Cascadia

by H W Buzz Bernard

  Never in his life had he felt so helpless. As a fighter pilot, he’d always had some control, or maybe just an illusion of control, over a bad situation, even if the only option left was pulling the ejection handle and punching out of a doomed aircraft. As the old saying went, he seemed to have run out of airspeed, altitude, and ideas all at the same time.

  A mere block or two from the beach, he moved his gaze toward the ocean. He saw only sand, no water. He’d read enough about tsunamis to know what that meant. Every fiber of his being told him to run, get to higher ground, to safety. He couldn’t help Alex. No point in them both dying.

  He tilted his head toward the sky, as if he might find divine inspiration or intervention. Perhaps he should have spent more time in churches and less in bars. A break in the slate-hued overcast allowed a shaft of sunlight to burst through. A sign?

  An eagle, gliding far above the destruction, circled the ray of brightness, working its wings with minimal effort, riding a thermal. For a reason Shack couldn’t explain, he watched the great bird for several moments. It seemed to be waiting for something.

  Shortly, another eagle joined it. With languid flaps of their expansive wings, they soared away together, leaving the devastation below, and the imminent threat of worse to come, to mortals bound to the Earth.

  Indeed, a sign. Shack dropped his gaze from the sky and ran.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nine-Point-Three

  Manzanita

  Sunday, July 5

  ROB’S BEACH HOME, a contemporary two-story affair with aged cedar siding, had withstood the earthquake’s initial assault and remained largely intact; slumped and cracked, but standing. Rob burst through the front entrance only to find Timothy thundering down the stairs from the second floor.

  “Tim, thank God, you’re okay.” They embraced in an awkward father-son hug.

  Tim stared at his father with a wide-eyed what-do-we-do-now look.

  “Let’s get to the plane,” Rob said. He checked his watch again. Ten twenty-seven. Four minutes gone. “Come on, we gotta run.” But he knew they wouldn’t make it. The airport lay over a mile and a half from the center of town. They hadn’t a prayer of reaching it on foot, preflighting the aircraft, and attempting a takeoff before the tsunami flooded in. The airstrip, which stood only twenty feet above sea level at its lowest point, would be one of the first areas to go under water.

  Despite the odds, Rob and Tim took off at a sprint.

  Hopeless.

  They reached the rustic Manzanita News and Espresso on Laneda, a popular coffee shop that should have been packed on a Sunday morning. It now lay partially crushed by a toppled tree.

  Amanda Jeffries and her cameraman, Dawson, reached the building at virtually the same instant. She gave Rob a beauty-queen smile and a thumbs-up. “Nice call,” she said. “I owe you one. We’re gonna scoop every other media outlet in the Northwest. I just talked to the station on my sat phone. USGS pegged the locus of the quake about seventy miles west of Grays Harbor. Preliminary magnitude, nine-point-three.”

  Rob’s stomach knotted, his heart jumped a beat. Bigger than he had feared. Bigger than Alaska in 1964. Biggest since Chile in 1960. The damage and death toll would be immense.

  “How long until the tsunami bangs in?” Amanda asked.

  “Minutes,” Rob panted, still sucking air from his uphill sprint.

  “Well, thanks again.” She turned to Dawson. “Come on, Daws. Let’s get to the beach.”

  “No,” Rob commanded. “Don’t go down there. Get back to the truck. You’ll be safe there.”

  She shook her head, dismissing the suggestion. “The incline from the beach to 101 is steep enough it’ll slow the wave. We can outrun it when it hits.

  “No, you can’t. Especially with the roads covered in debris.”

  “We’ll be fine.” She beckoned for Dawson to follow her. He turned and looked at Rob as though Rob might have a closing argument that would persuade Amanda. But Rob’s thoughts had already returned to saving Tim and himself, not someone who wouldn’t listen to reason. Dawson shrugged and trotted after Amanda.

  Rob turned to Tim. “We need jet packs, son, or we aren’t going to make it to the plane in time.”

  Tim nudged his father. “There,” he said, and pointed. “Not jet packs, but better than jogging.”

  Several abandoned bicycles, a couple still in a rack, others strewn on the ground, offered hope. Rob and Tim each mounted one and began pedaling at a furious rate. First south on 5th Place, then west on Dorcas Lane, then south on Classic and Garey Streets. Normally an easy ride, but not with the roads cracked and sunken in spots, and in other places, blocked by fallen trees and power lines.

  Where the road had subsided, Rob and Tim portaged their bikes over the slumped landscape. Where trees and poles blocked their passage, they steered carefully around them or, in the case of toppled evergreens, scrambled through the boughs. Between obstacles, they sprinted at speeds that would have made them contenders in the Tour de France.

  There emerged unanticipated obstacles, too. What looked like a stream of war refugees flowed against them. Rob had forgotten that Nehalem Bay State Park lay adjacent to the airstrip. On a holiday weekend, such as this, the park would be stuffed to almost overflowing with campers, probably a couple thousand.

  With only one road in and out of the park, and that route blocked by debris and caved-in pavement, the weekenders had no choice but to hump out on foot. Many carried backpacks. Several seemed to be making good time on mopeds, probably ferried into the park on the rear of motorhomes or RVs. A few visitors had attempted to flee in vehicles, only to become bogged down in a mini-traffic jam of Winnebagos, fifth wheels, and a couple of Airstreams. Now they scurried on foot from the low-lying park, heading toward designated assembly areas at the city recycling center and local golf course.

  Overhead, a pall of black smoke from fires in Manzanita streamed beneath the leaden clouds. A continuous wail of sirens from emergency vehicles, apparently going no place, or at least making way only slowly, accompanied the smoke.

  Intermittent tremors continued to pulse through the ground. They served as reminders, at least to Rob, of the enormous destructive energy two of the Earth’s plates, unzipping after three centuries of moving in lock step, had been able to unleash. And for the coast, additional devastation, massive in scope, lurked only minutes in the future.

  At last, the end of the short runway at the airport hove into view. Rob and Tim skidded their bikes to a stop when they reached the tie-down area. Only two other planes, a Mooney M20J and a Cessna 172, sat secured, the owners nowhere in sight.

  Again, Rob checked the time. Ten thirty-six. Thirteen minutes elapsed. At a minimum, they had two minutes left. At a lucky maximum, maybe ten. But even that might not be enough. Rob knew, as any pilot does, that an airplane isn’t like an automobile. You don’t just jump into it, turn a key, and go. There’s preparatory work required on the ground before getting airborne. It can’t be ignored, even in emergencies. You can hurry through it, but you can’t disregard it.

  “Release the tie-downs,” Rob yelled to Tim. “I’ll start the preflight.” He removed the gust lock and pitot tube plug, performed a quick manual inspection of the aircraft’s moveable surfaces, checked the fuel, then scrambled into the left-hand seat of the cockpit.

  His heart thumped at an insane rate. Had he made the right decision? Or should he just forget the Skylane, get himself and Tim to higher ground? He would hate like hell to lose a half-million-dollar aircraft, but at least he had insurance on it.

  Saving the plane wasn’t the only reason that had driven him here. He wanted to see firsthand, from the air, the damage and destruction levied by a megathrust earthquake and its accompanying Grim Reaper, a mammoth tsunami. Scientific curiosity. He also harbored an ulterior motive. If he hadn’t been able t
o save people with his misinterpreted “vision,” perhaps he could salvage a few lives after the fact by directing first responders to where they would most be needed.

  Still, Timothy came first. Rob squeezed his eyes shut, tried to calm himself and sort through his options objectively. Like a good scientist. A low ridge sat less than three hundred yards east of the runway. As Rob recalled the evacuation maps, the ridge stood just high enough to be out of the tsunami zone. A short dash across a sandy pine flat could get him and Tim to safety as a last resort.

  He flipped open a window and yelled at Tim to get in.

  His son clambered into the right-hand seat and fastened his seatbelt. Rob called out, “Clear prop!”—not really needed but proper procedure—and cranked the engine. Now it became a life and death race. Can we beat the tsunami to the end of the runway?

  Rob attempted a cell phone call to Deborah as he began to taxi. NO SERVICE. It didn’t surprise him. There probably weren’t many functioning cell towers left.

  He surveyed the runway as he maneuvered the aircraft. He didn’t like what he saw. Almost directly across from the tie-down area, the runway had fractured and slumped. He could jockey around the damaged asphalt to the south, just barely, but that would leave him—he ran a quick guesstimate in his head—only a little over thirteen hundred feet of runway. The Skylane needed a bit less than eight hundred for a takeoff roll, so they would be okay there. Only one problem: he’d have to take off toward the south, with a tail wind. Normal takeoffs are into the wind, which provides additional boost. A tail wind does just the opposite. A bit dicey.

  He stared at the south end of the runway which terminated at the edge of Nehalem Bay, really only a wide spot in the Nehalem River. Except now it appeared as nothing more than a mud flat with a thin trickle of water that used to be the river. The physics of the approaching tsunami had sucked the ocean westward along with the water in the river and bay. When the huge wave surged inland, the river, the bay, the park, and the airstrip would be among the first to become part of the new, albeit temporary, sea floor.

  Once more, Rob looked at his watch. Ten forty-three. Twenty minutes since the earthquake had hit. They were living on borrowed time. But maybe just enough that he could taxi to the south end of the runway, turn, and take off into the wind.

  “Headsets on,” he said. He slipped on his headphones, and Timothy did the same. Each set had an integrated mic to facilitate conversation over the noise of the aircraft. “Okay, here we go. We gotta get out of here.”

  The aircraft bumped and wobbled over grass and dirt, circumnavigating the caved-in section of the runway. Rob reached the asphalt and began to roll south. Once he got to the end of the runway, he’d execute a 180-degree pivot, point the Cessna into the wind, and take off to the north.

  But a glance to the south told him that wouldn’t work.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  Timothy saw it, too, and looked wide-eyed at his father. “Dad—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  A mound of black water, as tall as the evergreens that populated Manzanita, rolled up the Nehalem, surging toward the end of the runway.

  Rob, his chest tightened in terror, stomped the brakes, and the aircraft bobbled to an abrupt stop. His gut churned. He fought to catch his breath. No time to think, to calculate the odds. Too late to run for the ridge. He slammed the throttle to full power and released the brakes. The Cessna lurched forward.

  The plane probably had just enough runway to lift off. But maybe not with a tail wind. And maybe not with an airstrip about to be inundated.

  “Go, go, go,” he urged, as though the plane were a racehorse. Its speed mounted.

  He peeked at his son. Timothy sat with his head bowed and eyes closed.

  Rob gritted his teeth and grasped the yoke so fiercely his knuckles drained of color. It had boiled down to a pretty simple calculation: fly or die.

  He’d never thought much about dying, at least in a philosophical sense, and he didn’t now. He focused on staying alive, on getting the Cessna into the air, on fending off the Dark Angel. Action, not thought.

  The plane’s engine roared at full throat. Rob estimated the Cessna and tsunami, coming at each other on a collision course, were now equidistant from the end of the runway. He needed only to beat the massive swell by a second. If it beat them by that much, they’d die.

  Cannon Beach

  THE ELDERLY MAN called out to Jonathan once more. “I beg you, sir. Don’t leave us.”

  A Bible verse from Jonathan’s Sunday School days in middle Georgia so long ago flashed through his mind. “For the love of money is the root of all evil.” Once more he released his grip on the treasure sacks. Goddammit.

  He scrambled through mud and debris to where the man stood outside his destroyed home. The man, who appeared almost ancient up close, nodded a shaky greeting to Jonathan. “Bless you, my friend,” he said. He glanced at Zurry who stood beside Jonathan. “You have a helper.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “My wife is in the entryway. I can’t get her out of her wheelchair.” He hobbled down a fractured concrete sidewalk toward the remains of his home. Jonathan followed. The front of the house appeared relatively intact. Much of the rear portion seemed to have been swallowed by a massive sinkhole.

  While Zurry waited outside, the two men stepped through the front door. “This is my wife, Olive,” the man said gesturing at the woman in the wheelchair. “I’m Bill.”

  “Jonathan,” Jonathan said.

  Olive, a crippled little feather of a woman, stared up at Jonathan with rheumy eyes, but didn’t, or couldn’t, speak. Jonathan guessed he’d be able to carry her, but not her and the treasure both. One or the other. He shook his head—disbelief, disgust, disappointment.

  He knelt in front of the woman. “Okay, Olive, I’m going to pull you up and drape you over my back and shoulders and carry you out of here, okay?”

  Olive gave a slight nod.

  “Bill,” Jonathan said, “when I get her up, you steady her. I’ll squat beside her, drag her left arm across my back, shoot my other arm between her legs, and hoist her up. A fireman’s carry.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  Jonathan remained silent for a moment, flashing back almost fifty years to the city of Huê in South Vietnam and the Tet Offensive by the North. Fighting in the old, once-beautiful city had been vicious, close quarters, as Jonathan and his fellow Marines picked their way through narrow alleys, mazes of walls, and shelled-out row houses. Flame throwers and bayonets. Yes, he’d done this before, toting young, bleeding Leathernecks on his back to the safety of aid stations.

  In response to Bill’s question, Jonathan merely nodded and said softly, “Yes.” He tugged Olive erect, her husband anchored her, and within seconds Jonathan had her across his back and shoulders. He stood and strode from the house with Bill tottering behind. Wavering sirens rode the wind, a chorus of Valkyries in flight.

  Zurry, standing guard where Jonathan had dropped his bags, woofed as the trio approached. “I’ll come back for these, boy,” Jonathan said. “Right now, we gotta go.”

  “What’s in the sacks?” Bill asked.

  “My retirement.” Jonathan kept walking. Zurry fell in by his side.

  “Your what?”

  “Not important. Let’s get you and Olive to safety. I’ll come back and get my stuff.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be time for that.” Bill pointed out at the vast expanse of beach—sand and rocky outcroppings—exposed by the retreated ocean. A thin strip of silver, a lustrous, shimmering wave front, had materialized on the horizon. The tsunami, Jonathan presumed. A shiny ribbon of death.

  He halted and watched it for several seconds, transfixed as it seemed to both slow in forward speed and grow in height, still several miles off. He guessed—and that’s all
it was, a guess—they had perhaps four or five minutes to escape. He adjusted Olive’s position on his back and resumed his walk.

  “Wait,” Bill said.

  Jonathan halted. Bill caught up with him. He pointed at Zurry. “What’s his name?”

  Why the hell are you asking me this now? “Zurry, short for Zurich.”

  “He’s a Bernese mountain dog, right, from the Swiss Alps?”

  “Come on, man. We’re wasting time.”

  “Zurry can help you.”

  Jonathan stared. “How?”

  “I know a little bit about these dogs, sir. My wife and I used to show Newfies, Newfoundlands, in AKC competitions. We made friends with a lot folks who had working breeds, big dogs. Berners were originally farm dogs. Among other things they pulled carts.”

  “You’re not thinking he could pull those bags, are you? No way. They’re over a hundred pounds apiece.”

  “Berners, believe it or not, can pull up to a thousand pounds.”

  “Yeah, probably on smooth terrain and with a wheeled cart. We don’t have a cart and we sure as shit don’t have smooth terrain.”

  “If what’s in those sacks is important to you, I’m sure Zurry could drag a couple of hundred pounds.”

  Jonathan, his shoulders beginning to throb, shifted Olive’s position again. He studied the old man, then shifted his gaze to Zurry.

  “If you’ve got some rope,” Bill said, “I could rig a harness for him. It wouldn’t take long.”

  Jonathan glanced once more toward the ocean. The wave had morphed into a massive swell, rolling toward the coast. He extrapolated and guesstimated. Four minutes, tops. “You’d better be able to do it in about a minute.”

  “Where’s the rope?”

  In my backpack, which is gone. “Forget it. It’s lost. Let’s go.”

  Bill studied the bags that lay like gray boulders in the mud. “I can cobble something together and sling ‘em over Zurry’s back like saddlebags.”

  “He can’t carry them. They’re too damn heavy.” Jonathan found it bizarre to be arguing against himself. He wanted to salvage the treasure, probably worth millions, but he didn’t want to harm Zurry, his greatest friend.