Coones’s jaw dropped. “Byron! We went all over that! You’re exposing yourself to unnecessary dangers for no good reason! You accomplish nothing by this action. Besides, you agreed that … “
The president held up a hand. His eyes became thin slits. “I’m staying here, Willard.”
They stared at each other for a moment and then Coones nodded and left the room.
Bill Price and Sam Steele were having another of their infamous meetings. Only this time, the atmosphere was decidedly different. For one thing, the meeting was being held in the editorial offices of the Kansas City Guardian, whose owners had gracefully arranged accommodations for the Globe. The Los Angeles newspaper had been publishing from this new location for the last ten days, distributing the bulk of their newspapers to those confined to the evacuation complex. Circulation had gone up one hundred thousand in the last three days alone and Sam Steele was no longer arguing with one William Price, master editor.
“Well, what do you think?” Sam asked, a broad smile on his face. “Will we have a newspaper to go back to or not?”
Price lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The rules at the Guardian allowed smoking. For Price, it was heaven. He looked at the two headlines that had already been prepared, along with accompanying stories.
One read, “BOMBS FAIL!” in one-hundred-forty-four-point type. The other read, “L.A. SAVED!”
Both editions had been plated and were ready to go. There was nothing to do now but wait. And that’s precisely what the two men were doing. Waiting.
“It’s a real crap-shoot,” Price said. “But if you’d like to make a small wager, I’ve got one for you.”
“I’m listening,” Sam said.
Price grinned at him and said, “I’ll bet that it works and, in a few days, we’ll all be back at work in our old building, cranking out the paper every day like normal.”
“OK,” Sam said, “I’ll bet that it doesn’t work. I figure the moment they hit that button, the whole city falls to the ground. Now … what’s the action?”
Price pursed his lips and rubbed his eyes for a moment. Then he said, “If I win … you build me my own office where I can smoke any time I want. OK?”
Steele considered it for a moment and then nodded. “OK. Now, what if you lose?”
Price got up and headed toward the rest room. Over his shoulder, he said, “If I lose … I’ll quit smoking.” Then he laughed.
The devices were in position. Eight of them, one each in eight holes that varied in depth from one thousand yards to just over three miles.
They had been positioned according to the latest data that had been drawn from the probes in the wells immediately next to them. The data had been fed to a computer complex, analyzed, reanalyzed, and the final decision made. Now, just minutes away from the actual detonation, the tension was clearly evident on the faces of the men as they monitored the equipment or milled about one of the double-wide trailers that was being used as a command center. This was the room where the buttons would be pushed.
Tommy Wilson, his beard glistening with perspiration, removed his hard hat and sat in a corner of the room. Vance Gifford took a seat beside him.
The engineers looked over a bank of instruments that had been attached to one wall, checking and double-checking.
“All systems go,” one of them called out.
“Ten minutes and counting,” another barked.
Overhead, a single television camera, equipped with a wide-angle lens, took in the scene inside the building. The feed from that one camera was being fed to an uplink that sent the signal to a satellite stationed some twenty-two thousand miles above the earth. From there the signal was beamed back to a number of downlinks and then it was fed through a variety of other pieces of equipment, eventually ending up in the homes of an estimated one and a half billion people.
Someone had projected that fully half the population of the entire planet was watching this broadcast.
Jason Shubert approached the two men and descended to his haunches. “I just want you to know,” he said, “that no matter what happens, you guys really did a hell of a job.”
Tommy glared at him. “We’re all pals now, is that it?”
Shubert looked hurt. “I’m just saying that …”
Wilson cut him off. “Save it! Just leave us alone.”
Shubert rose and moved to the other side of the room. Tommy leaned back and said, “Bastard!”
Gifford nodded. “Did you hear that Walsh is still in his trailer? He refuses to leave.”
“Good,” Tommy said. “Maybe we’ll all sink into a big crevice. At least we’ll take the little prick with us.”
“What are you so angry about?” Gifford asked.
Tommy stroked his beard and said, “Just this: if we had been allowed to operate in the open from the beginning, where do you think we’d be?”
“Well …” Gifford started to answer. Before he could finish, Tommy broke in. “I’ll tell you,” he said, his voice rising. “For one thing, we would have had months instead of weeks to prepare for this. We could have done a lot more testing to check out your theories. We’d be a hell of a lot more confident that this could work. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that we might not have needed to evacuate Los Angeles at all. It could have saved a lot of lives and billions of dollars.”
Gifford shook his head. “You’re dead wrong about that, my friend.”
Wilson seemed surprised that he was getting an argument. “Why?” he asked.
“You’re forgetting about the lawsuits,” Gifford said. “If this had been made public in the beginning, we wouldn’t be here today. The entire operation would have been tied up in knots by every pressure group in the world. Nothing would have been accomplished. The only reason we’re being allowed to make this attempt is because time was running out, so decisions were made on an emergency basis. If the politicians had been given time to really think about it …”
He shook his head and said, “As much as I hate to say it, you can thank God for Robert Graves. This was his idea from the beginning. As soon as he read that first report two years ago, he started the operation in Nevada. Without him and his ability to operate unfettered, this never would have happened.
“If this works,” he continued, his eyes fixed on his associate, “Robert Graves is the one man who should be given the credit.”
Tommy snorted. “You can’t be serious!”
Gifford continued to stare at him as he said, “Think about it. I mean, really think about it.”
They both lapsed into silence.
“Two minutes and counting!”
Ted Kowalczyk and Terry Wilson stared at the television set in the Dallas home of Terry’s sister Maria.
The three of them were huddled together on the sofa, holding hands, not speaking, mesmerized by the actions being carried out half a country away.
Maria had a set of rosary beads in her hands and her mouth worked silently as she said the prayers.
“One minute and counting!”
Ted could feel his heart beating against his chest. In all his life, he’d never felt such tension. Even that terrible moment when he faced the woman with the gun in her hand had been less draining than this. That horror had taken place almost before he had time to think. This was different. He’d had much too much time to think. There were times when being unable to think was a blessing.
“Thirty seconds and counting!”
The plan called for the bombs to be detonated ten seconds apart from each other. There were eight in all. Seventy seconds of man-made violence that would either do nothing, or save billions of dollars in property damage … or possibly … create the very catastrophe they were attempting to prevent. If it worked, there would be many who would claim credit. If it failed, there would be a lesser number who’d be blamed. But standing above them all would be one Byron Walsh. He’d be the one to take the blame, deserved or not.
“Ten seconds and counting!”
&nbs
p; He felt his lungs stop working. His mouth was dry, but the rest of his body was bathed in cold sweat.
The countdown continued until …
“Number One!” the man screamed.
The image on the television set shook as the first bomb detonated.
Men in white coveralls scanned hundreds of dials and computer screens, punching buttons and calling out numbers. The announcer, a man stationed some fifty miles from the actual scene, whispered, “The first bomb has been detonated …”
“Number Two!”
The image shook again.
“We have 3.5 on the surface!”
“Number Three!”
This time the camera shook so hard it was impossible to determine what was actually happening inside the trailer. A babble of voices continued to call out numbers and symbols that meant something to someone. To the announcer, they meant nothing. He was unable to say whether or not the project was succeeding or failing.
“Number Four!”
The camera shuddered once more … violently.
And then the television screen went blank.
Contact with the site had been lost.
Thirty-nine
* * *
Two minutes before zero hour, Willard Coones and Secret Service agent Roger O’Brien had finally prevailed upon President Walsh to leave the flimsy trailer. It was the worst possible place, they reasoned, for him to remain if something went wrong.
For hours, the president had argued that he did not want to be the focus of attention, insisting that he preferred to remain indoors and away from any media attention.
“Byron,” Coones had said, once they were alone, “there is only one television camera, and it’s inside the command center. There’s only one pool reporter, and he’s also inside the command center. So please don’t persist in this ridiculous charade. What are you really trying to accomplish? Suicide? Are you hoping you’ll be killed?”
“Of course not!” Walsh had snapped.
Exasperated, Coones had fired his last volley.
“You’ve always said that stupidity was preventable,” Coones argued. “For you to remain in here is about as dumb as it gets. You’ve got enough image problems already. Why the hell make it worse?”
The statement had struck a nerve. Finally. So Walsh had moved outside and sat on the ground in an open space, surrounded by Secret Service agents and a few Army troops.
The city of Los Angeles had been successfully evacuated … to a point. They all knew that there were still tens of thousands who had refused to leave. It wasn’t known how many of them would blame the president if there was a disaster, but those assigned the task of protecting him wanted to take no chances. So they surrounded him with a wall of humanity, their backs to him and Coones, as the two men sat on the ground and waited for the last few seconds to be counted off.
The countdown could be heard through a speaker that had been mounted to the outside wall of the command center. As the announcement was given that device number four had been detonated, the earth responded instantly.
There was a sudden jolt, then a violent vibration, followed by another jolt.
Immediately, the president was forced to assume a prone position and two burly agents placed their bodies over his. Flat on his stomach, Walsh looked back at the trailer he’d been using and his eyes widened in astonishment. It seemed to be afloat on a raging sea. It wallowed, creaking and groaning, as windows shattered, sending shards of glass descending to the ground like crystal snowflakes. The main entry door sprang open and slammed against the wall. A large section of the ceiling ripped away and crashed to the floor. Off to his left, some of the other trailers were suffering the same fate.
Conscious of the weight of the two men lying on top of him, he continued to observe, his emotions a mixture of terror and curiosity. Beneath him, the ground was alive. It was as though he was in Air Force One as it passed through some unseen turbulence. He was staring out at a land that seemed fluid, rolling and shaking, the movement causing great clouds of dust to rise into the tortured air. Almost directly in his line of sight, one of the wide, multi-lane overpass bridges began to disintegrate, and large chunks of concrete fell slowly to the highway below, seemingly in slow motion. He saw palm trees bending over so far their tops brushed the ground, then watched as they snapped back and momentarily exploded from the earth like failed rockets, their humble root structures no longer able to grasp the soil.
The noise was almost deafening. A dull, roaring sound that brought pain to his ears.
The dust was swirling now, blinding him, choking him, forcing him to grope helplessly for something with which to cover his face. But he couldn’t move. The two agents seemed bent on shoving him into the ground.
The curiosity was gone. Terror ruled supreme. It had failed! The whole thing was a disaster! The ground was shaking uncontrollably, vibrating, heaving, threatening to open up and swallow them all!
It was happening! The effort a waste! California was in the process of being totally destroyed!
To his absolute horror, he felt his bladder release involuntarily.
Oh God! he thought to himself. They’ll know! When they find my body, they’ll know I pissed in my pants!
His chest was almost bursting as the fear began to consume him and he screamed out in anguish.
The sound of the scream startled him … because he could hear it.
The quake had stopped.
It had, but only for a moment.
To his horror, he could feel it again.
Again he screamed. At least he thought he did. All he could hear was a roaring sound as though he was standing directly beside some massive jet engine at full throttle.
He couldn’t see. He was unsure whether his eyelids were closed or open. He couldn’t breathe, and he thought he was coughing, but he wasn’t sure.
He knew he was dying.
And then … it was quiet again.
The noise had stopped, but the ground continued to move.
“It’s over!”
He heard a voice. Coones’s voice.
“Byron … it’s over!”
He felt the weight lift from his back and hands were helping him to his feet. The fluid in his middle ear, still in motion, made him dizzy. It was impossible to stand. So he sat down again, his knees drawn up around his chin, his arms pulling them even tighter, as he tried to make sense of what had happened.
There had been a quake, that he knew.
He was still alive. For a moment, he considered whether or not he wanted to be. The dust still hovered above the surface of the earth, thick and opaque, preventing him from seeing what lay beyond. So he looked straight up.
The sky was a light yellow.
“Byron!”
He turned to his right. It was then that he realized that his trailer had been completely destroyed. Where once there had been three large rooms, there was nothing but scrap lumber. And Willard Coones, bleeding from a cut on his face, was looking into his eyes, screaming at him, trying to get him to speak.
He coughed some more, then sneezed a few times. Willard was there with a handkerchief, cleaning his face like a mother might care for a child.
He wanted to vomit.
He bent over and retched. It seemed to make him feel better.
“Byron!”
Finally, he was able to answer. “I’m fine, Willard. Will you stop screaming in my damn ear?”
The face broke into a wide grin. “You had me going for a minute.”
“I’m all right!” he repeated.
He was standing now, his face white from the shock, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Looking around, Byron Walsh observed, with some joy, that he was not the only one who had passed water.
He started to laugh as he pointed to the dampness evident on the trousers of Coones. Then Coones started to laugh.
They stopped laughing when they heard other voices. The dust was beginning to settle and the voices were coming from just beyond thei
r position.
Carefully, they picked their way through the rubble of smashed trailers and fallen trees until they were standing outside the command center. By some miracle, it was relatively intact. Now, as the dust settled even more, Walsh could see the extent of the damage in the immediate area. The overpass was destroyed and there were three visible cracks in one of the freeways, but another overpass seemed undamaged. Six of the trailers had been wrecked, and others showed some damage. Still others seemed completely undamaged.
Men and women were milling about and pointing to the southeast. Byron Walsh turned his head in the direction they were pointing.
And then he saw it.
The Los Angeles skyline. Tall buildings shimmering in the light … Still! Just as he remembered them. Intact!
And then he heard them cheering. They were cheering an earthquake! Were they mad?
There were millions of them. All gathered around the thousands of television sets that had been erected on tall poles throughout the evacuation complex. They had fallen into silence when the picture had disappeared and then, as they felt the earth begin to shake beneath them, they’d started to panic. But this was a panic that the troops had prepared for.
Immediately, automatic weapons were fired into the air and bullhorns were activated.
“Everyone lie on the ground! On the ground! Do it now!”
For a moment, the screams continued unabated and then more weapons were fired into the air.
The mass of humanity obeyed the orders and lay on the ground as it rumbled and shivered for what seemed like an eternity.
In fact, it was twenty-three seconds. Then, for a few seconds it stopped, only to begin anew, this time for sixteen seconds.
When it finally stopped for good, they looked around cautiously and then slowly got to their feet. Again, they gathered around the television sets. Television sets that broadcast no picture.
Suddenly, the screens were filled with a familiar face. Peter Grace, anchorman for YBS news, appeared on the screen.
The Big One Page 35