As she listened, an oppressive gloom settled over Elizabeth. The complex network of faults and fractures indicated a large amount of strain energy was still in the ground.
“Can you tell us, estimate, how much energy’s been released?” she asked.
Thompson had been waiting for that question. He knew the answer was going to hit hard.
“Our analysis suggests the release of slightly less than 10 ergs of energy to the twenty-fourth power.” An erg was a standard unit of energy.
“Impossible!” Weston exploded.
It meant the 8.4 event had released about as much energy as the daily consumption rate for the entire United States or about as much as the stupendous volcanic eruption at Krakatau in 1883, which darkened the earth’s atmosphere for years with ash and dirt. Only the 1960 Chilean earthquake, a magnitude 8.6, had released more energy, but its range was much smaller. Several hundred miles compared with more than a thousand for New Madrid’s 8.4.
Thompson put it in perspective with another image he projected on the wall. “If the amount of energy released in a magnitude 3 earthquake were represented as a marble, the quake we just had would be a hot air balloon.”
“And the ground’s still shaking,” Elizabeth said, almost to herself. It was hard to understand how any energy could remain after such a massive earthquake and the chain of strong aftershocks.
Walt Jacobs pulled down a wall chart he’d used for lectures. It described, step by step, the chronology of the three great quakes of 1811-1812.
Atkins was distressed to see how much his friend had slipped physically. He looked like he’d lost weight, especially in his thin face. He hadn’t shaved for days, and the beard and dark, sunken eyes gave him a wild, unkempt look. He seemed to be moving in a fog. Just before the meeting, Atkins had found him sitting at a desk, staring into space. He asked whether he’d heard from his wife. Jacobs shook his head. He looked scared. Atkins knew he’d been waiting to hear. There was still no word.
“The first event, the one of December 16, 1811, was conservatively estimated to be in the magnitude 8.1 to 8.3 range,” Jacobs said. As soon as he began to talk, the fatigue seemed to fall off him. He was animated, well spoken. “We’ve estimated that single quake and related aftershocks released only half of the strain energy stored in the fault zone. Only half, ladies and gentlemen.”
Elizabeth whispered to Atkins, “I don’t know if I want to hear the rest of this.”
“Then the second big quake hit on January 23, 1812,” Jacobs continued. “Research indicates it was another magnitude 8-plus event. Like the first one, the shock waves were felt from the Rockies to the East Coast. We believe it released about sixteen percent of the available strain energy.”
So there was still a ton left in the ground, Atkins thought. It was almost unbelievable.
“Again, there was another flurry of severe aftershocks,” Jacobs said. “Then another big one hit. The last in the sequence. It struck at 3:45 on the morning of February 7. A dip slip rupture that radiated over the entire Reelfoot Rift. It’s been variously estimated as high as a magnitude 8.6 and as low as an 8.1.”
Jacobs looked out at the assembled faces. They were hanging on his every word. “The only point I’m trying to make is that plenty of seismic energy remained locked in the ground after the first quake in the sequence.”
Weston stood, shaking his head. “That’s very interesting, Walt. But the fact that we’ve got a lot of elastic strain energy stored in the ground isn’t proof we’re going to have another magnitude 8 earthquake. And that’s what you’re suggesting. Statistically, it’s a virtual impossibility. For all we know, there are structural barriers that will halt the progression no matter how much strain energy remains. There are too many variables. Too many unknowns. I’m not going to approve any public statement to the contrary.”
“You don’t think we should even warn people of the possibility of another major earthquake?” Atkins asked. They’d had this argument a few days earlier, without result.
“That wouldn’t be responsible,” Weston said. He wasn’t alone in his opinion. Other seismologists, including several prominent members of the USGS, supported him loudly. The atmosphere was tense as Weston argued for restraint.
“But Goddammit, you’re not answering the question. Give me a yes or no answer here, Paul.”
Steve Draper, who’d sat in the back of the room, taking copious notes, suggested they temporarily adjourn the meeting.
“Why don’t we all get something to eat. Try to rest, then get back here in, say, one hour. We’ll go over the numbers again. And our options—if we have any. The president’s eager to get your thinking on further seismic activity.” He studiously avoided the word “prediction.”
Draper took Atkins and Elizabeth aside. “I’d like you to meet someone. He’s got some thoughts on the situation. You might find them provocative.”
He led them to a small conference room in the back of the building. “Atkins, Elizabeth, this is Fred Booker,” Draper said.
NEAR KENTUCKY LAKE
JANUARY 15
5:10 P.M.
LAUREN MITCHELL WAS WORRIED. HER GRANDSON had been gone nearly five hours. He’d left with the shotgun to go hunting. They needed meat, and the boy was a good shot. He’d often killed rabbits and squirrels for the table. The year before, he’d shot his first deer, a two-point buck.
Lauren had made him promise to stay away from any roads. If he heard any cars or trucks coming, she told him to take cover. The roads weren’t safe. Too many bushwhackers were traveling the countryside. In the quake zone, law enforcement had become largely a personal matter. Residents had been urged to do whatever they thought necessary to protect themselves and their property.
Almost as troubling were the reports of unusual animal behavior—stories about wild dogs, cattle, and horses that had gone out of their heads. Lauren still remembered her great-grandfather telling her about the New Madrid quake of 1895. How two days before it hit, all the chickens and dairy cattle on their farm had become frantic. A big Rhode Island red that had never shown any hostility had suddenly attacked him in the hen shed, slashing him with a talon. She remembered how he’d rolled up his shirtsleeve to show her the white scar that ran from his elbow to his wrist.
Lauren thought about that story and about what could happen to Bobby. She was angry with herself for letting him go out alone. They had enough food to last for several more weeks. She never should have let him talk her into going hunting by himself.
She was getting ready to put on a coat and go looking for him when she heard him shouting.
He was running through corn stubble in the field behind their house. He was panting, his breath forming white clouds as he jogged up a low hill. Three large rabbits dangled from his belt. He wore a blue stocking cap and carried the .410 shotgun.
When she stepped out on the back porch, he waved and shouted: “It’s like… a… canyon!”
Struggling to get the words out, he doubled over at the waist and tried to fill his lungs. He dropped his shotgun and the rabbits.
“It’s down by Millet Creek,” he said, still gasping for air.
“What’s down at the creek?” Lauren asked. He’d gone farther than she’d thought. The creek was almost five miles away. It meandered on a crooked line into Clark’s River, which emptied into the Tennessee near Paducah.
“A deep crack in the ground,” Bobby said. “It must have opened up in the quake. You’ve got to come look. It must be a mile long. I couldn’t see the bottom.”
MEMPHIS
