Deep Fathom

“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 f**kin’ 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.

Doreen heard the crack of the weapon, felt her body flung backward, then the world was gone.

8:15 P.M. PST (6:15 P.M. Local Time)

Aleutian Islands, Alaska

As night approached, Jimmy Pomautuk clung to the totem pole depicting his ancestors’ gods. Where once it had stood proudly atop the heights of Glacial Point, it now floated in the sea, bobbing in the waves. Jimmy clung to it. He tried his best to keep his body above the waterline, but the waves constantly tried to wash him from his perch atop the totem.

Hours ago he had hacked the totem from its cement base as the water rose up the cliff face of Glacial Point. The island had sunk surprisingly smoothly, giving him plenty of time to use a hand ax from the warming shed to free the length of wood. Once the waters had neared the summit, he flung it over the edge. The trio of English tourists had long since fled down the path toward Port Royson. Jimmy had tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen. Panic had made them deaf.

Alone, he had leaped from the cliff and swam out to the floating totem. Only Nanook, the large malamute, had remained at the cliff’s edge, unsure what to do, stalking back and forth. Jimmy could not save his old dog. He knew it would be hard enough for him to survive.

With a heavy heart he had straddled the totem and begun paddling toward the distant mainland. Nanook’s bark echoed over the waters until the island vanished fully behind him.

As if his guilt plagued him now, he heard the barking again. But it was no ghost. Twisting around, he saw something splashing toward him from several yards away. Jimmy spotted the flash of black and white fur.

Joy and concern mixed in his heart. The old dog had refused to give up, and as much as Jimmy tried to remain practical, he knew he would do what he could to rescue it. “C’mon, Nanook!” he yelled through chattering teeth. “Get your wet butt over here.”

A smile cracked his blue lips as a bark answered him.

Then he saw something rise from the waves behind his paddling dog. A long black fin, too tall for a shark. Orca. Killer whale.

Jimmy’s heart clenched. He reached a hand toward his dog, but it was useless. The fin sank away. Jimmy held his breath, praying to the old gods to spare his companion.

Abruptly, a burst of whitewater erupted around the dog. Nanook whined, sensing his doom. Then the great dog vanished into a surge of bloody froth. The black fin rose briefly, then sank away.

Motionless, Jimmy floated on his man-made log, fingers clinging to images of his ancestors’ gods: Bear, Eagle, and Orca. Silence loomed over the sea. The ocean had quickly settled, leaving no evidence of the savage attack.