8.4 (2012)

by Peter Hernon

  Guy Thompson hadn’t changed his Western look for the visit to the White House. He wore his usual attire—jeans, expensive cowboy boots, and a gaudy Western shirt. He’d braided his black hair in the back.

  “I’d like to talk about the P velocity data.” Thompson explained that the velocities of the P waves had dropped by about 10 percent since that magnitude 8.4 event. “In the last twenty-four hours those velocities have started climbing again,” he said.

  Ross asked him to explain.

  “The theory was developed from observations in Russia,” Thompson said. “It holds that P velocities decrease after a precursor quake, then start to return to more normal levels just before a major event.”

  “That’s only a theory,” Weston said, making no effort to conceal his anger. His view was shared by several others.

  “I want to hear this,” Ross said, silencing Weston.

  Thompson explained that his team had prepared a map of the entire seismic zone based on geomagnetic data gathered by satellite. Shifts in magnetic fields were recognized indicators of seismic activity. The recent readings showed a major change in the zone’s magnetic field.

  On Thompson’s map, projected on the screen, areas of high magnetic intensity showed up as hills. Low intensity as valleys. The hills, which were colored red, dominated the image.

  Atkins was interested in these geomagnetic readings. He continued to wonder whether magnetic fields were responsible for the strange, green glow that had shimmered deep in Kentucky Lake.

  There was another possible source. All that fracturing of the rock deep in the ground generated heat. The role of heat in earthquakes was little understood. Some laboratory experiments had demonstrated that rocks would melt under the extreme pressures of a major earthquake. Other tests showed this didn’t always happen. Scientists were nowhere near an explanation of the heat dilemma.

  Atkins wondered if New Madrid was showing a phenomenon never seen before in earthquake country—the visible discharge of tremendous amounts of heat up through the crust. An action that was almost volcanic in power.

  Ross interrupted Atkins’ train of thought. The president asked his national security adviser for a damage assessment.

  Margaret Greenland stood and smoothed the hem of her rumpled skirt. She was a heavyset woman who didn’t care much about her appearance. She’d received her doctorate from the University of Chicago. Her rise through the ranks of the Central Intelligence Agency was the result of talent, grit, and hard work. Ross liked and respected her.

  “This is based on our most recent damage assessments,” she said, switching off the room’s overhead lights. “We’ll start first with cities on the periphery of the damage zone.”

  She began with footage of Chicago. The towering skyline was unmistakable.

  “That’s Lake Shore Drive,” Greenland said with her slow, Southern drawl. “Most of the buildings along the Magnificent Mile sustained moderate damage. Every aftershock sends more glass falling down on the streets.” Some of the shards were found embedded like daggers in the walls of buildings.

  “Pittsburgh and Philadelphia have also reported damage,” Greenland said. “Some underground pipes have snapped.”

  A map on the wall showed the Mercalli damage zones rippling out from the epicenter like rings on a bull’s-eye. The Modified Mercalli Intensity Scale ranked earthquakes on the basis of observed physical destruction.

  The film switched to Columbus, Ohio—the area around the State Fair Grounds and German Village. Both had been hard hit.

  Greenland followed with photos of the collapsed Hoosier Dome and the devastated White River Park district in Indianapolis. Both cities were closer to the epicenter. The images were always the same. Buildings in various stages of collapse, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, crowds of people with dazed, shell-shocked expressions, weeping children.

  “The total death toll in the country stands at 130,000 and climbing, but no one really knows,” Greenland said. “Disaster officials are sure of only one thing—that the numbers will go much higher. A big problem right now is finding the bodies.”

  As he listened, Ross slowly massaged his temples, trying to alleviate a crushing headache. He knew there was no way to put human losses like that in perspective. They were unprecedented in the United States.

  Continuing her grim assessment, Greenland said, “We’ve already talked about command and control in the damage zone. For all practical purposes, civil authority has collapsed. Army and National Guard units are providing what security exists under your previous declaration of martial law.”

  Ross nodded. He’d recently boned up on President Lincoln’s decision to impose martial law during the Civil War and wondered if the man he considered the country’s greatest president had gone through as much agony before he sent federal troops into so many American cities. Ross had hated to do it, but felt he had no choice. Killing and looting had broken out on a mammoth scale. In a single neighborhood in Little Rock—Geyer Springs—federal troops had shot and killed nearly thirty people who’d been caught stealing items from smashed homes and stores. That’s what a shoot-to-kill order meant. And that awful body count was from just a single neighborhood.

  Less than an hour earlier, Greenland had told Ross privately that the military, stretched dangerously thin, wouldn’t be able to respond to even a moderate international challenge.

  Every available soldier on the East Coast and in the South had been pressed into earthquake duty. Unless the situation improved—and that appeared unlikely—they’d have to call in troops from the far West. They’d start with Fort Riley in Kansas. The 1st Infantry Division there had already been put on full alert. They could also bring in Marine units from Camp Pendleton.

  “The basic necessities—food, water, medical care—are virtually nonexistent in the quake zones,” Greenland said.

  The images from the cities that had sustained the heaviest damage all seemed to merge together into one overwhelming tableau of grief and destruction.

  And you’re in charge, Ross kept telling himself. You’re supposed to know how to handle this. Tell people what to do. Suggest options. Keep their spirits up.

  He knew he was failing badly on every front.

  His national security adviser was talking about hospitals. In the heart of the earthquake zone, most of them had been destroyed. Ross looked at a close-up of Central Hospital in Little Rock and closed his eyes. It had the largest neonatal unit in the state. The building had split in two.

  “Heating and fuel oil are already being rationed throughout the East Coast,” Greenland continued. “The situation there will be critical in three or four more days.”

  Ross stopped her. “That’s enough, Margaret,” he said, gently touching her on the shoulder. She nodded and turned off the machine. She looked grateful to sit back down.

  The president faced the gathered seismologists. “We’re going to have another quake, aren’t we?”

  “Almost certainly,” Elizabeth Holleran said. The evidence she’d found in the fissure had removed any of her lingering doubts. “The only question is when and how big.”

  “Anyone here agree with Doctor Holleran?”

  John Atkins and Walt Jacobs raised their hands. Holleran had uncovered irrefutable evidence that couldn’t be denied. And Atkins was proud to go on record supporting her. They were taking a huge professional risk. He had few doubts they’d be proven right. But at what incredible cost?

  It was an overpowering feeling of both intense excitement and fear. They were way out in front on this.

  The five other seismologists in the room were hesitant to offer an opinion, much less a definite yes or no.

  “What about you, Doctor Weston?” Ross asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mister President,” Weston said, shaking his head. “I refuse to speculate.”

  “After what you’ve just seen and heard, you’re not convinced?”

  “No, sir. I’m not,” Weston said. “I’m still not sure
the quakes we’re having aren’t part of a normal aftershock pattern.”

  Ross was trying to be agreeable as he kept probing, pushing. “Then let me ask you this: what do you think will happen if we get another magnitude 8 quake on the New Madrid Fault?”

  He read the look in Weston’s eyes and in the eyes of the others. He’d seen it often enough, the fear and uncertainty. He’d seen it in his wife’s eyes when the doctor met them in his office on that bright spring afternoon seven years ago and told them what they already knew. The tests were positive. She had breast cancer. He’d seen it in his own eyes earlier that morning when he looked at himself in the mirror.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Ross said, giving way to the nightmare that had kept him awake every night for the last four. “Another quake would pretty much finish the Mississippi Valley. It would push us back to World War II productivity levels. Our economy would be in shambles. In many ways that’s already happened. Millions of Americans would be left totally on their own, without schools, medical care, even food or water. Without police protection.” He leaned over the broad conference table, supporting himself heavily with both hands.

  Up close, Atkins was struck again by how tired the man looked. And yet his voice remained firm, decisive.

  “This is a great country,” Ross said. “Our people have courage and resiliency. They’ll bounce back eventually. But we wouldn’t be the same United States.”

  He looked at everyone in the room, locking in on their eyes, staring hard.

  Atkins felt the power of the president’s gaze. He was exposing them to his deepest, most intimate fears.

  Ross held them like that for a long time before he said, “Is there anything we can do to prevent that from happening?”

  IT was late in the evening. Everyone was dragging. The president suggested they take a fifteen-minute break. He had a big urn of coffee and a platter of fruit and sweet rolls sent down from the White House kitchen.

  Walt Jacobs took Atkins aside and whispered that he had something he wanted to tell him in private. They went into the hallway. Secret service agents and military aides watched them carefully as they walked down the long, brightly lit corridor and sat on an upholstered bench seat under a wall map of the Louisiana Purchase.

  “My wife and daughter are dead,” Jacobs said. “They were trapped in our house. I found out yesterday.” He looked at Atkins and shook his head. “I’ve studied earthquakes since I was eighteen years old. I thought I understood them pretty well. I never thought one of them would kill my family.”

  “Walt, my God, I’m so sorry,” Atkins said, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “I had no idea. None of us did.” He couldn’t believe it. Jacobs had just kept on working as if nothing had happened. Atkins had suspected something was bothering him. His usually buoyant friend had seemed uncharacteristically moody, remote.

  Jacobs suddenly got up and pounded his fists against the wall. The map print crashed to the floor, the glass dust cover shattering. He knocked over a lamp and staggered away sobbing.

  Two Secret Service agents ran toward them. Atkins pushed one of them back as the agent reached out to grab Jacobs.

  “No, let him go!” he shouted. He put an arm around his friend’s waist.

  “I can’t do this anymore… . Can’t go on,” Jacobs said. “My wife’s dead, John. My daughter. I don’t give a fuck about another earthquake. I don’t care… .”

  He stood there with tears in his eyes. Atkins helped him sit down. Jacobs started to regain his composure.

  “I had a feeling after that first good aftershock,” he said, staring at his folded hands. He was calming down and needed to talk, the words coming quickly. He mentioned the two grad students he’d asked to go out to his house to check on things. He glanced sideways at Atkins. “The kids got back yesterday. They had a hell of a trip. They had to go about ten miles out of their way because of fire and fallen buildings. When they finally got to my home, a neighbor who lives across the street told them what had happened. The guy had dug through the rubble and gotten to the back bedroom, or what was left of it. He found them just where I told them to go in a bad quake. They were in the bathroom right under the main floor joists. The strongest part of the house. The thing I never counted on was the entire brick wall caving in.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  JANUARY 17

  11:25 P.M.

  THE PRESIDENT SUMMONED THE GROUP TO ORDER. He was in shirtsleeves, collar open wide, his eyes bleary with fatigue. He nodded to Steve Draper.

  Stepping into the hallway, his national science adviser returned moments later with Fred Booker. The physicist carried the same blue backpack and wore the same red jumpsuit he’d had on when he parachuted into Memphis. He hadn’t changed clothes. There hadn’t been time. He’d flown to Washington on a military plane.

  Introducing him to the group, Draper said, “Some of you have already met Doctor Booker. For those who haven’t, Fred’s a nuclear physicist at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory. He’s got some thoughts about the earthquakes.”

  Atkins, Holleran, and the others were startled to see Booker. They hadn’t been told he’d been invited. Atkins glanced at Walt Jacobs, whose face had gone hard the moment Booker had entered the room. Atkins was already worried about his friend’s ability to cope with his tremendous personal grief and his responsibility as the lead seismologist at Memphis. He didn’t like the way he looked, especially now, seeing Booker standing in front of them.

  Draper said, “Doctor Booker, why don’t you describe what you’ve got in mind.”

  Obviously, Draper had already briefed the president on Booker’s ideas, Atkins realized. This was more than a courtesy call. His presence meant the president and Draper were seriously considering the physicist’s proposal to use a nuclear device to try to head off another big quake.

  Booker quickly sketched out his thoughts. He’d lost nothing of his zeal. There’d been no major change since he’d described the procedure to them a few days earlier in Memphis. If anything, he’d become even more insistent.

  “I believe a nuclear explosion, properly designed and positioned underground, can reduce the dangerous levels of seismic energy that have built on the fault,” he said.

  “Where would you suggest detonating it?” the president asked.

  “That depends on what the seismologists say,” Booker said. “From what I’ve heard, a plausible location might be near the point where your new fault, the one that starts around Caruthersville, Missouri, intersects with the previously known fault segment in western Kentucky. I’m told seismic stress generally builds at the ends of a fault. I’d suggest it might make a good target.”

  “Mister President, this is insane,” said Paul Weston, who’d almost come out of his chair as soon as he realized what Booker was suggesting. “A nuclear explosion anywhere near that fault could be catastrophic.” Other seismologists in the room also objected. There were angry shouts as several tried to speak at once.

  The president silenced them, slamming the flat of his hand on a desktop. “I don’t give a damn if you think it’s insane. I just want to know if it has the slightest chance in hell of working. Because right now, I don’t see any other options. If you have one, any of you, I want to hear it.”

  Ross knew he’d almost lost it. That wouldn’t do. Would never do. Not even a momentary lapse. If he was going to make this work, he had to be absolutely in control of his emotions.

  Still tense, but in control of his voice, Ross said, “After listening to Doctor Holleran, it’s obvious to me—and it should be to you—that we’re probably going to have at least one major earthquake, maybe more, sometime in the near future. I want to do anything I can to prevent that. So I’ll listen to anybody who puts a serious proposal on the table. And I’ve got to tell you this—I’d consider setting off a hundred nuclear weapons if I thought it would spare the country from going through this nightmare twice.”

  “It might work,” said Guy Thomps
on. He looked genuinely intrigued by Booker’s idea. “It’s conceivable that we could selectively reduce some of the strain energy. And I’d agree with the Caruthersville fault as a target. That’s the critical point, the segment that’s showing the greatest concentration of stress. We can run some projections to see if the data supports that location.”

  “The idea is to see if we can get a moderate quake without triggering a big one,” Booker said. “I can guarantee I can produce an earthquake. It’s up to you people to tell me how big you want it.”

  “So you can explode a bomb, and that means we should listen to you on something this incredibly complex,” Weston said. He looked furious.

  “Doctor Weston, I think you better listen to somebody because we’re way out of options, and we could be out of time,” Booker snapped. He knew belter, but couldn’t help himself. He was starting to get in a fighting mood.

  “What about you, John?” Draper asked, choosing to ignore the exchange. “You’ve had some time to think about this.”

  Atkins had anticipated the question as soon as he saw Booker enter the room. The president was right. They had to try something. They couldn’t just sit there and take all the horrible consequences of another magnitude 8 earthquake if there was even the slightest chance it could be averted. He also knew that Thompson was entirely correct. Stress would be concentrated at the end, or tip, of the fault and would continue to build there until it loaded up the adjoining fault segments with stress. A kind of seismic fusebox, it was the only logical target.

  “We’ll need to run some numbers before we settle on the exact location and depth for an explosion,” Atkins said. “And I’d want to find out as much as I could about the kinds of seismic waves nuclear explosions produce.”

  Holleran agreed. The location was critical. So was the size of the nuclear device. If they used one too big, it would be a disaster. “If we make a mistake, we could wind up overloading the fault with stress energy and possibly trigger a chain reaction,” she said. “I’ve never seen a fault system that’s so tightly interlocked.”