Saving Cascadia

by John J. Nance

  Doug looked at him. “For a concrete barrier?”

  The bellman shrugged. “I don’t know what all the parts were for. Just that it’s very innovative. Our management, including Mr. Walker, has been fairly secretive about it, so we figure there’s something else really spectacular to be announced.”

  Another thundering vertical cascade of water and sound and vibrations diverted their attention.

  “You folks ready to go?”

  Diane was hunched over and holding her coat closed against the chill, and Doug nodded as he put an arm around her to guide her to the cart. When they were on the way back, he punched up Terry’s number again, thankful he answered almost immediately.

  “I’ve found the source of those impacts, Terry, and I doubt we can do anything about them.” He described the huge, complex concrete structure. “But I suspect this thing Walker’s built may have induced this whole sequence. It may have pulled the trigger.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I essentially predicted it. Well, I didn’t know about this wave-shaping structure, but if you remember I said that any major series of impacts, especially regular, rhythmic impacts, could amplify and unlock the Quilieute Quiet Zone. I mean, the basic theory was that this island might be a sensitive fulcrum, but that means it’s the last place you want to produce the very kind of vibrations that barrier is producing with each wave.”

  “You say nothing can turn it off?”

  “It’s literally cast in concrete, the barrier and the results, whatever they are, and whether or not they’re connected.”

  The line fell silent for a few seconds.

  “Terry? Still there?”

  “Yeah. Just feeling helpless, you know? The monster is coming and I can’t run.”

  “We still need that array of yours a while longer. You can get to high ground within five minutes if the big break hits, can’t you?”

  “Probably. Maybe. But neither you nor anyone on that island will have a chance.”

  “Yeah,” Doug replied. “I’m working on that.”

  Chapter 27

  CASCADIA ISLAND HOTEL 10:15 P.M.

  Robert Nelms was cornered, desperate, and exhausted.

  The last place he wanted to be was inside Mick Walker’s office, flinching at the barely contained anger radiating from the other side of Walker’s massive desk.

  There was little question, Nelms thought, that he would be meeting Walker again very soon on the battlefield of a federal courtroom. In fact, the wrong words from his lips now could cost Chadwick and Noble untold tens of millions of dollars, and he was mustering extraordinary self-discipline not to just get up and race in judicious silence out the door.

  Running, however, was no longer a choice. In effect, he was trapped on a tiny island with a furious client facing financial oblivion for reasons that might well involve negligent work done on Nelms’s watch.

  One of Walker’s men had rudely snatched the chairman of Chadwick and Noble from the dinner and walked him to a waiting car to view the newly collapsed remains of the convention center. The effect had been instant nausea, and the growing certainty that somehow the world’s best engineering firm had made a horrible, incalculable mistake. When the car returned him to the hotel and the executive entrance, Nelms had been ushered to the office and left to cool his heels until the quaking mad Aussie burst through the door, ranting as he entered.

  “So, Mr. Chadwick and Noble, did you see the result of your handiwork?”

  Nelms had sighed heavily. “Mick, I prefer to discuss this in a way that goes to the, ah, heart of any potential engineering unknowns. I have to point out, for instance, that if you’re asking whether or not I’ve seen the wreckage of the—”

  “Don’t mince words with me, Bob!” The full-volume bellow had caused Robert Nelms to wince openly and move backward in his chair as if hit with a fifty-knot wind. The glaring heat of Walker’s anger was like a furnace.

  “I paid you people a fortune to make damn sure nothing like this happened, and guess what? The whole foundation was flawed!”

  “I’m not mincing words, Mick. I’ve called out half my people down in San Francisco to try to figure out what we could possibly have missed.”

  “Well, guess what, mister engineering genius? I demand a refund! And compensation for my collapsed building, and for the resultant delays, loss of value, loss of time, loss of reputation—everything!”

  “You know I can’t make any statements about who will end up paying for what.”

  Mick Walker looked at the dour fat man sitting across from him and felt a compelling urge to kill. His chances of recovering from the progressive disaster were good if nothing else happened, but even if the rest of the island was invulnerable, the negative publicity could easily kill the hotel and casino before it got started.

  His head reeling with figures and fading financial escape plans, Mick sat heavily in his chair. He’d spent millions more than necessary just to make sure the island was safe, enriching Chadwick and Noble because of their reputation as master builders. And for what? He’d been gone the week they had done the seismic testing and doubted Nelms had been there personally. But someone from his shop had, and whoever it was had obviously been incompetent.

  “Goddamnit!” Mick stood with the suddenness of a rifle shot and snatched a crystal paperweight from his blotter, throwing it hard across the room. He watched it crash into one of the paneled walls and bounce back onto the carpet. The temptation to hurl the object squarely at Robert Nelms’s head had been barely resistible.

  As the paperweight came to rest, a bright flash of light pulsed through the window from the eastern end of the island, followed by the loud report of a large explosion.

  And almost immediately the lights went out.

  “Now what the hell?” Mick asked, standing and turning to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the eastern side of the office.

  The distant sound of heavy engines roaring to life reached his ears, and suddenly the lights were back on.

  “The emergency generators,” he said absently, aware that the man who’d insisted on their installation was sitting across from him and dying with professional embarrassment.

  “Was that lightning?” Nelms asked.

  “I don’t know. That sounded more like an explosion.”

  A new series of bright flashes and multiple booms coursed into the office and the lights went off again, this time remaining off.

  Am I actually in hell now and nobody told me? Mick thought.

  Robert Nelms pushed himself out of his chair and headed for Walker’s side. “What’s happening, Mick?”

  Mick turned with a shocked expression, as if Nelms had materialized from thin air, but somehow the presence of the senior engineer was comforting.

  “Man, I don’t have a clue. It feels like I’m losing a war.” He reached for the desk phone and punched up the hotline to the operations center, barely waiting for a hello.

  “This is Walker. What the hell’s happening?”

  “Sir, we’re not sure, but we lost all electrical power from the mainland, then the generators all came on line, then they all went away. All except our buried one here at the command post.”

  “Why? What caused it?”

  “Ah… I’m getting radioed reports of explosions, as if… as if they were blown up simultaneously. It can’t be mechanical. I think we’ve been attacked.”

  “We’re out of power?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You mean, the whole island is dark?”

  “Yes, sir. Although… we still have the option of turning on the WaveRam.”

  Mick paused in deep thought for no more than five seconds. “Is it ready?”

  “It’s supposed to be. But we haven’t tested it.”

  Mick chewed his lip for a few seconds. The WaveRam electrical generation system was not supposed to be unveiled until months later, but the entire Cascadia hotel complex was dark now and the most innovative source of p
ower in a decade was a mere switch-throw away. He could formalize the unveiling later, he reasoned. Right now, getting the lights back on was the only thing that really counted.

  “Turn it on. Let’s pray it works.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten minutes to build up enough pressure in the main hydraulic cylinders to start the generator. Twenty minutes before we can get the output generation frequencies stabilized and connected.”

  “Then get moving.”

  Mick replaced the receiver and turned to Nelms, feeling the need for a confidant—even one he wanted to strangle.

  “I’m going to have to use the WaveRam.”

  “I heard.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed you didn’t screw this one up, too.”

  Nelms winced at the verbal assault, but said nothing.

  Several hundred yards away, in the sophisticated interior of the Cascadia Island Operations Control Center, the director and three of his technicians hurriedly pulled up the carefully written prestart checklist for Mick Walker’s patented brainchild. The metal ram which was the apex of the huge concrete structure, once freed to operate, would be shoved by each concentrated wave against a huge piston filled with hydraulic fluid. When each wave subsided, valves would close, trapping the newly pressurized hydraulic fluid in a giant accumulator while gravity coursed new fluid into the ram and expanded it back to its original extension. The next wave would repeat the process, adding more pressure to the hydraulic system, which would eventually build to high enough levels to start turning and sustaining a hydraulically operated electrical generator.

  The director straightened up from peering at the computer screen and surveyed his men, pointing to one with a handlebar mustache. “All right, Bart, read the prestart items,” the director ordered.

  “Locking pins?”

  “Pins one through four retracted and secured. Pin five still in place.”

  “Input and output hydraulic valves one through six?”

  “Open.”

  “Runaround relief valve?”

  “Open.”

  Live, low-light closed-circuit television pictures of the WaveRam from various angles were on the flat screens on the front wall and inserted on each computer screen. An electronically generated diagram of the ram’s position filled a screen on the far right of the room.

  When the checklist was finished, they watched the readings monitoring the incoming waves, waiting for the last one to ebb far enough to permit a slow, safe start.

  “There it is. Remove pin five.”

  “Pin five removed.”

  The next wave could be seen building off shore, then flowing into the broad V-shaped concrete barrier system, concentrating itself as it accelerated in force and height toward the ram and impacted with a shudder.

  But this time the ram was moving backward, inward, and a different pattern of heavy vibrations coursed through the control center. Everyone was holding his breath as the ram reached full compression and the pressure readings confirmed that the energy transfer was already greater than advertised. The valve position lights changed and the ram began extending again as the next wave rose, then rolled in, shoving more pressure into the apparatus until Bart announced that they were at minimum operating pressures.

  “Okay. Here goes. Start the generator.”

  More commands were typed into the master keyboard and massive hydraulic valves motored open, the pressurized fluid coursing into the turbine, spinning it up faster and faster until the control boards were full of green lights and the crew began applying electrical loads, gingerly at first, then more energetically, throughout the island.

  And, as promised, nineteen minutes from the time he’d ordered it, electricity was once again flowing to Mick Walker’s Cascadia.

  CASCADIA HOTEL ROOF

  With a hand clamped firmly over Jimmy’s mouth to prevent further victory whoops, Bull rolled his eyes at Lester.

  “I hear a generator starting.”

  “Yeah,” Lester replied, searching the surrounding landscape in search of lights not attached to vehicles. “But everything’s still dark.”

  Jimmy was struggling against Bull’s grip and finally snatched his hand out of the way.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What the hell were you doing, Jimmy? Trying to alert everyone on this damn island where we were?”

  “Man, just celebrating.” He slapped Bull’s hand away. “You do that again and I’ll kick your ass.”

  “You’re not big enough to kick my ass, little man,” Bull shot back.

  “Chill, both of you,” Lester commanded, his eyes still scanning the horizon. “Over there!” he said, pointing toward the diesel noise. “Just one, but it’s somewhere over there.”

  “We’re out of C-4, Lester. Until we get to the other cache, we’ve got nothing left to blow it. And we need everything in that other cache to blow the casino.”

  “Yeah, well. An earthquake’s dropped one building already and we’ve taken care of the lights.”

  “Think we should go?” Jimmy asked.

  “Are we finished with the game plan, genius?” Lester shot back.

  “No.”

  “Then we’re not ready to go. You guys keep your eye on the target, okay? We don’t wanna kill anyone, but we want to destroy this jerk’s whole infrastructure.”

  “What?” Jimmy asked.

  “Infra—never mind. All the buildings on the island. We’ve been over this and over this. First the power, then the casino, then the sewage plant and water supplies. After they get everyone out of the hotel, we drop it, too.”

  “What the hell…” Bull was saying as he scanned the horizon.

  Lights were coming on again in the hotel beneath their feet as well as the casino across a courtyard.

  “Jeez, where’re they getting that juice?” Lester asked, standing, his hands on his hips. Bull and Jimmy followed suit.

  “You said that was everything, Lester,” Bull said. “All the generators, the main connection from the mainland. I’m an electrician, man, and that’s 220-base AC power if it’s a watt!”

  “Okay, look. I don’t frigging believe this! Let’s go back over it, okay?” Lester said, as a voice ten feet behind them rang out, full of nervousness and urgency.

  “Freeze!”

  Lester turned, spotting two uniformed guards, their guns drawn and pointed.

  “Hey, put those down, guys,” Lester said in true alarm, his hand out. We’re guests.”

  “Shut up! All three of you, on your knees! Put your hands on your heads. now!”

  Jimmy complied first with Bull and Lester following.

  “You’ve got this all wrong, man,” Lester said, blinking against the powerful beam from one of the flashlights playing in his eyes.

  There was a sound like a tape recorder being rewound, and suddenly Lester could hear a scratchy and distant version of his own voice being replayed.

  We’ve been over this and over this. First the power, then the casino, then the sewage plant and water supplies. After they get everyone out of the hotel, we drop it, too.

  The recording stopped.

  “You three are under arrest on so many charges I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Hey, you can’t arrest us! You’re just rent-a-cops.”

  “Sorry kid,” the other man was saying. “We’re deputized by the local sheriff’s department and we’re duly constituted police officers protecting a special district created by the legislature. In other words, we’re cops, you’re terrorists, and you’re busted big time!”

  PRESIDENTIAL SUITE

  “Where the hell is that helicopter?”

  Frank O’Brien tossed away the magazine he’d been flipping through and got to his feet with a disgusted sigh. The governor of Washington had been alternately sitting and pacing for the previous two hours while his wife napped in their bedroom, waiting for word that it was time to go. The first daughter’s be
droom door was still closed, and they had agreed not to wake her until the promised National Guard chopper was inbound.

  The state trooper named Billy had been on the phone almost the entire two hours, working his way down from the state adjutant general to the various National Guard commanders whose units were supposed to be able to respond in timely fashion.

  Billy turned to answer. “They’re diverting a Chinook to pick us up, sir.”

  “And why the hell wasn’t that done an hour ago?”

  “They were calling in the pilots, but I guess the only ones on alert were working on rescues elsewhere.”

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it? I’m effectively their commander and they can’t figure out how to get out here to pick me up when I order it? Outrageous.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m having someone’s head for this.”

  “The Chinook will be touching down at the heliport in twenty minutes, sir.”

  O’Brien nodded and moved quickly to the bedroom, throwing open the door.

  “Janet? Time to get up and get Lindy put together. We’re getting out of here.”

  “I’m awake,” the first lady replied.

  “Well, hurry.”

  Janet O’Brien emerged from the bedroom looking ruffled and walked the length of the huge, elegant Presidential Suite to the opposite bedroom door. She opened it and went inside, and Frank O’Brien could hear her calling for their daughter to wake up with no response. There was a rustle of bedcovers and an uncharacteristic oath before Janet appeared in the door way, her face dark with anger, holding a pillow with a blonde wig pulled around one end.

  “That’s it, Frank, that’s just it! She’s either going to a convent or I am!”

  At the opposite end of the new hotel complex, Doug Lam and Diane Lacombe walked off the elevator on the floor containing Mick Walker’s suite of offices just as Doug’s cell phone rang with Terry Griswold on the other end.

  “Doug, you’re still on the island, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to tell you something. The impact waveform from that barrier thing you found on the island has changed. The impact waves are markedly different now.”