He recalled that Gearhart had designated some optional high ground within the city as last-resort evacuation destinations. These were to be used as safe havens for those unable to make it outside the tsunami-inundation zone, mainly because of physical limitations, before the first wave hit. These optional sites were spots expected to remain dry in all but the worst-case scenarios.
This had been a worst-case scenario. Maybe it had even exceeded that.
Rob guided the plane over the now-submerged banks of the Necanicum River. He dipped the wing and looked down.
“I’ve heard that an Indian tribe lived here hundreds of years ago,” Rob said. “I wonder if they were here when the tsunami in 1700 hit.”
Tim shook his head, in sadness it seemed, as he gazed at the ruined landscape. “It was so beautiful here, father,” he said softly.
Rob could barely make out the words through his headset.
Astoria
THEY REACHED ASTORIA at the mouth of the Columbia River a few minutes later. The regional airport sits on a low spit of land west of the city. The spit, separating the ocean from the river, had disappeared beneath the tsunami’s onslaught. It had become an archipelago of elongated islands. The floating carcasses of private aircraft and Jayhawk helicopters marked the location of the now-submerged airport.
Rob pointed at the helicopters. “There won’t be any help from Coast Guard choppers today.”
Tim didn’t respond, his gaze fixed forward, on the four-mile-wide mouth of the river.
Rob followed his son’s stare. “Jesus,” he said, the exclamation catching in his throat.
The Columbia River Bar, where the river meets the ocean, is known as the Graveyard of the Pacific. The tag is well deserved, for many a vessel had met its demise in the turbulent seas, heavy winds, and powerful currents that stalk the bar. Today, however, the graveyard had shifted into the mouth of the river. A horrific panorama of wrecked and capsized cabin cruisers, commercial fishing boats, tugs, barges, freighters, and even a small oil tanker littered the water’s surface as far as Rob could see. Wreckage appeared to cover every square yard of the churning, swirling tsunami-flooded river.
“It looks like a gigantic cesspool,” Tim said.
Rob couldn’t disagree. On a more positive note, he spotted two large Coast Guard search and rescue vessels, presumably out of Cape Disappointment on the Washington side of river, plowing through the dreck.
Semper Paratus.
He banked the plane toward the city and dropped lower so he could get a good look at the Astoria-Megler Bridge connecting Oregon and Washington. The approaches to the steel cantilever-span portion of the bridge near Astoria had collapsed. The span itself, high enough for ships to pass under, appeared to have survived, though Rob wondered about the integrity of its concrete piers. Closer to the Washington side where the river is non-navigable, the bridge sits low to the water. So low, in fact, that the span had disappeared beneath the surge of ocean water into the river’s mouth.
“Won’t be using the 101 bridge for a long time,” Rob noted. The next bridge was almost fifty miles upriver at Longview, Washington.
Astoria’s residential areas, located primarily on the steep slopes of a ridge line, had largely escaped the tsunami, but not the quake. Slides and fissures crisscrossed the landscape. Many homes sat in shambles or buried in mud near the bottom of the slopes. Others, twisted off their foundations, clung like wounded birds to their precarious perches.
Much like in Tillamook, black smoke from numerous fires billowed skyward, flattening against the low-slung, slate-gray cloud deck. Rob spotted only one or two crews battling what looked to be more than two dozen blazes.
“It looks like the end of the world, Dad,” Tim said, his voice broken and subdued.
“For a lot of people, it might be.”
“Can we go home now?” Weariness, the emotional kind, permeated Tim’s request.
“Sure. We’ll fly along the river back to Portland. That way we can stay VFR. Won’t have to get into the clouds over the mountains.”
“Do you think Portland is okay?” Even over the interphone, Rob sensed the apprehension permeating his son’s voice.
He paused before answering, wondering whether to be honest or not. No point in skirting the truth, he decided. Tim would know soon enough.
“There’ll be a lot of damage,” he answered. “You know, there was always a lot of concern that Portland was much less prepared for a big quake than Seattle.”
“What about the airport?”
Rob shrugged. “I don’t know about PDX, but we should be able to land at Hillsboro safely. Even if the runway there is screwed up, we don’t need a lot.”
He called Seattle Center again, this time getting a response.
“Skylane seven-three Delta Echo, go ahead.”
“Skylane seven-three Delta Echo is VFR at twelve hundred feet over Astoria, departed Nehalem Bay, heading for Portland. We’ve been surveying the earthquake and tsunami damage.”
An extended period of silence ensued.
Then, “Roger that, seven-three Delta Echo. You may be one of very few aircraft up anywhere west of the Cascades. Both Sea-Tac and Portland International have been closed to all commercial and private traffic.” Another pause. “How’s it look where you are?”
“Like the Apocalypse.”
“Here, too. We’re on aux power. Reports are that the control towers are down, collapsed, at both Sea-Tac and King County. Don’t know about Portland.”
“We’re headed for Hillsboro.”
“Tower or no, you should be okay as a light aircraft. Anything else I can do for you, Delta Echo?”
“Maybe. Out of your bailiwick, I know, but I’m a geologist. I’m curious about how the Puget Sound fared in the quake. What have you heard?”
“Nothing good. All second hand, of course. There’s no air traffic, and not much on the ground. Lots of bridges and overpasses on I-5 bit the dust. The Alaskan Way Viaduct pancaked. The western approaches to the Floating Bridge are toast. Hundreds of brick and concrete structures in the older sections of the city, you know, like around Pioneer Square, are reportedly nothing but rubble. Fires all over the place. And rumor has it three or four high-rises in the city toppled. Oh, and the Space Needle, too.”
“Space Needle?” Rob couldn’t hide his surprise. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“That’s what I’d heard, too, Delta Echo.”
“Okay, thank you, Seattle Center. Best of luck. Skylane seven-three Delta Echo, out.”
“Godspeed, Delta Echo.”
Rob changed the radio frequency to monitor the emergency channel at 121.5 MHz. He didn’t expect to hear anything this soon after the quake and tsunami, but it seemed a good idea, a just-in-case move.
He picked up a call almost immediately after changing frequencies.
“Aircraft recently departed Nehalem Bay State Airport, this is Nehalem Bay Fire and Rescue. If you read, your urgent assistance is requested. I say again, this is Nehalem Bay Fire and Rescue calling aircraft recently departed Nehalem Bay State Airport. Do you copy?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Request
Airborne Over Astoria
Sunday, July 5
ROB AND TIM exchanged glances as the call came in over the guard channel, a VHF wavelength normally reserved for aircraft in distress. Rob, surprised at having his plane specifically identified—obviously someone had noted his takeoff—responded immediately.
“This is Skylane seven-three Delta Echo. We departed Nehalem Bay about forty-five minutes ago. I assume you’re looking for us.”
“Roger that, Skylane seven-three Delta Echo. Thank God you’re still in the area. We need your help.”
“Not sure what I can do, but go ahead with your request.”
“We’ve got a severely injured female here, probably with a shattered pelvis and internal bleeding. A local physician examined her and determined she needs to get to a trauma center stat. We’ve triaged the casualties here, and this one is by far the most severe of those who might make it, but not without level-one trauma intervention.”
“Understand, Nehalem Bay. Not sure where I come in, though.” Rob put the plane in a gentle turn, back toward Manzanita. He didn’t know what the fire and rescue guys expected him to do, but they certainly had piqued his curiosity.
“Delta Echo, the nearest level-one trauma facilities are in Portland. We were kind of hoping you might be able to land somewhere around here. Then we could load the patient into your aircraft and let you get her to Portland.”
“Sorry, Nehalem Bay. Besides not being equipped for medevac, I don’t know where in the hell I could land. The airstrip is underwater and the beach is history.”
“We were thinking 101. There’s an ex-Air Force pilot here who thinks it could be done.”
“With all due respect, Nehalem Bay, I’m a weekend VFR flyer, not a former Air Force jockey. What you’re asking is way above my skill level.”
A period of dead air followed, with Rob hearing nothing from Nehalem Bay Fire and Rescue. After a minute or so, a different voice transmitted.
“Skylane seven-three Delta Echo, this is Shawn McCready. I go by Shack. I’m a retired Air Force pilot, and I think there’s a short stretch of undamaged highway on 101 where you can get down. Look, you don’t need to be a shit-hot zoomie to do it. Steady nerves and a steady hand will hack it.”
“Sorry, I’m not your guy. I’ve already had one narrow escape this morning, and with my son onboard, I’m not about to test my limits again.”
“Delta Echo, I understand your reluctance, I really do. But—” The guy’s voice broke, and Rob realized whoever he was talking with—Shack, was that his name?—probably had a personal stake in saving the life of the patient.
The man on the ground resumed speaking.
“I know about narrow escapes, sir, believe me, I really do. I had one myself about an hour ago. Quite frankly, I should be dead. So should the lady. But we’ve been given a second chance and I don’t want to blow it. I want her to live. I know it’s asking a lot of you, but I wouldn’t make the request unless I thought it was doable. I guess, sir, I’m begging.”
Rob’s heart rate ticked up several notches. He swallowed hard. He stared up at the gunmetal overcast, now just a couple of hundred feet above him, deliberately keeping his gaze off the devastation below.
How do you tell someone who’s begging, No? How do you take a pass on saving someone’s life? If you don’t take a pass, how much jeopardy do you put yourself in to do it? Hell, how much risk do you put your child at to do it?
He looked over at Tim and keyed the interphone. He knew Tim had been listening to the transmissions on the guard channel. “So, what do you think, Tim? You think your old man’s a superhero?” He kept his tone light, not wanting to let on how much the thought of attempting a landing on a narrow highway walled by trees, and possibly riddled with fractures from the quake, terrified him.
Tim obviously didn’t buy in to his father’s whistling-past-the-graveyard shtick. He fixed his gaze on Rob. “What if it were Mom or Maria down there?” He let his response go at that.
“The trouble is, it’s not Mom or Maria down there. For whoever it is, I’d be risking not only my life, but yours, too. Is it worth it?” Why am I asking a sixteen-year-old this?
“I dunno, Dad. How do you measure the worth of a human life? Is yours worth more than someone else’s. Is mine? Look, you’re a good pilot. You can get this plane down in one piece. I know you can. I’m in if you’re in.”
Shit. The undying faith of kids in their fathers. The bulletproof belief of teenagers in their own immortality. Rob wished he bore the same confidence in his flying skills that Tim did.
Rob went back on the emergency frequency. “Delta Echo to Nehalem. The wingspan on this plane is thirty-six feet. I know damn well 101 isn’t thirty-six feet wide.”
“Include the shoulders and it’s close.”
“Close! What the hell is that supposed to mean? I can’t land with ‘close.’ I’ve either got clearance or I don’t. And it sounds to me like I don’t.”
“We’ve got guys out there with chainsaws already, clearing away overhanging branches and bushes, and removing trees that fell on the highway.”
Rob slowed the Cessna, wanting to buy time to make a decision. Or more truthfully, wanting to buy time to figure out a way of gracefully refusing the request. There’s no way he wanted to attempt squeezing his plane into a narrow canyon of evergreens while barreling down a highway—for that’s what it was, not a runway—at sixty-five knots. One little ill-timed nudge on the yoke this way or that, one little puff of crosswind, and there’d be two more Cascadia fatalities.
He remained silent, not responding immediately to Shack, unclear even if the guy was part of Nehalem Bay Fire and Rescue. On one level, he wanted to help. On another, he knew if he tried, he’d be on a fool’s errand, attempting to carry out a Mission Impossible. On the silver screen, of course, Tom Cruise would come through. There’d be a spectacular landing, the aircraft would be saved, and the medevac accomplished.
All Rob could envision, however, was a smoking hole in an Oregon forest.
“I can’t do this, Nehalem Bay,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I just don’t have the expertise.”
“Delta Echo, listen,” the guy named Shack responded. “You’ve got the expertise. That’s not the issue. What you need is a little extra courage and a resolve to make the landing.
“Look, it’ll be no different than any other landing; same set of skills involved. And I know you’ve got the courage. You’ve already proven that. I’m told you’re Dr. Elwood, the guy who spoke out about the possibility of this disaster in the face of loads of ridicule. That took courage. If you commit to this, you can do it. I saw guys accomplish similar things over and over when I was in the Air Force. It’s a routine landing in a different setting, that’s all.”
Yeah, a routine landing with absolutely zero tolerance for error.
Rob keyed his mic. “I’ll think about it.”
“Give us half an hour, Delta Echo. We’ll have 101 looking like a runway at Portland International.”
That makes me feel a hell of a lot better. Portland International could be in the Columbia River now.
Rob throttled back the aircraft even more and continued south along the coast. He remained appalled by the sights below. The Oregon coast had become a graveyard of people, homes, and dreams. How many dead? He couldn’t guess. He knew only that he’d seen dozens of bodies floating in the tsunami waters, the toll magnified by the influx of visitors for the holiday. How many bodies had he not seen? He could only imagine. Hundreds? A thousand? He swallowed hard and gagged at the thought.
“You okay, Dad?” Tim on the interphone.
Rob nodded. “So what do we do, Tim? This is a no-bullshit serious decision. Think about it really hard. There’re no Hollywood special-effects or happy-ending fantasies here. Fears and all, lay out your thoughts.”
Tim stared out the windscreen into the gray morning and took his time before responding. He drew a deep breath before he replied.
“I’m scared. But I think everybody is. You, the folks on the ground, the lady who might be dying. I read someplace that heroes are just ordinary people forced by extraordinary circumstances to do extraordinary things. Or something like that.
“So here we are. A couple of ordinary dudes in an unbelievable situation. Like the guy in Manzanita said, it’s a routine landing. You can do that. You’re a cool pilot. Mr. Smooth. Forget the stupid trees. Just land the plane, Dad.”
Rob pinched his lips togeth
er. Sure, that’s all there is to it.
“Delta Echo to Nehalem Bay. Reluctant doesn’t begin to describe how I feel, but I’ll give it a shot. I’ll make a couple of flyovers before I attempt a landing. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
“Roger that, Delta Echo. Thank you. You’ll do fine.”
“Where’s the stretch of road you’ve picked out?”
A different voice responded, probably one of the EMTs. “Delta Echo, it’s just north of town. There’s a straight stretch of highway about a half-mile long just before the big bend. You know it?”
“Driven it many times.” Never considered landing a plane there.
“We’ll position some guys at the north end of the stretch to turn you around after you land. The Air Force guy says you’ll have to land in that direction since it’s uphill.”
Rob knew to try landing in the opposite direction would be foolhardy. The highway drops sharply in elevation as it approaches Manzanita. A landing attempt in that direction would require at least twice as much distance as a normal touchdown.
The EMT kept talking. “We’ll bring the patient up to you in a truck, get her loaded on your plane, turn you around, then off you go.”
Just like that. A piece of conceptual cake.
“Put the pilot back on, if you don’t mind,” Rob said.
After a short delay, the response came. “Shack here, Delta Echo. How can I help?”
“It’s bad enough I’m going to be landing in what’s basically a New York City alley,” Rob said, “but it’ll be uphill, too. Fairly steep. I’ve never done that before. Seems like I could hammer in pretty hard.”
Rob steered the Cessna around the western flanks of Neahkahnie Mountain and approached Manzanita. Below, on 101, at least two dozen men, maybe women, too, labored on the highway, clearing impediments, making it safe—joke—to land an airplane.
“Delta Echo, what’s your normal landing rollout?” Shack asked.
“About six hundred feet.”
Cascadia Page 19