THE SUN WAS BARELY UP WHEN ATKINS AND Elizabeth got a shortwave transmission from Walt Jacobs in Memphis. He told them that Paul Weston had arrived at the earthquake center with two other members of the Seismic Safety Commission. They’d come in a National Guard helicopter provided by the governor of Kentucky. That same chopper was headed their way to pick them up.
Thirty minutes later, a UH-1 Huey with Kentucky National Guard markings landed near the creek bed. Carrying only their portable seismograph and laptop, Atkins and Elizabeth were happy to get off the ground. Some of the dogs had gotten bolder during the night and were moving back into the open.
As soon as they were airborne, the pilot motioned them forward to the cockpit. The crew chief, a young corporal with a blond mustache, gave them headsets so they could talk over the droning roar of the engine.
The pilot explained that Jacobs had a message for Atkins: he wanted him to enter a building on the Memphis riverfront and retrieve data from an array of seismic instruments set up in the basement and on the roof.
Atkins let that thought register. He’d forced himself to enter dozens of earthquake-damaged buildings since Mexico City. It had never been easy.
“It’s the headquarters for some travel agency,” the pilot said. “The Blake Building. It’s at Main and Vance Street, facing the river. Landing anywhere near it’s going to be a bitch. That part of the city is pretty torn up.”
Atkins remembered Jacobs talking about the building’s unique construction, how it had been specially designed to withstand earthquakes. Its “base isolation” technology relied on shock absorbers made from a rubber and lead composite that were shaped like an accordion and placed in the foundation and at key joints; they allowed the building to remain nearly stationary while the ground moved beneath it. Because of its potential survivability during a big quake, the building’s owners had agreed to let the university’s earthquake center equip it with an array of seismographs and other instruments. It even had a GPS satellite receiver anchored on the roof.
The helicopter wouldn’t be able to wait for them, the pilot explained apologetically. They were under strict orders to return immediately to Kentucky as soon as they put them on the ground. They were assigned to a medevac unit that had been working around the clock ever since the earthquake.
The flight to Memphis took forty minutes. They flew straight down the Mississippi, which had spread out three and four miles in places, swollen by the flood. Atkins knew it was going to get worse; as soon as the massive surge from Kentucky Lake hit the Mississippi at Cairo, it was going to blow out a lot of levee walls.
“Maybe I better prepare you for this,” the pilot said as they approached Memphis. “A lot of the city is pretty much gone.”
They saw the distant wall of black smoke long before they had Memphis in view.
“Those are mainly gas and oil fires,” the pilot said. “A lot of pipe lines cross the river around Memphis, ten or eleven of them. They all broke and some of them are still pumping out gas and oil. The river’s an inferno. It’s burning from Mud Island thirty miles downstream. Oil storage tanks blew up. They’re still going off like torches. You gotta be real careful flying down there.”
Sitting on a bench seat, Elizabeth looked out a porthole and recognized the familiar S bend in the river, the beginning of the sweeping curve the Mississippi made as it passed Memphis. She’d first seen it as her plane from Los Angeles made its landing approach. That seemed like months ago.
Moments later, she got an up-close look at the city. The panorama of destruction was unlike anything she’d ever seen in the United States. All three bridges across the river, the Interstate 55, I-40, and the railroad bridge were down; some of the massive concrete pilings were still standing, but there were gaping holes where the decks had buckled and fallen into the water.
The Mississippi was on fire below the smashed I-55 bridge; that’s where the oil and gas storage terminals were clustered on the Memphis side of the river. The burning tanks were throwing shafts of black, billowing smoke a thousand feet into the sky.
Hugging the Memphis shoreline, the pilot pointed out a heavily damaged building. “That used to be the Pyramid,” he said.
Atkins had never seen the city’s distinctive convention center and sports arena complex. Shaped like a pyramid, the tapered sides were covered with thin sheets of metal that shone brilliantly in the sunlight. The top floors had collapsed neatly, telescoping together like the sections of a segmented drinking cup. The broad base, which covered a full city block, remained intact.
They flew over the city’s famous Mud Island, which angled out from the riverfront. The monorail that carried passengers to the island’s shops, restaurants, and museums had been smashed; three wrecked cars still dangled high in the air.
Drifting, dense smoke obscured the broad view of the city as it stretched far to the east. Then the wind changed and the curtain parted.
“I don’t believe this,” Elizabeth said, staring down at the cityscape. The larger fires seemed concentrated along the riverfront, where most of the high-rise buildings and renovated cotton warehouses were located. Many of the tall buildings along Main Street looked damaged; a few had collapsed entirely, spilling against other buildings, knocking down entire walls. Some had lost only their upper floors.
There were fire trucks and ambulances down there, their red and blue lights flashing up through the swirling smoke.
“How are emergency vehicles getting around in all that?” Elizabeth asked.
“They’re not,” the pilot said. “Most of the streets are blocked.” He pointed off to the port side. “You see that big yellow building over there to the left? That’s a children’s hospital. It looks like the walls are standing, but most of the floors have caved in. We flew over it on the way to pick you up.”
Elizabeth glanced at Atkins and shuddered. America’s luck had finally run out. She realized that the death toll from this earthquake was going to be huge. With the exception of the 1906 quake in San Francisco, the ones that struck in southern California had largely been glancing blows along the edges of major population centers. The real disasters, the ones that leveled entire cities, had struck elsewhere—Chile, or Italy, or Japan, or Armenia, or Mexico.
This time it was different.
“I’m going to put you down fast,” the pilot said. They were nearing the landing zone he’d picked. “I’m sorry about that, but some of those buildings are still falling down in the aftershocks. It’s gonna be real tight down there.”
He explained that the travel building had a keypad locking system. He tore a piece of paper off the clipboard strapped to his leg and handed it to Atkins. It had the numbers.
The pilot slowly began to descend through the patchy smoke. “I’m going to try to set you down on that parking lot.” They’d have to drop down between the building and another, taller one that had lost its upper stories. Curtains flapped in the smashed windows.
The crew chief patted Atkins on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up. “Get ready!”
As the helicopter descended between two buildings, its rotors were dangerously close to the walls. There was no margin for error. The pilot, a veteran of the Gulf War, was superb. They descended slowly, steadily.
Atkins looped the straps of the seismograph and laptop around his shoulder. The crew chief gave Elizabeth a small backpack. “K-rations, flashlights, and a couple bottles of water. It’s the best we can do.”
They were about four feet off the ground when Atkins saw the men. Maybe ten of them. They’d come out of nowhere and were running for the helicopter, arms raised, screaming for help.
“Jump, now!” the crew chief shouted.
Crouching at the cargo door, Atkins and Elizabeth leaped for the ground. The men frantically rushed past them. Two of them grabbed on to the bottom edge of the open door and were lifted up as the copter started to climb. Legs kicking, they fell from about fifty feet. Both hit the ground hard and didn’t move.
Atkins grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. They ran for the travel building.
“What do you have in the backpack?” someone yelled at Elizabeth. “You got any food? Hey, asshole, listen to me.” A man moved toward them. He wore dark slacks and a torn overcoat; he was big and heavy, well over six feet tall.
Atkins ignored the man, who was with three others. Their faces were streaked with dirt. They were moving toward Atkins, who fumbled with the security keypad at one of the building’s side doors.
“Just give us the backpack,” the tall man said.
Atkins tried to remember the keypad numbers the pilot had given him. He fumbled in his pocket for the sheet of paper. Finding it, he punched in a sequence of five digits and pulled on the handle. Nothing.
He handed Elizabeth the paper and faced the men. They kept coming. Atkins picked up a piece of broken pipe lying in the rubble.
Atkins noticed the butcher knife the big man was holding tight to his side. He’d give him another few yards then go for his head with the pipe; he wanted to take him out fast.
Gunfire exploded above them, the bullets kicking up rocks near the feet of the men who were approaching Atkins and Elizabeth. The group broke up and ran for cover.
Atkins looked up and saw the helicopter hovering over the roof of the building. Leaning out the cargo door with a rifle, the crew chief was covering them.
Atkins waved to him.
Elizabeth had the door open. He jumped in behind her and slammed it shut.