This was no ordinary earthquake. No. It was a killer of incredible magnitude. Callie had been in too many earthquake-torn countries and experienced too many aftershocks not to know what was going on here. As she rolled helplessly from side to side, the earth moving like waves in an ocean, she realized that this one was off the Richter scale—completely.
December 31: 2150
Lieutenant Wes James was getting dressed for the New Year’s Eve party at the O Club at Camp Reed when the earthquake struck. Although he lived in Oceanside, the nearest civilian town to the front gates of Reed, he’d taken a room at the B.O.Q.—bachelor officer’s quarters—so that he wouldn’t have to drive after drinking. He had just finished putting on a buttoned down white shirt, a camel-colored wool blazer and black jeans and had been sitting on the couch, tying the laces on his dark-brown Italian leather shoes, when the quake began.
Within seconds, Wes was clinging in surprise to the couch as it moved five feet in one direction, and then five feet the other way, across the cedar floor of the bedroom. As adrenaline shot through his bloodstream in response, he didn’t have time to realize what was happening. But it didn’t take him long to figure it out. And he only had to glance toward the darkened view out his window to realize that. The B.O.Q. was four stories tall. All the streetlights outside the military hotel had been suddenly snuffed out, along with lights inside. In the darkness, he heard his friend, Russell Burk, yelp in fright outside in the hall. Russ had the adjoining room, and they were planning on meeting to go to the O Club. The quake must have caught Russ out in the hallway.
Everything vibrated. The roar was frightening, making Wes’s eardrums hurt. The furniture and floor were shivering and shaking as if someone had put the whole room—him included—into a blender at high speed. Wes pushed himself up into a sitting position and gripped the couch. As his eyes adjusted to the inky darkness around him, he watched in amazement. It blew his mind that the couch was sliding like a toy back and forth across the floor as each rhythmic wave of the earthquake rolled through the building. He heard a loud “Crack!” and jerked his gaze upward. For a moment, he feared the fourth story was coming down upon him. The B.O.Q. groaned, wobbled and swayed. The joists and timbers of this old, 1930s-built architectural wonder were not earthquake proof.
Escape! He had to get outside! But how? Wes leaped to his feet and was instantly knocked off of them. Another wave of heaving tore through the building. In seconds, he was sliding into the careening redwood coffee table. Pain arced up his shoulder as he slammed into it. The glass on top slid off, cracked and shattered on the floor. Splinters of glass glittered for a moment and then scattered wildly as the floor danced and bucked all around him.
Wes kept his gaze glued to the ceiling rocking and undulating above him. It didn’t take his civil engineering degree for him to realize that if that ceiling caved in, it could kill him. He scrambled to his hands and knees and decided to head out to the hall to Russ. No good. Lurching drunkenly to his feet, Wes went for the door. His hand closed around the brass knob. There! Tumbling out into the hall, Wes slammed into Russ, who was rolling wildly, his arms and legs outstretched to try and stop himself.
The quake seemed to go on and on. Russ lay on the floor outside his room, his eyes wide with terror. Wes reached out, gripped his friend’s hand and dragged him toward the wall. Every piece of furniture was on the move, many sliding through the opened doors of their rooms. The sound of cracking glass filled the hall. Some of the windows were shattering inward.
It was impossible to stand up. All Wes could do was crawl forward on his belly alongside Russ and try to make it down the carpeted hall.
“The emergency exit!” Wes shouted. “Get to the door! We gotta get outta here or we’re dead!”
Russ nodded, his brown eyes huge as they crawled toward the exit.
A grating sound started. Wes jerked a look over his shoulder. Whatever was making that noise, it wasn’t the B.O.Q. There were a lot of single- and double-story stucco buildings around the huge grassy square. It could have been any—or all—of them.
“Damn,” Russ shouted. He got up and scrambled wildly for the door. Launching himself at it, he clung to the doorknob as he twisted it open.
Seconds later, the two men threw themselves out the exit door and tumbled down the metal stairs.
Badly bruised, Wes managed to leap against the last door that led to the first-floor entry. It gave way and Wes tumbled through. He was out! Russ stumbled to the ground beside him.
The grass was damp with dew. As another wave of the quake hit, Russ rolled on top of him, then was swung to the left. A loud crash sounded behind them scaring Wes. As he got to his hands and knees, his fingers digging frantically into the damp grass and dirt for purchase, he saw half of the red brick building across the plaza buckle and collapse inward. Breathing hard, he gasped.
Finally, the quake stopped its deadly undulations. Silence pulsed around Wes for a moment as he sat up, his hands on his thighs. Russ slowly got off his belly, his mouth hanging open, white vapor coming out of it in sharp spurts. Then, as he looked around, Wes heard a series of explosions, too numerous to count, begin off in the distance. Fire vomited upward into the dark night somewhere off the base. The growl of the quake began again. Wes hunkered down, his arms outstretched, his fingers digging into the ground for stability.
“Oh, hell!” Russ shouted. “I don’t friggin’ believe this!” And he flopped on his belly again, arms spread outward.
The second wave hit, worse than the first. For the next thirty seconds, Wes was flung around on the damp lawn. More marine officers came out of the exit door of the B.O.Q., tumbling and tripping over one another to get clear of the building. In that second wave, Wes saw two of the stucco buildings in the square buckle and crash into heaps. Numerous smaller buildings caved in. Yet, half of them still remained standing including the B.O.Q. There were flashes of fire and explosions as gas lines were broken, showers of sparks from the electrical lines setting them off. Water lines broke, sending water gushing in the square like geysers. Luckily, most of the marines who had been in the B.O.Q. and surrounding buildings were now out. Anyone who lived in Southern California was used to low-grade quakes and knew the drill: get outside as soon as possible. Get into an open area where nothing could fall on you.
Breathing hard, Wes was flung savagely onto his back once again. His mind began to churn with terrifying possibilities. He’d been in California quakes before; the worst was a 6.0 on the Richter scale a year ago, shortly after he’d been transferred to Camp Reed to build highways and bridges for the Corps. But this one…hell, it was a monster in comparison. The damage it had done already was mind-blowing.
He had no idea how this quake registered on the Richter scale, but he knew as he lay there gasping with terror, while looking up at the eerie beauty of the stars in the black sky, that this one was a killer of unknown proportions. And somewhere in his colliding thoughts, Wes realized this was the earthquake that they always talked about, but no one really thought would happen: the Big One that would gut Southern California and cause hundreds of thousands of deaths and billions of dollars in damage, just as the 1906 San Francisco earthquake had totaled that city and population.
As the ground continued to shiver and shake like a horse wrinkling its skin to get rid of pesky flies, Wes slowly rolled over and got to his feet. All around him, people were crying and shouting in panic. There weren’t many buildings left standing on the plaza except for the old, solidly built B.O.Q. and about five others around the plaza. On the horizon, fires were lighting up the sky with frightening speed no matter which direction he looked. Most of them seemed to be beyond the base and for that he breathed a small sigh of relief. He hoped the damage at Camp Reed would be minimal compared to the destruction he saw before him. Wes knew there was a nuclear power plant located at San Onofre, at the western edge of Camp Reed and right on the Pacific Ocean. How badly had it been damaged? From an engineering standpoint, there wasn’t
a question in Wes’s mind that it had been. The real question was had the concrete withstood the shattering impact of this killer quake, or was it leaking radiation?
“We gotta get to H.Q.,” he told Russ, who was a lieutenant in the motor pool, which was their transportation department.
Russ slowly got to his feet. He looked around, shock written on his face. “Yeah…. God, what’s happened, Wes? Was this the Big One?”
Grimly, Wes wiped his freshly shaved jaw, which was smudged with dirt and grass stains. “Yeah, I think it was. Let’s get over there. It’s only a couple blocks away. I hope it’s still standing.” He looked around the square. The asphalt was buckled and crumbled every few feet, from what he could tell. Without light, he couldn’t see that far.
Russ looked at the B.O.Q., awe written on his face. “Look at that, will you?” And he pointed up at it.
Wes turned. “I’m glad it’s still standing. We’re going to need a place to get some rest after putting in fourteen-hour days of rescue and recovery after this quake.”
Russ nodded. Pushing his thick fingers through his mussed blond hair, he muttered, “They’re gonna want every available officer over at H.Q. I know General Wilson will put the disaster plan into action.”
Grimly, Wes nodded, his gaze roaming over the devastation before him. It was gonna be one helluva long night….
January 1: 0030
Callie stood among the hundreds of Marine Corps officers who had been squeezed into one of the largest rooms at Camp Reed Headquarters. Fortunately, the building had sustained only minimal damage. There was a crack running up one of the stucco walls, but otherwise, the room looked fine. At least the lights were on, courtesy of the gasoline generator outside the building.
Callie saw General Jeb Wilson, the base commanding officer, standing up at the podium. A tall, gaunt-looking man in his midfifties with short black hair peppered with gray at his temples, the general was known around the base as “Bulldog Wilson” because his face was square, his jowls set and his thin mouth always drawn in a tight, downward curve. Tonight he looked even more grim than usual.
The officers milling around in desert cammos or civilian clothes were like tall trees around her and because she was so short, Callie was jostled often. The murmuring voices were strained, and she saw stress and shock in the face of every man and woman in attendance. They were crowded together so tightly that Callie felt suffocated. Either her feet were being stepped on accidentally or someone’s elbow was jamming into her back, or she was being pushed because some officer wasn’t looking where he was going.
It was now 0030, just a little past midnight, almost three hours after the killer earthquake had struck. The call for all officers to meet at H.Q. had gone out an hour ago over battery-fueled radios and cell phones. Because there was no electricity available at the moment, radios, the normal means of communication, weren’t available. Luckily, in this day and age, Callie thought, nearly everyone carried a cell phone.
Many of the officers were in civilian clothes. Their faces were grim, strain and shock clearly etched in their expressions, their voices low and emotional. Callie was the only one in the room from the rescue dog unit, that she could see. Standing on tiptoes, she tried to see if she recognized anyone else in the milling assemblage. There were twenty-two dogs and handlers in her unit, but most of the personnel lived off base. She lived off base, too, but had been on duty along with Sergeant Irene Anson, who was manning their facility right now. Luckily, the quake had not harmed them and had only opened a crack in the corrugated roof above the kennels. They had checked every dog to make sure it was okay, and thankfully, they were all fine. As Callie craned her neck to get a better view, she saw an officer with short black hair, his eyes grim looking, hold up a set of blueprints before the general at the podium.
Instantly, Callie was drawn to him and instantly she told herself he was far too handsome and would never even take a second look at her. She tried to ignore the officer’s gaze as it settled momentarily on hers.
Talk surrounded Callie like the sound of bees buzzing, and she longed to know what was happening. When she heard General Wilson’s voice boom out, everyone stopped moving and talking. The room seemed to freeze, every officer’s breathing suspended in anticipation of what he might say.
“At ease,” Wilson commanded in his deep, rolling tone. He gazed across the crowded room, his brow wrinkling deeply. “I’ve just gotten off sat com—satellite communications—with the Pentagon. According to the experts, we have just been hit with a massive earthquake here in Southern California—8.9 on the Richter scale. According to the experts, they’re calling it the Big One.” Grimly, he continued in a rasp, “It has knocked out all electricity, all water and all amenities—pretty much all modern conveniences that civilian communities from central Los Angeles, southward to San Juan Capistrano and west as far as Redlands. The San Andreas Fault has moved six feet in an easterly direction.” He rubbed his brow. “Ladies and gentlemen, for whatever reasons, Camp Reed has been relatively untouched, spared by this killer earthquake. As I understand it from my discussion with experts, a minor fault runs in a north-south direction under us. It saved us from major damage as a result. The Los Angeles International Airport is inoperable. All their runways have been destroyed. Nearly every airport, minor or major around it, has also been destroyed. According to the Pentagon, Camp Reed’s ten-thousand-foot runways are the only ones available to start bringing in cargo planes with supplies and help. We’re still receiving information via cell phone and battery-operated radios from local police and fire departments, but it looks like the entire southern Los Angeles area has been left without any way to get help to its citizens. We are sitting on top of a disaster of untold proportions.
“Luckily, the Marine Corps has worked with the Disaster Preparedness Center, an extension of FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, whose function is to restore order during just such an event.” Wilson held up a thick blue book. “Our S.O.P.—standard operating procedure—is clear. If we are operable, and we are, then what it boils down to in this worst-case scenario is that Camp Reed becomes the only entrance-exit point for medical, fuel, water and food resources for this region.”
Callie gasped, as did several others. The magnitude of the general’s comments sent a cold chill through her. Camp Reed would become the focus point for all relief and emergency help.
“General,” one officer called, raising his hand, “sir, what about the highways? The freeways? Can we—”
Wilson shook his head tiredly. “Captain, every major road has been destroyed. Every freeway. Every bridge has buckled. There is no way for any vehicle to go very far. As soon as dawn arrives, we’re looking at going up in Huey helicopters to start assessing the damage. Right now, what I want to do is to break everyone into teams. Colonel Gray, here, has the disaster preparedness plan. Colonel?”
Callie waited as the silver-haired colonel came up to the podium. The urgency of the situation, the shock and terror of the picture being painted, washed like a tidal wave through the room. She stood there knowing that her team of quake rescue dogs would be on the front lines of the military’s efforts.
“First off, is there anyone here from our General Rescue?” the colonel asked, craning his neck and looking over the assemblage.
Callie raised her hand. No one could see it because she was five foot five inches tall and surrounded by mostly male marines much taller than she was. Squeezing between the tightly packed officers, Callie called, “Here, sir! I’m here!”
Colonel Gray’s eyes narrowed across the crowded room. “Who is here?” he boomed. “I hear a voice. Let her through, gentlemen.”
Callie moved forward, twisting and slithering between officers who stepped aside to create a path for her. She approached the podium. “Lieutenant Callie Evans, sir. I’m the X.O. of the dog rescue unit. How can I help?”
Gray smiled thinly. “Lieutenant, I want you to work with Lieutenant Wes James here.” He pointed
to the man in civilian attire directly to the right of him. “He’s a trained civil engineer. We’re getting calls for help from fire and police departments all over the L.A. basin. He’s in charge of blocking off specific areas into grid coordinates. In each of these areas, I want one of your dogs and a handler. We’re going to be putting you on the front lines, Lieutenant Evans. Your people know how to find victims buried in rubble. You go with Lieutenant James now, and create a workable plan. We’ll then fly you and your teams out by helicopter to specific trouble zones to hunt for survivors. Any questions?”
Callie gulped. Lieutenant James was the man she was drawn to earlier. Focusing back on the general, she shook her head. “No, sir.”
“Good, get going—and be careful out there. Our people are a precious resource and there’s no way to replace any one of you if we lose you in this unmitigated disaster….”
“Yes, sir.” Callie turned and looked up into the narrowed green eyes of the officer, Wes James. He stood at least six foot tall, and was wearing a pair of black jeans, plus a white shirt that was streaked with grass stains. His black hair was short and uncombed and his face smudged with dirt. She saw the darkness beneath his eyes. As her gaze dropped to his mouth, Callie realized it was set in a thin line against a lot of emotions he was trying to hold back.
She offered him a slight smile of welcome. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant James. Just call me Callie.”
Wes nodded. He hitched a thumb across his shoulder. “Thanks for being here, Callie. Let’s go into this side room. I’ve got my engineers and blueprints set up in there. I’m going to need your help in understanding just what you can do for us.”
The Heart Beneath Page 3
