“Do you have your man standing by?” Mick said, brushing past his comments.
“Not yet. Hang on.”
Terry answered on the first ring and toggled up the appropriate screen as he sat at the temporary monitors across the channel, his truck still idling a few feet outside the cabin door.
“I’m ready, Doug. Relay to me exactly when that generator goes off line, and keep your fingers crossed.”
Diane Lacombe had followed Robert Nelms down to the lobby before the image of what she’d seen in Mick Walker’s files fully coalesced. A second copy of the same report in a different file folder seemed strange.
Why would there be a second copy in the files? Was that an earlier version? And if so, did it point out the surficial fault? The question of what the other copy said was already burning in her mind, and she decided there was still enough confusion going on to permit a stealthy attempt to answer it.
With Robert Nelms resting his bulk on the edge of the grand fireplace hearth in the lobby, she slipped away and returned to the fifth floor and the corner office. The spilled files were where she’d left them, and she bent down to extract the folder once again.
It wasn’t there.
She got on her knees to look more closely.
It was right here, wasn’t it? she thought. Everything looked as it had when she’d left it less than ten minutes ago, but the folder with the report analyzing her dataset was suddenly eluding her.
Diane sat back on her heels for a second in confusion.
Okay, what in the devil is going on? I was just here, and I remember clearly what I saw and where, and nothing has been disturbed. So where is it?
The other folder she had glimpsed with the signature red cover was still there, and she opened it quickly, flipping to the title page and recognizing it as a preliminary version that never mentioned fault lines or any other problem with the substrata. Now it was the only one left, and, as such, the only evidence of what Walker had seen and acted on.
She got to her feet, the report and its folder in her hand, and stepped back, surveying the office again as if she might have headed for the wrong stack of spilled files, but there was only one.
Did I move it somewhere else? No! I distinctly remember putting it back.
She retraced her steps to the outer office, scanning for anything resembling a loose file folder, but nothing caught her eye, and she sat on the same couch as before in deep thought.
Everything’s the same in here, too, she thought, her eyes coming back to the potted rubber plant by the door. It had survived the earthquake’s effects and looked just as fresh as it must have when they bought it.
Diane jumped to her feet suddenly and crossed to the plant, kneeling down to run her fingers through the trace of dirt on the rug, potting dirt that had fallen from the ceramic base when the quake turned the plant on its side. She had been forced to step over the overturned plant ten minutes ago when she left to catch Robert Nelms. The dirt was still there on the rug as she remembered it, but now the plant and its base were upright.
For the second time in the past half hour she felt a shiver slither up her back, as if she were being watched. Diane whirled around, visually examining every possible hiding place in the outer office before returning to the inner office and staring at the spilled files for the last time.
The conclusion was inescapable. Someone had been waiting and watching her earlier, and that someone had taken the file and the report. She remembered the phantom footsteps and the empty hallway and shivered again to think someone could have been lurking nearby.
On a whim she opened Mick Walker’s desk drawers, scanning for the folder, but found nothing. She looked carefully at the wall of bookcases along the side opposite the now-shattered floor-to-ceiling windows, but if the file had been hastily stuck there, she couldn’t locate it.
The noise of an elevator door opening reached her from the hallway and she moved swiftly to the outer-office door to peer around the corner. Once more the corridor was empty, and with the hair standing up on the back of her neck, she hurried to the nearest stairwell and slipped inside, carrying the purloined file and descending to the lobby as rapidly as possible—fully expecting to hear footsteps behind her.
Chapter 32
CASCADIA ISLAND HOTEL 11:41 P.M.
Several hundred yards away, Sven Lindstrom burst through the door to the vacant hotel meeting room they’d commandeered and flashed a thumbs-up to Jennifer, who was holding two cell phones, one to each ear.
“Hold… hold on…” she said, pulling both away with a questioning look.
“I found Mick Walker, and he agreed to the evacuation and whatever it costs. We should launch everything we’ve got.”
She nodded, relaying the message to Norm Bryarly as she waited for the FAA Flight Service Station briefer to come back on the line with the latest weather. She signed off with Norm and folded one of the phones.
“The 412 and the first BK-117 are lifting off as we speak. The other BK-117 is headed to Tacoma to pick up two more of our pilots. First arrival will be just under an hour.”
“They’re loading up the buses right now, and we should probably get the hell out of this death trap of a hotel. The tremors are coming every few minutes now.”
She raised a finger and pressed the remaining phone to her ear.
“Yeah, I’m here. The lights are still on in this section—they’ve got a generator going—but there’s background music playing too loudly in this room. Speak a little louder and go ahead, please.”
Sven began searching the walls for a volume control as Jennifer rapidly transcribed the information and thanked the briefer.
“I can’t find a volume knob,” he said in frustration.
She waved it away. “It doesn’t matter.”
He shrugged.
“Okay, Dad. This is going to be a real challenge. They’ll be on instruments all the way to Port Angeles and then they’re going to have to follow the coastline. No other way to do it.”
“And the winds?”
“Here, thirty-five, but steady. We’re going to have to turbine-wash every one of our birds, though, when this is over. I don’t want to think about how much salt spray they’re going to be ingesting.”
“I know. The Dauphin was already soaked.”
She was rubbing her eyes. “Let me sit here a few minutes. This whole evening has been a nightmare.”
He nodded silently as he leaned on the edge of a table, then sighed.
“Honey, what happened between you and Lam this evening? I mean, if you don’t want to tell me…”
She shook her head, tears suddenly glistening in her eyes again as she grimaced and turned away to hide them.
“It’s not that, Dad… I just… I guess it was time.”
“For what?”
“To give up on him. I wasn’t expecting a proposal, just some form of commitment. And I guess he’s incapable of it. Too many years with his ex to reform.”
“But, it sounded like you’d caught him with a woman.”
She nodded, eyes squinted against the tears she couldn’t stop, her mouth tight with determination to get past it. She sighed and cleared her throat, getting hold of herself.
“Yes, I did.” She related a capsule version of the story.
“The bastard.”
“Yes.” She looked up and smiled at him. “But, it was about time I found out.”
Sven was chewing his lip again as a modern symphonic piece filled the room. “You know, Lam has never impressed me as being bold enough to juggle women.”
Jennifer cocked her head, wondering if he had just jumped to Doug’s defense, or was on the track of something profound. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go there in any event, but it was obvious he wasn’t through.
Jennifer stared at her father, defensiveness and anger rising within, but something about his demeanor and his tone of voice was different. She remembered her heart almost breaking at the image of him in the rain a few
hours before, looking broken and old. But this version of Sven Lindstrom wasn’t the sneering know-it-all father. His tone was soft and respectful, and for the first time she could remember, he was actually asking her if she’d considered his viewpoint.
The realization was startling, and her expression softened.
“Jen, despite some of the flippant things I’ve said to you about Doug Lam, my real perception is that he’s a very good man, and could be exactly what you’re looking for.”
“I thought you considered him a weakling.”
“Yeah, well… I’ve been doing an awful lot of thinking in the past few hours about everything you said, and… maybe you’d better stop listening to my overblown point of view.”
“About Doug?”
“About a lot of things. An ex-friend of mine once told me I had a tendency to draw, shoot, and then aim with my mouth. I’ve always known that was true, it’s just painful to admit.”
The need to comfort him welled up again. “Your advice is usually sound, Dad.”
“Yeah, when I’m not trying to impress you with how much I know. It becomes a habit over time.”
Changing the subject was becoming an urgent need for her. “Well, it’s over anyway with Doug.”
“All I’m saying, Jen, is be absolutely certain he’s a rat before you throw him away. Some men actually do tell the truth.”
“Maybe, Dad, but being in a relationship where you’ve got no control regardless of what you do is not satisfying.”
They fell silent, each looking away from the other as background music filled the void. It was an introspective, haunting choral and orchestral piece heavy with violins and Celtic flutes, evoking images of grand ivy-covered collegiate halls steeped in generational tradition—music capable of broadening perspectives in the passage of a stanza. Jennifer felt her mind resonate to the piece, flashing through a mix of sweeping landscapes and noble causes and stirring moments from countless movies experienced over her lifetime, all of it leading somehow to the exasperated voice of her closest female friend a month before: “You’re going to control yourself into spinsterhood!” Rachael had snapped after another rant from Jennifer about Doug. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to you, girl. For once in your life, let go, follow his lead, and learn to enjoy the journey moment by moment.”
The door to the meeting room opened suddenly and a harried-looking hotel employee stuck his head in, startled to see people inside.
“Ah, we’re evacuating the hotel, folks. I need you to leave now. Please.”
Sven pushed himself away from the edge of the table.
“We’ll be right there.”
“Okay,” he said, hesitating, then deciding to leave it alone.
Jennifer got up as her father put his hands on her shoulders, surprising her.
“Jennifer, two things. One, whether you believe it or not, I’ve always been proud of my daughter, as a daughter, and proud of your strength as a woman. Obviously, I’ve been a bastard about showing it. Two, it’s okay to be a girl every now and then. Slowly, even I’m learning that I can’t control everything. You, for starters.”
She struggled to keep composed, merely nodding as she turned away to move toward the door, avoiding his eyes.
“Let’s go, Dad.”
Chapter 33
CASCADIA ISLAND HOTEL SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 27TH 12:00 A.M.
Doug stood just outside the hotel pressing a cell phone to his ear as the last bus full of evacuating guests rolled out from beneath the covered drive.
Terry Griswold was returning to the line and the low-battery warning on the phone was beeping.
“Okay, Doug. I’ve got triple confirmation. The pattern did change back when they turned the wave generator off, but the remaining wave impacts are still being echoed one-for-one from the Quilieute Quiet Zone, and the echoes are growing stronger.”
“Damnit.”
“What do we do? You say that thing is made of tons of reinforced concrete?”
Doug rubbed his eyes, trying to think. He’d mentioned Navy vessels and thought about every other possible way of destroying the strangely curved structure, but the mere bulk of it was formidable.
“Terry, I think we’re too late. They had barges in front of it, blocking it, until Thursday, but they’re gone now. Walker says it would take six hours or more to get them back. We may not have six hours.”
Terry’s voice was clearly stressed, his tone higher than normal, his desire to fold his tent and run palpable.
“They pulled them on Thursday? Do you know what time?”
“I think he said late afternoon.”
“And… Doug… the first tremors from the Quilieute Quiet Zone were a few hours later. You realize that?”
The realization was a small roar in Doug’s mind, and several seconds went by before he answered.
“Good Lord. No, I hadn’t quite put that together, Terry. The confusion factor out here is unbelievable.”
“Okay, so God only knows if we have six hours or six minutes, Doug. I think it’s likely to hit us at any moment, but you know better than I do. It could be a few days.”
“Terry, hold on. Let me think.” We’ve got a huge concrete barrier in salt water made of reinforced concrete laced with steel designed to curve the waves in just so.
Doug raised his head suddenly, examining his last thought. The barrier wasn’t just a barrier, he realized, it was a specific, hydrodynamic shape. Hydrodynamic shapes, like aeronautically engineered shapes for airplane wings, were designed with complex formulas to do very specific things. The image of the Concorde’s wing and its constantly changing compound curves came to mind. Change one angle or curve and the wing would be drastically less effective.
So what section of the WaveRam was critical to the function of concentrating the waves?
“Terry, I may have an idea. Hang on. I’ll call you back.”
Mick Walker was still in the lobby, monitoring the rescue efforts under way in the east wing. More bodies had been found in the wreckage of the east wing’s top three floors, but more than two dozen survivors had been rescued as well. Many guests trapped underneath debris that had fallen on them were being liberated as rescuers continued searching through the tangle of broken and shattered metal, wood, tile, and glass.
Doug hurried across the drive and directly to Walker’s side.
“Mick, sorry to interrupt.”
Mick’s resistance was all but gone, his eyes now flat and lifeless as he looked at the seismologist.
“Yes?”
“First, the waveform did change for the better when you turned off the WaveRam generator. But the original seismic impacts produced by the barrier itself are still a major danger. We’ve got to stop the wave impacts.”
Mick sighed. “I can’t turn off the barrier, Lam.”
“No, but you can tell me who designed its shape, and whether that person is on the island.”
Mick Walker cocked his head in thought, not bothering to ask the reason for the question.
“The designer is a hydrodynamics professor at the University of Washington. As I recall, I invited him here tonight but he couldn’t come.”
“Lucky guy.”
Mick ignored the editorial comment. “I take it you need to talk with him?”
“Immediately.”
“All right. His name is Dr. Fred Kopp.” Mick quickly called Sherry Thomas to get Dr. Kopp’s phone number, which he relayed to Doug.
“Thanks,” Doug said, moving away and snapping the last spare cell phone battery into place before dialing Dr. Kopp’s number. After two rings, a woman answered and reluctantly handed the phone to Fred Kopp, who sounded cautious. His accent was vaguely British, his tone imperious.
“Dr. Kopp,” Doug said, “this is an emergency and you’re speaking with Dr. Lam of the geophysics department, a fellow professor.”
“What’s going on, Dr. Cam?”
“Lam.”
“Lam. Very well.”
; “Doctor, we’re on the brink of a catastrophic subduction zone earthquake that will level your house when it happens, and the wave barrier you designed for Mick Walker’s Cascadia project is triggering it.”
“What? What?”
“Are you listening carefully?”
“What the devil do you mean, my barrier design is causing it?”
Doug explained the details in brief, including the fact that the island was in the process of splitting apart.
“Good heavens!”
“What I need to know is this, and it is a very critical question. In order to silence the seismic impacts produced by each wave—and those impacts are thanks to the great effectiveness of your design, by the way—in order to stop it, turn it off, do we have to remove the whole thing, or is there a strategic section of it that, if removed, will significantly change the pounding effect and the seismic waveform?”
“That’s a very good question, Doctor. The answer is yes. It’s the outer forty feet of each wing that begins the reinforcement process with each inbound wave. Without those curved elements in a compound sine-wave effect, the concentrated power of each impact would be reduced by one order of magnitude, roughly… ah… down to 10 percent of what’s happening now.”
“Is there… are there break points, or points of weakness, at those very junctures in the structure? Like a production splice in the fuselage of an airliner?”
“That’s how they assemble the airplane fuselage? In sections, like sections of pipe, yes?”
“Right. Is that how the WaveRam barrier is put together?”
“Well, yes, actually. We formed the critically shaped elements—the pre-stressed concrete curved portion—in a dry dock in Tacoma and shipped it out on barges. The rest of the concrete wasn’t critical in shape, so they poured it in place. But you’re correct that the shape of the outer wings is a complex, running compound design in which the focal point is ever changing. Where they’re joined to the straight section, there is a splice on each end. But, you can’t just unbolt the bloody thing.”
Saving Cascadia Page 33