“Mr. Reston, when you say very heavy tankers, what exactly are you referring to?” Lauren asked.
“There are three DC-10 airliners that have been converted to fight fires, plus two 747s.”
Lauren turned to Ernie. “What are the Cal Fire assets?”
“We’ve got helicopters, smaller tankers, and observation aircraft being mobilized from all over the state. The helicopters are especially flexible. We’re going to base some at the Hollister airport with our twin engine tanker aircraft. We’re also using the Salinas airport as an assembly point for emergency service workers. It’s close to the only road in and out of Monterey. Tomorrow is going to be a long day of fighting fires, and we need the evacuees out of the way.”
“Salinas is the most cost-effective place for FEMA to begin serving the needs of the displaced and homeless,” Guerra said.
“Gentleman, with the situation being what it is, with all of the lives at stake, I think we need to agree that budget concerns should be the least of our worries,” Lauren said quietly but firmly as she picked up the infrared image of the fires. “Let’s get back to the big picture. How many of these fires can you stop by noon tomorrow?”
“Considering the equipment and manpower we’ll have working by then, maybe eight percent, maybe ten,” Reston said. He looked at Ernie, who nodded his head in agreement.
“The cities you mentioned earlier in Monterey County,” Lauren said. “Will you be able to save them when the tankers start their work?”
“Very few, if any,” Reston said.
“How many people do you think are still at risk?” Lauren asked.
“Without accurate casualty figures, that question is impossible to answer,” Frantz said. “My position remains the same. There have been losses today, there will be more losses tonight, as well as tomorrow, but we have to pull back. Every engine company is fighting a losing battle.”
“The forest service is going to be taxed as well just to keep the current evacuation routes open,” Reston added. “As Ernie pointed out earlier, years of drought conditions make for a big, fast-burning fire.”
“So, gentleman . . .” Lauren looked around the room. “It is your considered opinion that the nature and ferocity of the fires burning right now will consume the Monterey, Seaside, Pacific Grove, and Pebble Beach communities on the Monterey Peninsula?”
“Yes,” came the unanimous reply.
“I have a report to give the Pentagon,” Lauren said. “This is an extraordinary event, and as your liaison to the military, and by default, the White House, let me help you. I can make things happen. Is there anything Washington can provide that would change what is happening here?”
“Men and equipment,” Ernie said. “A fire can be slowed by the aerial tankers, but men on the ground finally put it out.”
Lauren looked at Frantz. “You mentioned casualty figures. Any estimates?”
“Nothing official at this time.”
“Off the record?” Lauren asked.
“We have models for disasters such as earthquakes and tsunamis, and the initial casualty rate is typically somewhere between six to ten percent of the population. This means we could have ten thousand victims already. Add in the fires, and that number could easily double.”
“I’ve got some phone calls to make,” Lauren said, staggered at the number of possible fatalities. “Mr. Guerra, from what I’ve just heard, I think it would be wise for FEMA to keep the evacuees moving north, and that will be my recommendation to my superiors in Washington. I’m going to urge the Pentagon to expedite the mobilization of National Guard units from all available resources. You’ll get your men and equipment, but from a personal observation, I know there are people out there hiding, terrified, thinking and praying you’re coming to the rescue. They’re counting on you. Do the best you can, gentleman. I’m going to get us some help.”
Lauren walked out of the room. The lobby area was nearly deserted, then she spotted Janie sitting in a chair, studying a chart.
“I can’t hear them anymore,” Janie said as Lauren came closer. “Sounds like you calmed them down.”
“I hope so,” Lauren said as she sat down on a sofa that allowed her to face Janie. “How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in there, considering the day we’ve had.” Janie set aside the chart. “The bigger question is how are you doing?”
“I don’t know how to feel.” Lauren pressed her fingers to her temples. “He should have been there; he’s never late.”
“I know, but if there’s no way for them to reach us, we just have to wait. He knows we’re here.”
“You know me. I want information. I need to know if my husband is still alive.”
“Donovan gave me some advice when he hired me, and it’s stayed with me because it’s how people in high-risk jobs need to think. He told me to hope for the best, and plan for the worst. I know it sounds a bit simplified, and at the time, he intended it as an approach to being an Eco-Watch pilot, but it works for damned near everything.”
“I’ve heard him say that before; he even says it to Abigail.” Lauren was unprepared for the avalanche of grief that welled up at the thought of their daughter. Tears blurred her vision.
She felt Janie move next to her on the sofa. “What can I do?” Janie asked softly.
Lauren shook her head and fought to regain her composure, but the harder she tried to keep it together, the deeper she spun out of control. Struggling for quick gasps of air, she rose unsteadily to her feet and headed toward the door and the darkness beyond.
Janie walked with her through the door that led to the ramp. Lauren felt the night air hit her face as she leaned against the side of the building. With Janie standing silently beside her, Lauren’s gasps became measured breaths, and slowly she gathered in her tattered emotions and wiped at her tears.
“If you’ll be okay for a second, I’ll run in and find some tissues,” Janie offered.
Lauren nodded, and as Janie hurried off, she managed to open her eyes, breathe more evenly, and take in her surroundings. The darkness and the eerie silence of the usually busy airport served to focus the enormity of the day’s events. Lauren’s tenuous grasp of her control wobbled as she thought of the predicted fatalities. The scientist in her fought back, and she tried to tell herself that Donovan had a 90 percent chance of survival. Her argument dissolved with one simple question—where was he?
“Lauren?” Michael said softly as he approached.
She sniffed, wiped her eyes, turned, and saw that he was holding a box of tissues. She took several, and drew in a deep breath.
“Janie said you were out here.” Michael leaned against the wall next to her. “She had a call from the Buckley. I told her I’d come out here and be with you. You know, I’m fighting it, too.”
“We saw the evacuations—there were families, kids. If they could make it out, where is he? Where’s William? Even after those idiots stole his car, he’d be able to find another, right?”
“I’m playing the same ‘what if’ game you are,” Michael said. “It’s not what we should be doing. At first light, Montero and I will start searching for them.”
“Is that what Montero is saying? Or are you just trying to make me feel better?”
“To be honest”—Michael lowered his voice and leaned in a little closer—“Montero’s wired a little different than normal people. You and I might take a private moment to shed a few tears. Its nature’s way to release the stress. We don’t stay there for long, and then we keep doing our job. If you ask me, right now, I think Montero’s brain is about to explode. I’ve never seen her so intense. We’ll go at first light, following Montero’s plan.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said, a hint of a smile toying with the edges of her mouth as she momentarily imagined the former FBI agent’s brain actually exploding. She squeezed Michael’s hand. He was a Godsend, spinning a little humor, even at Montero’s expense.
Montero blew through the sliding glass doors
and spotted Michael and Lauren. “Thank God! Finally.”
“What is it?” Michael asked.
Montero held up her phone. “We couldn’t identify Donovan because of the shadow from the helicopter, but the person sitting in the truck is Shannon. It’s them, the two of them—Donovan’s alive.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DONOVAN CONSIDERED THE supplies they’d gathered. A collection of towels and pillowcases, bottled water, and a pair of scissors. Not much. There were no personal effects in this house, no photographs, no clothes, just furniture, towels, linens, and kitchen utensils. The house was either for sale or a rental.
“I’m ready when you are,” William said, his voice strained, his eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
“I’ll be as careful as I can,” Donovan said. “I want to remove the wrappings we put on at the golf course, rinse the wound with bottled water, and put on fresh bandages.”
“Good plan,” Shannon said. “William, you’re going to be fine.”
With the scissors, Donovan cut through the bloody bindings. Despite taking care, Donovan couldn’t help but jostle the ankle. William sucked in air through clinched teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Donovan kept cutting. Once the towels were removed, Shannon helped him remove the rubber mat.
William let out a groan of agony as Donovan peeled away the last golf towel, exposing the ankle and the protruding bone.
“The worst is over.” Shannon used both of her hands to hold William’s clenched fingers. “You’re doing great. In fact, the wound doesn’t look nearly as bad in the light.”
Donovan shot Shannon a look of skepticism. In the glare of the kitchen light, the blood, combined with the bone jutting out into space, was one of the worst bone injuries Donovan had ever seen. He opened the first bottle of water and tipped the bottle and poured a smooth flow to rinse out the gash. He struggled to push William’s agonizing groans from his mind as he emptied the first container. Grass and other bits of debris flooded out onto the floor. Donovan opened a second bottle and continued to irrigate the wound. He then began to lay clean towels over the ankle as gently as possible. He took the pillowcases, folded them lengthwise, and bound them snugly. Shannon splashed water on the mat to wash away old blood. Then they placed the rubber splint back into place. Donovan tied everything securely. He leaned back and examined his work, convinced the field dressing was as good as they could get it under the circumstances. It would hold up for now, but he genuinely hoped he wouldn’t have to move William. In his nearly four decades with the man, he’d never seen him in such pain, and he truly feared for his friend’s life.
“William,” Shannon said. “Focus on your breathing. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow and easy. In and out.”
“One more little detail, William, and I promise you’ll feel better.” Donovan held up a pillowcase and folded it into a triangle. He lifted William’s injured elbow, arranged the fabric so as to cradle the entire elbow and forearm. He adjusted the angle of William’s elbow in reference to his torso and tied the knot to complete the sling. “There, we’re finished. How are you holding up?”
William nodded, his chest still rising and falling as his breathing began to slow, though the strain etched on his lined face spoke volumes as to the level of pain he was enduring.
“I’m heading to the hospital,” Donovan said. “I’ll get you out of here as fast as I can.”
“You both go,” William said, his eyelids closing. He pulled his hand from Shannon’s grasp and reached for Donovan. “Son, if you can’t get back here for me, you two need to keep going.”
“We’re all getting out of this together,” Donovan said as he patted William’s hand. The combination of pain, stress, and exhaustion was taking its toll, and William closed his eyes. With his fingers on the pulse in William’s wrist, Donovan felt his friend’s heart rate slow as he drifted into sleep. He covered William’s arm with the blanket and turned toward Shannon. “I need to go.”
“First, come and look at something I found.” Shannon stood. “It might help.”
Donovan stayed close as she climbed the stairwell that led to the second floor. She led him up the stairs, down a hall, into a room, and then up a spiral staircase to a cupola.
Shannon pushed open the door into the octagon-shaped room. Cushioned seats lined half the wall space, and positioned against another wall was a telescope aimed out a window. Had the sky not been filled with smoke, Donovan knew the view would have been spectacular. As it was, only a few blocks away, he could see several distinct homes on fire. In the distance, the smoke reduced the individual fires to a mere glow in the darkness. As he turned, he realized he could take in the full three hundred sixty degrees of horizon. To the west, the ocean was black, with no sign of lights at all. As he turned toward the east, the scene looked like one solid fire. As he continued to pivot, he noticed that to the southeast, toward Carmel, there was no glow at all.
“Which way is the hospital?” Shannon asked. “Do you think we can make our way there?”
“Maybe even better.” Donovan pointed outward. “Not far in that direction is a gate leading from Pebble Beach into Carmel. From Carmel, it’s a straight shot out to Highway 68, the evacuation route we heard about on the radio.”
“A way out? Are you kidding me?” Shannon said.
“I’ll go to the hospital,” Donovan said as he took one last look, turned, and started down the stairs. “It’ll be safer if you stay here with William.”
“You’re not leaving me here,” Shannon said as she caught up with him.
“It’s a thirty-minute round trip. You’ll be fine. If the road is passable, I’ll come back for you and William, and we’ll go.” Donovan hurried to the staircase that would take him down to the first floor when Shannon reached out and grabbed his arm.
“You heard what William said. What if you don’t come back? Then what? I have no idea where I am. There are no cars in the garage and no way for me to help William on my own. You’re not leaving me behind. We’ve come this far together, and we’re not stopping now.”
Donovan assessed her words, the fear behind them, and he understood that, under the circumstances, she was probably right. “You’re right, but we need to hurry.”
“Okay, then.” Shannon nodded for emphasis.
Together, they checked on William one more time. Shannon put a bottle of water within his reach should he wake up thirsty. They went out the front door, and Donovan slid into the cab and fired up the Ford. As he threw on the headlights, he could see that the smoke was thicker than when they’d arrived.
“Hang on,” Shannon said as she jumped from the cab and vanished inside the house. Moments later she reemerged carrying two pillowcases.
“What are those for?” Donovan asked.
“I don’t know about you.” Shannon folded one lengthwise and then test-fit it around her head until it covered both her mouth and nose. “But I’m tired of breathing in smoke.”
He drove down the hill until they made a left turn onto 17 Mile Drive. As the road wound through the forest, he saw damage to their right that he couldn’t explain. Trees were toppled, power lines draped across the road from snapped electric poles. A car’s rear reflectors shone from beneath the branches of an immense tree.
“What happened here?” Shannon asked as she, too, saw the destruction.
Donovan tried to piece together where they were, and when he spotted a landmark through the smoke, he understood what had happened. “Up ahead is the Lodge at Pebble Beach. The damage here must have been inflicted by the tsunami. The ocean isn’t very far.”
“Wait. What’s that?” Shannon said as she pointed and strained to see in the other direction.
Donovan stepped on the brakes as their headlights swept across a paddock holding several horses. Without a second thought, he turned the wheel and used the heavy front end of the Ford to pressure the latch on the wooden gate until it splintered and swung open on its hinges. He backed up, rolled down the wi
ndow, and whistled loudly. One by one, in single file, the horses, keeping a cautious distance from the truck, streamed out of the corral, and pounded off into the darkness.
“My daughter would never forgive me if I didn’t free them,” Donovan said as he closed his window, turned the wheel, and proceeded toward the Carmel gate.
“How old is she?”
“Abigail is seven, and she controls my entire world. I almost brought her on the trip. I’m so glad she’s safe at home.”
“Even if she were here, you’d make her feel safe. She’s a lucky girl.”
They continued on in silence, but when Donovan made the hard right turn, his hopes plummeted. The headlights illuminated an RV lying on its side, the crumpled structure splayed across both lanes of the road. Torn metal and mangled bicycles, still locked to their rack, intermingled with the branches and trunk of a massive tree. The RV was dark and silent as Donovan put the Ford into park and stepped out of the cab.
He called out as he climbed across the wreckage to peer through the broken windshield into the cab. He found it empty. He felt the hood. The metal was cool to the touch. He called out several more times. No reply.
“Did they get out?” Shannon asked when he returned.
“There wasn’t anyone in the cab. Whatever happened here took place earlier. I didn’t see evidence that anyone was hurt.”
“Is there a way around the wreck?”
“No,” Donovan said as he began the task of turning the truck around.
“What now?”
“I think we need to try to make it to the hospital from here.”
“Which way is it?” Shannon asked. “When we were back at the house, could you see any fires in that direction?”
“Yes, there were flames, but mostly smoke, so there’s no way to tell what’s burning and what isn’t. We have to go find out for ourselves.”
Shannon nodded in agreement as Donovan accelerated up the hill. He turned on 17 Mile Drive and momentarily reached forty miles per hour before he had to slow down in heavy smoke. His eyes burned as he kept them fixed on the white stripes marking the road. Shannon tied the pillowcase around her head and covered her mouth and nose. She held the wheel while he did the same.
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