Richter 10, Page 3

  The laughter of the newsies mingled with the whir of dozens of CD cams. Crane merely smiled until his audience settled again into attentive silence. “Attempts to predict earthquakes have been made, I suspect, since man first felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. So long the province of the shaman and the Cassandra, earthquake prediction remained a low priority for the scientific minds of our age… until that fateful, that cataclysmic moment in our history.”

  Even before Crane could speak the name of that fearful event, the crowd let out the now ritual response to its mention: a long, low moan, a keening mantra, and the swallowed last syllable. Ahh-hh, men.

  “Yes,” Crane dared to continue, “the exercise of the Masada Option caused research on earthquake prediction, like so many other things, to become vitally important and desperately urgent. Yet, until now, precise prediction was not possible. I come before you to make official and firm the prediction I’ve been discussing these four long weeks here: Before this day is out, a quake of between seven and eight on the Richter Scale will destroy a significant portion of this island and all of the village of Aikawa.”

  The newsies gobbled like turkeys. Crane let them react for a few moments, then waved them to silence. “How can I make this precise prediction is a long and complex story, only a few highlights of which we have time to share with you now. My chief assistant and valued colleague, Dr. Daniel Newcombe, reminds me to tell you that we are not in a safe place—”

  There was laughter again, but it was nervous laughter, edged with hysteria in some.

  “We have a few minutes, however, before all of us must leave for the secure location identified by Dr. Newcombe. We’ll use our time here to go over a few things.” Crane could feel minute tremors, but knew he was unique in that. “First, let’s look at the well from which the prisoners who worked this gold mine over a hundred years ago got their water. As we move to the well, Dr. Newcombe will begin giving you some explanation of what we’re all about today.”

  “Science is research,” Newcombe said, Crane noticing the authority that always crept into the man’s speech when he had control of a crowd. “By studying the past, we learn the future. By knowing the geology of a given area and researching past temblors in similar terrain, I’ve developed a system I call seismic ecology, or EQ-eco, the earthquake’s way of remapping any given ecosystem. I have mathematically calculated the effects of a Richter seven epicentered on the Kuril subduction trench twenty K from this island and have mapped an area on the plain above us that I believe will not be affected by the quake. When it happens, we should all be up there, not here in the valley.”

  “Some of our techniques may seem like magic,” Crane said, simplifying, always simplifying, “but many are as old as civilization. There are five predictive signs of an earthquake that will show up in a well. Take turns peering in as I describe them to you.”

  People lined up, shoving, to check out the well, the sun now rising high enough that light spilled in. Newcombe moved close to Crane.

  “We’ve got to get these people out of here right now,” he said, his voice rasping. He grabbed Crane’s good arm. “I think I just felt another foreshock.”

  “You did,” Crane replied, smiling. “But it’s still waiting, our big fish, still straining. Another few minutes here, then we’ll lead them out.”

  “Sign one… increased cloudiness in the water,” Crane said to murmuring all around. “Then turbulence… then bubbling….”

  “It’s doing that!” a woman said, her voice harsh, loud with anxiety.

  Good. He had them, Crane thought. Then he said, “Changes in the water level. And for what it’s worth, the level is eighteen inches lower than when we measured yesterday.

  “Finally,” he said, drawing up the heavy string to which a cup was attached, “bitterness in the water.”

  He handed the cup to a man wearing a 3-D steadicam helmet, gesturing for him to drink. The man took a tentative sip, then gagged and spat out the water.

  “Bitterness.” Crane lowered his voice to add, “There is a saying that applies to life and earthquakes: The wheel grinds slowly, but exceedingly fine. The giant wheel of Mother Earth and its massive movements is going to grind up this island today. And there’s nothing all the power of Man can do to stop it.”

  “Crane!” Newcombe said sharply. “The sky!”

  Everyone looked up. The morning sky was turning a ruddy orange with the increased electrical activity on the ground. It was happening. Crane could feel it pulsating through him, playing him like an instrument. The whole world was changing for them.

  “My friends,” Crane said, “you must follow us quickly up to the base camp. It’s the only place you’ll be safe. Those of you in helos might want to view this from the air. It will be… spectacular. Let’s go!”

  He ran with Newcombe and King to the truck, Lanie jamming herself between them on the small bench seat.

  “God, we’re cutting this close,” Newcombe said. He touched the control pad and the truck peeled out quickly, other vehicles scrambling in disorder behind, mud flying everywhere. He glared at Lanie. “We can still get you on a helo.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, doctor,” she said without looking at him. “I have complete faith in your calculations.”

  “It’s good drama,” Crane said. “People running for their lives, running to the only safety that exists for them, safety that we have provided. This is going to be great.”

  “What about the villagers?” Lanie asked. “Can’t we warn them, too?”

  “I’ve done nothing but warn them,” Crane said, turning to face her, smiling when he saw she was flushed with excitement. “They threw me out of Aikawa three days ago and threatened to have me arrested if I came back. Their fate can’t be helped.”

  “There must be something we can do.”

  Crane looked at his watch. “We’ve got about a hundred and twenty seconds,” he said. “I’m wide open for suggestions. Hit me with an idea.”

  Her mind racing, but failing to churn out a single practical suggestion, Lanie put her hand on Newcombe’s shoulder. “Dan?”

  The truck was fishtailing up the hillside and demanded Newcombe’s attention. Finally, though, he was able to respond. “We’re here to watch people die,” he said coldly, “so that the Crane Foundation can raise more money for research.”

  Lanie gasped as if struck and glanced quickly at Crane to see his reaction. He seemed perfectly composed, untouched by the comment.

  “He’s right,” Crane said. But what Crane didn’t say, although he’d realized it at that second, was the extent of the fatalism in his character revealed by Newcombe’s lack of it. It was a quality, Crane suspected, that Newcombe would never develop. Still, he knew there were great similarities between them. While both felt the horror, they also felt the exultation of what was to come. And the latter was as ugly as it was paradoxical.

  The truck sped through the camp in the direction of the Sea of Japan. Crane’s left arm throbbed like a beating heart; images swirled through his mind of crashing buildings, trapped people, firestorms. The pain and turmoil threatened to overwhelm him and he summoned all his energies to fight his demons, bring them down to calm, and to swallow the sword of self-doubt.

  Newcombe took them within twenty feet of the plain’s sheer drop-off to the sea below, then directed the truck to halt. Crane could hear a distant rumble and knew they had barely a minute. He climbed out, his mind all centered, all controlled, as other vehicles skidded up near them. A jumble of people filled the plain.

  He walked with Newcombe and King to the edge of the cliff and looked down. One hundred meters below, nestled between the rock face upon which they stood and the sea beyond, sat the village of Aikawa. Several hundred wooden buildings with colorful red roofs hugged the horseshoe-shaped coastline in picturesque tranquillity. The small fleet of fishing boats had already put out to sea, their sailors, no doubt, wondering about the orange sky. The villagers were approaching the last day o
f their lives as they had approached every day that had gone before. Children’s laughter, real or imagined, drifted up to him.

  “Crane-san.”

  Crane turned toward the source of the angry voice. Matsu Motiba, the mayor of Aikawa, impeccably dressed in a black suit and solid silver tie was flanked by men in uniform.

  “Good morning, Mayor Motiba,” Crane said, looking past him to the hundred or more people jammed up behind him. Pressing the voice enhancement icon on his wristpad, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen! As you see, yellow lines have been painted on the plain. For your protection, please stay within the lines. I cannot guarantee your safety otherwise.”

  “It is time for this charade to end,” Motiba said.

  “I quite agree, sir. It is time.”

  “What,” the mayor said, uncharacteristically sarcastic, “no desperate pleas for evacuation, no horror stories to frighten us?”

  “It’s too late,” Crane said solemnly. “There’s nothing I can do for you now except help with the survivors.”

  The mayor sighed deeply and took a piece of paper from a lieutenant in a white parade uniform with a logo that read Liang Int on the shoulders. “This is an urgent official communiqué from the government on the mainland.” He handed it to Crane. “You are to disband your campsite and leave this island immediately. Your credentials and your permits have been revoked.”

  Shaking his head, Crane looked up. Hot air balloons filled the skies; the helos zipping around the balloons dipped down like birds of prey to shoot footage of the village. He could certainly understand the mayor’s feelings.

  “Do you hear me, Crane-san? You must leave now.”

  The paper fluttered from Crane’s nerveless fingers, his gaze going to the sea. The flying fishes, one of Sado’s most famous sights, were jumping crazily, throwing themselves onto the beach.

  He glanced at the mayor. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he murmured. “Gomen nasai. Fate has decreed that today you will be a survivor. Believe me when I tell you that it is no blessing.” Then he looked past the mayor and addressed the crowd. “You may be able to hear the rumble now. Gather as close as you’re able, because you must stay within the lines.”

  Crane then turned back to Aikawa, his body growing tense and still, a trance engulfing him. The noise and commotion around him receded into the void of bleak silence within. Time and again he’d walked to the edge of his own sanity, challenging his fears and his anger, wondering when the monster of the Earth would devour him. He hated what was happening, hated it with a passion that would tear most men to pieces.

  The waterspouts began hundreds of meters from shore, the ocean heaving, throwing two dozen geysers fifty feet into the air. Motiba, who’d been grabbing at Crane’s sleeve, had stopped and was staring transfixed. The spouts came closer to land, exploding out of the water as the inhabitants of Aikawa understood at last that Lewis Crane was no madman, no vicious hoaxster, but a seer, a modern-day Cassandra whose warnings they had foolishly, blindly, tragically refused to heed.

  The ships in the harbor were tossing and tearing away from their moorings, capsizing, and being hurled into the village streets. Another hand was clutching at Crane. He quickly gazed to his left. Elena King was locked onto his bad arm, her face a study in shocked surprise. He couldn’t feel her touch, though her fingers dug into his clothing and her knuckles were white with strain. The spouts reached land, the rumbling sound growing louder and louder until the roar turned into booming ground thunder. The sea was a maelstrom that spat sand high into the orange sky. And then the quake hit.

  Seabed sucked into the subduction zone beneath the Eurasian Plate, then jerked the surface of the ground with it, feeding a chunk of the Pacific Plate back into the furnace of the planet’s core. Bedrock, grinding to dust, collapsed in upon itself; great rents and tears in the skin of the earth widened into mouths that gulped the boulders, people, trees, buildings, and boats near its lips.

  The plain danced violently beneath them, and Crane hoped against hope that he hadn’t misplaced his trust in Newcombe to map the paths of destruction—and, thus, the small, safe place upon which they stood. Below, the villagers who had not been crushed and trapped within their houses had escaped to the streets, their screams rising to join those of the people watching in horror with Crane. The mayor was crying out. And behind, Mount Kimpoku was busily rising another twenty meters into the air while the ancient mines Crane had just visited fell in upon themselves, erasing forever the carved records of those who had suffered there. Sheets of volcanic rock slid into the sea, screaming against the morning. Sado Island was disintegrating all around them.

  The motion of the earth changed to a wild swivel, hurling the people around Crane onto the hard-packed dirt plain as the village below disappeared in rubble and a fine mist of ocean spray. The rending of the island, Japan’s sixth largest, was stentorian, the sound of a dying animal bellowing in rage and sorrow that brought tears to Crane’s eyes. He remembered… he remembered. And he knew that even worse was to come.

  Only Lanie still stood beside him, her deathgrip on his arm the sole sign of the ultimate fear that comes with understanding of the true powerlessness of mankind. “Courage,” he whispered to her.

  And then perdition stopped. Ninety seconds after it had begun, the Earth had finished realigning itself and deathly quiet reigned. Slowly people began to shake themselves off, to stand up, to look around in awe and shock. The island was half as large now as it had been a minute and a half before. Landmarks had disappeared or moved. Nothing was the same. Nothing would be the same.

  Miraculously, there were survivors below. They, too, were shaking themselves off, picking themselves up. Emergency teams began to mobilize for the trip down to what had been Aikawa with fresh water, medical supplies. Motiba stared in stupefied horror at the remnants of his life; his glasses were askew on his face, his eyes distant, unfocused.

  “I must… go,” he said softly. “To my people… I must—”

  “No,” Crane said. “You cannot go down there yet.”

  The man ignored him and ran back through the crowd.

  “Stop him!” Crane yelled. “Bring him back! All of you, hold your places. Look to the shoreline!”

  They looked. The Sea of Japan had receded hundreds of meters from the island, leaving it high and dry, a seabed full of writhing fish and of boats drowned in mud.

  Two Red Cross workers dragged the struggling Motiba back to Crane’s side. “Let go,” he shouted, hysterical now. “Why do you hold me?”

  Gently, Crane patted the man’s trembling shoulder, then pointed out to sea. “We hold you because if you go down, you will be killed. See!”

  A mountain of water was racing toward the island from several kilometers out… rushing to fill the void caused when the heaving of the Earth had shoved it back.

  “Tsunami, ladies and gentlemen,” Crane said calmly, too aware of the cams and very careful not to betray the horror that gripped his soul. There was time now, a few minutes only, perhaps, to speak as if all were normal. “After it subsides, we will go down and look for survivors. I trust that you representatives of the news media will pitch in and lend a hand.”

  He turned to see Newcombe putting his arm around Elena King. Crane pulled her hand from his dead arm and gave her completely over to Newcombe. “You did a good job on the location, Dan. Let’s just hope we’re up high enough.”

  “How can you be so calm?” Newcombe’s emotions were in shreds, his voice the growl of a hurt animal. “Those are people down there… and they’re dying.”

  “Someone has to keep his head.”

  “What kind of goddamned Cassandras are we?”

  “Get used to it, doctor,” Crane said. “This is merely the beginning.”

  “But why?”

  Crane ignored him and turned to Motiba, the man completely broken down, crying silently. He took the mayor in his arms, clutching him tightly. “You must be strong, Motiba-san,” he whispered.

  “L
et me die with them,” the mayor pleaded as the water charged them, roaring, grasping.

  “No,” Crane said simply. “Someone must live… to remember.”

  Eating the screams of the survivors on the plain, the tsunami assaulted them first… then the water, advancing like a juggernaut from all sides, slamming into Sado Island, reached higher, climbing. The wall of water smacked the land like a monstrous hand of God. The people on the plain turned as one and fled as a pack as far back as they could until the water crested and gushed over the top, reaching them and driving them down onto the ground. Waves carried pieces of broken buildings and bodies, crushed cars and uprooted trees. Churning thick with the debris of life, the water poured over Crane, boards banging against him. After the first deluge, the water proved to be shallow. Crane huddled on the muddy, pool-speckled ground, hands over his head, just as he’d done when he was seven years old.

  He hunched there, shivering in fear until the water fully subsided, then climbed to his feet to look with horror at the dead spread over the plain. Many of his own party had been hurt by the tidal scum that had washed so high over the island. And he noticed that the Red Cross workers were tending to their own first.

  While most people were dazed, many of the camheads were already up and rolling viddy. And it hit him then that he’d done it. Given the world the show. Everything Sumi Chan had advised him they needed to get the publicity, the funds, the aura of authority to attach to him so that he could do the work that was his life. And in that moment of great tragedy, he knew great triumph. Oh, yes, he thought cynically, horror made sensational copy. And what better than this?

  He spotted Burt Hill and called him over. “Organize the aid teams to go down to what’s left of the village,” he ordered. “Pull it all together.”