The Big One

by Harrison Arnston

  “I just wanted to make sure,” Price said, “before I told you about this idea I have. A way for you to get an exclusive meeting with Murphy. But, it might cost you.”

  “I’m all ears,” she said.

  So he told her.

  And now, four hours later, as she dressed and applied her makeup, she almost shivered with anticipation.

  If Price was right, and she was sure that he was, she’d either have a story, or be on her way to L.A. in a matter of hours.

  An hour later, she was crammed into the small press room of the Pentagon, along with the maximum limit of fifty-nine other reporters, from print and electronic media. In idle chatter prior to the meeting, it occurred to most of them that the Pentagon was reluctant to talk about “Operation Move.” Their observations seemed right on target once the spokesman, a civilian named Jack Murphy, began to speak.

  “OK,” he said, “I know why you’ll all here and frankly, I’m a little nonplussed by all of this attention to what is basically a very simple exercise. I note that the big drug bust by the Coast Guard got some press yesterday and today, there’s nothing.

  “These things don’t happen every day. It would be nice if you spent a little more time giving credit where credit is due instead of inundating us with questions concerning a relatively unimportant exercise.”

  He paused to allow his diatribe to sink in. If Murphy was nothing else, he was predictable. He seemed to harbor a constant dislike for the press which he took every opportunity to express. Behind the scenes, there had been quiet efforts by some senior members of the press corps to have him removed from his post, but nothing had come of it, which only served to confirm the widely held attitude that it was the Pentagon, not Murphy personally, who disliked the press.

  “As for ‘Operation Move,’” Murphy continued, “which, for reasons that are a mystery to me, seems to have captured all of your attention, the release speaks for itself. This is a classified exercise to test certain capabilities of the private sector in the event of a possible attack by an unfriendly nation, or certain natural disasters. We’ve brought it to your attention for one reason, that being the fact that you’ll see a lot of trucks on the road during the next few weeks, not to mention increased activity at many military bases throughout the country.

  “We didn’t want you thinking that there was a major flap in progress, or an attack on some poor, unsuspecting Central American country in the works. This is an exercise designed to give us some information that we feel is needed. Maybe not now, but sometime in the future.

  “As you know, it’s common practice during hurricanes, for example, for all land-based aircraft to be moved to safer locations. As well, the Navy has, at certain times, repositioned nonessential units to calmer seas. Let’s face it, it would be pretty stupid to allow billions of dollars worth of equipment to be sitting ducks in the event of a hurricane.

  “The military has been trained to make sudden moves if need be. This is only prudent. But, for some reason, we’ve never involved essential defense contractors in any of these exercises and that’s pretty dumb, to put it bluntly.

  “To give you one small example, using an incident that I think most of you are familiar with, we have a very important subcontractor in Florida who suffered severe damage during Hurricane Grace last year. The company had a fire caused by downed electrical wires that practically gutted the building. It set production back two months. During that time, a critical part for the F-18 had to be produced elsewhere. As it turned out, we suffered no ill effects from this shortage, but we could have. We want to establish procedures that will ensure such things never happen again.

  “As well,” he continued, “we must be prepared for the possibility of attack from our enemies. In the event that we believed an armed conflict was imminent, we wouldn’t want our enemies to be able to pinpoint specific targets at will. ‘Operation Move’ is an exercise that will not only determine how fast we can move certain industries, but will also study the possibility of developing alternate permanent sites for these industries. We will be studying the viability of having key defense contractors positioned in more than one area, with the flexibility to function from one, two, or three different places as the situation dictates.

  “Now, I’ll answer what questions I can.”

  A reporter for one of the television networks asked, “If I understand you correctly, you seem to be saying that not all industries are being moved. Is that right?”

  Murphy nodded and said, “Of course that’s right. It would be impossible to move every one of them. It’s by no means certain that we can effectively move any of them. That’s the purpose of this exercise, to determine the feasibility of moving a civilian contractor under any circumstances. It may turn out that the entire idea is unworkable, but we won’t know until we test it out.

  “The idea has been kicked around for several years and nothing ever came of it. Now, we’ve been given the green light to begin some preliminary exploration and that’s what this is all about.”

  Another reporter asked, “Isn’t it true that the main contractors, people like the airframe makers, the sub builders, are not being moved?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “But isn’t it true that they would be impossible to move? For logistic as well as financial reasons?”

  “That hasn’t been determined,” Murphy answered. “Again, this is more of an experiment than anything else.”

  Another reporter asked, “But if the people being moved are relatively small subcontractors, what’s the point? If there are no ships or planes or tanks to put the parts in, their usefulness is redundant.”

  Jack Murphy sighed and said, “You haven’t been listening. I said that the list of those involved in the exercise is classified. Therefore, I can’t comment on that.”

  Darlene Yu had her hand up. Murphy looked at her and then pointed. She stood up. It was time.

  “Jack,” she said, smiling sweetly, “isn’t it true that this entire exercise is simply a smoke screen? That you have information that a large earthquake is about to strike Los Angeles very soon and you’re simply trying to save what industries you can?”

  For a moment, the room was silent. Then, everyone was shouting at once. Half of them were shouting at Darlene and half were screaming at Murphy. The spokesman held up his hands and once order was restored, placed them solidly on the lectern.

  “That,” he said, his face grim, “is almost beneath contempt. But … just so you don’t run off and print that we have something to hide, I’ll answer it.

  “No … that’s not true. In the first place, there is no way we could know an earthquake was about to hit Los Angeles. As any competent scientist will tell you, earthquakes are impossible to predict. In the second place, all defense contractors are housed in buildings that are designed to withstand the largest earthquakes. In California, for example, earthquakes are relatively common and yet we have a number of key defense contractors located in that area. Anyone who thinks that we are so stupid as to fail to consider earthquakes when assigning projects must hold the people who work in this building in very low esteem.

  “Frankly, I resent it and I’m sure they do too. Your remarks imply that we’re being less than honest with you. It’s a charge that’s been made before and never substantiated. I resent it very much. It represents an attitude that I find disgusting and unworthy of the newspaper you represent.

  “In fact, I think I’ll draw this meeting to a close right now. Darlene, I’ll see you in my office in ten minutes. If you don’t have an apology ready by then, I’m on record as saying I’ll ask that your credentials be lifted. Things are tough enough around here without this kind of gutter journalism. As for me, I’ve had my fill of it.”

  With that, he turned and stomped out of the room.

  Immediately, Darlene was besieged by her colleagues, most of whom were angry with her.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” one asked.

  “Jesus Christ, Da
rlene, Murphy’s mad at all of us again. What got into you?” said another.

  There were other less kind remarks which she took with a hollow smile on her face, responding to none of them.

  She trusted Bill Price. If he’d asked her to make a fool of herself in front of these people, it was probably for good reason. If nothing else, it would get her back to Los Angeles.

  Ten minutes later, she presented herself to Jack Murphy in his private office. If he’d seemed angry in front of the others, here, in the sanctity of his own office, he was livid.

  “Well?” he said. He was standing, his arms folded in front of him, his eyes almost spitting flames.

  “Well, what?” she said, defiantly.

  The arms dropped to his sides. “OK, smart ass, consider your credentials lifted. You are no longer welcome in this building. I’ll see to it that you’re blocked from entering any federal buildings, for that matter. A letter to that effect will be sent to your paper.

  “You’re finished here.”

  “I can live with that,” she said, “but the fact remains that I was right.”

  “Are you going to print that?”

  “Yes.”

  For the first time, he smiled. “Good. I hope you do. It will give us the chance, finally, to discredit your newspaper. It’ll afford us the opportunity to show the American people what you really stand for. You’re a cheap rag and it’s time people were made aware of it. Print what you like. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d get the hell out of my office.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  He simply stared at her for a moment. Then, he reached for the phone and punched some buttons. “Security …? This is Murphy. I’d like someone …”

  She was gone before he could finish the sentence. On her way out of the building, she smiled sweetly at the Marine sitting behind the desk near the entrance to one of the halls. The same one who had informed her the day before that Michael Davis, Price’s old pal, had been taken to a hospital, suffering from some unknown illness. After some prodding, he’d found out the name of the hospital and passed it on to her. Price had seemed quite upset when she’d given him the news.

  Now, she reasoned, he’d be even more upset. Whatever his reasons for wanting her to confront Murphy, they hadn’t worked. Oh well, she thought. At least she was heading back to Los Angeles. That was the good news.

  Nine

  * * *

  It was like watching some horrific science fiction movie. Buildings … tall, majestic structures of glass and chrome and reinforced concrete … buildings considered earthquake-proof … were crumbling and crashing slowly to the earth, their movement akin to a ballet, each twisted remnant floating through the air with the gentleness of a butterfly. A sickening display of destruction played out in vivid slow motion.

  And as the buildings broke apart, the bits and pieces were joined by the bodies of men, women and children … spilling out of the buildings, being thrown into nothingness, like seeds from some giant plant.

  The ground was shaking violently, vibrating with a noise that was almost deafening. Telephone poles snapped, power lines crackled, their wires twinkling in a burst of yellow, like grotesque holiday sparklers.

  All around him, Ted could see nothing but death and destruction. Fires raged everywhere. Rivers of flame sloshed down hills, devouring houses, trees, people … anything in their path. Other people ran aimlessly up and down streets, screaming, their clothes on fire, their skin charred black. Large crevices opened up in the surface of the earth, swallowing entire blocks of Los Angeles, as though the earth itself had turned into some insatiable monster on a diet of glass and concrete.

  And in the middle of it all stood Tommy Wilson, his bearded face wrinkled in agony, his arms outstretched, the finger on one hand pointed directly at Ted. “I warned you,” he said, as the flames licked at his feet. “I asked you to help and you did nothing. It’s all your fault, Ted! It’s all your fault.”

  Ted wanted to scream at the man. Wanted to tell him that there was still time. That the earthquake wasn’t due for another three weeks. That it had been Tommy, not himself, who was at fault. But he couldn’t get his mouth to work. His feet were stuck to the asphalt as if nailed there. He was immobile, unable to speak. Unable to do anything except watch as the world disintegrated in front of his eyes.

  He fought to make his legs work. He struggled to make his mouth work. And finally, he was able to utter a scream. A tortured wail of agony that reverberated off the walls and assailed his own ears. Even above the sound of the traffic.

  Traffic …

  The incessant growl of nearby traffic combined with the early take-offs of jet aircraft brought Ted Kowalczyk awake at seven, still fully dressed, his body covered with a thin film of cold sweat which had soaked through his shirt in several spots. He’d left a window open during the night and the cacophony of sound blended with the last vestiges of the nightmare that was now receding, leaving him almost limp with relief.

  He climbed out of bed, closed the window, stripped, and headed for the shower.

  For a while, he let the water run cold, as was his habit, until his entire body felt the chill, almost to the bone. The shivering signaled it was time to warm things up. He turned the knob, let the warm water wash over him for a few minutes and then soaped and shampooed.

  As he stood in front of the mirror, wiping away the condensation, he felt a twinge in his stomach. Almost reflexively, his hand reached down and rubbed the scar that had defied all attempts by plastic surgeons to remove it. The scar was one of two that marred the otherwise flawless skin. There was one just below the navel, the one that twinged many times during an average day. And there was another one on his chest, just to the right and below the left nipple.

  The scars were the only physical reminders of a few violent seconds that had changed his life forever. The scars on the inside, the ones to his psyche, were far from healed. They were still red and raw, thinly covered by layer upon layer of logic and rationalization, which hardly served to hide the trauma fully. The layers would, it was hoped, take root and grow, eventually filling the wound and making it whole. But he wasn’t there yet. Far from it.

  Ted Kowalczyk was a man well used to nightmares.

  Whereas the earthquake was but an apparition, the nightmare that had become his constant companion was anything but. It was a vision that could never be erased.

  It had happened inside a restaurant. A mad moment of impulse that had taken a woman named Erica and a child named Grace away from him … and almost ended his own life.

  It was a restaurant they favored about every two weeks, with no particular pattern. A small, family place with inexpensive food that was both tasty and abundant. As usual, Ted and Erica had taken a booth, sitting side by side, their backs to the wall, while Grace was seated facing them, so that her mind would be on them and not what was going on in the restaurant.

  Ted had looked up as the woman approached the table. He’d noticed the strangeness in the eyes, the set to the face that spelled trouble, but for the briefest of moments, he’d failed to react. He was, after all, simply having dinner with his wife and daughter and the woman was unknown to him. It would look stupid to pull out a pistol at the mere approach of a strange woman.

  But he should have.

  For a moment, she just stood there. And then, the woman’s eyes widened, her nostrils flared and there was a gun in her hand. It had happened faster than was humanly possible, as was often the case when insanity was involved. But there it was, the gun staring him in the face, his hand reaching for his own handgun even as he knew it was much too late.

  With a scream of outrage, she aimed and fired.

  The first bullet hit Ted in the chest, the force of it knocking him against the wall and back again, his head slamming down on the table. Instinctively, Erica had grabbed at him, pulling him back, perhaps trying to protect him, and another bullet hit him in the stomach. But he didn’t feel it.
He was already unconscious.

  It wasn’t until four days later that he learned the crazed woman had continued to fire, emptying the semi of its entire clip, fourteen bullets in all.

  Six of the shots had missed everyone, making big holes in the wall and almost killing a woman who worked in the store next to the restaurant. Two shots had hit Ted. Two more had slammed into the skull of Erica, another in her neck, and one in her heart. And two had ended the life of little Grace.

  It had been almost an afterthought, the witnesses had said. The woman had let out another scream and blown the child’s head off with two shots.

  The shrinks had said that in some ways, it was fortunate that Ted was the first one hit. It saved him from seeing what happened to his loved ones. But he knew better. He’d seen it all right. In his mind’s eye, he saw it almost every day.

  The killer had been the daughter of a man he’d helped put away for life. A drug dealer who was probably unaware, until it all hit the newspapers, that his own daughter was one of his best customers, albeit indirectly.

  Three years of snorting coke had fried her brain. She’d taken to carrying a gun with her wherever she went. And when she saw the man with his wife and child sitting at the table in the restaurant, she recognized him as the man from the FBI she’d seen in court. The one who’d testified against her father, sending him away forever. Something had snapped. Maybe it was the thought of losing her father. Perhaps it was anxiety over her future access to the drugs she craved. They were never able to determine her motives.

  For whatever reason, she’d walked over and tried to kill them all, with no thought at all to what would happen to her. It simply didn’t matter.

  Not then, it didn’t.

  Now she was herself in another kind of prison. A place where they gave different kinds of drugs, legal drugs. Drugs to keep her from screaming twenty-four hours a day. She was alive in one sense. In another, she was already in hell.