Pistol held firmly in his right hand, Donovan sidestepped the first wild swing of the knife and stepped in and used the weight of the gun to maximize the punch to the man’s jaw, dropping him to his knees. The knife fell from his hand, and he swayed as Donovan threw another punch, though before Donovan could deliver another, the man collapsed to the pavement.
Perplexed, Donovan knelt cautiously and lifted up the unconscious man’s goggles. Next, he removed the bandana that covered his mouth and nose. The biker looked to be in his mid-twenties. Thin-faced, almost gaunt with a stringy, tangled beard. Tattoos crept above the collar of his jacket, and Donovan spotted the top part of a swastika.
Shannon walked from the cab and knelt. In the harsh light of the headlights, she examined the man, too. She spotted a pistol on the ground, which she picked up but then dropped the second she saw the steel covered in blood.
Donovan frowned and reached down to the biker’s neck and felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one, but there was a pool of blood spreading out from an unseen injury to his back.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Shannon stood to distance herself from the corpse.
“Yes, but I’m not sure why.” Donovan lifted the man up on his side. The thin material of his jean jacket did little to protect him as he slid. Near his lower back Donovan caught sight of something protruding from what was left of a shredded t-shirt. “He caught something in his back, a branch, or a piece of metal off his bike when he dumped it. He’s gone.”
“We should get his body off the road,” Shannon said, her voice on the verge of panic.
“He’s far enough to the side no one will run over him. Someone will find him in the morning.” Donovan untied the handkerchief from around the man’s neck and used it to wipe the blood off the gun Shannon had found. It was a .357 caliber revolver. Donovan handed it to her. “I trust you know how to shoot?”
Shannon made a face and nodded. “Buck taught me, so yes, in theory I’m deadly when it comes to paper targets.” She slid the pistol into her pocket. Somewhere in the smoke, the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine drifted in on the wind.
“We need to go.” They got back into the truck. Donovan backed up, avoiding motorcycle parts lying in the road, and drove away.
Donovan went as far as he could without headlights, using the muted orange light from the park lights to slowly maneuver to where the thick smoke began to end. He killed all the lights when they finally emerged, peeled off his mask, rolled down the window, and listened. Smoke hugged the ground, turning the sky into a formless opaque dome. Sparks spiraled and flew everywhere, and the glow of multiple fires dotted what Donovan guessed was the horizon.
“It looks like the aftermath of a war.” Shannon took a tentative breath without her mask, testing the air. “I want to thank you for getting me out of there.”
Donovan nodded and then held up his hand to cut off Shannon. Off to his left, he caught the staccato rumble of a distant motorcycle. A few moments later, in the opposite direction, he heard the same sound. “They’re looking for us.”
“We’re the only ones out here, and there aren’t that many roads. We won’t be hard to find,” Shannon said.
“I agree.” Donovan switched on the headlights, stepped on the gas, and allowed the Ford to lurch forward, quickly gaining speed. He dodged some of the bigger branches that had fallen and ignored the smaller ones. He coaxed the truck toward the destination he had in mind. He rounded a big right turn, braked heavily, sped down a narrow tree-lined driveway, shut off all the lights, and slowed as he pulled out from under the trees onto a broad expanse of grass. He brought the truck to a stop and switched off the engine. Not far away in the darkness was the house where Robert Huntington once lived with Meredith Barnes. For a moment, Donovan felt like a ghost drifting past, an apparition from long ago wandering in the smoke.
“Where are we?” Shannon whispered in the darkness.
“We’re on the back nine of the Pebble Beach golf course.”
“You sure know your way around this place,” Shannon said.
Donovan ignored the statement. “Once we let our eyes fully adjust to the darkness, we’ll be able to use the maintenance roads to navigate without lights. We’ll pick a fire in the distance, and head for it, like using a star to navigate at night. They won’t be able to find us.”
“Is that how you fly at night?” Shannon asked,
“Not anymore, but a long time ago, when I was a young man, it’s how I flew. I didn’t have the high-tech picture tube instruments or onboard computers. Back then, I flew using a flashlight, holding a paper chart on my knee. My instructor called it basic airmanship.”
“How long have you been flying?”
“A long time. I started taking lessons when I was sixteen. Got my license when I was seventeen.”
“Buck told me once he could tell when someone was in their element, and he said you were definitely in your element in the cockpit of an airplane. He also mentioned you were equally out of your element at sea.”
“He’s right,” Donovan said as he picked out a fire on a distant hill, started the engine, eased the Ford into gear, and let the truck creep down the single lane road that ringed the golf course. “I don’t like being out on the ocean, and I never will.”
Going slowly at first, Donovan focused on his distant beacon and the subtle difference in the color between the asphalt and the grass. As his eyes fully acclimated to the darkness, he was able to go faster, and they wound around the back nine until he spotted the clubhouse. With the famous 18th green on his left, Donovan knew that he’d just run out of golf course. He rounded a corner that would put him on a public street and stopped. Together they listened but heard only the crashing of the waves and the faint roar of a nearby fire.
“How close are we to the house?” Shannon asked.
“A mile, maybe a little more. The problem is we need to use public streets. I’ll need the headlights.”
“We have the flashlight we took from the hospital. Can we use it to make our way instead of the headlights?”
“If you’re talking about the small penlight, then no, I doubt that it would work,” Donovan said.
Shannon dug around in their garbage bag, until she pulled out a simple plastic, D-cell flashlight. She cupped the lens with her palm and switched it on. The red glow leaking from the edges told them it worked. She turned it off and handed it to him.
Donovan clicked on the flashlight and allowed the beam to play out ahead of the truck until he zeroed in on a combination of grip, field of illumination, and maneuverability that would allow him to sweep the light back and forth as well as drive. He pulled out onto a side road, and then took a hard left onto 17 Mile Drive.
As fast as he could, concentrating on the disk of light provided by the flashlight, Donovan drove until he found a street that would take them up the hill, away from the ocean. He felt like there were more homes ablaze than earlier, and he felt a tightness form deep in his stomach. William was helpless to flee if the house began to burn. At the thought, he drove faster.
Donovan sped around a corner; the road ahead was clear of any fires. With the pavement free of debris, he kicked the truck up even faster. Through the scattered trees, he spotted lights coming from a modern house set back from the street. Up the illuminated driveway, he caught sight of two motorcycles parked near the garage. Both riders turned as Donovan sped past, but one man caught Donovan’s attention—it was the same guy from the hospital, the bald one who pulled the trigger on an imaginary gun. Only this time, he leveled an actual gun and fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“CALVIN, WE HAVE to talk,” Lauren said the second he answered his phone. She was seated at the chart table on the bridge of the Buckley, scribbling furiously on a pad while pulling up data on the computer monitor.
“Lauren, where are you?”
“I’m aboard the Buckley,” Lauren said. “Calvin, I’m looking at the latest weather for this entire region, but it’s
hours old. Do you have any updates?”
“We’re working on that,” Calvin said. “You already know about the GOES platforms, but now we’ve lost two of our DMPS reconnaissance assets. Lauren, we’re struggling to collect any data at all.”
Lauren pondered the ramifications of losing two of the Department of Defense Meteorological Program Satellites. The DMPS was the DOD dedicated space-based weather data she’d used for years. She visualized the other arrays that might still be operational. “What about the satellites the Russians and Chinese have in polar orbit? Can we get any real-time information from them?”
“What specific information are you asking for? The Air Force has tasked a reconnaissance Global Hawk drone out of Beale Air Force Base to monitor the fire situation. It was on its way to Guam, but they turned it around, and it should be overhead before first light. I can send you the latest aerial assessment of the Monterey Peninsula fires. It was taken by a Cal Fire spotter plane, and it sums up the fire situation if that’s the data you’re after.”
“Yes, of course. Though I think we’ve got a bigger problem brewing that will completely change the fire situation. I’m thirty miles offshore of Monterey, and the winds aloft are coming from the south, southwest. Calvin, I think Tropical Storm Evangeline has changed track, and the area of low pressure is headed north.”
“The last track update we had showed that after Evangeline coasted out over the Pacific near Guadalajara, Mexico, she headed on the usual northwestern track out to sea.”
“Calvin, that’s not what I’m seeing. The low has drifted north, and while the usual cool sea surface temperatures normally dissipate what’s left of the storm, we don’t have the usual sea temperatures. I’m not saying she could grow stronger, but she could stay a tropical storm, which means the winds could easily be in the fifty to sixty miles per hour range. I have a theory that we could see those winds here in California, inside of a few hours.”
“I know you well enough to realize you’ve already done the math. How bad could this get?”
“Eastern Pacific tropical storms impacting California are nothing new, but what is new is the powerful El Nino that has set up off the coast. The warmer water could keep the low pressure rotating far longer than usual. Because of the data blackout, I’m not sure where the center of the tropical storm is located, or what the current track is, or what the wind speeds might be. Just using the old data, and allowing for the change in trajectory I fear has taken place, the outermost reaches of Evangeline’s influence could see sustained winds over forty miles per hour, with much stronger gusts. Mix that with an out-of-control fire, and therein lies the potential for a disaster of epic proportions.”
“Explain.”
“From what I’m told, right now, even with the winds at less than ten miles per hour, we lose Monterey, Pebble Beach, Seaside, and Pacific Grove.”
“And if the winds reach forty miles per hour?”
“I think we could see a fire that has the potential to race unchecked all the way to San Jose, and then perhaps keep moving and destroy the entire city of San Francisco.”
“That’s impossible,” Calvin said almost in a whisper.
“Trust me, it’s very possible, though I don’t think the windy conditions will arrive for at least another few hours, and we both know how much can change with the weather in that time. What we need are rudimentary images of the tropical storm, sea state, anything to give us an idea of wind direction and velocity. If there are any aircraft or even ships out there, they could give us current surface condition reports.”
“I’ll get that process started,” Calvin said. “What else?”
“I’d push the Pentagon to immediately mobilize any and all troops to work in coordination with Cal Fire and other agencies to find a way to minimize the damage this combination of wind and fire might inflict. I’d also strongly suggest they begin the evacuation of all vital military assets sitting in the potential path of this fire. Ships, aircraft, men, and equipment—start moving everything.”
“In your opinion, and I’m talking about worst scenario,” Calvin said, “how long does it take a fire like you’ve suggested to burn from Monterey to San Jose?”
“Once the winds begin—and understand there are far more variables than my expertise can provide—my rough calculations say the fire, if unchecked, could reach San Jose in ten hours or less. And, Calvin, it will be huge by the time it arrives.”
“Lauren, I want you to remain on the Buckley. I’ll need instant access to you, and being out to sea is the safest place for you right now. Do I have your word?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Lauren didn’t bother to mention she couldn’t, with the helicopter out of service. “I do want to pull in the experts at Cal Fire as well as the Forest Service. They need to know what we know, plus they have the brain trust to fully understand what can and can’t happen. We need answers if we’re going to contain this fire here in the Monterey Peninsula.”
“Do it,” Calvin said. “I’ll call you after I talk to the Pentagon. Take care of yourself.”
Calvin hung up, and Lauren pocketed her phone and spun in her chair to find Montero, Michael, and Ryan standing nearby. The alarmed expressions on their faces told her they’d heard her conversation with Calvin, and each understood the dire predictions she’d made.
“Is this for real?” Montero said. “The fire could reach San Francisco?”
“Yes. Montero, show me where we can find a cup of coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”
“This just keeps getting worse,” Michael said. “Janie’s been on the phone about the helicopter. I’m going to go see what she knows.”
“The coffee is this way, follow me.” Montero led the way off the bridge, down a passageway and into a ready room with a table, a coffee maker, and a small refrigerator.
Lauren poured herself a cup and then faced Montero. “I need to ask a favor.”
“Name it,” Montero said.
“Is there anything else we can do to try to find Donovan? If he’s still alive, waiting somewhere for the sun to come up, it might be too late.”
“I’ve been thinking about that as well. I’ve talked to Ethan about taking a boat ashore, but he pointed out that with all the debris in the water, plus the current and surf, it would be far too dangerous. With the helicopter grounded, our options drop to near zero. I’m sorry—if I knew what to do, I’d already be doing it.”
“Thanks,” Lauren said as she took a sip of coffee. “I had to ask. This fire is on the edge of becoming an even bigger disaster, and I don’t know if there is anything we can do to stop its progress. To be honest, I’m scared.”
“I know. We all are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AN INSTANT BEFORE the muzzle flash, Donovan jammed the gas pedal to the floor. The Ford lunged forward. He glanced over his shoulder as another round was fired, but a bend in the road blocked his view. He maneuvered through another turn, and drove the F-250 up the hill into a forested area. He reached a small clearing, cranked hard on the steering wheel, and spun the rear end around until the truck now pointed back the way they’d come. He shut off the engine and rolled down the window. The distinctive sound of two motorcycle engines drew closer. He could see the headlights as they passed right to left, moving fast, and it didn’t take long for the sound to fade in the distance.
Donovan cranked the ignition and allowed the truck to roll quietly down the slope. All the while, intent on the one sound he didn’t want to hear. What he did hear was the thump of distant explosions mixed with the dull roar coming off the fires. He reached the pavement, pulled out onto the street, and accelerated.
“How long?” Shannon asked.
“Five minutes.” Donovan glanced in the mirrors and extinguished the headlights as he approached an intersection. He slowed, listened, and out there in the darkness, he heard the percussive rumble of two motorcycles as they pounded closer.
“Where are they?” Shannon twisted in her s
eat, trying to locate the threat.
Donovan sped through the intersection. He caught sight of headlights to his left and heard the roar of motorcycles. Their destination was just up the street, and through the smoke, the lights from the house made it easy to spot. In a flash, Donovan understood what the motorcyclists were doing. They were systematically searching the houses that were lit up. A new sense of urgency shot through him. As the driveway approached, he braked hard, swung the wheel into the turn, and powered up the drive through the open gate. Just missing the pool, he pointed the truck at the landscaped bushes used to camouflage the generator. He turned off the truck’s headlights just before they hit.
The weight and inertia of the truck, coupled with the heavy steel bumper, demolished the generator. The steady hum of the engine vanished as it flew apart, leaving the house entirely dark. Donovan brought the truck to a halt. He and Shannon listened as the throaty roar of the motorcycles cruised down the street and receded in the distance.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Shannon said, holding the pistol. “Buck and I talked at length. I’m not sure I’m the kind of person who can point a gun at someone and pull the trigger.”
“Then put the thing away. People holding guns tend to get shot.”
“You take it.” Shannon held the pistol out to Donovan.
He wedged the pistol above the sun visor, shut off the engine, and stepped outside.
“Hurry, get your things.” He grabbed the flashlight and the trash bag he’d filled at the hospital and ran toward the sliding door that led inside. Once inside the darkened house, Donovan clicked on the flashlight.
In the kitchen, William lay on the floor, thrashing helplessly. Blood from his ankle streaked the tile. Cries of pain filled the room as he tried in vain to pull himself up onto the chaise.
“Oh God.” Shannon’s hand shot to her mouth.
Speed the Dawn Page 14
