The earthquake specialist at the U.S. Geological Survey Field Office in Pasadena, California, was running on fumes: two hours’ sleep plus a brief nap that left his cheek stained with ink from the papers on his desk. He’d slept more the night he and the kids camped out on the street to get a good spot for watching the Rose Parade.
He stood up and did twenty jumping jacks. The field office was short-handed, and he couldn’t afford to be drowsy, not with all the seismic activity going on. When the petroplague paralyzed the city, several of his colleagues struggled home and didn’t come back. He was glad he lived nearby and had kept to his post. In the last week there’d been more action than most earthquake scientists witness in a lifetime.
The USGS office was working closely with scientists at Caltech, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and elsewhere to process and interpret the large quantity of data flowing in from hundreds of seismic sensor stations all over Southern California. He analyzed a continuous stream of numbers and graphs from strain meters, deformation monitors, creepmeters, and motion sensors. The biggest activity had been concentrated in central Los Angeles. Until now.
“Whoa,” the geologist said. “Priti, take a look at this.”
A slender Indian woman in a brightly colored cotton skirt floated to his desk. She studied the data on his screen and double-checked the station locations.
“I’ll call the mayor,” she said.
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It occurred to Ramirez that if they had a pressure monitor up his ass the thing would be redlining about now.
“The San Andreas?” he said. The woman was talking about the mother of all earthquake faults in California. Eight hundred miles long, the San Andreas fault defined the crash zone between the great Pacific and North American tectonic plates. “You’re predicting a major quake on the San Andreas?”
“We are, sir, magnitude 8.0 or greater with a high probability in the range of days to weeks,” the geologist confirmed.
The San Andreas fault. Source of California’s largest earthquake in modern times: the Fort Tejon quake of 1857, estimated intensity of 7.9 on the Richter scale. It left over two hundred miles of surface scar that could still be seen today, marking where the ground ruptured when the plates jumped in opposite directions.
“You’re telling me the Big One is coming,” the mayor said.
“Earthquake prediction isn’t an exact science.”
“But you believe it’s imminent.”
“The data suggest a substantially increased risk in the short term.”
“Goddammit.”
“A San Andreas quake may cause less damage to Los Angeles itself than a big one on the Santa Monica,” the woman said, trying to sound hopeful. “The San Andreas fault lies mostly to the east and north of downtown.”
“Under Palm Springs, San Bernardino, and Palmdale, where millions of people live,” he snapped. “Keep me informed.”
He looked at Molton. “Any chance we can blame plague here in the city?”
Molton shook his head. One of the advisors said, “Highly unlikely, Mr. Mayor. I’ve got reports of vapor lock in pumpjacks around McKittrick. The changes USGS describes almost certainly mean the petroplague is in Kern County.”
Kern County. Outside the quarantine zone.
There goes my run for governor, he thought, trying to make light of this dreadful news. It didn’t work.
“We’re losing,” he said. “We need a cure and we need it quick. Get that Trinley guy in here right now.”