by John Randall
Warning Advisory Please Read
The Characters you are about to meet—regular people put into extraordinary situations—have asked me to warn you, the faithful reader, that they are guilty of using “sporty” language on more than one occasion.
Oh, you thought I was in charge of the characters! Clearly, you’ve never tried writing fiction before. The characters themselves are in charge. They decide if they want to continue on the narrative, or disappear. They decide if they want to get into a bar fight or drive a loaded gasoline tanker into a tunnel during an earthquake.
I however, as author, freely admit to the conjugation of the f-word in its verb form on those occasions when I thought it was appropriate.
Some of your characters also enjoy adult companionship (sex). If you don’t want to read a book with sprinkles of sporty language and healthy sex, then please DO NOT BUY THIS BOOK. If you have bought this book by mistake, there is a method by which you can return it and get your three bucks back.
Otherwise, have a good read. We have a long journey ahead of us in the “Is this it?” series.
John Randall
dedicated to—
My loving wife, Linda—who has
put up with so much for so long
And behold when he had opened the
sixth seal, and lo, there was a great
earthquake; and the sun became black
as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became
as blood, And the stars of heaven fell unto
the earth, even as a fig tree casts her
untimely figs, when she is shaken of a
mighty wind. And the heaven departed as
a scroll when it is rolled together; and every
mountain and island were moved out of their
places. And the kings of the earth, and the great
men, and the rich men, and the chief captains,
and the mighty men, and every bondman, and
every free man, hid themselves in the dens and
in the rocks of the mountains; And said to the
mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from
the face of him that sits on the throne, and from
the wrath of the Lamb.
Revelation 6:12-16
BOOK 1
The **** Hits the Fan
Bainbridge Island, Washington
February 20th, 5:15 AM PST
Ray Spaulding awoke ten seconds before his alarm would have gone off. It was the same sequence every day he set the alarm; even though on weekends he could sleep all the way to seven-thirty, later on Sunday; but on weekdays his system was set, as it had been forever. He snapped the alarm off before the annoying buzzer went off.
It was dark outside. It was end of February, or maybe December; dates in the Pacific Northwest tended to blur once you passed the Apple Cup, normally the last Saturday in November. There was Christmas and New Years’, but the dates and days all seemed to be the same. Still, by the end of February there should have been more promise if not the future, then at least for today. Yet today there was no sunrise. It was just another dreary, rainy-ass day; raindrops on the droopy mountain hemlocks, the morning sky full of cold mist, which wrapped itself around everything; from the tall buildings in Seattle to the neighborhood stores in North Bend at the foot of the snowbound Cascades.
Awake quickly, he did his shit-shave-shower in less than fifteen minutes, everything right on schedule, just like the Army grunt he’d been, and probably would always be, at least mentally. At age 38 Ray was an Army veteran of two tours in Kuwait, six tours in Iraq; two in Afghanistan. He’d entered the Army right out of Bainbridge High School at age 19, single with no babes attached, and had returned fifteen years later knowing how to kill and to say yes sir no sir.
He had been promoted several times over the years; but had left the Army after as a Sergeant First Class, never having reached the true “management” level. Fortunately, the VA Puget Sound Center had been available for him; otherwise, his dreams would have overtaken reality. The dreams had started after the April 28, 2003 takeover of the city of Fallujah, Iraq.
I hate repetitive dreams. Sometimes I have dreams about my teeth breaking up, disintegrating as I try to get rid of the pasty goo in my mouth. Sometimes I dreams shit I know I’ve dreamt before; maybe years ago, or fifteen seconds ago, I don’t know. Sometimes I pick up dreams that I awoke from and I swear it had been ten years since I’d dreamt it.
But, mostly I have dreams about the battles of Fallujah. Baghdad had fallen. Fallujah was a NW suburb. We had confidently moved forward through the town, mostly abandoned; like what’s the deal? The son of a bitch mayor, a tribal leader named Taha Bidaywi Hamed, a Ba’ath leader, had welcomed us into his city with open fucking arms. How stupid were we? Come on in, we need your help with the insurgents; knowing full well he was the spider and we were the simple moths.
Well, we just waltzed on in; happy as could be.
“Lieutenant, I don’t like this, sir,” I said.
They were going down a street, reminded him of Black Hawk Down, a one-way trip. No! But things settled, at least in his dream. But then after dinner, just as we were making happy camp, this crowd of two hundred or so pajama-jamas carrying guns starts to yahoo its way up Main Street. Hold on dudes Lieutenant Jerry says; next minute he’s dead in my lap. Then all hell breaks loose. They’re comin’ at us from everywhere; guns, rocks, grenades, you name it.
By the next day the pajama-jamas had retreated; but that was the start. We were so surprised. They didn’t want us. This wasn’t like liberating France in 1945. This was real war. It wasn’t Saving Private Ryan it was Saving Sergeant Ray Spaulding.
For the better part of two years after discharge Ray had spent in and out of rehab at the Seattle VA Hospital on 9th Ave. Now four years later, he was on a regular six-month follow-up program. While Ray had been at war, his parents had died within six months of each other; and he hadn’t been home for either funeral. They had left him a small inheritance and a paid-for bungalow on an ample lot with a nice view of the Sound and a peek-a-boo view of the Mountain when it was out. Ray was a lot better off than most of his fellow veterans.
There weren’t enough people to help.
Instead, doctors were forced to dive into the Halloween bag of let’s-see-if-this-shit-sticks-on-the-wall treatment of : Celexa, Lexapro, Luvox, Luvox CR, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, Adapin, Anafranil, Aventyl, Evavil, Ludiomil, Norpramin, Pamelor, Sinequan, Surmontil, Tofranil, Vivactil, Marplan, Nardil, Parnate, Cymbalta, Desyrel, Effexor, Remeron, Wellbutrin, BuSpar, Ativan, Dalmane, Klonopin, Halcion, Librium, Restoril, Serax, Tranxene, Valium, Xanax, Atarax, Vistaril, Gabitril, Neurontin, Depakote, Lamictar, Topimax, Inderal, Tenormin, Minipress, Catapres, Tenex, Abilify, Geodon, Risperdal, Seroquel, and good ‘ol Zyprexa.
The pharmaceutical companies of America had been free to experiment developing their mind-controlling products on live human beings, the returning veterans of America’s oil wars. It wasn’t fair, nor was it right.
At 5:35 Ray donned his lightweight rain suit, strapped on his helmet, and shouldered his backpack with today’s lunch that he’d prepared last night along with a thermos of hot water, two packages of Ghirardelli hot chocolate powder and a single pillbox containing the medicines he needed to take today; drugs he needed to take like a Dr. Pepper—10:00, 2:00 and 4:00; drugs that got him from day to day.
Off he went into the morning mist, peddling his old Diamond Back Mountain bike which he’d bought at a yard sale three years ago. The feel of bike was so familiar; he hadn’t minded it was so old. But, after all, he only had three miles to bike on a flat surface; ride the ferry across Puget Sound to Seattle, then peddle his ass off uphill to the S
eattle Library, where he was one of the I/T Guys. The library had over 400 computers available for public use and keeping them up and running was an everyday battle.
As far Ray was concerned, the VA had been a God-send; they’d found him a job and managed to keep the Darkness away. Thank God for the VA and the City of Seattle. There were times when he found himself slipping into Fallujah time, mixing up current time and back then time.
Ray waved and nodded to the familiar group of regulars who were boarding the 6:00 ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, riding his bike through the ferry to the exit ramp on the opposite side; bikers received first entrance and first exit.
Even on a miserably misty day as today, January 53rd or whatever; the eastern sky dimly less gray than the darkness behind him; life was good. Where else do you get to ride your bike to work? Although not cheap, $7.50 one-way plus a one dollar surcharge for the bicycle; regardless, it was a heck of a lot better than driving to work; bike three miles on good flat roads, take the ferry, bike uphill four blocks to the library, be the I/T guy for eight hours and return home to his small, comfortable home.
Repeat day after day. Life was good.
Ray wasn’t quite ready for a driver’s test.
Most of the Dawn Patrol regulars nodded and exchanged meaningless chatter; the others, not being terrific morning people, moved along with the slumped grumpiness of the Living Dead.
Shouldering his backpack, Ray went inside and found his regular seat toward the front of the main level, as did all the other Dawn Patrollers, while the Dead lined up at the coffee kiosk on the second floor.
Cast-iron in construction and painted in Washington State green and white, the ferry Wenatchee, along with sister ferries Puyallup and Tacoma were the largest in WSDOT’s fleet and could accommodate 2500 passengers and over two hundred vehicles. Captain Duvall started the 35 minute trip right on time at 6:00. There was a comforting familiarity to the routine of the passengers. Laptops were everywhere, keyboards clacking, mail and phone messages being answered, fantasy sports league lineups being updated. Over in the corner were Aunt Betty and the biggest damn dog you ever saw in your life. Everyone knew Aunt Betty and tried to help her and her seeing-eye monster however they could.
The craft was no toy; four hundred sixty feet long with a beam of 90 feet, the Wenatchee needed over 18 feet for minimum draft. The boat weighed a hefty 12,600 tons and was driven by four 16,000 horsepower engines, which is a lot of horses. Many of the auto passengers simply stayed in their cars, some able to grab another 30 minutes of shut-eye, packed in as they were; a few would join the bikers and walkers in the second- and third-level seating areas; a hardy few climbed to the top desk to view the incoming lights of Seattle, which were very faint this morning.
With the loading ramp stowed and the thick tie lines secured, the Wenatchee growled away from the Bainbridge Island dock and slowly but effortlessly moved across the Puget Sound, cutting through the water’s light chop toward Pier 52 and the main ferry terminal.
US Geological Survey
Geologic Hazards Science Center
Golden, Colorado 6:30 AM MST
Dr. Nancy O’Brien pulled into her private parking space behind the US Geological Survey building; the space being a rare commodity on the campus of Colorado School of Mines. Slim, petite and athletic, the 42-year old popped out of her fire engine red 2012 Mustang GTX, swiped her ID card at the rear entrance and soon found herself in her third floor office. She tossed her jacket onto an empty chair, inserted her laptop into the docking station and began to quickly assess overnight information.
Nancy or “Miss Nancy” was a natural clothes horse, the kind of early middle-age beauty who looked good in everything; most often wearing soft-fabric pleated pants with a beautiful blouse, un-tucked at the waist, the fabric gently draping over her small breasts. It was a style that was natural for her, requiring no more effort than a brief whisk of a brush across her no-problem pixie haircut; sandy-colored without a hint of grey.
With a B.S. in Geological and Environmental Sciences, and an M.S. in Environmental Geology and Surface Processes both from Stanford and a Ph.D. in Environmental Science and Engineering from Cal Tech; to go along with work experience at DOE’s Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California and the National Energy Technology Lab in Pittsburgh, Dr. Nancy O’Brien was no empty suit as Chief Scientist of the USGS Geologic Hazards Science Center.
She began every day with a smile.
Not only is the ugliest building I have ever worked in, it’s possibly the ugliest building I’ve ever seen.
In one of the most scenic backdrops to any work environment possible, she and the other one hundred twenty employees worked in one of the most depressing-looking office buildings in the state of Colorado, possibly the entire country; IBM punch card in style but with the look and feel of a penitentiary.
You didn’t get to be on the staff at Geologic Hazards Science Center by just being a pretty face. In fact, there were very few places in the United States that had a higher per/cubic/inch quotient of Ph.D. degrees.
How are you doin’ darlin’? She thought.
Her husband Robert was on his way from a regional meeting in Billings, Montana and then in the next few days onto a tour of the other dams on the Upper Great Plains region of the Western Area Power Administration; WAPA for short. Robert was the undersecretary for the Bureau of Reclamation, home base in Washington, D.C.
Then he’d return to their tiny condo in Reston, Virginia, their home base by agreement; Reston was the HQ location for the US Geological Survey.
Or simply the ‘love nest’ as he refered to it. He’d made the small apartment feel like it was a soft n’ sexy porn studio. Their relationship was beyond special. Their reunions were like attending a college football weekend; Every day was Homecoming and we’re going to Kappa Sig for the night. Even though at 52 he needed an occasional blue pill, he was plenty manly for her.
As Director of Operations, Nancy was in charge of the building. She supervised the four program areas which included special research areas; the Advanced National Seismic System (ANSS), the Albuquerque Seismological Lab, magnetic observatories from Guam to Deadhorse, Yukon to San Juan, Puerto Rico; landslide hazards; and the National Earthquake Information Center (NEIC). Other projects included the study and timing of prehistoric earthquakes, high resolution seismic satellite imaging, wildfire debris patterns, and the production of a variety of seismic maps available to the public.
Her Spartan office was furnished with a standard GSA-approved desk, credenza, two filing cabinets, two side chairs (other managers get only one chair) a low end table with no magazines and a lamp; standard issue for her job classification.
On her screen came a quick survey of registration sites.
“What’s this?”
The outburst was involuntary; no one was in the office to hear her. It would be another half hour before her I/T manager Herb Probst would arrive, followed shortly by scientists Amy Bridges and Albert Frohming, normally within five minutes of each other; then Alma Bevins in accounting on the second floor; the heavy-set woman had been working at USGS since the agency was moved from Boulder to Golden in the mid-70s. She had to take three busses to get to Golden from her home in Commerce City on the east side of Denver.
Nancy quickly punched out the number for the University of Utah’s Earthquake Information Center, one of NEIC’s regional seismograph centers.
“Come on, pick up!” On the fifteenth ring came a breathless voice.
“Hello—“
“Danny?“
“Yes, Dr. O’Brien.”
“Look at your stations; SHAKE-NET, ANNS (yes, pronounced Anus, or more politely AN-us). Look at your seismos!”
Nancy could hear Danny Ross, a very likeable, athletic young man bang away on his keyboard. Danny had just earned his Ph.D. in Geology and Geophysics and at 27 years old was in charge of the 4-man (2 men, 2 women) seismology lab that monitored seismic activity in Utah, east
ern Idaho and the Yellowstone area.
“What the heck?“ Danny exclaimed.
“Exactly,” added Nancy from 500 miles away. “Until this morning. No, until last night at eleven-fourteen the pattern of earthquake swarms had virtually duplicated the swarms of February 2008 and January 2010.”
“Just like they have been for the last three weeks,” replied Danny.
Referred to as swarms, like bees coming out of a hive, there had been repetitive periods where the seismic activity of moderate earthquake in the 3x range had run for a month or so, then jumped from 30 or 40 per month up to 1600 or higher. This earthquake activity was also accompanied by thermal events, referred to as earth burps or more often as VFs (Vulcan farts).
“Now look at it,” Nancy switched screens to the Utah Seismic measurement screen which showed the 35 seismographs installed in various locations within Yellowstone. Each seismograph, a relatively simple computer which measured the vibration of the earth—either at the surface and/or beneath.
Many of the seismic stations had multiple measuring instruments; temperature, GPS, even a camera. The now-familiar seismic printout shows in fifteen-minute increments the movement of the earth; with black, red, green and blue lines demarking the 15-minute span, making it a lot easier to read.
“Dr. Nancy,” Danny started, his voice betraying his youth and rising anxiety. “Look at the thermal imaging screens from ASTER (Advanced Spaceborne Thermal Emission and Reflection Radiometer, Jet Propulson Lab at Cal Tech) and MODIS (Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectoradiometer, NASA).
Overnight the imaging data from the two satellites showed a color change of the temperature immediately beneath the surface up to 2 miles deep from blue to a series of psychodelic oranges and deep reds; magma, lots of it, had moved closer to the surface of the earth.
“Are we about to have an event?” Danny asked, very concerned.
