Wild Awakening

by Greg J. Matthews

  I was a bit like the Bible’s David, a shepherd who had somehow been promoted to the position of king, only I didn’t feel I belonged and didn’t know what to do next. I was too overwhelmed to succeed on my own. I decided I needed extra help. My day started at seven-thirty each morning, but on one of my first days on the job, I got up early and arrived at the World Trade Center at six-thirty. After stopping at my office, I carried a cup of coffee down a hallway, opened a door, and stepped onto the gray steel slats of a fire escape.

  The sun was just beginning to peek over the tops of the highrises around me and would soon deliver fresh summer sweat to the asphalt and pavement below. My “private suite” had a partial view of San Diego Harbor’s brilliant blue to the southwest, but I wasn’t here to enjoy the scenery. I set down my coffee and gripped the railing in front of me.

  “Lord,” I said, “please forgive me of my sins. Don’t let my sins stand in the way of you executing your safety and protection over these people. I know that I asked for this opportunity and you delivered, but I’m a little intimidated by this position. I need your presence and guidance.”

  I raised a hand, extended it toward one area of the city after another, and asked God to prevent evil from having any influence there. I finished my prayer time by saying, “Lord, I know I have the background and training, but I need your wisdom to make the right decisions and connect with the right people. Allow me to build those networks that will bring people together so that we can keep San Diego safe from terrorists.”

  This felt right. My fire escape meetings with God became a regular part of my routine. They drew me closer to him and seemed to give me the energy and focus I needed to face each day.

  Just a few weeks later, I would need that energy and focus. On October 21, shortly after noon, arcing power lines whipped by Santa Ana winds ignited a small fire northeast of San Diego, near a stream known as Witch Creek. That same day, what would be named the Harris Fire ignited to the south, near the border with Mexico. Dry and gusty winds quickly blew these and other small fires into conflagrations, all headed toward San Diego. By four o’clock the next morning, the Witch Creek Fire had reached the city limits. We were suddenly dealing with multiple firestorms.

  Because of my emergency management experience, I was assigned to the city’s Emergency Operations Center (EOC) in the basement of an administration building. The center consisted of a huge room with four-by-six flat screens filling one wall and a series of tables arranged in the shape of a U. Two desks sat at the opening of the U, which were the workstations for the director of homeland security and my boss, the deputy director.

  The challenge of responding to the growing crisis was enormous. We had to coordinate the actions of firefighters; the overall city, county, federal, and Red Cross response; and the evacuation of hundreds of thousands of people. Some citizens didn’t make it. In those first days, a fifty-two-year-old man refused to leave his Tecate home when the area was threatened by the Harris Fire and ordered evacuated. His charred body was found a couple of days later. Seventeen people would eventually lose their lives due to the fires.

  On October 23, I was at my desk in the “U” at the EOC when I heard my boss talking on the phone. She had just learned that the director was coordinating an off-site evacuation, leaving her in charge at the EOC. Now she was answering phones and trying to deal with a thousand details. “Where,” she said in a frustrated voice, “are we supposed to find ten thousand cots?”

  I was a planning section chief. I also knew I was probably one of the few people in the room who had real-world experience with the incident command system, a national model developed in the late sixties and seventies for managing a large-scale emergency involving multiple agencies and jurisdictions. I walked over to my boss’s desk.

  “Could you use some help up here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “We need to set up a mega-shelter at Qualcomm Stadium [then home of the National Football League’s Chargers] for potentially a hundred thousand evacuees. I need to write some objectives.”

  “Well,” I said, “let’s make sure we write SMART objectives.”

  “Smart? What do you mean?”

  “Specific, measurable, action-oriented, realistic, and with a time element,” I said. “SMART.”

  “Show me what you’re talking about.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, the director and I came up with a series of objectives that we posted and began assigning to various team members. For the rest of the wildland fire crisis, whenever I was on shift, my assignment was deputy director of the EOC. In what was literally a trial by fire, it seemed I passed my first test in emergency response with the Office of Homeland Security.

  At the height of the crisis, San Diego’s fire and rescue department deployed 73 engines, 7 trucks, and 420 people. Along with managing the emergency response, we coordinated the delivery of city supplies—trucks filled with blankets, pillows, water, and more—to evacuees at Qualcomm Stadium, until federal supply deliveries kicked in. We even established an emergency veterinary and medical care shelter for large animals on nearby Fiesta Island. By the time the fires were finally extinguished a month later, nearly two hundred thousand acres had burned and more than eleven hundred residences had been destroyed in San Diego County. Over half a million people had been evacuated from their homes. It was an intense and stressful time. The loss of life was tragic, as always. I was pleased, however, that our efforts kept the situation from being even worse. The incident also helped us understand and plan for how a terrorist might use fire as a weapon in the future.

  In addition, I was thrilled to have an opportunity to prove myself and have it go so well. It was great to share that success with my dad. I called him nearly every day on my commute home from work to tell him about what I was working on. “I still can’t believe,” I said, “that I went from being a firefighter to doing this.”

  Now sixty-three and retired from NCIS, my dad had mellowed over the years. He enjoyed giving gifts to his grandkids and definitely wanted a relationship with them. My brothers and I had even taught him to say “I love you” at the end of our phone calls.

  Dad and I were closer than we’d ever been. Yet so much of the strong relationship I enjoyed with my dad was still based, at least in my mind, on my accomplishments. I believed that because I was performing well at work, Dad could love and approve of me. It allowed me to relax and relish our conversations. In the back of my mind, however, was the sense that all of this was temporary, that I had to keep raising the bar of my achievements or Dad would be disappointed in me and walk away again. That notion was a self-inflicted barrier between us, more secure than any border crossing. I wasn’t willing to share my deeper feelings with Dad—or anyone—because I expected that sooner or later I’d get burned.

  In truth, the same could be said about my relationship with God. My morning conversations with him on the fire escape and my increased dependence on him because of my job responsibilities had taken my faith to a new level. I looked forward to those prayer times and the encouragement the Lord gave me. I also felt that God had answered my prayers by allowing me to be more effective in our antiterrorism work. Yet just as with my dad, I believed that a big part of the closeness I felt and the blessings I’d received was the result of my efforts. I was sure that if I slacked off even a little, God would soon be disappointed in me and disappear. The pressure to stay in Dad’s and God’s good graces was enormous.

  It just meant that I had to work harder—so I did. It seemed that nearly every waking moment, I thought about where terrorists would strike next and how they would do it. Would it be a suicide bomber at a parade, the annual Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon, or opening day for the Padres? Would a vehicle loaded with explosives crash into a federal building? Would the next attack involve chemical, nuclear, or radioactive weapons? It was my job to predict the next attack and then disrupt it. Fortunately, I was blessed with the chance to plug into San Diego’s intelligence community. I started
hearing details about terrorist activities abroad and on the East Coast, which helped me anticipate what might happen next in our area. I also joined an informal group made up of ten highly knowledgeable and dedicated officials from agencies across the security spectrum: the FBI, the NCIS, U.S. Customs and Border Protection, and the city’s police department and sheriff’s office. The more I coordinated with these people, the more I learned and the better prepared I was to prevent and respond to terrorist violence.

  I knew I was making progress when I was asked to chair a working group charged with developing strategies to protect critical infrastructure: communications, transportation, energy, food and agriculture, emergency services, and more. We soon realized that one of our highest priorities was to better identify, monitor, and respond to potential threats at large-scale events. We needed cameras, license plate readers, vehicle barriers, boats, helicopters, and specially equipped vehicles. We had federal funds to purchase the equipment, but many of the agencies we worked with were private, so we couldn’t just give them what they needed. Our solution was to buy the equipment ourselves, store it in a huge warehouse, and deploy it as appropriate, depending on the event. Keeping track of it all was a logistical headache, but it was a strategy that worked.

  Although my work responsibilities weighed heavily on me, my position did allow me to experience occasional times of pure pleasure. One of those was the day I spent on a navy Seawolf-class nuclear submarine. I witnessed maneuvers from the bridge, peered through the periscope, inspected a nuclear reactor, and had lunch with the captain. I tried not to show it, but inside I was as excited as a kid on his birthday. Dad was happy for me—and a little bit jealous. “It doesn’t get any better than that,” he said.

  In truth, so much of my life was going really well. I was gaining more and more confidence on the job each day and earning the respect of my colleagues. I knew I was making an important difference. I felt good about my relationships with both my earthly father and my heavenly one. However, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that it would all fall apart one day. And I was troubled in another way. I was so dedicated to work that I had little time and energy for my family.

  Despite my career success, was I blowing it as a husband and dad?

  18

  * * *

  RISE UP AND WALK

  So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.

  —ISAIAH 41:10 NIV

  5 P.M., TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22

  KENAI PENINSULA

  I’d finally admitted it—I was done. After toppling over the fallen tree and collapsing onto the ground, I had nothing left. But when I glanced up at Matt, narrowed eyes and tightly pressed lips told me he had no intention of giving up on his big brother. Instead, he would petition a higher authority.

  Matt put his right hand on my back, looked to the sky, and began to pray: “Lord, I know you have seen my struggles and my lack of belief at times, but I also know you’ve said you will never leave us or forsake us. I ask right now, in the name of Jesus Christ, that you give Greg the strength to make it out of here.”

  Matt removed his hand and spoke firmly into my ear. “Greg, you can do this,” he said. “God will give you the strength.”

  To my surprise, my mind began to clear. Starting at my head and spreading across my chest and back and down to my legs and feet, I felt a surge of energy. In my mind I heard a voice, not one of despair or exhaustion, but of authority. “Rise up and walk,” the voice said. “Your faith has healed you.”

  Okay, Lord, you win. I’ll keep going. With Matt’s help, I struggled to my feet and resumed the endless march.

  I felt as if I were lifting hundred-pound weights with each step, but I resolved to look only straight ahead and not at my injuries. When I stretched out a hand to push a branch aside, however, I noticed fresh blood pouring from the cuff of my jacket and running down my fingers. I quickly turned away. Behind me, Matt continued to shout encouragement: “You can do this, Greg. I know you can.”

  The path we had chosen brought us uncomfortably close to a thick tree line that ran parallel with the slope of the mountains to the east. I tried to focus on the path in front of me, but my eyes kept shifting to the darkness just inside the trees. I imagined terrors lurking within. At every dark recess amid the canvas of greens and browns, my mind replayed horrific films of what I’d seen and felt after that monster charged me.

  I was indescribably cold. Each gust that swept down the valley cut like knives through my blood-soaked jacket and pants. It felt as if someone were dumping a pitcher of ice water down my back. When I turned to look back at Matt, I saw that I was still leaving an obvious red trail. The cold and effects of trauma began playing more tricks on my psyche. I was convinced I could now taste and smell the iron-rich blood emanating from my clothing and being blown toward the trees hiding who knew what. I remembered the wolves we’d heard the night before. Whatever predator was downwind was receiving the unmistakable scent of fresh blood—a lot of it.

  The USS Indianapolis was a cruiser that was torpedoed in the Pacific Ocean by a Japanese submarine in 1945, near the end of World War II. Approximately nine hundred survivors of the sinking plunged into shark-infested waters. Over the next four days, these men watched friends and shipmates suddenly disappear beneath the surface, one after the other, their presence replaced by a churning cauldron of red. Survivors said they were never more scared than when they waited for their turn to be lifted from waters full of circling sharks to the safety of the deck of a rescue amphibious aircraft. As I lurched toward what I hoped would be safety and survival, I understood the primal fear those men experienced. I fought my panicked state with a pair of mental mantras: I can make it. I can make it. Followed by: The bear is not there. The bear is not there.

  Nothing had ever challenged me like this. It seemed as if I’d been walking for years across this inhospitable landscape. I raised my eyes to the top of the forest, and above it the mountain peaks. They climbed toward heaven like a staircase. It appeared I could step over the setting sun and the array of red and orange streaks it emitted and almost touch the face of God. How could I have just suffered such brutality and be surrounded by such beauty?

  I was brought back to reality by more gentle encouragement from my brother: “You are doing good, Greg. You can do this.”

  The terrain ahead sloped slightly upward. Even this gradual rise was a massive, disheartening hurdle for my shattered body. I somehow mustered the strength to climb to the top of the knoll. When I crested the slope, I lifted my head, then fell to my knees.

  Before me, just two hundred yards away, was the rocky shoreline of Skilak Lake. I heard from just around the bend of the bay the slap of waves against the sides of my brother’s boat. Through God’s mercy and a continuous stream of miracles, I had been granted the strength and will to walk out. We had overcome another impossible obstacle to my survival. I thanked the Lord that the grizzly had not attacked a second time during our slow and desperate escape.

  It was a victory, but we were still a long way from being out of danger. I desperately needed help, and since we had no cell phone service here, help would be hard to come by.

  I trudged on. Finally, twenty yards from the boat, my legs could no longer hold me. I fell headlong onto the rocky shore. Though I shook uncontrollably from the cold, for the first time since we’d embarked on the race for our lives out of the wilderness, I felt a sliver of peace. I rested my head on the hard ground and closed my eyes.

  Matt was beside me in moments. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rising with worry. “We need to get you on the boat and get moving.”

  I lifted my head off the near-frozen rocks to survey the shoreline and, beyond it, the lake. Wind gusts continued to bend the trees along the edge of the forest. On Skilak Lake, those same gusts whipped foam and breaking wave crests into menacing whitecaps.

  “Matt, with the wind chill and those whitecaps, I’ll never survive a ten-mile boat ride. I’l
l die of hypothermia.” I rolled onto my back. All of the bandages we’d applied at the scene of the attack were soaked through. “The first thing we need to do is get this bleeding stopped again. Then we need to get me warm.” I asked Matt to retrieve the trauma kit and dry bag with all my extra clothing from the boat.

  It seemed as if my entire body ached, but the worst, searing pain came from my right arm. I directed Matt to expose the wound. Four holes in my arm had been elongated by the grizzly’s violent shaking. My lower arm looked as if it had been crushed in a vise. Everything was covered with fresh and dried blood. It was so grotesque that for a moment I had to turn away.

  Naturally, because of my EMT background, I’d been responsible for preparing our medical supplies for the trip. In addition to all the usual items you’d find in a medical kit, I’d packed trauma dressings, sutures, compression bandages, medical tape, Kling and Kerlix bandage rolls, triangular bandages, penny-cutter scissors, gauze, and everything else required to stop bleeding from a significant injury. After the phone call from my dad and his urging to make sure I had everything I needed, I had doubled the number of trauma dressings—just in case. That foresight was about to pay off. Matt brought the medical trauma kit from the boat and grabbed the supplies I indicated. With me giving instructions, Matt dressed my arm perfectly within a minute. Silver dollar–sized bloodstains were soon oozing through the layers of dressing.

  The idea of putting my right arm in a splint was almost too much to think about, but it had to be done. If we left it unsplinted, there was a real possibility that a piece of broken bone would come to rest against a main artery, cutting off the circulation. I could easily lose the arm. Despite excruciating pain, I repositioned my arm across my chest. I described to Matt how to make a sling and swath, which is placed around the neck and creates a kangaroo-style pouch to rest the arm in. When I lay back down on the cold, wet ground and released the weight of my arm into the sling, I could swear I heard angels sing. The reduction in pain was immediate. Matt had again done a great job.