anger at something, his sense of hopelessness.
Then, suddenly, they were on the ground. Ross zipped up the brown leather bomber jacket that bore the presidential seal and stepped into the cold air.
MEMPHIS
JANUARY 15
7:08 A.M.
JOHN ATKINS AND ELIZABETH HOLLERAN WATCHED the big helicopter slowly touch down, nose up, on the lawn of the earthquake center. Every geologist there had gathered along with a contingent of Memphis officials, including the mayor, a short, middle-aged man in a mud-splattered overcoat, who looked completely devastated. A squad of National Guard soldiers and Secret Service agents had fanned out around the perimeter of the landing zone.
It was the first time Atkins had seen the president in person. He was a bigger man than he’d expected and looked deadly serious as he stepped off the helicopter.
He recognized the president’s national science adviser, Steve Draper. He knew Draper, a physicist, by reputation—a solid researcher, who’d written one of the definitive college texts on physics. He’d hosted a well- received PBS documentary on recent scientific breakthroughs.
Draper broke away from the presidential entourage and approached Atkins and Elizabeth Holleran. He had longish sandy hair and looked younger than his age. He was nearly sixty and wore a thick parka with a hood.
“Are you John Atkins?” he asked.
Atkins nodded and introduced Holleran.
“Bob Holly at USGS said I should look you up when I got here,” Draper said. Holly was Atkins’ boss, one of the agency’s top men.
Draper asked Atkins whether they could talk privately for a few moments. He led him to the side of the library annex. He looked and sounded impatient.
“Just how bad is it?”
Atkins had anticipated the question as soon as he saw Draper start to head in his direction. He’d thought about how he should answer. In a matter-of-fact voice that surprised him, he heard himself say, “We could be heading for another big quake.”
Draper looked at him hard. “You’re willing to say that for the record?”
Atkins nodded. “At the very least, we’ve got to consider it as a possibility and run some scenarios.” He quickly briefed Draper on the new fault that had appeared in western Tennessee and Kentucky and the unusually strong aftershocks they were experiencing. “The way these new faults have opened up worries the hell out of me,” he said. “There’s got to be a lot of energy piled up down there.”
“Good Lord,” Draper said slowly, trying to comprehend what he’d just been told. It was much worse than he’d imagined. “Would you tell that to the president?”
“Yes,” Atkins said, knowing what he was doing, what he was risking.
Draper, understanding, squeezed Atkins by both shoulders. Then he walked off quickly, clutching a battered leather briefcase as he hurried after Nathan Ross.
Atkins explained to Holleran what had happened.
“I’ll support you,” she said. She’d guessed what they’d been talking about and had noticed at one point in the brief conversation how Draper’s face had suddenly tightened. She knew what had happened: he’d just been told what they were up against.
“Thanks, but no sense both of us sticking our necks out,” Atkins said, smiling gratefully. “Let’s just see how it goes.”
They joined the other scientists in the annex library. There were no preliminaries. Everyone was seated around tables that had been shoved together to form a U. The president sat near the front. Someone had given him a paper cup with steaming coffee.
Atkins got his first up-close look at Nathan Ross. The man’s eyes were red, dark-rimmed, the cheeks sallow. He was slumped back, holding the cup with both hands. He appeared utterly exhausted.
Paul Weston summarized what they knew—and what they didn’t. “We still need to gather a lot more data,” he said, concluding his brief presentation.
The president, who’d listened quietly, asked a single question. “Do you think we’re going to have another major earthquake down here any time soon?”
Taken aback by the president’s bluntness, Weston stammered, “That’s hard to say, Mister President. “We’re only starting to get—”
Ross impatiently raised a hand to cut him off. “I want your personal opinion, doctor. Your best guess as an expert. What do you think’s going to happen on the New Madrid Seismic Zone?”
Weston tried to hedge, but again Ross pressed him hard for his opinion. He was insistent and totally focused. Cornered, Weston finally said, “Mister President, I’m sorry. I can’t answer that. I don’t want to guess or speculate on something like this. I want to deal with facts, and we just don’t have enough of them to answer your question.”
When the president pressed them for their views, most of the other seismologists agreed with Weston’s assessment. They were professionally loath to make any predictions. Several bluntly told the president it would be unethical for them to try to do so. Like Weston, they insisted they needed more data.
Weston’s assistant. Stan Marshal, spoke about the need to set up more seismic instruments along the fault that had been discovered near Caruthersville. Missouri.
Atkins noticed how the big man glanced at Weston as if looking for guidance.
As he had with Weston, Ross interrupted Marshal in midsentence. “Let me ask you the same question I just put to Doctor Weston. Do you think we’re going to have another earthquake?”
Marshal shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
“I didn’t ask what you know, doctor,” Ross snapped. He had a sharp, lashing voice and looked increasingly angry. “I asked you what you think, your opinion. There’s a difference.”
Marshal didn’t respond. He sat back in his chair and shook his head.
Atkins was struck again by how physically exhausted Ross looked. Only the eyes showed any life. They were animated, boring, intense.
The president slowly surveyed the faces of those seated around him. “We’ve had one magnitude 8.4 earthquake and the ground, forgive me in this shrine to Elvis, keeps rocking and rolling. I’ve been informed about the three big quakes that occurred early in the last century. Does anyone here think we’re in for a repeat performance? Yes or no? I’ll settle for your best guess, anything.”
No one raised a hand. Atkins wasn’t surprised. He understood that Weston wasn’t being an obstructionist on this issue. He was merely voicing the real concerns of the scientific majority. Offering an opinion that proved wrong in such dire circumstances would be a professional death sentence. You simply didn’t risk such a thing without a lot of careful thought and soul searching. But there was no time for any of that. The president wanted an answer. Now.
Ross crumpled his empty coffee cup and angrily threw it against the wall. “You’re the goddamned experts. You’re supposed to weigh the pros and cons and offer an opinion. I need some kind of prediction, and if you don’t like that word, call it a risk assessment. The people who live here need it, deserve it. Is that too much to ask? Are we going to have another major earthquake?”
Draper spoke up. He was standing behind the president taking detailed notes.
“Doctor Atkins, what do you think?”
It had been much easier to offer an opinion outside. Atkins decided to keep it short and simple. “From the data I’ve seen, the way the fault keeps expanding, yes, I think we’ve got to consider the likelihood of another high-magnitude earthquake. It would be negligence on our part not to.”
Ross shot a glance at Steve Draper. Staring straight at Atkins, the president said, “Do you think another major quake is likely?”
