washed out, but she's chatting to Newman.'

  'I don't understand why you were so anxious to wait for her back at Spanish Bay.'

  'I'll explain later.'

  All the passengers were aboard. Tweed secretly wondered how on earth the plane would ever take off. Peering out of the window he saw American organization in a crisis at its best. The pilot had ordered the cabin crew over the tannoy to lock the doors, take their seats. The jet engines were humming, rising to a crescendo.