Deep Fathom

I Before

On the morning of the eclipse, Doreen McCloud hurried from Starbucks with the Chronicle tucked under her arm. She had a ten o’clock meeting across town and less than an hour to ride the train to her offices near the Embarcadero. Clutching her mocha and shivering at the morning chill, she strode briskly toward the underground station at Market and Castro.

Glancing toward the sky, she frowned. The night’s blanket of fog had yet to burn off, and the sun was only a pale glow through the mists. The eclipse was due to occur just after the four o’clock hour today — the first solar eclipse of the new millennium. It would be a shame if the fog marred the sight. She knew from the inundation in the media that the entire city was poised to celebrate the event. San Francisco could not pass up such an auspicious occasion without the usual fanfare.

Doreen shook her head at all the nonsense. With San Francisco’s damned eternal fog, why did a few extra moments of gloom warrant such fervency? The event was not even a total eclipse.

Sighing, she pushed aside these stray thoughts as she snugged her scarf tighter about her neck. She had more important concerns. If she could land the Delta Bank account, her track to partnership in the firm was assured. She allowed this thought to buoy her across Market Street toward the BART station.

She reached the station just as the next train approached. Fumbling her transit card through the reader, she hurried down the steps to the platform and waited for the train to come to a stop. Content she would make her meeting in plenty of time, she raised the cup of mocha to her mouth.

A yank on her elbow pulled the cup from her lips. Hot mocha splashed in a chocolate arc as the cup flew from her hands. Gasping, she swung around and faced her attacker.

An elderly woman, dressed in mismatched rags and a tattered blanket, stared up at Doreen with eyes that looked somewhere other than here. Doreen had a flashback to her mother in bed: the reek of urine and medicines, slacken features, and those same empty eyes. Alzheimer’s.

She stepped back, reflexively guarding her handbag under an arm. But the old woman, clearly homeless, seemed no immediate threat. Doreen expected the usual inquiry about spare change.

Instead, the woman continued to stare at her with those empty eyes.

Doreen took another step away; a twinge of sorrow pierced through her anger and fear. The eyes of the other commuters slowly turned away. It was the way of the city. Don’t look too closely. She tried to follow suit but could not. Maybe it was the flash upon her own long-buried mother or some twinge of sympathy, but either way, she found herself speaking. “Can I help you?”

The old woman shifted. Doreen spotted a half-starved terrier pup hidden among the drape of rags about her ankles. It stuck close to its master. Doreen could count every rib on the thin creature.

The homeless woman noticed Doreen’s gaze. “Brownie knows,” she said hoarsely, her voice graveled by age and the streets. “He knows, all right.”

Doreen nodded as if this made sense. It was best not to provoke the mentally ill. She had learned that with her mother. “I’m sure he does.”

“He tells me things, you know.”

Doreen nodded again, suddenly feeling foolish. The train doors opened with a whoosh behind her. If she didn’t want to miss the train, she’d best hurry.

She began to turn away when a withered arm shot out from under the tattered blanket; bony fingers clutched her wrist. Instinctively, Doreen yanked her arm away. But to her surprise, the old woman hung on.

With a shuffle of rags, the woman moved closer. “Brownie’s a good dog.” The harsh voice was thick with spittle. “He knows. He’s a good dog.”

Doreen broke the woman’s grip. “I…I must be going.”

The woman did not resist. Her arm vanished under her blanket’s folds.

Doreen backed her way into the open door of the train, her eyes still on the old woman. Left alone, the woman seemed to recede into her rags and tormented dreams. Doreen found the pup’s eyes staring back at her. As the train doors closed, Doreen heard the homeless woman muttering, “Brownie. He knows. He knows we’re all goin’to die today.”

On the morning of the eclipse, Jimmy Pomautuk worked his way up the icy slope with practiced care. His dog Nanook trotted a few paces up the trail. The large malamute knew the trail well, but, always the loyal companion, he still kept wary watch for his master.

Trudging after the old dog, Jimmy led a trio of English tourists — two men and a woman — toward the summit of Glacial Point atop Fox Island. The view from there was spectacular. His Inuit forefathers had come to this same spot to worship the great Orca, building wooden totems and casting worship stones off the cliffs into the sea. His great-grandfather had been the first to take him as a boy to this sacred spot. That had been almost thirty years ago.

Now the spot was listed on countless tour maps, and the Zodiac boats from the various cruise lines offloaded their human cargo onto the docks of the picturesque village of Port Royson.

In addition to the quaint port, the other prime attraction to the island was the cliffs of Glacial Point. On a clear day like today, the entire Aleutian chain of islands could be seen spreading in an infinite arc. It was a sight considered priceless to his ancestors, but to the modern world it was forty dollars a head off-season, sixty dollars during the warmer months.

“How much bloody further is this place?” a voice behind him said. “I’m freezing my arse off here.”

Jimmy turned. He had warned the trio that the temperature would grow colder as they neared the summit. The group was outfitted in matching Eddie Bauer coats, gloves, and boots. Not a stitch of their expensive outwear showed any use. A price tag still dangled from the back of the woman’s parka.

Pointing an arm toward where his dog had just vanished, Jimmy nodded. “It’s just over the next rise. Five minutes. There’s a warming shack there.”

The complainer checked his watch and grunted.

Jimmy rolled his eyes and continued his march up the hill. If it weren’t for the tip as their guide, he’d be tempted to heave the whole lot of them over the cliffs. A sacrifice to the ocean gods of his ancestors. But instead, like always, he just trudged onward, reaching the summit at last.

Behind him he heard gasps from the trio. The view had that effect on most people. Jimmy turned to give them his usual speech about the significance of this site, but he found his companions’ attention was not on the spectacular views, but on their hurried attempts to wrap every square inch of exposed flesh from the mild winds.

“It’s so cold,” the second man said. “I hope my camera lens doesn’t shatter. I’d hate to have trekked all the way up to this cursed place and have nothing to show for it.”

Jimmy’s fingers clenched into a fist. He forced his tone to an even level. “The warming shack is nestled among that group of black pines. Why don’t you all go on in? We’ve got a bit of a wait before the eclipse.”

“Thank God,” the woman said. She leaned into the man who had first complained. “Let’s hurry, Reggie.”

Now it was Jimmy’s turn to follow. The English trio raced toward the scraggled copse of pines protected in a hollow. As he marched, Nanook joined him, nosing his hand for a scratch behind the ear.

“Good boy, Nanook,” he mumbled. Ahead, Jimmy’s gaze caught on the trail of smoke in the blue sky. At least his son had completed his chores and set the coals this morning before leaving for the mainland, off to celebrate the coming eclipse with friends.

For the oddest moment, a melancholy wave washed over Jimmy at the thought of his only son. He couldn’t identify why this sudden mood overwhelmed him. He shook his head. This place had that effect on him. There always seemed a presence here. Maybe the gods of my forefathers, he thought, only half jokingly.

Jimmy continued his way toward the warmth of the shack, suddenly wanting to escape the cold as much as the tourists had. His eyes followed the smoke trail up to the sun near the eastern horizon. An eclipse. What his ancestors described as a whale eating the sun. It was due to occur in the next few hours.

At his side, Nanook suddenly growled, a deep-throated rumble. Jimmy glanced to his dog. The malamute stared out toward the south. Frowning, he followed the line of his dog’s gaze.

The cliffs were empty, except for the wooden totem. It was a mock-up for the tourists, tooled by machines somewhere in Indonesia and shipped here. Not even the wood was native to these parts.

Nanook continued his deep-chested growl.

Jimmy did not know what had spooked his dog. “Quiet, boy.”

Always obedient, Nanook settled onto his haunches, but he still trembled.

Squinting, Jimmy stared out at the empty sea. As he stood, an old prayer came to his lips, taught to him by his grandfather. He was surprised he even remembered the words, and could not voice why he felt the need to speak them now. In Alaska, to survive, one learned to respect nature and one’s own instincts — and Jimmy trusted his own now.

It was as if his grandfather stood at his shoulder, two generations watching the sea. His grandfather had a phrase for moments like now. “The wind smells of storms.”

On the morning of the eclipse, Jeffrey Hessmire cursed his bad luck as he hurried through the corridors of the governor’s mansion. The first session of the summit had broken for an early brunch. The dignitaries from the United States and the People’s Republic of China would not reconvene until after the scheduled viewing of the eclipse.

During the break, Jeffrey, as the junior aide, had been assigned to type and photocopy the Secretary of State’s notes from the morning’s session, then distribute them among the American delegation. So while the other aides enjoyed the pre-eclipse buffet in the garden atrium and networked with the members of the presidential senior staff, he would be playing stenographer.

He cursed his bad luck again. What were they all doing out here in the middle of the Pacific anyway? Hell would freeze over before any nuclear pact would ever be settled between the two Pacific powers. Neither country was willing to bend, especially on two critical points. The President had refused to halt the extension of the country’s new state-of-the-art Missile Defense System to include the protection of Taiwan, and the Chinese Premier had squashed any attempt to limit the proliferation of its own intercontinental nuclear warheads. The entire week’s summit had succeeded only in managing to escalate tensions.

The single bright spot was on the first day, when President Bishop had accepted a gift from the Chinese Premier: a life-size jade sculpture of an ancient Chinese warrior atop a war horse, an exact replica of one of their famed terra-cotta statues from the city of Xi’an. The press had a field day taking pictures of the two heads of state beside the striking figure. It had been a day full of promise that, so far, had not borne fruit.

As Jeffrey passed into the suite of offices assigned to their delegation, he flashed his security clearance at the guard, who nodded coldly. Reaching his desk, he collapsed into the leather seat. Though he resented such a menial task, he would do his best.

Carefully stacking the handwritten notes by his computer, he set to work. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he translated Secretary Elliot’s notes into clean, crisp type. As he worked, his frustration fell away. He became intrigued by this peek at the behind-doors politics of the summit. It seemed the President was actually willing to bend on Taiwan, but he was haggling for the best price from the Chinese government, insisting on a moratorium on any future nuclear proliferation and Chinese participation in the Missile Technology Control Regime, which limited the export of missile knowledge. Elliot seemed to think this was attainable if they played their cards right. The Chinese did not want a war over Taiwan. All would suffer.

Jeffrey was so caught up in the Secretary’s notes that he failed to hear someone approach until a small cough from behind startled him. He swiveled his chair around and saw the tall, silver-haired man. He was dressed casually in shirt and tie, with a suit jacket hung over one arm. “So what do you think, Mr. Hessmire?”

Jeffrey stood up so fast that his chair skittered backward across the floor, bumping into a neighbor’s vacant desk. “M-Mister President.”

“At ease, Mr. Hessmire.” The President of the United States, Daniel R. Bishop, leaned over Jeffrey’s desk and read the partial transcription of the Secretary’s notes. “What do you think of Tom’s thoughts?”

“The Secretary? Mr. Elliot?”

The President straightened, giving Jeffrey a tired smile. “Yes. You’re studying international law at Georgetown, aren’t you?”

Jeffrey blinked. He had not thought President Bishop knew him from the hundreds of other aides and interns who labored in the belly of the White House. “Yes, Mr. President. I graduate next year.”

“Top of the class and specializing in Asia, I hear. So what is your take on the summit? Do you think we can wrangle the Chinese into an agreement?”

Licking his lips, Jeffrey could not meet the steel-blue eyes of Daniel Bishop, the war hero, the statesman, and the leader of the free world. His words were mumbled.

“Speak up, lad. I won’t bite your head off. I just want your honest opinion. Why do you think I asked Tom to assign you to this task?”

Shocked at this revelation, Jeffrey could not speak.

“Breathe, Mr. Hessmire.”

Jeffrey took the President’s recommendation. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat and tried to organize his thoughts. He spoke slowly. “I…I think Secretary Elliot makes a good point about the mainland’s desire to economically integrate Taiwan.” He glanced up, pausing to take another breath. “I studied the takeovers of Hong Kong and Macau. It seems that the Chinese are using these regions as test cases for the integration of democratic economies within a Communist structure. Some suggest these experiments are in preparation for China’s attempt to negotiate Taiwan’s reintegration, to demonstrate how such a union could benefit all.”

“And what of the growing nuclear arsenal in China?”

Jeffrey spoke more rapidly, warming to the discussion. “Their nuclear and missile technologies were stolen from us. But China’s current manufacturing infrastructure is well behind their ability to utilize these newest technologies. In many ways, they are still an agrarian state, ill-suited for rapid nuclear proliferation.”

“And your assessment?”

“The Chinese have witnessed how such proliferation bankrupted the Soviet Union. They would not want to repeat the same mistake. In the next decade, China needs to bolster its own technological infrastructure if it hopes to maintain its global position. It can’t afford a pissing contest with the United States over a nuclear arsenal.”

“A pissing contest?”

Jeffrey’s eyes grew wide. He turned crimson. “I’m sorry—”

The President held up a hand. “No, I appreciate the analogy.”

Jeffrey suddenly felt like a fool. What nonsense had he been spouting? How dare he think his views warranted President Bishop’s time?

The President straightened from the desk and slipped into his jacket. “I think you’re right, Mr. Hessmire. Neither country wants to finance a new Cold War.”

“No, sir,” Jeffrey mumbled softly.

“There may be hope to settle this matter before our relations sour further, but it’ll take a deft hand.” The President strode toward the door. “Finish your work here, Mr. Hessmire, and join us for the festivities in the atrium. You shouldn’t miss the first solar eclipse of this new millennium.”

Jeffrey found his tongue too thick to reply as the President exited the room. He fumbled for his chair and sank into it. President Bishop had listened to him…had agreed with him!

Thanking the stars for such good fortune, Jeffrey sat up straighter and returned to his work with renewed vigor.

This day promised to be one to remember.

II During

From the balcony of her office building, Doreen McCloud stared out over San Francisco Bay. The view extended all the way to the piers. She could even see the crowds gathered at Ghirardelli Square, where a party was under way. But the crowds below failed to hold her attention. Instead she gazed above the bay at a once-in-a-lifetime sight.

A black sun hung over the blue waters — the corona flaming bright around the eclipsing moon.

Wearing a sleek set of eclipse goggles purchased from Sharper Image, Doreen watched as jets of fire burst in long streams from the sun’s edge. Solar flares. The astronomy experts on CNN had predicted a spectacular eclipse due to the unusual sunspot activity coinciding with the lunar event. Their predictions had proven true.

On either side of her gasps of delight and awe rose from the other lawyers and secretarial staff.

Along flare blew forth from the sun’s surface. A radio playing in the background burst with a stream of static, proving true another of the astronomers’ predictions. CNN had warned that the sunspot activity would cause brief interference as the solar winds bombarded the upper atmosphere.

Doreen marveled at the black sun and its reflection in the bay. What a wonderful time to be alive!

“Did anyone feel that?” one of the secretaries asked with mild concern.

Then Doreen sensed it — a trembling underfoot. Everyone grew deathly quiet. The radio squelched sharply with static. Clay flower pots began to rattle.

“Earthquake!” someone yelled needlessly.

After living for so many years in San Francisco, temblors were not a reason for panic. Still, at the back of all minds was the fear of “the Big One.”

“Everyone inside,” the head of the firm ordered.

In a mass, the crowd surged toward the open doorway. Doreen held back. She searched the skies above the bay. The black sun hung over the waters like some hole in the sky.

She remembered, then, the one other prediction for this day. She pictured the old homeless woman dressed in rags — and her dog.

We’re all going to die today.

Doreen backed from the balcony rail toward the open door. Under her heels the balcony began to rock and buck violently. This was no minor quake.

“Hurry!” their boss commanded, taking charge. “Everyone get to safety!”

Doreen fled toward the interior offices, but in her heart she knew no safety would be found there. They were all going to die.

From the cliffs of Glacial Point, Jimmy Pomautuk stared at the eclipsing sun. Nanook, paced restlessly at his side. Off to the left the trio from England shouted to one another in awe, the cold long forgotten in the excitement. The flash and whir of cameras peppered their exuberant outcries.

“Did you see that flare!”

“Bloody Christ! These pictures are going to be fantastic!”

Sighing, Jimmy sank to his seat on the cold stone. He leaned back against the wooden totem as he stared out at the black sun above the Pacific. The quality of the light was strange, casting the islands in a starkness that seemed unreal. Even the sea itself had turned glassy with a bluish-silver sheen.

At his side, Nanook again began a soft growl. The dog had been spooky all morning. He must not understand what had happened to the sunlight. “It’s just the hungry whale spirit eating the sun,” he consoled the dog in a low whisper. He reached for Nanook but found the dog gone.

Frowning, Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. The large malamute stood trembling a few paces away. The dog did not stare at the sun above the Pacific, but off to the north.

“My God!” Jimmy stood up, following Nanook’s gaze.

The entire northern skies, darkened by the eclipse, were lit with waves and eddies of glowing azures and vibrant reds. They spread from the northern horizon to climb high in the sky. Jimmy knew what he was viewing — the aurora borealis, the Northern Lights. In all his life, he had never seen the magnitude of this display. The lights swirled and churned in sweeping waves, like a glowing sea in the sky.

One of the Englishmen spoke, drawn by Jimmy’s shocked outburst. “I thought the borealis wasn’t seen this time of year.”

“It’s not,” Jimmy answered quietly.

The Englishwoman, Eileen, moved closer to Jimmy, a camera glued to her face. “It’s beautiful. Almost better than the eclipse.”

“The solar flares must be causing this,” her companion answered. “Showering the upper atmosphere with energized particles.”

Jimmy remained silent. To the Inuit, the appearance of the Northern Lights was fraught with omens and significance. A borealis in the summer was considered a harbinger of disaster.

As if hearing his inner thought, the totem trembled under Jimmy’s palm. Nanook began to whine, something his dog never did.

“Is the ground shaking?” Eileen asked, finally lowering her camera with a look of concern.

As answer, a violent quake suddenly shook the island. With a stifled scream, Eileen fell to her hands and knees. The two Englishmen went to her aid.

Jimmy kept his feet, fingers still clutching the wooden totem.

“What are we going to do?” the woman screamed.

“It’ll be fine,” her friend consoled. “We’ll ride it out.”

Jimmy stared at the islands, bathed in that otherworldly light. Oh God. He whispered a prayer of thanks that his son had left for the mainland.

Out in the Pacific, the most distant islands of the Aleutian chain were sinking into the depths, like gigantic sea beasts submerging under the waves. At long last the gods of the sea had come to claim these islands.

In the garden atrium of the governor’s mansion, Jeffrey Hessmire stared in awe at the total eclipse of the sun. Though he had seen partial eclipses during his twenty-six years, he had never witnessed a total one. The island of Guam had been chosen for the summit because of its position as the only American territory in the path of full totality.

Jeffrey was thrilled at the chance to witness this rare sight. He had finished typing and photocopying the Secretary of State’s notes with enough time left over to catch the tail end of the solar spectacle.

Wearing a pair of cheap eclipse-viewing glasses, Jeffrey stood with the other U.S. delegates by the west entrance to the gardens. The Chinese faction huddled on the far side of the atrium. There was little mingling between the two groups, as if the Pacific still separated them.

Ignoring the tension in the atrium, Jeffrey continued to watch the sun’s corona flare in violent bursts around the shadowed moon. A few of the flares jetted far into the dark sky.

A voice spoke at his shoulder. “Wondrous, isn’t it?”

Jeffrey turned to find the President directly behind him again. “President Bishop!” Jeffrey began to take off his glasses.

“Leave them on. Enjoy the view. Another is not expected for two decades.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

Jeffrey slowly returned to his study of the sky.

The President, also staring up, spoke softly at his side. “To the Chinese, an eclipse is a warning that the tides of fate are about to change significantly — either for the better or the worse.”

“It will be for the better,” Jeffrey answered. “For both our peoples.”

President Bishop clapped him on the shoulder. “The optimism of youth. I should have you speak to the Vice President.” He finished the statement with a derisive snort.

Jeffrey understood this response. Lawrence Nafe, the Vice President, held his own views on how to handle one of the last Communist strongholds. While outwardly supporting Bishop’s diplomatic attempt to resolve the Chinese situation, behind the scenes Nafe argued for a more aggressive stance.

“You’ll succeed in ironing out an agreement,” Jeffrey said. “I’m sure of it.”

“There’s that damned optimism again.” The President began to turn away, nodding at a signal from the Secretary of State. With a tired sigh, he clapped Jeffrey on the shoulder again. “It seems it’s time once again to try mending fences between our two countries.”

As President Bishop stepped away, the ground started to shake underfoot.

Jeffrey felt the President’s grip on his shoulder tighten. Both men fought to keep their feet. “Earthquake!” Jeffrey yelled.

All around them the sound of breaking glass rattled. Jeffrey looked up, shielding his face with an arm. All the windows of the governor’s mansion had shattered. Several members of the delegation, those nearest the walls of the atrium, were on the ground, lacerated and bleeding amid the shower of shards.

Jeffrey thought to go to their aid, but he feared abandoning the President. Across the atrium, the Chinese members of the summit were fleeing inside the governor’s mansion, seeking shelter.

“Mr. President, we need to get you to safety,” Jeffrey said.

The rumbling grew worse underfoot. An ice sculpture of a long-necked swan toppled.

Flanked by two burly Secret Service agents, the Secretary of State fought his way through the terrified crowd to join them. Once there, Tom Elliot grabbed the President’s elbow. He had to yell to be heard above the rumbling and crashing. “C’mon, Dan, let’s get you back to Air Force One. If this island’s coming apart, I want you out of here.”

Bishop shook off the man’s hand. “But I can’t leave—”

Somewhere to the east there was a loud explosion, drowning out all conversation. A fireball blew into the sky.

Jeffrey spoke up first. “Sir, you have to go.”

The President’s face remained tight with concern and worry. Jeffrey knew the man had served in Vietnam and was not one to run from adversity.

“You must,” Tom added. “You can’t risk yourself, Dan. You don’t have that luxury anymore…not since you took the oath of office.”

The President bowed under the weight of their argument. The temblors grew worse; cracks skittered up the brick walls of the mansion.

“Fine. Let’s go,” he said tightly. “But I feel like a coward.”

“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

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 fuckin’ 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.

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.

Jimmy felt hot tears flowing down his frozen cheeks. In grief, he rested his forehead against the wood.

The character of the light changed then. Jimmy lifted his face. The darkening skies now blazed an unnatural red. Craning his neck, he saw the source off to the left. A rescue flare high in the sky. And in the glaring brightness, he spotted a Coast Guard cutter gliding through the waters.

He sat up, waving an arm and yelling. “Help!” He fought to keep his balance on the bobbing wood.

A short beep of a horn answered him. Then faint words reached him from a megaphone. “We see you! Stay where you are!”

Lowering his arm, Jimmy settled closer to his pole. He let out a long sigh of relief. Then he sensed it. The presence of something nearby. He turned his head to stare forward.

Another long black dorsal fin surfaced directly in front of him, its forward edge brushing the end of the wood, nudging it, testing it.

Jimmy slowly pulled his feet from the water.

Then on his left, another fin arose…and another. The pod of killer whales slowly circled him. Jimmy knew the cutter would never arrive in time. He was right. Something struck the underside of the totem, jolting it a full yard into the air, and he went flying, fingers scrambling for wood.

He struck the ocean and sank. He was already so cold that he barely felt the icy chill. He opened his eyes under the water, salt burning. In the flare’s fiery light, Jimmy saw the huge shadows still circling. He tried not to move, though his frozen lungs screamed for air. He allowed his natural buoyancy to float him toward the surface.

Before he reached the waves, one of the shadows moved nearer. For a moment he stared back into a fist-sized black eye. Then his head broke the surface. Jimmy bent his neck and gasped for a breath of air.

The Coast Guard cutter bore toward his position at full speed. The crew members must have seen the attack.

Jimmy closed his eyes. Too far.

Something clamped on his legs. No pain, only a fierce tightness. His limbs were too frozen to feel the teeth. As the Coast Guard spotlight swept over him, his body was yanked away, dragged into the depths by the gods of his ancestors.

In the paneled conference room aboard Air Force One, Jeffrey Hessmire watched the President respond to the worldwide emergency. Gathered around the table were his senior staff and advisors.

“Give me a quick summary, Tom. How extensive were the quakes?”

Secretary of State Elliot, his left arm splinted and carried in a sling, sat to the President’s right. Jeffrey noticed the morphine glaze to Tom Elliot’s eyes, but the man remained remarkably alert and sharp. One-handed, he shuffled through the ream of printouts atop the table. “It’s too early to get any clear answers, but it appears the entire Pacific Rim was affected. Reports are coming in from as far south as New Zealand and as far north as Alaska. Also from Japan and China in the east, and from the entire western coast of Central and South America.”

“And the United States? Any further word?”

Tom’s face grew grim. “Reports remain chaotic. San Francisco is still experiencing hourly aftershocks. Los Angeles is burning.” Tom glanced down at one sheet and seemed unwilling to report what lay there. “The entire Aleutian Island chain of Alaska is gone.”

Shocked murmuring rose from around the table.

“Is that possible?” the President asked.

“It’s been confirmed by satellite,” Tom said softly. “We’re also finally getting reports from Hawaii.” He glanced up from his pile of papers. “Tidal waves struck the islands forty minutes after the initial quakes. Honolulu is still underwater. The hotels of Waikiki lay toppled like dominoes.”

As the litany of tragedies continued, the President’s face drained of color; his lips drew in, to tight lines. Jeffrey had never seen President Bishop look so old. “So many dead…” Jeffrey heard him mutter under his breath.

Tom finally finished his report, detailing the explosion of a volcanic peak near Seattle. The city lay under three feet of ash.

“The Ring of Fire,” Jeffrey whispered to himself. He was overheard.

President Bishop turned to him. “What was that, Mr. Hessmire?”

Jeffrey found all eyes turning to him. “Th-The Pacific Rim has also been nicknamed the Ring of Fire, because of its extensive geological activity — earthquakes, volcanic eruptions.”

The President nodded, swinging back to Tom. “Yes, but why now? Why so suddenly? What triggered this geologic explosion throughout the Pacific?”

Tom shook his head. “We’re still a long way from investigating that question. Right now we must dig our country out of the rubble. The Joint Chiefs and Cabinet are convening by order of the Vice President. The Office of Emergency Services is at full alert. They just await our instructions.”

“Then let’s get to work, gentlemen,” the President began. “We’ve—”

The plane bucked under them. Several members of the staff were thrown from their seats. The President kept his place.

“What the hell was that?” Tom swore.

As if hearing him, the captain came on the intercom. “Sorry for that little bump, but we’ve run into some unexpected turbulence. We…we may be in for a rough ride. Please secure your seat belts.”

Jeffrey heard the false cheer in the pilot’s voice. Worry rang behind his words. The President, whose eyes were narrowed, glanced at Tom.

“I’ll check on it.” Tom began to unbuckle his seat belt.

The President put a hand on Tom’s injured arm, restraining him. He turned instead to Jeffrey and motioned to a member of his security team. “You boys have better legs than us old men.”

Jeffrey unsnapped his seat buckle. “Of course.” He stood and joined the blue-suited Secret Service agent at the door.

Together they left the conference room and worked their way forward, past the President’s suite of private rooms and toward the cockpit of the Boeing 747. As they neared the cockpit door, Jeffrey caught a flash of brilliance from out one of the side windows.

“What was—” he started to ask when the plane tilted savagely.

Jeffrey struck the port bulkhead and crashed to the floor. He felt his eardrums pop. Through the door to the cockpit, he heard frantic yells from among the flight crew, screamed orders, panic.

He pulled himself up, his face pressed to the porthole window. “Oh my God…”

Tech Sergeant Mitch Clemens grabbed the red phone above his bank of radar screens. He keyed in for the hard-link scrambled and coded to the base commander. With Andrews on full alert, the phone was answered immediately.

“Yes?”

“Sir, we have a problem.”

“What is it?”

Sweating, Mitch Clemens stared at his monitor, at the aircraft designation VC-25A. Normally it glowed a bright yellow on the screen. It now blinked. Red.

The tech sergeant’s voice trembled. “We’ve lost Air Force One.”