Wave

by Mara, Wil

  The Sea Is Moving

  The sea withdrew as if someone had yanked out its rubber plug, then reversed course, swelling violently. The wave surged forward.

  It was not a “surfer’s curl” with a little crest at the top. It was as ugly as the destruction it promised—a hurried, disorganized rise, as if the Atlantic Ocean were being pushed forward by the hand of God. The deafening roar that accompanied it was like something from another universe. The wave climbed the slant of the beach with no effort, enveloping and moving swiftly over the dunes. It ate an eighteen-mile-long row of hundred-year-old homes without a pause.

  Water gushed down access paths and alleyways. Telephone poles snapped like twigs, leaving behind jagged stumps. A rusted pickup truck was scooped up and carried some seventy feet before striking a flagpole, then rolling side-over-side until it landed on someone’s front porch.

  In part of a long line of cars headed for the bridge, hundreds of residents watched in terror as the Atlantic Ocean rose up and over homes, businesses, and roadways. Suddenly it was no longer theoretical, no longer merely a news report—it was here, and it was real. Tons of water rushing at breakneck speed and filling every available opening.

  Fear escalated out of control.

  WAVE

  Wil Mara

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

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  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  WAVE

  Copyright © 2005 by Wil Mara

  Originally published in hardcover by Plexus Publishing, Inc., in 2005.

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-6392-3

  First Tor Edition: June 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Francis James Mara, Jr.

  1958–2003

  “May light perpetual shine upon him.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It would have been impossible to write this book without the help of some very fine individuals. I pray I haven’t forgotten any of them.

  First and foremost, boundless gratitude goes to John B. Bryans, my editor at Plexus Publishing and my good and dear friend. He has been nothing short of amazing in his support and enthusiasm for this project. From the moment he received an e-mail from me saying, “Hey, I’ve got an idea for a book,” to the very last red mark on the very last page, he has operated above and beyond the call. Every author should be so fortunate, at least once in his career, to work with an editor of this caliber. I sincerely hope the end of this novel does not also mark the end of our professional association.

  Equal appreciation must go to the man who made sure all the facts about tsunamis were kept straight’Dr. Eddie Bernard, director of the Pacific Marine Environmental Laboratory in Seattle, Washington. Eddie gave so generously of his time and his knowledge that merely mentioning him in these acknowledgments does him no justice. He cared for this story as if it were his own, such is his passion for his work. I came out of the blue, hopeful yet hopeless, and never once did he treat me like a stranger. Sound scientific advice was also given by Dr. Stewart Farrell, the director of the Richard Stockton Coastal Research Center. I thank him for his time, his energy, and his insight. If any errors in oceanographic factuality remain, they are either the product of intentional fictionalization or slipups for which I am solely responsible.

  I must thank my wife, Tracey, and my three children, Lindsey, Jessica, and Jenna, for their patience and understanding. I tried my best to construct this book during the early hours of the morning, when I ran the least risk of absenteeism. But there were times when that just wasn’t possible (e.g., weekend research trips to LBI). My family never complained, but I know they sometimes wonder why I didn’t choose a more “normal” profession. (Answer: I didn’t—it chose me.)

  The late James J. Mancini, longtime mayor of Long Beach Township, spared several hours on a cold and rainy morning to talk about evacuation procedures, show photos of some of LBI’s past disasters, and tell some very sobering stories. Those few precious hours mark the only time I ever met the man, but I came away deeply impressed and somewhat enamored—he had a charm about him that was impossible to resist. In that single encounter I could feel how much he loved LBI and its people. When I learned of his passing, I felt a genuine sense of loss. It would have been nice to visit with him one more time and give him a copy of this book.

  Gloria “Mama” Palmisano, who has also passed away since I began writing this story, was kind enough to loan me her beach house in Manahawkin so I had someplace to lay my hat while I put this thing together. She is yet another example of overwhelming generosity that made this book much better than it would have been otherwise.

  John Bryans’s wife, Jenny, took the time to join John and me for dinner in the spring of 2003. She’s a wonderful person and a delightful host. (Like me, John married “up.”) Jane Bonnell was kind enough to read through the manuscript in its early stages and offer suggestions. I also spent some time pitching ideas back and forth with Peter Snell, Lisa Iarkowski, Sophie Papanikoloau, and Anne Garcia (a budding author in her own right). And I was fortunate enough to receive some superb feedback from Tom Hogan, Sr., president and CEO of Plexus Publishing, Inc., as well as Amy Holmes, managing editor, and Tom Hogan, Jr., marketing director. Dawn Messenger provided important input on technical details. These people probably don’t realize how useful intelligent feedback is to a novelist. Reliable sounding boards are hard to come by; when you find one, you use it.

  On a somewhat wackier note, I suppose I should thank the spammers out there in cyberspace for once again providing all the fictional names I needed for a story. By using the names that appear in the dozens of unsolicited e-mails that clog my inbox every day rather than tap my own creative resources, I almost feel it justifies the spam. So kudos to that branch of the loser nation for saving me the trouble—keep ’em coming.

  For this paperback edition, kudos to Melissa Singer for her unyielding faith in the book, Tom Doherty for taking the time to read it through, and Melissa Frain for her assistance in getting the new pages just right. I am most grateful to all of you.

  Finally, I’d like to thank the many residents of Long Beach Island I encountered during my visits there. They were kind, courteous, and giving, just as their reputation suggests. LBI is a wonderful Jersey Shore community, and I envy all those who have the privilege of calling it home.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Writing a fictional story about a real place is always tricky. The challenge is constantly put to you to decide where to remain in reality and where to drift into f
antasy.

  Mark Twain promised to move entire towns and rivers in his stories if it fit his purposes. I didn’t take quite so severe an approach, but I did exercise a handful of creative liberties here and there. Most are minor and will probably go unnoticed by most readers. One major overhaul, however, involves the geography of the Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge, located on LBI’s southernmost tip: I made it larger and more complex, almost mazelike. You’ll see why.

  Also, a note to all naysayers who would scoff at the notion of a tidal wave coming to life in the Atlantic Ocean via the way I have described it. It is not only within the realm of the possible, it is very possible. When I first had the idea for this story, I promised myself I would write it only if I could make the birth of the wave believable. That meant, quite frankly, that “Hollywood-type crap” (e.g., an asteroid the size of Texas spins out of the sky and slams into the sea, or a giant brooding creature buried under the ocean floor for the last eight millennia finally awakens) was out of the question.

  To make this happen, I hooked up with Dr. Eddie Bernard—one of the world’s leading authorities on tsunamis and a guest “star” on numerous tsunami documentaries, some of which occasionally run on the Discovery Channel. Between his wealth of tsunami knowledge and my plodding creativity, we worked out a scenario by which this could really happen. Just because we don’t get tsunamis on the East Coast doesn’t mean we can’t. However, those of you who bother to do a little research of your own may soon realize that the science and the logistics presented here do not add up—that’s because the conscious decision was made to underwrite these sections so, in a worst-case scenario, this otherwise innocent story didn’t become a handbook for terrorists. In other words, if you compared it to directions on how to hot-wire a car, I left out steps two, six, and nine. But my God’how easy it would be.

  Finally, I’d like to express a hope that, perhaps in some way, this little story provides food for thought to the civic leaders of relatively vulnerable seaside communities like Long Beach Island. It is far too easy to allow ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of “that-could-never-happen-to-us” security, much like the one that had numbed America prior to 9/11. I hope this story will support our already heightened vigilance toward the manifold dangers that infect our world—dangers that are not always the product of nature’s wrath, but of humankind’s too-frequent wrath toward itself. If the story makes just one person think a little harder about the “always be prepared” philosophy, then the effort put forth to write it cannot have been wasted.

  Wil Mara

  September 11, 2004

  { ONE }

  Sayed Zaeef shuffled along with the other passengers toward the boarding gate. The woman at his side, whose name he had come to learn was Aleida, was still talking. She’d been going nonstop for nearly a half hour. He didn’t mind a bit. She spoke in her native Dutch, the official language here in the Netherlands. He’d learned it over the last three years, along with another native tongue, Frisian, but hadn’t mastered either. All the better that she was dominating the conversation.

  Zaeef had picked her out of the crowd shortly after arriving. She was among about two-dozen passengers who had come early and were hanging around, waiting. Some watched the giant airliners out the windows while others tried in vain to catch some rest on the torturously uncomfortable contour chairs. Aleida was one of the plane-watchers. She stood with her arms folded and spoke to an elderly woman sitting nearby whom she obviously did not know. She was the type who would talk to any stranger. Perfect. He set his shoulder bag down and moved alongside her, saying nothing. He adopted a look of almost childlike fascination as the planes came and went, mimicking her expression. Eventually, as he expected, she peered over and found him there. When she did, he returned the glance and smiled. She remarked how amazing modern technology was, and he agreed. Their conversation soon moved from airplanes to other matters—the weather, current events, and, ultimately, personal issues. She found him attractive, he could tell. And he was attractive, a handsome Syrian in his early thirties. His smile could charm a dying man out of his last heartbeat. The women were particularly easy, he thought, and this appeared to be a prime example.

  As the line moved along, she started offering cutesy little anecdotes about her husband. He nodded and laughed in all the right places. She was probing him now, he knew, gauging his reaction to the fact that she was married. On the outside she was the good and faithful wife, but if the right, discreet opportunity came along, she’d stray. He cultivated the flirtation. For the other passengers, to see him with this woman would create an aura of acceptability. How could you be suspicious of someone who was so intimate with one of your own?

  The little American flag-pin on his lapel sealed it. He’d figured this out quickly enough after September 11, 2001—Americans and other Westerners were far less likely to pay you any mind if you had a flag of some kind on your clothes, flying from your car, or hanging outside your home. He found the gullibility amazing.

  They reached the counter and handed over their tickets. The uniformed woman greeted him with a smile, which he returned. A man in a matching uniform stood behind her. Zaeef avoided eye contact. It was important to appear casual. The woman removed something from the envelope, then handed it back and said, “Have a nice flight, Mr. Qari.” He nodded and thanked her. Aleida was still talking. Something about her flowerbeds.

  They went down the rectangular tunnel and reached the door of the plane. Five more employees stood waiting—two female flight attendants and three pilots. They were all smiling, very happy to see everyone this morning. They locked on Zaeef as soon as he appeared, but he pretended not to notice. When he reached the threshold, he laughed out loud and said something in Dutch to his new friend. He appraised the crew with a single, fleeting glance and made his evaluation. The female flight attendants were of no concern. Aging wannabe-models with too much makeup, nail polish, and unjustified arrogance—about as dangerous as houseflies. The pilots had an ex-military scent about them. They kept their hair short and their faces smooth. They would’ve been equally at home in business suits and ties, sitting in a boardroom with their briefcases on the floor beside them. Two were small, a little paunchy and out of shape. They’d be no problem, if it came to that.

  It was the third man—the captain—that made Zaeef nervous, as nervous as he was capable of being. He was older, probably late fifties, with a bronze tan and thin, steely eyes. They were watchful, intelligent. This was a man who was not easily fooled. His motto could have been, “Earn my trust first.” And in spite of his age, he looked fit and able. He stood with arms akimbo, his hands ready. A deep, primal instinct that had saved Zaeef’s hide before told him this man could be trouble. As they started down the aisle, Zaeef felt his eyes boring into him, studying him.

  Aleida found her seat first. Checking Zaeef’s ticket for him, she realized he would be more than ten rows back.

  “Maybe I can come back and see you once we’re in the air,” she said in Dutch.

  “That would be nice.”

  He moved on, inwardly thankful to be away from her for awhile. He made a point of looking carefully at every number on every row, hoping to appear a little helpless and vulnerable. He found his seat and scanned the area. A heavyset white-haired woman was in the seat on the opposite side of the aisle, reading a copy of People. She looked at Zaeef the way most people look at snakes in a zoo. This is an American, he thought. “Hello,” he said with a quick nod.

  As he expected, she did not reply. Instead, she shrank back slightly and brought the magazine a little higher, as if using it as a shield.

  Ignoring the slight, he opened the overhead compartment and stuffed in his green shoulder bag. Then, in another calculated move, he took off his suit jacket and set it carefully in the adjoining seat. He wanted the people around him to see that he was concealing nothing—no knives, no boxcutters, no plastic explosives. They were all appraising him, he knew, even if they were trying t
o appear as though they weren’t.

  He took his seat. The plane was almost full now and would be in the air in a matter of minutes. It would take nearly nine hours to reach Washington. He glanced at his watch; it was just after six-thirty a.m. A personal thought crept in—I’ll never see another six-thirty in my life. He pondered this for only a moment before the years of training and mental discipline kicked in and erased it.

  The plane shuddered as it pulled away from the dock and began a slow taxi toward the runway. A single electronic note rang through the overhead speakers, and a disembodied voice reminded everyone to buckle up and turn off their cell phones and laptops. People around him began chatting with their neighbors. Idle talk, useless talk, the talk of the small-minded.

  As soon as they were in the air, he set the seat back, closed his eyes, and folded his hands across his stomach. Then another personal thought crept in, and it surprised him—he remembered the time he had spent a Sunday helping his mother make bread. Back in those days in Damascus it was not uncommon for a mother to make bread for her family, but it was unusual for a son to help. Young boys in Syria were not supposed to busy themselves with domestic chores. But for some reason he had wanted to help her that day, and what was strange was the fact that his mother hadn’t seemed the least bit puzzled or surprised. She rarely showed any emotion, but he had hoped he would see something then. Less than a month later she was gone, the victim of an American bomb meant for an ammunitions warehouse that had gone astray.

  Surely she would approve of what he was doing now.

  { TWO }

  “This is for Patrick, but only if he eats everything else first,” Karen said, holding up a small container of chocolate pudding. Brown hair, medium height, attractive enough although not to her own satisfaction. She wore a cream-color business suit, one that never seemed to fit quite right. “I made him a baloney-and-cheese sandwich, which he likes, at least this week. There’s also some milk in here, a bag of pretzels, and a nice big—” She rummaged frantically through the bag, then her shoulders drooped. “Oh no…I forgot the orange. I’d better go to Acme right now and g—”