“I’m not sure which cars run,” Donovan called out over his shoulder as he returned to the office. He spotted several clipboards with keys clipped to the paperwork and started there. He found the information on the truck, and though he had trouble reading the handwriting, he could make out that it was waiting for the correct paint so they could shoot the right front quarter panel and finish the job. Donovan noted the name of the owner, then gripped the keys in his hand. He stopped as he noticed a leather jacket draped on the back of the desk chair. He tried it on, and though it was a little big, it would do.
“I don’t think any of these are finished except the 911, but that’s too small,” Shannon said as he pushed through the door into the shop. “Nice jacket.”
“At least it’s dry.” Donovan pushed the button on the key fob, and the throaty engine inside the jet-black F-250 erupted to life. He walked around the idling truck and noticed the hood of the Ford was taped off in preparation for painting. He ripped away the paper and discovered a large welded tubular bumper. He silently thanked the owner for his taste in trucks. And then shut off the engine. “Perfect. It’s not supposed to be ready until next Thursday, so the owner won’t be trying to use it as an escape vehicle.”
“So, just like that,” Shannon asked. “We take it and drive off?”
“Not exactly. There is the problem of this door.” Donovan examined the garage door and the electric motor that would typically open it at the touch of a button. He pressed the button, and as he expected, with no power, the door remained motionless. He spotted a three-foot-long, inch-thick steel bar that was flattened and sharpened at one end, with a yellow grooved handle at the other.
“What’s that?”
“This is one serious pry bar,” Donovan said, testing its weight in his hands. “I think I’ll borrow this. Let’s get out of here.”
Shannon climbed into the passenger’s seat and strapped herself in tight.
Donovan made a quick check to make sure the floor was clear of anything he might run over as they left, then once again started the truck. He was happy to find that there was a little over a half tank of gas. There were no warning lights, so he adjusted the seat, fastened his seat belt, gripped the wheel, and stepped on the gas. The sound of bending metal echoed through the high-ceilinged shop as the heavy bumper caved in the garage door and ripped it off of its tracks. The screech of tortured steel continued as the Ford lurched into the parking lot. Surprised that the airbags hadn’t gone off, Donovan slammed on the brakes and what was left of the destroyed door slid off the truck.
Donovan backed up, spun the wheel, and drove the Ford out of the lot and headed south. He knew Monterey Peninsula well enough to know the major thoroughfares, and he intended to avoid them. They’d work the side roads to try to reach the Pacific Grove gate into Pebble Beach. Donovan felt exhilarated—they were finally in motion and headed to find William.
Shannon turned on the radio, and once she discovered that there were no FM stations to be found, she switched to AM. The scanner stopped. A computerized voice was midsentence announcing evacuation routes.
“. . . normal programming to bring you this urgent tsunami warning in effect for the coast of California. All coastal residents should immediately move to higher ground and away from all harbors and inlets. Those seeing unusual wave activity may have only a few minutes before tsunami arrival and should evacuate immediately. Homes and small buildings are not designed to withstand tsunami impact. Do not stay in these structures. All residents in the area should be alert for further instructions. This tsunami warning is based on visual confirmation of meteorite impact in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Monterey California at 5:25 p.m., Pacific Daylight Time. The impact could be powerful enough to trigger multiple large waves. Coastal residents should seek higher ground. Tsunamis can be dangerous waves that are not survivable. Wave heights are amplified by irregular shorelines and are difficult to predict and remain a threat for hours after the initial surge. Do not return to evacuated areas until the all clear is given by the proper local authorities.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Shannon muttered as the message began to repeat, so she searched for more information. Seconds later she found another station.
“Monterey County Sheriff’s office has ordered the immediate mandatory evacuation of the following municipalities in Monterey County; Carmel, Carmel Valley, Monterey, Pacific Grove, Pebble Beach, and Seaside. Some roadways are impassable, and all residents are directed to use Highway 68 toward Salinas. Highway 1, north of Monterey, is closed. Highway 1, south of Carmel Highlands, is closed. Uniformed officers are in place to direct traffic. This is not a test; Monterey California Sheriff’s office has ordered the immediate evacuation of the following—”
Shannon turned off the radio, sat back in her seat, and pressed her palms against both eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening. A mass evacuation—it’s just like the street outside the aquarium, only on a far larger scale. Dear God, how many more people are going to die?”
“We’re not headed that way,” Donovan said. “The evacuation problems should ease dramatically by the time we make our own way out of here.”
“Is that because right this second, we’re headed back towards the ocean that already tried to kill us twice today?”
“I’d rather take a chance being near the ocean than to be stuck in traffic with fires burning everywhere. The way we’ll survive is to keep as many options open as we can,” Donovan said as he was forced to slow by a group of burning buildings and downed power lines that blocked their path. His earlier elation at being in motion evaporated as he pictured the evacuation routes in use—against the number of people he guessed lived in the Monterey Peninsula. Shannon was right. What was taking place in the Monterey Peninsula was chaos of the highest order, and all Donovan could think of was Lauren—and hope that she and everyone else aboard the Eco-Watch Gulfstream were someplace far away and safe.
CHAPTER NINE
“LAUREN, THERE YOU are. I think you’d better come and take a look at this,” Montero said.
Lauren turned at the sound of Montero’s voice and saw her standing in front of a large computer monitor. As Lauren crossed the room, she spotted a screen saver on another computer showing a bright red Boeing 747, a huge 944 painted on its tail, dropping water on a fire. She hoped that somewhere, there were about a hundred 747s just like 944 waiting to go to work. Rincon, the Cal Fire guy, was sitting in a chair operating a mouse.
“Mr. Rincon,” Lauren said. “What exactly are you looking at here?”
“This is as good a place to start as any,” Rincon said as he rose from the chair and offered his seat to Lauren. “Please, Dr. McKenna, call me Ernie.”
“Thanks, Ernie, I’m Lauren.” She sat and leaned forward for the optimum view of the screen. “Where did this image come from?”
“This is Homeland Security’s first estimation of the damage inflicted by today’s events,” Ernie said. “The yellow areas are probable meteor strikes. The green indicates suspected strikes from man-made objects.”
Lauren methodically broke down the display. First, she focused on the yellow marks only. They began near Idaho Falls, Idaho, and stretched southwestward across Nevada, and finally ended well offshore of Monterey. The initial impacts in Idaho and Nevada were scattered, and mostly in low population areas—Lauren didn’t anticipate great damage or loss of life in those states. Just west of the California border, the sporadic impacts increased and formed clusters that ran well out to sea. In the Monterey Peninsula, the yellow marks were grouped together until it was impossible to count the individual strikes.
Lauren shifted her focus to the green marks. While the yellow marks held tight to a hundred-mile-wide swath across the country, the man-made objects had come down in nearly every state west of the Mississippi River. The meteor had held a constant trajectory, but the satellites in Earth-orbit could have been traveling in polar orbits, equatorial orbits, or anything in between. Their course, dis
rupted by either the meteors or the ensuing collisions with other man-made space debris, created random headings and they ended up wherever their inertia took them. An estimation of the number of man-made impacts quickly escalated into the hundreds.
“What are the purple marks?” Montero asked. “And these red areas?”
“Purple indicates unconfirmed impacts.” Ernie shifted his weight as if uneasy. “As you know, the entire West Coast is wired to detect any seismic activity. A meteor, or crippled satellite, sends a ripple through the Earth’s crust when it hits, which the seismic array records and sends to the United States Geological Survey, which in turn sends their data to Homeland Security. These are all thought to be points of impact.”
There were three times as many purple notations than green or yellow, and Lauren tried to imagine the damage inflicted.
“The red areas are all of the known fires,” Ernie continued. “These depictions mark the point of ignition, not how far the fires have spread.”
“Ernie,” Lauren asked, “can I zoom in on specific fires?”
“Sure,” Ernie said.
Lauren moved the mouse until the pointer hovered over Monterey, and she clicked it until she had what she wanted. The area from Carmel Valley, north to Salinas, was peppered with multicolored spots. Monterey was pockmarked by impacts, most of them resulting in a fire.
“None of the fires in the Monterey Peninsula are contained,” Ernie said. “I’m told we’re having trouble getting men and equipment into the area to start fighting them.”
“What air assets are available?” Lauren asked, knowing that Cal Fire had numerous bases with both aerial tankers and helicopters at the ready.
“We’re working on it.” Ernie sighed. “But it’s not safe. Until we get word that the meteors have stopped dropping, they’re grounded. Which leaves us with our surface equipment only, and the preliminary reports are we’ve lost nearly twenty percent of our firefighting capability from direct damage inflicted by the meteors. Our response vehicles are meeting resistance from the outflow of civilian evacuations. Plus it’s getting dark, which complicates the entire process.”
“The Defense Intelligence Agency informed me that this is one time we might need to sit and wait a little bit before we act, “Lauren said. “There are more impacts coming.”
“How long are we talking? I mean, how will we know when it’s finally safe?”
“My boss said he’d get you the information the second he does. What can you tell me about the status of the population?” Lauren spoke without taking her eyes off the screen, overwhelmed by the amount of real estate already destroyed by impact or fire. The thought that Donovan was down there somewhere caused her stomach to roil.
“All that seems to have worked in our favor was the tsunami warning. People dropped what they were doing and started heading to higher ground,” Ernie said. “The downside is that the entire grid is down. No electricity, no phones, cell or otherwise. In addition to the FAA no-fly rule, Homeland Security has implemented a restricted area over the entire Monterey Peninsula in an effort to keep the airspace free from interference from civilian aviation. From past experiences, media helicopters and drones have been a problem.”
“They always are,” Lauren said as she shook her head.
“He still has plenty of escape routes,” Montero said as if reading Lauren’s mind.
“You have someone on the ground in Monterey?” Ernie asked.
“My husband, Donovan Nash, but I think we should stay focused on the big picture. He’ll find his way out.” Lauren said the words but guessed that neither Ernie nor Montero were buying her act.
“Mr. Rincon . . . Ernie,” Montero said as she held out her hand. “I’m Ms. Montero, the Director of Security for Eco-Watch. Donovan Nash is the executive director. His well-being can only be in everyone’s best interest. We already have assets in the area, obviously our helicopter, plus our new research ship, the Buckley. I’d like to head back to the original rendezvous point we had with Mr. Nash, as he may be there now, waiting.”
“I can’t authorize that,” Ernie replied as he shook her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay, how about this. You just said you have very little information and you wanted to get to the forward fire base,” Lauren said. “You come with us, we’re an official flight. You can survey the areas you want to see firsthand, and on the way, we stop at the Monterey airport.”
“If we do this,” Ernie said, holding up an index finger for emphasis, “we come straight back here the moment I say we do. Dr. McKenna, you will then remain as my liaison with the Department of Defense, to help us understand what these fires are doing.”
“You have a deal,” Lauren said and saw Montero already headed for the door to find Janie.
“How long do you think it’ll be until we’re ready to depart?” Ernie asked.
“If I know Montero and Janie, you’ll be airborne inside fifteen minutes.”
“I need to notify Agent Price,” Ernie said. “He needs to clear our departure with the FAA.”
Lauren stepped aside as Ernie looked at his phone and thumbed through e-mails or texts. She watched as he stopped and read one twice. His expression shifted, and his face seemed to drain of color. He seemingly collected himself and then he dialed a number on his cell phone. She heard him begin talking to Agent Price. The conversation took less than thirty seconds.
“Okay, Price says we’re good to go.” Ernie grabbed a Cal Fire windbreaker and pulled it on. “I appreciate this. More than anything else, I want to take a look at the current fires as well as the evacuation routes.”
“Ernie.” Lauren made no effort to move. “What is it you’re not telling us?”
“I’ve just been told that Highway 1 is officially closed north of Seaside, which gives us only one viable exit out of Monterey. We’re diverting our ground assets to ensure the evacuation route stays open, and they’ve already converted all lanes to handle the outbound traffic, but the evacuation process is slow.”
“Those are facts,” Lauren said. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Water mains have been compromised. Emergency services are evacuating. It’s going to be dark soon, and we’re in full retreat. What makes matters worse is, at night, the fear level rises. People trying to escape are going to see actual flames that they couldn’t see during the day. Traffic is moving, but if a full-scale panic ensues, everything will change. Add the possibility of looters, and complete chaos can quickly sweep over any remaining civilians. There’s no law enforcement in the area. All official vehicles have been recalled to help keep traffic moving.”
“There are also going to be more meteors visible in the night sky; we haven’t seen the last of them,” Lauren said.
“I didn’t even think about that.” Ernie pursed his lips and shook his head at the thought. “One of the worst things I’ve ever seen as a fireman was a nightclub blaze. The place wasn’t up to code, the building was overcrowded, and the fire exits were locked. The fire happened fast and people panicked. Most of them were crushed and trampled before the smoke and flames ever reached them—but not all. I helped unstack the victims piled up against exits that wouldn’t open. Imagine that scenario, except it’s not a building, it’s an entire city.”
CHAPTER TEN
“I SAW SOMETHING just above the trees,” Shannon said, leaning forward and pointing upwards through the windshield of the truck.
“What was it?” Donovan’s eyes darted from the road to the sky, searching through the smoke.
“I think it was a helicopter—headed the same way we are.”
Donovan rolled down his window and listened. All he heard was the thrumming of the tires on the pavement. He slowed until he could hear the distinct thumping of a helicopter’s rotor blades.
“There!” Shannon pointed lower on the horizon.
Donovan spotted the helicopter. A white Bell Jet Ranger. He accelerated and the F-250 roared down the street until he had to slow do
wn where a group of homes were engulfed in flames, which forced him to turn away from the heat. He zigzagged through the residential neighborhood in an effort to spot the helicopter again as flames licked upward in heated spirals, glowing embers drifting well above the trees. The smoke was getting thicker, and the light was fading. Cinders bounced off the metal and glass of the truck. All around them, cedar shake roofs, dried grass, and landscaping began to burn.
“I lost it,” Shannon said.
Donovan switched on the truck’s headlights. They passed wrecked cars abandoned in intersections, yet he didn’t see a single soul, and even more distressing, still didn’t see or hear a single emergency vehicle—just fire, smoke, and destruction. He continued to adjust his route, driving as fast as he dared down the curved roads fighting the heavy smoke. Debris littered the road, flames consumed entire blocks. Houses, trees, utility poles, everything was burning in the relentless path of the fires. Downed power lines hung inert. There was no electricity. Donovan flinched when a house a block away exploded and sent fiery wreckage tumbling high into the air. Unlike a forest fire, an urban fire fed off of so many other sources. Natural gas, automobile fuel, stored paint, virtually everything except ceramic and concrete would burn, and sometimes hotter than a simple wood blaze. All around them, he continued to hear the rumble of explosions.
“Where are we going? Do you see the helicopter?” Shannon asked as Donovan made an abrupt turn, and they headed down a different street.
“We have to be out in the open for anyone to see us.” Donovan searched in vain through the canopy of mature trees for what little sky he could see. “I’m headed for the beach. Years ago, I spent time in Monterey, long before I joined Eco-Watch. It’s coming back to me in bits and pieces.”
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