136

 

ARK STORM OPS ROOM

Dan slammed down the phone. San Luis Obipso! Christ, it would take him forever to get to her. In the ops room TV monitors showed the jams clogging the roads. The scrolling headlines declared that an estimated half a million residents of California were trying to run from the storm. The ARk Storm warning had gone out one and a quarter hours ago. The warnings were apocalyptic, stripped of bureaucratese—basically, Get the hell out or get washed away. Dan felt fear coursing through him. Gwen sounded like she was going down. She needed him now. And he needed a helicopter. He scrolled through his contacts.

Riley was hovering at his shoulder.

“Was that Boudy?”

“It was and she’s in a bad way. I’ve got to get to her.”

He hit DIAL.

“Mack, you bastard. You want a story?”

“Thought I fired you.”

“I quit, actually. Consider me a freelance. I’ll give you the story of your career if you give me a helicopter. Now.”

“What story?”

“The real story behind this ARk Storm. The story of how it is being made, even as we speak.”

“Being made?”

“No time. Just trust me. And get me the copter.”

“Why the fuck should I trust you?”

“Because,” said Dan through gritted teeth, “if you don’t I will come and break your knees tomorrow. Got it?”

The editor laughed. He thought Dan was joking. But he could smell a story, could hear one in the intensity of Jacobsen’s voice.

“The chopper’s in Monterey, overflying the coast.”

“Ring the pilot. Get it to Stanford.”

Dan turned to Riley. “Tell me you have a landing pad!”

“We do,” she replied, matching his urgency.

“There is a landing pad,” Dan confirmed, thinking of Afghanistan and what passed for landing pads there. “I’ll be waiting.”