Lauren opened Calvin’s e-mail first—an aerial image of the fire. She switched from her phone to the computer for better viewing. Calvin had sent a solitary infrared shot of the entire peninsula. She glanced at the identification stamp in the lower corner and instantly thanked the Canadians. The image had been sent from RADARSAT-1, one of Canada’s polar orbiting platforms, and time stamped only minutes earlier. Carmel already glowed brighter and larger than all the other clusters.
Lauren studied the image, finding the backburns that Cal Fire and the Forest Service had started. They seemed small and paled in comparison to the fires they were designed to stop. She minimized the image and then pulled up and opened the e-mail she didn’t recognize. The message was from a common Hotmail account. She smiled as she dialed the phone number provided.
“Thanks for calling me back,” Ernie said immediately.
“I was a little confused, wondering why the shift in tone.”
“It’s turned into a full-scale bureaucratic shit show around here. Adam’s warning went straight to Sacramento. The governor went ballistic over theoretical speculation setting off a possible statewide panic. He pulled overall fire command from those of us here in San Jose and is setting up a governmental bunker in Sacramento. Orders have already come down to fight the fire we have, not the science fiction version from the Forest Service. I think Adam had his ass handed to him as well. He’s not answering my calls.”
“To hell with the governor, I work for the Department of Defense. I’m going to do everything I can to help you fight the fire we have—plus the one we’re about to have. What authority do you have?”
“I’m still in charge of the aerial tanker fleet. We have planes and crews ready to fly at first light.”
Lauren thought of Michael and Janie’s earlier conversation. “Ernie, have your people considered designated rescue helicopter corridors, to help evacuate survivors?”
“Eco-Watch flight ops sent us some preliminary options, but I can’t allow anyone in the air until we’re absolutely sure where our very large tankers are going to be flying. I’m sorry, but if you’d ever seen a Boeing 747 drop nineteen thousand gallons of water at treetop level, you’d understand why we can’t have anything in their way, especially helicopters. As soon as there is a lull in the aerial bombardment, we’ll clear the choppers to fly.”
“I understand,” Lauren said as she tapped on the keyboard, and forwarded Ernie the latest Canadian image of the fires. “You’ve got mail. Take a look and tell me what you see.”
“Jesus, the Carmel fire is huge,” Ernie said. “Two other details jump out at me. In contrast to the total area on fire, our backburns are pathetic. I also see all of the ingredients needed for Adam’s theory to become a reality.”
“From your professional perspective, tell me what scares you the most about this situation.”
“The lawyers and politicians. If in the course of fighting this fire, we kill one person, hell if we kill one pet with the backburn, it’ll end careers. If the fire kills a hundred thousand people while the bureaucrats wring their hands, well, it’s an act of God. No one is focused on the greater threat, only the possible fallout on their own little fiefdoms.”
“Hang on a second, Ernie.” Lauren stood and handed Ryan a note with a phone number. “Can you please call my boss, Calvin Reynolds, at the DIA, and ask him when we’ll have the Global Hawk overhead? Okay, Ernie, I’m back.”
“A Global Hawk is on its way?” Ernie asked. “Can I use it to direct my aerial assault on the fire?”
“Absolutely. It’s a DOD asset.” Lauren loved Ernie’s dedication to fighting this fire. “We’ll know shortly when the Global Hawk will arrive. Until then, what’s the situation with the ground forces? Have you completed evacuation in the areas you need to use for the backburn?”
“We’ve done everything humanly possible. We’re still evacuating areas in anticipation of larger backfires, and from what I see on this latest infrared image, we need to keep setting the backfires. Though I can tell you the governor has already given the order to suspend those for fear of damaging private property.”
“Okay, the governor is a problem. Tell me, what would top your wish list right now?”
“More time,” Ernie said without hesitation.
“I can’t give you that.” Lauren leaned in to her computer monitor and examined the size of the fires raging on the Monterey Peninsula. She compared it to the tiny backfires designed to stop the threat from going north. “How about a much bigger backburn?”
Ryan walked over and slid a piece of paper in front of Lauren.
GLOBAL HAWK ETA—ONE HOUR
“The backfires are going to be tricky.”
“I don’t want to hear that it can’t be done.” Lauren cut him off midsentence. “All I want from you is a yes or no. Would something like that work, or are we too late?”
“Help, yes, but I don’t know if they’d cover enough ground to do us any good. In a high-wind scenario, sparks and burning debris can stay airborne for a mile or more, and reignite whatever’s on the other side. If the men and equipment are in exactly the right place, a thousand tiny fires are manageable. If the burns have time to spread, then we have a thousand large fires that are growing. There’s a delicate balance to these things. If we don’t do everything right, then the cure can be worse than the disease.”
“You’re talking about large fires on the wrong side of the back-burn?” Lauren asked.
“Yes, I once heard Adam call it the Hydra Effect. Put out one fire, create two others.”
“Those lab people and all their fancy words,” Lauren said. “Ernie, hang in there, you’ll have a Global Hawk in one hour, which is just about first light. I need to make some more phone calls. I’ll be in touch.”
“Lauren,” Ernie said. “If we don’t change the governor’s tactics, this could be the worst fire in history.”
“I’m well aware of the stakes,” Lauren said. She disconnected with Ernie and massaged her temples as her phone lit up. Expecting it to be Calvin, she frowned when she saw it was General Curtis calling. She’d forgotten she owed him a call and she took a deep breath, blew it out, and answered.
“Dr. McKenna, General Curtis, how nice to finally get to speak with you.”
“Sir, I apologize for the delay,” Lauren said. “The situation here is in flux, and I wanted to be able to give you solid intelligence despite our dwindling space-based assets.”
“Can you?” Curtis asked. “Can you give me any solid intelligence?”
“I believe I can, and unless we implement the correct steps immediately, this fire has the distinct possibility of raging out of control all the way up the coast and engulfing San Jose, San Francisco, and probably Oakland as well.”
“I’m listening.”
“I know it sounds far-fetched, but the worst of the high winds are going to start blowing within the next hour. I have an idea, but if we wait on the governor of California, it might be too late.”
“What’s the governor doing?”
“He took the job of firefighting away from the people who know what they are doing, and put it in the hands of lawsuit-averse politicians. He and his staff are in reactive mode, covering their asses. General, you’re in the Air Force, I’m sure you’re aware of operation Thunderclap, the WWII joint British and American operation to destroy Dresden. You’ve no doubt seen pictures of the aftermath of the incendiary bombings of both Dresden and Tokyo. Imagine those same images, only it’s San Francisco.”
“I’m familiar with Thunderclap and Dresden—not one of the military’s finer moments.”
“General, the wind just started blowing here on the Monterey Peninsula, remnants from a Pacific Coast tropical storm, Evangeline. The Forest Service fire lab just ran several models that predict the possibility of a firestorm even bigger than the one that engulfed Dresden in 1945.”
“That’s a hell of a fire,” Curtis said without emotion. “If I’d heard those words from anyo
ne else but you, Dr. McKenna, I’d tell them they were full of crap. What’s your idea?”
“My job at the Defense Intelligence Agency is to assess meteorological conditions and their impact on the outcome and effectiveness of proposed military operations. Once this mechanism triggers, and the flares and rotation begins, it’ll be too late to react. You and I have worked on hundreds of missions over the years, and what I’m asking for is an airstrike. Cal Fire and the Forest Service started several backburns in an effort to fight the fire. The governor has stopped them out of fear of destroying private property. General, what we need is one huge backburn to have any hope of stopping this fire.”
“Define huge backburn.”
“The burn I have in mind is the kind one gets when a great deal of napalm is dropped from airplanes.”
“Jesus Christ, Lauren!” Curtis exploded in what sounded like both shock and skepticism. “You want me to use Air Force jets to bomb civilian targets on United States soil?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Logistically, it’s possible,” Curtis answered. “The only way I can get behind something like this is if you can assure me no civilians get hurt.”
“We use the Global Hawk to identify and evacuate people beforehand.”
“That’s the easy part. From a political point of view, do you have any idea what needs to take place first?”
“Sure I do,” Lauren replied calmly. “Skip the governor of California. You call the White House and have the President place the entire area under martial law.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
DONOVAN FELT THE heat in the room rising. The sight of the roaring flames through the window was something straight from hell. Flaming branches tumbled and blew through the front yard. They didn’t have time to roll William through the kitchen and out to the truck before the wall of flames reached them. Donovan limped for the door.
“What are you doing?” Shannon asked.
“Move away from the window. Cover yourself and William with blankets or pillows,” Donovan called over his shoulder. He reached the truck and fired up the engine and punched the gas to jump the truck forward before he slammed on the brakes. He selected reverse, turned in the seat, and aimed the still lowered tailgate straight at the shattered picture window and stepped on the gas pedal. The tailgate hit just below the windowsill, and a combination of masonry, wood splinters, and glass exploded from the impact. The tailgate was now only inches above the floor. Donovan slid out of the cab, landing on his good foot, grabbed the pry bar, and using it as a makeshift cane, he limped into the house.
“Help me lift him up into the bed of the truck,” Donovan said the instant Shannon raced back into the room with an armful of soaked bedding, which she heaved into the truck.
Lifting together, they managed to rest two wheels of the chaise lounge onto the metal bed of the truck. Donovan moved to the opposite end, and using the pry bar, began to leverage the metal-framed chaise up into the bed while Shannon pulled. Once Donovan positioned the second set of wheels onto the smooth metal, they rolled William as close to the truck’s cab as possible. Donovan used the pry bar to clean the broken glass from what was left of the rear window. Now he and Shannon could talk while he drove. Then he jammed the bar behind the rear wheels of the chaise to prevent it from rolling.
“I’ll stay with William. Get us out of here!” Shannon called as she opened the first wet blanket and draped it over William’s legs. She picked up the second and set it down where it covered William’s torso and head, and then she pulled the rest over her head.
Donovan pulled himself up into the cab. He could feel the heat singeing his hair. “Hang on, we’re going to go fast!” he called out through the missing rear glass.
“Do it,” Shannon said. “But no sharp turns or we’ll dump William into the bed of the truck.”
The smoke was getting thick, and Donovan lifted the pillowcase tied around his neck and covered his mouth and nose. The wind seemed to start clearing the smoke, and then just as suddenly the visibility dropped to near zero. Donovan powered toward Cyprus Point Golf Course. He hoped from there they could reverse their earlier course and end up in Pacific Grove.
A shower of glowing embers rained down ahead of them. Donovan slowed and swerved smoothly to miss the worst of them. Then he accelerated until he spotted the turn. Following their previous tire tracks, he drove as fast as he could, taking quick glances back at Shannon and William, making sure they seemed okay. As his eyes shifted to the dashboard, he found a red warning light flashing.
He eased off the gas. The engine was overheating. The temperature gauge was nearing the red line. He swore under his breath. If the truck quit in the middle of the golf course, their options would plummet. He swung to the left, crossed another fairway, destroying a decorative wooden fence and manicured shrubbery, coming to a stop in the side yard of a home bordering the golf course.
The block seemed untouched by fire, though the smoke still raced past and the glow to the south told him the fire was coming.
“What’s going on?” Shannon asked through the window.
“The engine is overheating,” Donovan said. “Hang on. We need to find another vehicle or at least some water. The quickest way to do that is to use the truck and knock down some garage doors.”
Shannon resolutely gripped the frame of the chaise lounge with one hand and put her other hand around William.
Satisfied that they were secure, Donovan allowed the truck to roll down the driveway, cross the street, and then slowly climb the driveway until the grill of the Ford was up against the wood of the garage door. He pushed gently on the gas until the door collapsed inward and the steel rails fell to the floor of the empty garage.
He backed out, and spotted the trail of green antifreeze leaking from under the hood of the Ford. “Shannon, there’s a faucet on the side of the house. Can you see if there’s any water pressure?”
Shannon jumped from the bed. She ran to the valve, twisted, and waited. Nothing. So she hurried back into the truck.
Donovan glanced at the dashboard. The engine temperature was climbing higher. He drove to the next house and repeated the process. This time, as the door caved in, the truck’s headlights illuminated a vehicle on one side of the double garage. It was small and wrapped in a greenish tarp.
Donovan used the pry bar as a cane to ease himself down from the cab. He limped to the vehicle, and with one pull, he yanked off the cover. Underneath sat a bright red early model Chevrolet Stingray. The two-seat roadster was beautiful, but useless for three people.
Shannon jumped down from the bed of the truck, flashlight in hand, but when she saw the car, her shoulders slumped.
“Can you dig in the medical supplies and see if you can find a scalpel?” Donovan asked as he took the flashlight from her hand and limped to the door that led into the house. “I’ll be right back.”
The hallway led through a laundry room and into the kitchen. Flashlight in hand, Donovan first verified that there was bottled water in the refrigerator. Then he selected two deep-sided skillets hanging from a suspended rack. He swept a dozen bottles of water into the pans, and made his way back to the garage. Grimacing from pain, he eased himself down until he sat heavily on the concrete and then lay flat on his back and aimed the light under the Corvette.
“Hand me the scalpel and get ready to slide one of the skillets under the car.” Donovan spotted the lower radiator hose and sliced the rubber cleanly. He was rewarded as greenish fluid began to pour onto the floor. An instant later, Shannon placed a pan under the leak to catch the flow.
“What else?” Shannon asked.
“There’s more water in the fridge. Grab as many as you can carry.”
Donovan used the light from the truck’s headlights to keep an eye on the process, and when the skillet neared full, he slid out the first skillet and slid the second one into place. Using his arms, he pulled himself to his feet and gave the car an affectionate pat. Years ago he’d owned a Corve
tte not unlike this one. The transfusion might not last long, but it would hopefully get them into Pacific Grove where they had far more options. Shannon came back, her arms full of bottled water, which she set down near the front of the truck.
“Can you pop the hood?” Donovan asked as he limped to the front of the Ford. His sense of urgency and frustration was growing at how long it took him to accomplish simple tasks. He heard the latch release and lifted the hood. He pulled off his leather jacket and twisted off the cap to the radiator, turning his head as the steam rose. “Hand me one of the pans.”
“Here,” Shannon said, using two hands to lift the fluid-filled pan from the floor.
“Perfect,” Donovan said as he poured the antifreeze into the reservoir. “Take this pan, grab the other one. We’ll repeat the process as long as the Corvette antifreeze keeps draining.” Shannon handed up the second one, and then started twisting lids off of water bottles. Working in unison, the two of them added water and antifreeze until the reservoir was full. Donovan tightened the cap, slammed the hood shut, and moved toward the driver’s side. He cranked the ignition and watched as the engine temperature dropped. Putting the truck in gear, he called over his shoulder, “We’re out of here.”
Shannon once again did her best to cover William and she gripped the chaise lounge. “Go!”
As he backed away from the house, Donovan could see the fire had drawn much closer. Something caught his eye through the smoke, and he rolled down the window to get a better look.
“Oh my God,” Shannon cried out from the bed of the truck. She tapped Donovan on the shoulder and pointed off to their left.
Through a break in the smoke he could see the leading edge of the fire stretch across the horizon. Flames climbed high into the air where they swirled and licked upwards, twirling in the darkness. They spun and joined, collapsed, rejoined again, and intensified until there were three distinct spirals of flame. The wind strengthened and Donovan watched as trees bent, and shrubbery, as well as branches, papers, and other debris were pulled toward the fire. Explosions went off like staccato reports of thunder as anything flammable succumbed to the blaze. Donovan could hardly believe what he was seeing, how fast the fire was moving. As the F-250 roared down the street, Donovan heard Shannon start screaming for him to go faster.
Speed the Dawn Page 18