by Peter Hernon
Atkins guessed that the fault line had broken through the surface somewhere downstream, creating a barrier or hanging wall that was causing the river to back up. That very thing had happened during the sequence in 1811-1812. The tremendous uplift of one of the monster quakes had blocked the flow with several barriers that sent the river roaring backward.
And somewhere out there, it may have also created a waterfall.
They couldn’t see it. Atkins remembered what Walt Jacobs had told him about the history of the big quakes in 1811-1812: the fault’s uplift had formed a roaring waterfall, possibly two of them in mid-channel.
As he stared into the darkness upstream, Atkins’ eyes began to play tricks on him. The only thing he could make out clearly were the steel girders of the fallen bridge. The twisted superstructure jutted out of the river.
Atkins didn’t see a waterfall and began to wonder if the troopers were wrong.
“Can you hear it?” he asked Elizabeth.
She shook her head. The rushing water and wind merged into a shrill background noise.
While they were trying to figure out what to do next, another radio transmission arrived from Memphis. It was Jacobs. The hiss of static made it difficult to understand him. There was a lot of ground interference. Then the noise cleared up.
“Arkansas State isn’t sending anyone to the epicenter,” Jacobs said. “A lot of buildings are down there. They can’t get to the equipment.” There was another long burst of shortwave static.
Atkins sat in the Explorer, staring out at the river. He didn’t know what to say. His mouth was suddenly dry.
“John, I don’t know what to tell you to do.” It was Jacobs again. The transmission was starting to break up. “Use your … judgment.”
The radio kept crackling with static. Atkins reached behind him and turned down the volume.
“I’ve got to try to cross the river,” Atkins said, looking at Elizabeth. “We’ve got to get a seismograph up and running.” He pounded his fist against the dashboard. “Look at that water out there!”
“Maybe we can get the ferry to take us across,” Elizabeth said.
“Forget the ‘we,’” Atkins said. “You’re not going.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It’s not up for discussion,” she said sharply. “We’re both going.”
“Dammit, no way,” Atkins said, pounding the dashboard again.
Elizabeth hit the dash just as hard. “Dammit, yourself!” she shouted. “Don’t play mas macho with me, Doctor Atkins.” Her eyes were flashing.
Atkins remembered the mistake he’d made with Sara. He’d blamed himself for years for letting her go with him into that heavily damaged building in Mexico City. He should have insisted she stay outside, forced her if necessary. They’d taken a huge risk together, and lost. He didn’t want it to happen again, but he understood he was powerless to stop Elizabeth from coming with him.
Atkins sat there a few moments, trying to collect himself. “All right,” he said softly. “I wish to God I could make you change your mind, but all right.”
He backed away from the overlook and headed up the narrow road toward the ferry landing. He drove the two miles in silence, glancing out at the river, trying to see it in the darkness. Even with the windows up, he could hear the rushing water.
When they got to the ferry, it was riding up and down on her mooring cables. A two-decker. Not a big boat and square-sterned, it looked like a floating white box. There was room on the bottom deck for about ten cars.
“What do you think?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’m thinking I don’t want to do this,” Atkins said. He didn’t want to cross that river, but had no choice. Getting that seismograph up and running was about the most important thing anyone could do right now. They needed to know what was going on along the fault, how much energy it was releasing, what the aftershocks were doing. He had to try to get over there.
Getting out of the Explorer, he followed Elizabeth aboard the ferry. Hanging onto the chain-link railing for dear life, they climbed a narrow flight of metal steps to the pilothouse. He noticed a dark, massive shape looming out in the water maybe fifty yards downstream. As his eyes focused better in the dim light, he realized it was an island. A big one hugging the Tennessee shoreline. The ferry landing sat near the upstream end of the island.
They were startled by the distant sound of something crashing into the water.
“What was that?” Elizabeth asked.
A voice in the darkness said, “Nothing much. Just part of the Missouri shore falling into the river. It’s been like that for the last couple hours.”
It was Dick Marsden. He was standing in shadows next to the wheel, holding a pair of binoculars.
Atkins explained who they were and why they wanted to cross the river. He told the captain they needed to set up their strong-motion seismograph as close as possible to the earthquake’s epicenter. The device was designed to operate near the source of an earthquake without being knocked off scale by the shock waves. Atkins tried to explain as carefully as he could why they needed to get across the Mississippi. What was at stake.
Marsden laughed. His eyes were bloodshot. His skin mottled. Rotund and badly overweight, he wore a dirty blue jacket and watch cap. Atkins guessed he was about sixty years old.
“I’ve been living on this river nearly my whole life, and I don’t recognize it,” Marsden said. “It’s calmed down some in the last few minutes. The waves have dropped off. But you go out there now, it’s even money it’ll drown you.”
“We’ve heard about a waterfall,” Elizabeth said.
“As best I can tell, it’s a couple miles upstream, about mid-channel,” Marsden said. “When the wind’s right, you can hear it real good. Sounds like Niagara Falls out there.”
He handed her the binoculars.
Adjusting the eyepiece, Elizabeth focused on a faint, curling line of white water far out in the channel. Even with the binoculars, it was too far away to make out clearly. It reminded her of rapids and was apparently the edge of the waterfall.
“How deep is the drop-off?” she asked.
“I can’t tell,” Marsden said. “You can’t get a good look at it from this side.”
“Captain, will you take us across?” Atkins asked again. “We need to find out what’s going on in the ground. You’re the only one who can help us.”
“What if I lose this boat?”
Atkins didn’t even try to answer. He was asking a stranger to risk everything.
“Is that an island just downstream?” Elizabeth asked.
“That’s Chandler’s Point,” Marsden said. “It’s mainly a wide sandbar with a lot of timber.”
“How long is it?”
“Maybe a mile and a half, two miles,” Marsden said.
“What’s the river like down at the far end of the island?” Elizabeth asked.
“It narrows a little. The current really booms along down through there. No telling what it’s doing now. Lady, what are you getting at?”
“Could we head up between the island and the shoreline, then cut across the river when we get to the end?” Elizabeth asked. “That would put us nearly four miles upstream from the falls and we’d be trying to cross at a place where it’s narrower.”
Marsden rubbed his hand across his stubbled chin, thinking it over, trying to figure out what to do. He squinted out at the river through the broad windshield of the pilothouse, then clasped his binoculars to his eyes. “It might work,” he said. “There’s enough water running up the chute between the island and the shore, and it doesn’t look like the current’s too bad. But when we get to the end and make the cut into the main channel, the old man’s gonna hit us a ton.” He kept staring through the binoculars at the black water. “This ferry belongs to the state of Tennessee.” he went on. “I probably need to talk to some damn lawyer first.”
He took another long look. Finally, he said, “Jimmy, get ready to cast off.” The first mate was standing in the open hatc
hway. “We’re going to make a crossing. At least we’re gonna give it a try.”
Atkins took Marsden’s hand and shook it. Then he and Elizabeth hurried back to the Explorer.
“That was very good,” Atkins said. “I’m glad you listened to me and stayed behind.”
“I’ll probably regret it when we’re out there.”
It took a few minutes to drive across the pitching gangplank and tie the Explorer down. The mate chocked the tires securely, front and rear, with blocks of wood. The other vehicles had already been driven off. Their owners didn’t want any part of trying to cross the Mississippi.
“Let’s do it,” Marsden said, talking into a loudspeaker.
Atkins and Elizabeth made sure everything in the back of the Explorer was securely lashed down, especially the seismograph and shortwave radio. Then they joined Marsden in the pilothouse. He had both diesel engines revving at full rpms and wanted as much power as possible when they slipped out into the current.
“Cast off,” he said into the loudspeaker.
His deckhand untied the bow and stern lines. Marsden pulled away at full throttle from the shore and got the ferry headed up in the chute between the sandbar island and the Tennessee shoreline. The current was stronger than he’d expected, and the water was running deeper. The trees were thick on the island. It was impossible to see through them to the main channel on the other side.
“Current’s running maybe five knots through here,” Marsden said. “I’ve never seen it that strong. Agnes isn’t going to like it once we get around that island.” He glanced at Elizabeth, who was standing next to him. “I call this rust bucket ‘Agnes.’ It’s my wife’s name. It can get lonely out here at night, and I like to have somebody to talk to. The beauty of it is Agnes can’t talk back.”
Fifteen minutes later they were nearing the downstream end of the island. “We’re coming up on it now,” he said.
They came out of the chute, and Atkins sucked in a breath when he saw the Mississippi spread out in front of them. A broad expanse of dark, fast-moving water.
Marsden gripped the pilot’s wheel with both hands. He was leaning over it, staring out the window at the river. “Oh maaaan!” he said. “This is some current. I don’t know if I can hold her. Agnes, baby. We’re gonna need every bit of power you’ve got in you.”
As they came around the point of the island and entered the main channel, they hit the current that was pushing back upstream. The force was substantial. The ferry was swept nearly half a mile upstream before the propellers seemed to bite the water. Fighting the wheel, Marsden got the boat straightened out and angled into the current.
He had both engines running full open and was barely making headway.
“Damn, take a look downstream,” he said. “Here’s trouble.”
Riding low in the water, three dark shapes emerged from the gloom. Barges. They’d come around a bend in the river and were bearing down on the ferry. One of them was on fire.
“Oil barges,” Marsden said. “There’s a fleeting area a couple miles downstream on the Missouri side. One of the big fuel tanks probably blew up and set them on fire. I thought I heard an explosion a while back. They must have broken their moorings and floated upriver.”
The barges were spread out far enough to make it difficult to maneuver around them. It would be like running an obstacle course.
“I’m gonna try to steer through them,” he said.
“Do you have enough power?” Atkins asked. He’d noticed how the engines were laboring. They sounded ready to burn up.
Marsden shrugged. “Let’s hope so, son.” He made a slow, careful turn, trying not to lose control in the strong current.
“Come on, Agnes,” he said softly. “You can do this for me.”
The ferry was handling better. Working the wheel and throttles, Marsden skillfully maneuvered out of the way of the lead barge, which was burning from two hatches.
“We’ve got another problem here,” Marsden said, playing the controls like a keyboard, hands flying. The other two barges were still heading toward them. They’d drifted apart. The closest one was bearing down on them on a collision course.
“That’s getting pretty close,” Atkins said, measuring the distance with his eye. The barge was about one hundred yards away and rapidly closing.
“I’m gonna need a little more power, Agnes. You got to put out for me, old girl.” Marsden was wrestling the wheel. The engines were wide open. He cut a look at Atkins. “I’m not sure I can get out of the way.”
PADUCAH,KENTUCKY
JANUARY 13
3:20 A.M.
THE CAR WAS CREEPING AT A SNAIL’S PACE UP THE middle of the ramp. Lauren saw the driver hunched behind the wheel. An old woman.
“Stop!” she screamed.
Running down to meet the car, she grabbed the door handle and managed to pull it open. The woman still gripped the steering wheel. Running next to the car, Lauren pushed in next to her and got a foot on the brake pedal. The car finally stopped. Lauren jammed on the emergency brake.
“Didn’t you see the bridge was out?” she said, angrily turning toward the woman. She’d almost gotten both of them killed.
The old woman sat there, not moving. She wore a winter coat and had a green stocking cap pulled low over her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.
“I guess so,” the woman said. “I don’t see too well at night anymore. Cataracts.”
I guess not, Lauren thought. She noticed that the woman’s glasses were as thick as soda bottles.
“What were you trying to do?” Lauren asked, feeling her anger drain away.
“Girl, don’t you know we’ve had an earthquake?” the woman said. “I was trying to get out of town and must have got myself turned around.” In the dim light, the woman looked at least eighty years old. Her eyes were cloudy, and she had gray skin like etched leather.
“My name’s Milly Drew,” the woman said. “I’d be obliged if you’d drive me home. I should never have tried a stunt like this. I guess I just got scared.”
The ramp swayed in one of the repeated aftershocks.
“Bobby, get in Missus Drew’s car,” Lauren said, opening the back door. Her grandson scrambled in.
Lauren moved into the driver’s seat. She backed down the approach ramp and got the car turned around. She recognized the model—a 1963 Chevrolet Impala. She’d learned to drive in one. But this looked brand-new. White exterior, red seats.
“The car belonged to my boy,” the woman said. “He died some years back, and I never got around to selling it. My husband’s dead, too. He was a smoker.”
“Where do you live?” Lauren asked.
“On Old Benton Road near Interstate 24,” the woman said.
It was close, a couple miles.
Lauren hit the gas pedal and the car instantly shot forward. The acceleration almost took her breath away. Then she noticed the crossed-flags emblem on the steering wheel. It was a 327.
Mrs. Drew had a muscle car.
Lauren turned onto Route 62, heading away from downtown Paducah. Five minutes later she pulled into the driveway of the woman’s home. It was a one-story white frame house that looked beautifully maintained. A front window was broken and the porch sagged, but the place didn’t look badly damaged.
“I’ll be all right,” the old woman said. “I’ve got plenty of food and a daughter who lives in town. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for what you did.”
Lauren hesitated, then said what had been on her mind ever since she’d stopped the car on the bridge.
“There is something you can do, Milly. Let me borrow this car for a couple days.”
“Honey, you can have the damn thing,” the woman said. Lauren promised to pay her. “You’re sure you’ll be all right here alone?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me,” the woman said. “I hope that old car gets you where you want to go.”
Bobby helped the woman climb up her
front steps. They left her there, sitting in a swing chair on the porch wrapped in an overcoat and wearing her green cap. She waved to them as Lauren backed out of the driveway.
A few minutes later they were racing down Route 62, headed due west for Heath and her parents’ home.
Paducah was burning behind them. Lauren could see the glow of the fires in the rearview mirror. The road was in bad shape, and there was more traffic, people trying to get out any way they could. Many of them were driving like maniacs. Several cars lay overturned on the side of the road.
“Someone’s hurt back there,” Bobby said as they passed another wrecked car.
Lauren had seen two bodies lying in the grass. She didn’t slow down.
She was grateful for the big Chevrolet. It was fast enough to keep them out of trouble. The pavement was badly damaged, and some of the cracks were two and three feet wide. She had to slow down and pull around them.
They were almost to Heath when she ran into the first roadblock. Several cars were pulled to the side. Two cops with red flashlights flagged her down and told her to turn around. The road was closed. Something had gone wrong at the uranium plant, one of them said.
Lauren was vaguely familiar with the plant, which processed enriched uranium for weapons and nuclear reactors. It covered nearly forty acres.
Like most from the area, Lauren didn’t know the specifics of what went on there and didn’t wait for the cops to explain what was wrong. She gunned the Chevy and roared away, laying a long black streak of rubber on the pavement.
She ran into the next roadblock four miles later. It was on the outskirts of Heath. This time the men were heavily armed and had a barrier across the road. There were five or six of them, and they were dressed in strange-looking coveralls.
“What’s that over their faces?” Bobby asked.
They were wearing gas masks.
FRANKFORT, KENTUCKY
JANUARY 13
2:16 A.M.
THE FIRST STRONG TREMOR HAD JOLTED GOVERNOR Tad Parker and his wife out of their bed in the third-floor bedroom of the governor’s mansion. A heavy mahogany bookcase crashed to the floor, narrowly missing Parker’s head. He was vaguely aware of his wife’s screams.