“Hang on to William,” he yelled above the roar of the inferno and made a hard U-turn and headed back the way they came.
“Where are we going?” Shannon called out from the bed of the truck as she tried to keep the flapping blankets in place.
“Down toward the ocean, near the aquarium. I’m hoping the water has retreated enough to give us a narrow area of saturated ground to keep us out of the fire.”
“What about a boat?”
“I was thinking about that, too,” Donovan said. “If the road is passable, we should be able to get to the marina.”
Donovan drove as fast as he could. The closer they got to the ocean, the greater the carnage from the tsunami. Mangled wreckage was stacked against houses and trees, overturned cars combined with dead bodies. Four blocks up the hill from Cannery Row, Donovan made a right turn and slowed. Downed power lines draped the road, and a huge heap of upended trees were piled up in the cross street. Donovan went up the hill and discovered a street that looked more passable. The continuing explosions, invisible through the smoke, gave him a rough estimate of the fire’s location. He caught sight of the flames and realized the swirls seemed to last longer and spur the inferno to even greater heights. For the first time, Donovan pictured the fire as a living, breathing entity, moving closer to consume them all.
“Hang on, we’re headed for the marina.” Donovan spun the wheel and picked his way down the tsunami-littered street. The muted light from the gathering dawn began to illuminate buildings and trees that weren’t burning. They were still on what amounted to a side street. The main thoroughfare was several blocks down the hill, and eventually took motorists through a tunnel that would lead them straight to the marina. Donovan blinked at the smoke that seemed to suddenly obscure everything, and then just as quickly lifted to provide a view into the distance. As he sped toward the center of Monterey, he caught glimpses of distinct landmarks and discovered that the bulk of downtown Monterey was burning.
Donovan braked as he reached a street that was marked as a dead end. Beyond an embankment and a fence sat the grounds of the Presidio. Donovan turned downhill, and as he reached the main road, he slowed.
“Are you kidding me!” Shannon said with equal parts despair and anger as she took in the sight straight ahead.
Donovan could see the first anchorage, the Coast Guard pier. Whatever boats had been moored in the breakwater were now splintered and broken into multiple piles that blocked the road. Just beyond sat the pier and marina; the rows of shops and restaurants that lined the wharf had been wiped into oblivion by the tsunami. The boats in the marina were either sunk or lifted far inland where a funeral pyre of burning yachts had ignited whatever structure had stopped their progress. The Portola Hotel, an icon next to the wharf, was burning brightly. A block away, the Marriott was starting to burn, as well as other buildings reaching into the center of town.
Frustrated, Donovan slammed his hand into the steering wheel. He remained silent and spun the truck around, and with a quick check of the slowly rising engine temperature, powered up the hill where he turned into a parking lot. Moments later, they were rumbling across the manicured grounds of the Presidio. Donovan concentrated on the scene ahead. On either side of them were raging fires. He thought at times he could hear the roar of the flames above the Ford’s powerful engine. Behind them in the smoke, the twisting, undulating body of flames scared him most. He’d never seen a fire tornado, and he knew very little about them, only that they operated on the same premise as a dust devil. He weaved between rows of trees, turned onto an asphalt path, and drove even faster.
“William’s in terrible pain,” Shannon called out. “I’m going to inject him again.”
“Shannon, straight ahead is Highway 68. It was the evacuation route we heard about earlier. If there’s one road they’re going to try to keep open it’s that one. Wait three minutes and I promise it’ll be far smoother than it is right now.”
“I’m going to try anyway.”
Without taking his eyes from the road, Donovan swung the truck from the narrow path onto a side street. He fought his temptation to floor the truck, but longevity of the engine was paramount. They were past the point of stopping and hunting for water to put in the radiator. The warning light was on again, far sooner than Donovan expected. He could smell the engine getting hot.
“How much further to the highway?” Shannon called over his shoulder. “It’s too rough. I can’t get the needle into the vial.”
“Hang on. We’re not going to make it to the highway. I have to get off this road.” Donovan swung the truck across the pavement, downward through a ditch, and popped up on the other side. He drove the dying truck down a winding road until he was rewarded by the sight of an eight-foot-high fence topped with barbed wire.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” Shannon yelled.
“Get down!” Donovan swung the wheel and aimed the Ford at a locked gate. With steam pouring out from under the hood, he pushed the ailing engine and snapped the chain. The gate swung open, and he squealed the tires, cutting around the edge of a building.
“Where are you taking us?”
Rounding the building, Donovan spotted the last thing he expected to find. Silhouetted by the coming sunrise and the raging fires sat the Eco-Watch Gulfstream. Seconds later, he brought the truck to a halt and shut down the tortured engine.
“Donovan, I need some help!” Shannon shouted as she knelt in the bed of the truck and tried to steady William as he began to thrash on the chaise.
As fast as he could, Donovan limped around to the bed of the truck, but instead of helping Shannon, he leaned in, and using all his strength, rolled the chaise toward the tailgate. William reacted instantly and cried out in pain. “William, it’s Donovan. Can you hear me?”
“Where are we?” William cried out as he tried to move.
“Give him the injection,” Donovan told Shannon. He leaned close to William. “We’re going to help you with the pain, okay? Then we’re going to move you.”
“What the hell are we doing?” Shannon glared at Donovan, confused.
Donovan motioned for her to turn around so she could finally see the Eco-Watch Gulfstream. “We’re getting out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
LAUREN WATCHED AS Ryan read a message a crewman handed him. In an instant, she saw his facial expression turn from quiet determination to frustration. He folded the piece of paper and crushed it in his fist.
“Ryan?” Lauren looked up from the computer feed of the fires marching through Pacific Grove. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s official,” Ryan said. “This entire area is now under martial law. We’ve been ordered to move the Buckley twenty-five miles offshore and let the military do their job.”
“What about the survivors? What’s being done about them?” Lauren said, knowing the answer. She’d been betrayed. She’d pushed a bold solution based on science, gathered the resources to make it happen, and now the ugly truth was that the people the Global Hawk had spotted were trapped. Possibly, her husband, William, and Shannon were among the people she’d helped condemn.
“Lauren,” Janie called out as she and Michael hurried onto the bridge. “We were just told by Cal Fire to bugger off. What’s going on?”
Lauren felt what little control she had slipping away. Martial law stripped local government of their power. The laws and rights of the Constitution fell by the wayside, and all that remained was the military. “We just got word that the entire area is now under martial law. We’ve been ordered to withdraw while the military takes over all operations.”
“At everyone else’s expense?” Michael asked. “How close is the nearest military ship or helicopter?”
“Not close enough to do any good.” Lauren stared at her phone and gathered in her emotions as she tried to decide who to call first, though she already knew what General Curtis would say.
“What are you thinking?” Michael asked Lauren.
&nbs
p; “There are hundreds of people that should be rescued, and aren’t going to be. The military is focused on the fire. I feel so helpless. William, Donovan, and Shannon are out there somewhere. The Pentagon wanted me to ensure that no civilians were killed in the actual bombing. Those people were evacuated. What’s left are the people trapped between the two fires. Acceptable losses are the official term for those people.”
Michael went to Lauren as she seemed to deflate and sit heavily in her chair. “Lauren,” Michael asked. “What’s this on the monitor?”
Lauren swiveled her chair to look. There were four distinct infrared images being broadcast by Sebastian via the Global Hawk. The lower left square was the one that grabbed her attention. A vehicle had just parked on the ramp next to the Eco-Watch Gulfstream. Compared to the surrounding areas, the vehicle glowed nearly white hot. Lauren brought her phone to her ear. “Sebastian?”
“Still here,” Sebastian replied. “I figured the activity at the Monterey airport would get your attention. I haven’t seen a vehicle move in that area since we arrived. I’m working on bringing everything to bear on what’s happening. Hang on.”
“It’s got to be Donovan. I can see two people outside the vehicle,” Michael said. “It’s a pickup truck; it could be the one we saw earlier on the television footage. The engine is super-hot—it’s glowing bigtime in the infrared spectrum. So much so, I can’t see what’s inside the cab, or even make out what’s in the bed.”
The image flickered on the screen and the ghostly infrared was replaced by the high-definition feed from the Global Hawk’s Synthetic Aperture Radar. Lauren and Michael both leaned in to study the real-time image.
“It’s Donovan,” Michael said as he pointed to the man at the tailgate. “Shannon is the one standing in the bed of the truck.”
“Is that William?” Lauren said as she moved closer to the screen. “Someone is lying in the bed of the truck next to a stretcher. That’s got to be William.”
“We have a big problem,” Michael said. “The airplane is sitting there in the dark. Donovan can’t see the damage. He’s expecting the Gulfstream to be flyable.”
“Michael,” Lauren said. “How long until he realizes it won’t work?”
“Not long. When he climbs into the cockpit, he’ll see the left engine firewall has been closed, and both fire bottles have been used. He’ll know we had an engine fire. Then there’s the fuel situation—the fuel quantity is displayed on one of the screens that won’t work. We didn’t land with very much. My guess is the Gulfstream only has twenty minutes of fuel aboard, and that’s not allowing for what’s leaked out of the wings since we landed. Let’s hope once he sees how messed up the airplane is, he’ll try to find a different one, or at least another car, and keep moving.”
“Sebastian,” Lauren said into the phone. “Listen carefully. Is there any chance we can get a helicopter or a plane into the Monterey airport to rescue our people?”
“None,” Sebastian said. “The airspace around this entire area has been listed as restricted. It’s now no different than the airspace around the White House. Cal Fire is in the air, but they’re working north, operating multiple heavy tankers, dumping water downwind of the burn area. There’s no way anyone is close enough to get in there in the time remaining.”
Lauren paused for a second and wondered what she’d done, and forced herself to focus on the immediate problem—trying to help Donovan. “Can you give me an estimate on how long until the leading edge of the fires reaches the Monterey airport?”
“Is it him, your husband?” Sebastian asked.
“Yes.”
“I estimate fifteen to twenty minutes,” Sebastian said. “The bigger issue might be the incoming airstrike. The first F-18s are inbound. They’ve been cleared to fly supersonic. They’ll make their first bombing run in seven minutes. The second wave will execute sequential bombing runs until both backburn areas have been fully saturated. If you remember Adam’s computer chart, the western boundary of his scheduled burn backs up to the airport. The fighters are coming, and we both know that this isn’t a precision bombing. This is low, fast, and dirty.”
“The Gulfstream is not airworthy,” Lauren continued. “From the infrared images, we think the truck he arrived in is compromised. If he finds another vehicle, does he have an escape route?”
“Once the fighters arrive, he’ll be cut off.”
“Keep me posted,” Lauren said to Sebastian. She glanced at Michael. “We’re out of options. Is there even the smallest chance Donovan can get the Gulfstream airborne? Then, if he does, what can he do, where can he go?”
“The problem is I’m not sure he’ll even try once he’s in the cockpit,” Michael answered as he rifled through the charts on Lauren’s desk.
“What would you do?” Lauren asked.
“I’d try to find a different plane and fly away from the fire and smoke as quickly as possible.” Michael glanced at the monitor. “The Gulfstream isn’t going to have any electronic flight instruments. They all failed. He’s basically going to be flying a five-hundred-mile-per-hour Piper Cub. He’ll need to get out of the smoke before he has any chance to land safely. If he can’t, then he’s going to be flying blind.”
“Would he come toward us?” Lauren said. “He knows we’re out here. Would he try to get to us and then ditch?”
“I highly doubt it. We both know he’s not wired to put himself into the ocean on purpose. Besides, flying a Gulfstream by himself, with William on a stretcher and only Shannon to assist, I think ditching would be the last thing he’d want to do.” Michael leaned over the aviation map to study possible options. “All of the navigation is computer generated, but he won’t have any help there at all. If anything he’ll fly north towards the Bay Area, expecting to have enough fuel to reach San Jose.”
“What happens when he realizes he doesn’t have enough fuel?” Lauren asked.
“He won’t know until the engines start to flame out and shut down. Then it’s a flat spot, a field maybe, or a road.” Michael pushed himself away from the table. “That’s all he has. The Global Hawk will be able to track him. We might be able to watch, but there’s no guarantee we’ll like what we see.”
“What’s going on? Is he hurt?” Lauren asked as she looked closer at the computer screen where Donovan began moving erratically from the truck toward the Gulfstream.
“He’s limping; his thigh looks like it’s wrapped,” Michael said. “That’s going to slow him down.”
Lauren watched her husband favor his damaged leg, make it to the nose of the Gulfstream and struggle to plant himself in an effort to open the cabin door. As the hatch pivoted free from the fuselage, the stairs stretched outward and settled to the concrete. He turned and started toward the truck but stopped. He stood as if studying the airplane and then went to the wing, touched the metal, rubbed his fingers together, then brought them to his nose.
“Kerosene,” Michael whispered. “He’s noticed the leaks. Come on, Donovan, quit wasting time. Look at the scorched paint running from the engine to the tail. Find another plane.”
Donovan limped around the wingtip and stood for a moment as if taking in the entire airplane, before returning to the airstair and struggling up the stairs.
“It won’t take him long now,” Michael said.
“Sebastian,” Lauren said into her phone. “Can you widen the picture to show us the entire airport? We’re interested in what other aircraft or structures might be undamaged.”
“We took a quick look at this earlier,” Sebastian replied. “The only undamaged hangar is the one closest to the Gulfstream. Though we’re now picking up a growing heat source. There might be something burning inside the building.”
Lauren watched the image zoom outward until the entire airport filled the screen. She could see the outline of the airliner that burned at the gate. Both airplane and terminal had been reduced to rubble as had most of the other buildings. The Gulfstream that Michael had parked in a hurry, a
way from any other structures, was intact. Other airplanes parked outside were all on fire or had already burned. Even the parking lots that ringed the airport were full of scorched cars. She and Michael scanned for any options that might be obvious to Donovan, and saw nothing.
“He needs to get to that hangar,” Michael said. “Whatever’s in there, I promise is a better choice than the Gulfstream.”
Lauren tilted her head as she heard the beginnings of a high-pitched whine. The sound grew louder and got Michael’s attention as well.
“What is that?” Lauren asked.
“What the hell,” Michael said and ran to the forward windows.
Lauren followed and saw a shower of sparks whipped by the wind being blown into the sea. Standing next to Michael, she looked down on the helicopter deck. The helicopter was securely tied down. Crewmen were holding sturdy scaffolding in place. Other groups huddled in teams around each damaged rotor tip. One person hunched over the blade stepped back, a powerful pneumatic saw in hand. A gloved hand raised goggles, and Lauren was surprised to see it was Janie.
“Unbelievable. I think she’s trying to remove the damaged tips from the rotor blades,” Michael said.
“Can that work?” Lauren asked. Her knowledge of physics and centrifugal force said no.
“Everyone I talked with said that without a doubt those blades were trashed. They said the rest of the rotor system might be junk as well.” Michael spun and stormed away from the window as he headed toward the hatchway. As he glanced at the chart table, he stopped midstride, changed course, and walked straight to the computer monitor. “Oh Jesus.”
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