TSUNAMI STORM (22 page)

U.S.S. Massachusetts, Pacific Ocean, Off the Coast of Oregon

The
Massachusetts
continued to tip slowly toward the bow as it drifted closer to the surface. “Down angle is now 35 degrees, Sir,” the helmsman reported. “Still slowly rising, depth is now 440 feet.”

Adams had regained consciousness and was sitting against the forward bulkhead. He had a splitting headache. Probable concussion, the boat medic had told him.

Another two hours passed. “Down angle is now 48 degrees, Sir, depth has stabilized at 320 feet.”

“Why aren’t we still rising?” Jacobs asked.

“Don’t know, Sir, but we aren’t,” the helmsman answered.

Adams struggled to his feet and worked his way around to the now badly tipped control console. He studied the gauges and ran the conditions through his mind. “Sir, I think we have another problem.”

Jacobs turned and looked at him. “Which problem?”

“I think I know why we aren’t rising any more, and if I’m right, we’re in danger of sinking, soon.”

“What?” Jacobs said, the level of anxiety clear in his voice. “What’s happening?”

“The main ballast tanks – they’re all open to the sea at the bottom.”

“Yeah,” Jacobs answered.

“The air is escaping out of the bottom of the ballast tanks, which is now more to the side instead of the bottom. Instead of the air being at the top of the tanks, it has moved to the corners of the tanks. The more the boat tips, the more air we’re going to lose.”

“And if we lose more air from our ballast tanks, we sink and we can’t stop our descent.”

“Exactly, Sir,” Adams replied.

“What if we make the stern heavier?” Jacobs asked.

“We’ll start sinking,” Adams replied. “But if we can stabilize the tilt of the boat, we can put more air back into the main ballast tanks. That might stabilize our depth.”

“Down angle is now 50 degrees,” the Helmsman reported. We’re headed down, Sir, depth now 560 feet and getting deeper.”

“Flood the rear auxiliary tanks,” Jacobs ordered. As the auxiliary tanks took on more water the stern of the sub sank faster than the bow did. “Two-second high pressure blow to main ballast tanks,” Jacobs ordered. The rush of high pressure air echoed through the sub for exactly two seconds.

“Down angle is now 45 degrees, we’re still sinking, Sir, depth is now 840 feet and picking up speed,” the Helmsman said.

“One-second high pressure blow of main ballast,” Jacobs ordered. Again the sound of rushing air filled the stricken sub. The boat shuttered as the air displaced the water in the ballast tanks.

“Down angle still at 45 degrees, depth passing 950 feet,” the Helmsman said in an anxious tone.

Jacobs watched the depth gauge as the reading exceed 1,000 feet. The rate of descent was slowing, 1,100, then 1,200 feet. The sub’s depth stabilized at 1,240 feet. Jacobs leaned against the sloping wall and breathed a sigh of relief. “We’re no longer sinking,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Silverton replied, “but our emergency beacon is now two hundred feet under the water. We haven’t got any more cable. How are they going to find us without that signal?”

“That may be the least of our worries,” Jacobs replied. “With the increased depth Lieutenant Grimes isn’t going to be able to stop the torpedo room from flooding. We’re not going to be able to maintain depth. We’ll slowly sink to our crush depth.”

Office of Covert Operations, the Pentagon

Billingsly was surprised to see Rod Schneider enter his office with a big smile on his face.

“The Chinese Active Auroral Antenna Array is off. It’s been cold for the last four hours.” Billingsly leaned across his desk and snatched the report out of Schneider’s hand. “Hurricane Loretta is breaking up, falling out of Category 2 status as we speak. In 24 hours it’ll be nothing but light to medium rain and 20 MPH winds.”

Billingsly looked the report over. “Why did they stop? This doesn’t make any sense. What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, Admiral. All I can tell you is that the potential storm danger to the Pacific Northwest is over.” Rod turned and left.

Billingsly’s secretary buzzed him, “There’s a Senator Bechtel who just called. She wants you to meet her outside, now.”

Ten minutes later Billingsly slid into the back seat of Senator Elizabeth Bechtel’s black limo.

“What the hell happened to our storm, Admiral?” she demanded.

“Our storm? But this is good news,” Billingsly replied.

“The hell it is,” she yelled. “You know what this has cost me?”

“Cost you?” Billingsly replied, obviously confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I arm-twisted every major contractor on the Pacific Northwest coast for huge campaign contributions with the promise of billions of dollars in reconstruction projects after
our
Cat 5 storm slammed into Oregon and Washington State. Now
your
damned storm is dead. I’m not going down because of this. This is
your
damned fault and
you
are going to pay dearly for this.”

“My fault?” Billingsly yelled. “How is it my fault? All I did was act in the best interest of the nation.
You
are the one who acted in
your own self-interest
.
You
are the one who traded our National Security to fill your pockets with money! If anyone’s at fault here, it’s YOU.”

Her face was crimson and she looked ready to explode. “Get the hell out of my damned car!”

Billingsly quietly slid back out of her limo, which pulled away from the curb and headed down the street.
I don’t know which is worse, being chewed out by the Secretary of Defense, or her,
he thought as he slowly walked back into the Pentagon.
Probably her. Self-righteous ass. I should have known better than to trust a politician.

As he got back to the door of the Pentagon and entered, he was met by four large men from the Pentagon’s Security Service.

“You’re coming with us, Sir,” the senior man said.

“Where are we going?” Billingsly asked. He didn’t get an answer. They led him through the Security Office and into an interrogation room. He sat and fidgeted for the next two hours. Finally the door opened.

U.S.S. Massachusetts, Pacific Ocean, Off the Coast of Oregon

“The BQQ10 bow sonar array is completely dead,” Stephanos reported. “Forward flank hydrophones are also dead. Partial signal from the mid-ship’s flank hydrophones, but they’re clearly damaged and unreliable. Rear flank hydrophones are the only thing functioning. All our sonar transmitters are dead. We can listen, but that’s it.”

“Okay,” Jacobs said. “Then keep listening.”

“So we just slowly sit here and sink?” Silverton asked.

“Not really,” Jacobs replied. “At some point, those mines along the fault line are going to detonate, and we are drifting way too close to them. We may have only a matter of minutes after that happens.”

”I had to ask, right?” Silverton said. Jacobs looked at him and shook his head. “How long before they… you know?”

Jacobs shrugged. “Sooner rather than later would be my guess.”

“Con, sonar, we’re being pinged. It’s one of ours.”

“Who is it?” Jacobs asked.

“The computer’s down, so we can’t identify the screw signature, but it’s a Los Angeles Class sub. They must have gotten a fix on our Emergency Beacon before it went under.”

“Radio room, con, can you bang out an SOS on the hull?”

“Can do, Captain,” the radio room answered. The radioman used two wrenches: a single clang for a dot and twin clangs for a dash, and tapped out the familiar distress call from the sub’s hull.

“Con, sonar, the sub is moving in. We’re being hailed by voice modulated sonar, Sir, it’s the U.S.S. Boise, they want to know our status.”

“Radio, con, tap out the following message: Chinese heavy mines on Cascadia fault. Massive earthquake imminent. Warn COMSUBPAC and mainland. Got that?”

“Aye-aye, Sir. Tapping out now.”

“Con, sonar, they’re repeating your message back verbatim on voice modulated sonar. They want one clang to confirm, two clangs if not correct.”

“Radio room, con, one clang, and one clang only.”

One clang echoed from the hull of the
Massachusetts
.

“Con sonar, they’re moving off Sir – going to the surface to send your message. After that they’ll be right back.”

“They can’t stay here – we’re sitting too close to those damned mines. We can’t lose two subs over this.” Jacobs said.

“I’m sure they know that, Sir. If they were where we are and you were the one up there, what would you do?” Silverton asked. Jacobs didn’t answer.

Twenty-eight minutes later the
Boise
returned. “Con, sonar, they report message sent, FEMA notified. Rescue ship en route.”

“Yeah,” Jacobs said quietly. “It’s just never going to get here in time.”

The Pentagon

Billingsly had never before seen the man who now sat across the table from him. The man was dressed in and old dull gray sport coat over a white shirt with a small blue pinstripe. He was older, late fifties, almost bald with a ring of short-cropped hair that ran around the back of his head just over his ears, and which stuck out to the point of almost facing forward. He looked at Billingsly suspiciously.

“I want to talk to the Secretary of Defense,” Billingsly said confidently.

“Go ahead,” the man said. “He’s listening.” The man pointed to the small camera mounted near the ceiling.

“Privately,” Billingsly demanded. The man sat still and stared at him. Several minutes passed before Billingsly broke eye contact.

“So, what’s your name?” Billingsly asked. The man continued to stare back at him.

“Are you military or civilian?” Billingsly asked. The man’s blank stare was the only answer he received.

“Okay, why are you holding me?” Billingsly asked.

“You know why,” the man replied. Several more minutes of the stare continued.

“Look,” Billingsly said, “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No, you don’t,” the man replied. “Unless you want to get out of this room.”

“And what?” Billingsly said. “You’re just going to keep me here?” The man continued to stare at him. “Am I under arrest?” The man didn’t answer. Billingsly got up and went to the door. He grabbed the door handle only to find it was locked. Billingsly took a step toward the man.

The man shook his head. “Not advisable,” he said as he pointed the thumb on his right hand back toward the window. “Besides, I might enjoy hurting you too much before they got in here to rescue you.” Billingsly’s hand shook slightly. He looked at the man’s body. It was trim and slightly muscular. Billingsly had seen enough men on the SEAL teams who looked just like him, only this man was older. At this point, it probably didn’t make much difference. This guy was probably well trained and more than experienced. He looked at what had to be one-way glass and slowly sat back down.

“How long am I going to be in this room?” Billingsly asked.

“Until I am satisfied you have told me the truth. All of the truth,” the man replied.

“And if I don’t?”

The man shrugged. “You will, if not now, then tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or next year. It really doesn’t matter to me. I get to go home every night, and spend weekends with my grandchildren. You, on the other hand, will get out of this room only to use the restroom, and then only in shackles. You will eat here, in shackles. You will sleep here on the tile floor, in shackles. No one will ever know where you are.”

“You can’t do that,” Billingsly said. “I have rights.”

The man shook his head and returned to staring at him.

Billingsly tapped his fingers on the table and carefully considered his options. He realized the longer he held out, the less leverage he had to make a deal. He knew his career was over and he was on his way to federal prison, probably Leavenworth. His deepest regret was what this would do to his wife. Several more minutes passed. The man continued to stare at him.

“I have a substantial pension built up,” Billingsly said. “If I cooperate fully can that go to my wife? She doesn’t know anything about this. It isn’t right that she should suffer for something she wasn’t involved in.”

“You help me, and I help you,” the man said. “No promises up front, but it seems like something that can be done.”

Billingsly breathed out heavily. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Dolphin Beach, Oregon

The sound of the emergency siren quickened the beat of her heart. Before she could respond, her cell phone chirped. Willa looked at the screen: Chief Dolan. This couldn’t be good, not at this hour of the morning, and not with the emergency siren blaring. She answered and listened to the words she never wanted to hear. FEMA had called and issued an immediate evacuation order for Dolphin Beach. A massive rupture of the Cascadia Subduction Zone was imminent. A 9.0+ earthquake was on its way.

Adrenalin flooded her system and her mind raced, clearing the cobwebs away in a matter of seconds. Her beloved Dolphin Beach was again in danger. The threat from the hurricane had passed just days before. Now this. She left her coffee on the table and rushed out the front door of her bungalow.

Chief Dolan’s voice boomed from the loudspeaker of Dolphin Beach’s only police car. “Earthquake. Follow the blue arrows. Walk. Do not use your vehicle. Earthquake. Follow the blue arrows. Walk. Do not use your vehicle.”

She glanced to her right and to the left. People emerged from their homes carrying their packages of most valuable items and flooded into the street. Chief Dolan’s police car, with its red and blue flashers strobing, slowly made its way through the bewildered crowd. He stopped as he saw Willa and got out of the car. “Get in,” he shouted.

“How soon?” she asked as she swiveled into the front seat next to the Chief.

“FEMA said imminent,” he replied. “The order was to evacuate now.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “All this time I couldn’t shake the feeling that something would happen. Now…”

“Now you know,” Chief Dolan answered.

They made their way slowly against the flow of the crowd as they headed north on Main Street toward the Ocean Grand Hotel. The guests remaining in the Ocean Grand had arrived well after the evacuation practice and wouldn’t have had the experience of following the blue arrows. As they arrived, the crowd of people stood outside the hotel with bewildered expressions etched on their faces. Chief Dolan and Willa got out of the police car, pointed down the street and shouted, “Follow the blue arrows painted on the street. Walk. Now!” As the crowd saw the first blue arrow in the middle of the street they started moving. Chief Dolan moved among the people exiting the hotel and pointed at the blue arrow, “Follow the blue arrows. Follow the blue arrows.”

Willa searched the crowd for any sign of Frank Gillis. Either he had already left, leaving his guests behind, or he was being his usual stubborn self, defiantly staying in his building. As the flow of guests coming out of the Ocean Grand tapered off to nothing, Willa made her way around the back of the hotel to where Frank’s residence was located. There he was, leaning against the door jamb with his front door open, arms folded across his chest smiling at her.

“Frank, we have to evacuate!” she shouted.

He chuckled. “I’ve had all the hysterics from you that I’m going to take,” he said. “Even if there is an earthquake, this building was constructed to the latest earthquake codes. I keep telling you, nothing is going to happen.”

The rumbling and shaking hit Dolphin Beach with a violence that knocked Willa to the ground, hard. Being hit by a car would have been easier, and less painful, she thought. Jason had said you wouldn’t be able to stand, that you would have to crawl on your hands and knees. That proved to be impossible. The ground was moving so violently that Willa couldn’t even lift herself up at all. Even lying flat on the ground didn’t work. The pavement under her cracked and broke, pieces were ejected into the air and bounced around like ping-pong balls. The ground beneath her dropped suddenly, leaving her falling to the pavement, now three feet below her, only to be knocked sideways when she landed. She rolled, amid being hit by chunks of concrete and flying pieces of wood, glass and shingles from the Ocean Grand. She yelled for help but the rumbling sound overpowered her. She couldn’t even hear her own voice.

She thought this level of catastrophic violence couldn’t last much longer, but instead of ending, it only got worse. The ground dropped another four feet leaving her to fall to the pavement again. Her knees and elbows slammed into the pavement repeatedly, breaking her skin and bruising her bones. Her head was struck again and again by flying debris as was every inch of her body. Dust and small stones swirled in the air making it almost impossible to breath without inhaling the small objects.

Willa covered her face with her hands as she continued to be battered by the pounding ground and careening pieces of the Ocean Grand Hotel. She prayed in vain for it all to stop as the earthquake continued unabated. In all of her imaginings of what hell might be like, nothing came close to what she now endured. She became convinced the torture in which she found herself would never end. She cried out in pain as the rising terror within her took over. Still the cataclysm continued. Visions of Jason and his prolonged demonstration in the Dolphin Beach Theater flashed through her mind. What he had showed them wasn’t anything even remotely close to what was currently taking place.

Eventually the shaking and rumbling stopped. Willa stood, wobbly and shaky, and looked around at the devastation. The dust hung in the air like thick ocean fog, with macabre shapes emerging from the shadows in every direction. Broken sections of 2x4’s and fractured pieces of plywood, mixed with twisted and mangled lengths of aluminum siding, glass and vinyl window frames jutted from the mountainous heap of wreckage that was once the most popular and well known structure in Dolphin Beach. It was also the pride and joy of Frank Gillis, now reduced to nothing but a disgusting pile of rubble.
Frank,
Willa thought,
where the hell was Frank?