He’d insisted on it and taken the heat for the modest extra expense. Now he was vindicated. The quake had destroyed the telephone and cell phone systems, knocking over relay towers and snapping land lines. Communications had broken down throughout the Mississippi Valley.
Without the shortwave, Jacobs wouldn’t have been able to talk to the two geologists closest to the quake’s epicenter.
But this was no time for self-congratulation. It took him nearly an hour before he was finally able to raise Atkins on the radio. Noticing the red light blinking on its console, Elizabeth had switched it on as Atkins changed into dry clothing in the back of the Explorer.
Jacobs got right to the point.
“It was a magnitude 8.4,” he said, his voice strained. “It hit at exactly 2:16 in the morning. The epicenter was five miles west of Blytheville, Arkansas. That puts it at the northwestern axis of the new fault that runs south beyond Memphis.”
Atkins slid into the front seat. He’d heard what Jacobs had said about the magnitude. He wasn’t surprised.
“Do you think you two can get over to the epicenter?” Jacobs asked.
“If we can find a way across the river,” Atkins said. “Any chance of getting a helicopter?”
“None,” Jacobs said. Civilian and military helicopters—anything that could fly—were making emergency medical rescues. They were already overwhelmed.
It was absolutely essential they get instruments set up near the epicenter as soon as possible. Strong motion seismographs would help pinpoint the locations of the aftershocks and determine the depth of the focal point. By recording the distribution and pattern of the aftershocks, they could estimate the potential for more damage.
“In case you can’t, we’ve got some more options,” Jacobs said. “They’ve got some strong motion seismographs at Arkansas State University over at Jonesboro. I’m sure they’ll be setting them up as soon as they can get into the field. I know two of the seismologists over there. They’re only forty miles from the epicenter, and they’re good people, so don’t try anything stupid trying to get there. John. We’ll be all right.”
The transmission started to break up with static. The radio went silent for a few moments. When Jacobs came back on the air, Elizabeth said, “What’s happening in Memphis?”
There was another burst of ground static. When it cleared, Jacobs said, “Memphis as we knew it no longer exists.” He made no attempt to conceal his emotion. “You have no idea what it’s—”
The voice was suddenly lost in static. Elizabeth glanced at Atkins.
“As I look out my office window on Cottage Avenue, I can see fires to the east,” Jacobs said. “I can hear sirens all over the city. Most of the university buildings have been heavily damaged.” The library, dormitories, and student center had been shaken to pieces.
“Our own building is missing part of its northern wall,” Jacobs said. He started to mention Kim So and lost it.
Slumping back in his chair, it took him a few moments before he could trust his voice over the air.
One of their best graduate students, Kim had been in the computer office early that morning, crunching data about the New Madrid Seismic Zone. A piece of the brick chimney had fallen through the roof, crushing her skull. They’d found her lying near her computer.
“Walt, how’s your family?” Atkins asked. He remembered that Jacobs had told him his wife and daughter lived in the city.
“I don’t know,” Jacobs answered. His throat was so dry he could hardly speak. “I haven’t been able to get through to them. It’s a brick house, John. A goddamned brick house, and I’m a seismologist. I’m supposed to know better!”
Then, for a few minutes, they lost contact with Memphis.
“Where did he say the epicenter was?” Atkins asked. He had a topo map spread across his lap and a dome light on.
“Just west of Blytheville.” Elizabeth had already checked the map. The epicenter was about fifty miles south of New Madrid, the focal point of the first of the massive quakes in 1811-1812.
Atkins looked for the closest bridge across the Mississippi. There was one at a small town in extreme southern Missouri. Caruthersville. Crossing to the Tennessee side of the river near Dyersburg, it was about forty miles southwest of Mayfield and ninety miles north of Memphis.
Atkins wondered if the bridge was still standing.
NEAR RAITLAND, KENTUCKY
JANUARY 13
3:00 A.M.
BOBBY MITCHELL STARED OUT THE PATROL CAR’S rear window. They’d just rounded a curve, hugging the west shoreline of the Tennessee River, which flowed through a deep valley cut. Bobby was watching for the first sight of the flood wall.
“What do you see, boy?” the sheriff shouted, his eyes locked on the blacktop. He was driving dangerously fast. From the highway, it was a one-hundred-foot drop through trees straight to the river. They were racing toward Raitland, Kentucky, the next town in the path of the flood surge. Paducah was only fifteen miles away.
“I can’t see anything,” Bobby shouted.
“You sure can hear it,” the sheriff said. He had his window down. The approaching flood was a steady roar in the distance.
Lauren was trying not to think about what had happened at Gilbertsville. She wanted to block it forever out of her mind. There was no way the town, or anyone in it, could have survived that massive wall of water.
At Hessel’s urging, she tried to raise the police dispatcher in Raitland. The radio scanner mounted on the dashboard of the car hissed static. Lauren pressed the search button. A woman’s voice came on the air.
“That’ll be Georgetta Williams,” Hessel said. “Tell her to put her husband Bob on. Let me talk to him.”
Lauren did so. There was a long burst of static. “Bob’s dead,” the woman said in a dull monotone. “He’s lying out in the street. A power line fell on him.”
“There’s a flood coming your way, Georgetta,” Hessel said, grabbing the microphone. “The dam broke at Kentucky Lake. You’ve got to get out of there.”
The woman’s shrill laughter stunned Lauren. Coming over the static of the police radio, it sounded disembodied, ripped from her soul.
“Sure,” she said, still laughing hysterically. “I’ll go get my husband, and we’ll get the car and leave.”
The radio clicked off.
Hessel punched the gas pedal. The patrol car’s high beams were boring into the darkness. He was racing straight down the yellow lane divider. He could tell the softer aftershocks by the way the car vibrated. He felt the shaking in the steering wheel.
They hit Raitland a few minutes later, turning off the highway and heading down a long, steep street, their siren going full blast. Most of the town was laid out on a crescent-shaped plateau just above the river.
Lauren leaned out the window with the bullhorn.
“Evacuate now! The dam’s gone at Kentucky Lake!”
She kept repeating the warning as the sheriff maneuvered through the wreckage. The damage was extensive. Just like Gilbertsville, Raitland was a wasteland of broken glass, shattered brick walls, and collapsed buildings.
Lauren realized it was useless. Those who even heard her warning were too disoriented or stunned to respond. And there wasn’t time. The flood would hit them within minutes. The town was going to be swept away.
An elderly woman ran into the street right in front of them, waving her arms. Hessel braked hard, barely missing her.
“Lou!” the woman screamed. “It’s Dave. You’ve got to help me.”
The sheriff climbed out of the car. “Is that you, Mary Beth?” It was the wife of his cousin, Dave.
Seeing her more closely, Elizabeth realized the woman wasn’t elderly at all. Early thirties. She looked older
