Deep Fathom

Page 3

One of the Englishmen spoke, drawn by Jimmy’s shocked outburst. “I thought the borealis wasn’t seen this time of year.”
“It’s not,” Jimmy answered quietly.
The Englishwoman, Eileen, moved closer to Jimmy, a camera glued to her face. “It’s beautiful. Almost better than the eclipse.”
“The solar flares must be causing this,” her companion answered. “Showering the upper atmosphere with energized particles.”
Jimmy remained silent. To the Inuit, the appearance of the Northern Lights was fraught with omens and significance. A borealis in the summer was considered a harbinger of disaster.
As if hearing his inner thought, the totem trembled under Jimmy’s palm. Nanook began to whine, something his dog never did.
“Is the ground shaking?” Eileen asked, finally lowering her camera with a look of concern.
As answer, a violent quake suddenly shook the island. With a stifled scream, Eileen fell to her hands and knees. The two Englishmen went to her aid.
Jimmy kept his feet, fingers still clutching the wooden totem.
“What are we going to do?” the woman screamed.
“It’ll be fine,” her friend consoled. “We’ll ride it out.”
Jimmy stared at the islands, bathed in that otherworldly light. Oh God. He whispered a prayer of thanks that his son had left for the mainland.
Out in the Pacific, the most distant islands of the Aleutian chain were sinking into the depths, like gigantic sea beasts submerging under the waves. At long last the gods of the sea had come to claim these islands.
4:44 P.M. PST (10:44 A.M. Local Time)
Hagatna, Territory of Guam
In the garden atrium of the governor’s mansion, Jeffrey Hessmire stared in awe at the total eclipse of the sun. Though he had seen partial eclipses during his twenty-six years, he had never witnessed a total one. The island of Guam had been chosen for the summit because of its position as the only American territory in the path of full totality.
Jeffrey was thrilled at the chance to witness this rare sight. He had finished typing and photocopying the Secretary of State’s notes with enough time left over to catch the tail end of the solar spectacle.
Wearing a pair of cheap eclipse-viewing glasses, Jeffrey stood with the other U.S. delegates by the west entrance to the gardens. The Chinese faction huddled on the far side of the atrium. There was little mingling between the two groups, as if the Pacific still separated them.
Ignoring the tension in the atrium, Jeffrey continued to watch the sun’s corona flare in violent bursts around the shadowed moon. A few of the flares jetted far into the dark sky.
A voice spoke at his shoulder. “Wondrous, isn’t it?”
Jeffrey turned to find the President directly behind him again. “President Bishop!” Jeffrey began to take off his glasses.
“Leave them on. Enjoy the view. Another is not expected for two decades.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
Jeffrey slowly returned to his study of the sky.
The President, also staring up, spoke softly at his side. “To the Chinese, an eclipse is a warning that the tides of fate are about to change significantly—either for the better or the worse.”
“It will be for the better,” Jeffrey answered. “For both our peoples.”
President Bishop clapped him on the shoulder. “The optimism of youth. I should have you speak to the Vice President.” He finished the statement with a derisive snort.
Jeffrey understood this response. Lawrence Nafe, the Vice President, held his own views on how to handle one of the last Communist strongholds. While outwardly supporting Bishop’s diplomatic attempt to resolve the Chinese situation, behind the scenes Nafe argued for a more aggressive stance.
“You’ll succeed in ironing out an agreement,” Jeffrey said. “I’m sure of it.”
“There’s that damned optimism again.” The President began to turn away, nodding at a signal from the Secretary of State. With a tired sigh, he clapped Jeffrey on the shoulder again. “It seems it’s time once again to try mending fences between our two countries.”
As President Bishop stepped away, the ground started to shake underfoot.
Jeffrey felt the President’s grip on his shoulder tighten. Both men fought to keep their feet. “Earthquake!” Jeffrey yelled.
All around them the sound of breaking glass rattled. Jeffrey looked up, shielding his face with an arm. All the windows of the governor’s mansion had shattered. Several members of the delegation, those nearest the walls of the atrium, were on the ground, lacerated and bleeding amid the shower of shards.
Jeffrey thought to go to their aid, but he feared abandoning the President. Across the atrium, the Chinese members of the summit were fleeing inside the governor’s mansion, seeking shelter.
“Mr. President, we need to get you to safety,” Jeffrey said.
The rumbling grew worse underfoot. An ice sculpture of a long-necked swan toppled.
Flanked by two burly Secret Service agents, the Secretary of State fought his way through the terrified crowd to join them. Once there, Tom Elliot grabbed the President’s elbow. He had to yell to be heard above the rumbling and crashing. “C’mon, Dan, let’s get you back to Air Force One. If this island’s coming apart, I want you out of here.”
Bishop shook off the man’s hand. “But I can’t leave—”
Somewhere to the east there was a loud explosion, drowning out all conversation. A fireball blew into the sky.
Jeffrey spoke up first. “Sir, you have to go.”
The President’s face remained tight with concern and worry. Jeffrey knew the man had served in Vietnam and was not one to run from adversity.
“You must,” Tom added. “You can’t risk yourself, Dan. You don’t have that luxury anymore…not since you took the oath of office.”
The President bowed under the weight of their argument. The temblors grew worse; cracks skittered up the brick walls of the mansion.
“Fine. Let’s go,” he said tightly. “But I feel like a coward.”
“I ordered the limo to meet you out back,” the Secretary said, then turned to Jeffrey as the President strode away with the pair of Secret Service agents in tow. “Stay with Bishop. Get him on board that plane.”
“What…what about you?”
Tom backed a step away. “I’m going to round up as many of our delegation as possible and herd them to the airport.” But before he turned away, he fixed Jeffrey with a stern stare. “Make sure that plane takes off if there is even the slightest risk of trapping the President here. Don’t wait for us.”
Jeffrey swallowed hard and nodded, then hurried off.
Once at the President’s side, Jeffrey heard the man mumble as he stared at the eclipsed sun, “It seems the Chinese were right.”
iii
And the Aftermath
6:45 P.M. Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco, California
As night neared, Doreen McCloud worked her way through the broken asphalt toward Russian Hill. Rumors told of a Salvation Army refugee camp up there. She prayed it was true. Thirsty, hungry, she shivered in the cold as the eternal fog of the bay crept over the ravaged city. The earthquakes had finally ended, except for the occasional aftershock, but the damage had been done.
Exhausted, legs trembling, Doreen glanced over her shoulder and stared out at what once had been a handsome city shining above the bay. The stench of smoke and soot clung to everything. Fires underlit the mists, creating a reddish halo over the devastation. From here, San Francisco lay shattered all the way to the water. Huge chasms cracked the city, as if a giant hammer had struck.
Emergency sirens still echoed, but there was nothing left to save. Only a handful of buildings were undamaged. Most others lay toppled or stood with their facades fallen away to reveal the ravaged rooms within.
Doreen had grown numb to the number of bodies she had crossed on her way to higher ground. Bleeding from a scalp wound, she had escaped almost unscathed, but her heart ached for the families gathered around burned homes and broken bodies. But she shared the one feature she saw in all she passed—eyes deadened from pain and shock.
A flare of light appeared atop the next hill—not fire, but clear, white light. Hope surged. Surely this was the Salvation Army’s camp. She continued onward, her stomach growling, her pace hurried.
Oh please…
She climbed and crawled her way forward. Rounding an overturned bus, she came upon the source of the bright light. A crowd of men, dirty and ash-fouled, were digging through the remains of a hardware store. They had a crate of flashlights open and were passing them around.
As night rapidly approached, a source of light would be essential.
Doreen stumbled toward them. Perhaps they would give her one.
Two of the men glanced her way. She met their gazes, mouth open to ask for aid, then saw the hardness in their eyes.
She stopped, realizing that the men wore identical clothes. There were numbers stitched across their backs under the words: CALIFORNIA MUNICIPAL PENAL SYSTEM. Convicts. Wide grins spread across the men’s faces.
She turned to flee but found one of the escaped prisoners standing behind her. She tried to strike him, but he knocked her arm aside and slapped her on the face, hard, driving her to her knees.
Blinded by pain and shock, Doreen heard the approach of others behind her. “No,” she moaned, curling into a ball.
“Leave her,” one of them barked. “We don’t have time. We wanna be out of this fuckin’ city before the National Guard hauls in here.”
Grumbles met this response, but Doreen heard the scuff of heels as her attackers backed away. She started crying, relieved and terrified.
The leader stepped in front of her.
Teary-eyed, she lifted her face, ready to thank him for his mercy. Instead, she found herself staring into the muzzle of a handgun. The leader yelled back toward the ravaged store, “Grab any extra ammo! And don’t forget the camp stoves and butane!” Without ever looking down at her, he pulled the trigger.