Siberian Treasure

2

“The United States Geological Survey records over 50 earthquakes a day in an average year.” Professor Paul Everett brushed chalk-dusty hands over the seat of his dark trousers before he realized what he was doing. “Most of them can’t even be felt by the average human. About 18 earthquakes a year measure in at 7.0 on the Richter scale, and perhaps one or two at 8.0 or higher. Those are the ones we hear about in places like Bam, Iran.”

Darlene was going to read him the riot act if he came home with powdery streaks on his dark pants again. He could never remember to use his handkerchief when he was in the middle of a lecture. Maybe he ought to just wear white pants.

“At this time, there isn’t any accurate way to predict earthquakes,” he continued, glancing at the clock at the back of the classroom. Five minutes and he was on vacation with Darlene … heading to the Shore.

And if he so much as stopped for a cup of coffee on the way home, delaying their Friday afternoon start-time, she’d know — and he would hear about it. Focusing back on the lecture, Paul continued. “We can anticipate that one will strike in places like Hawaii, where the magma moving underground causes some extra activity prior to a quake, but in other areas where the earth shift is caused by pressure along fault lines, there is no accurate prediction method. Which is why I don’t live in California.” A soft murmur of laughter acknowledged his comment, but he knew they were about ready to check out.

“Scientists are collecting data using Global Positioning Systems to find where the major faults and fault lines are and combining that with statistical analysis. They hope to use that data to try and predict quakes.

“And recently, there was a study in Iceland that measured water chemistry — the levels of certain chemicals in the water before and after a large quake there. Scientists hope to be able to use that information to begin a data warehouse, which may also help predict future quakes.”

About three minutes left, and then the class would slam their laptops, Alpha Smarts, or notebooks closed and shove them into their backpacks while streaming out of the geology lab. They were just as eager to start their weekend as he was.

Paul gestured to the university’s seismograph mounted directly on the ground outside of the lab. “Many people confuse the purpose of the seismograph and believe it can be used to help predict earthquakes. And while this machine can record even the most sensitive of ground movements, it can only do so after the fact.

“As you can see, it’s placed directly on the ground, and if the earth shifts, the needle will record even the slightest of the earth’s movement. We’ll talk more about what normal seismic activity looks like next week.”

Most of them had little real interest in the studies; they elected the class during the summer term as a last-ditch effort to fulfill a science credit in the liberal arts program at Princeton. He tried not to let the apathy bother him; after all, he taught three other, more advanced classes for geology or biology majors. They not only looked at the seismograph readings; they had a clue what the readings meant.

“I’ll cover Chapter Ten in next week’s lecture. Come with questions because that will be the last class before the exam.” His last few words were lost as they rose fairly en masse to sling backpacks over shoulders and stampede out of the room.

He turned to switch off his laptop, hoping to get out and on the road in time to beat the weekend traffic, and noticed one of his students standing next to the seismograph. The young woman was actually looking at it.

“Professor Everett, what is that?” she pointed to the paper roll that showed a series of red markings. Etched with gentle peaks and valleys was the activity in a fifty-mile radius around Princeton.

And there, on the seismograph, were big spikes coming from an area in the middle of low hills and valleys.

Big damn red spikes.

Paul swallowed the words he’d planned to give: a quick answer, before he’d seen what she was pointing at. He looked at it again.

Big damn spikes right in the middle of nowhere.

Paul frowned and peered at the little needle radiating up and down with its etchings. It appeared to be working.

“Shouldn’t there have been some kind of warning before such big spikes? And what would cause something like that? There aren’t any earthquakes around here, are there?”

Apparently someone had been listening, even though she’d spent half the class flirting with a young man across the room.

Paul adjusted his trifocals. Damn glasses; couldn’t trust them to see when he needed to without having to move them around to get the right lens.

But, yes, the spikes were still there, like upside-down icicles. And as he watched, several smaller peaks jumped up— little aftershocks, they would be, if indeed it was an earthquake.

But an earthquake … of maybe seven or eight on the Richter scale, he guessed … in eastern Pennsylvania?

Incredible.

“Professor Everett?” She was staring at him.

He realized he’d never answered her question. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was an earthquake. But … there aren’t any major fault lines in this area that would cause such a large response.” He shook his head, scratching at the flimsy wisps covering the top of his scalp. “I don’t know what else would create a graph like that ….”

He froze. He did know of something else.

Paul frowned, his brows drawing together. The last time he’d seen something like this, it was decades ago. Hundreds of miles away.

He’d have to find his old papers, his old records of seismic activity from thirty years ago.

Because if it was what he thought it was, he was going to be on the phone to the USGS and not heading for the Poconos.

Darlene was going to kill him.

Barbara Melton, PhD, President and Chief Executive Officer of the closely-held AvaChem, had just sunk a beautiful putt when her IPhone vibrated against her hip.

“Perfect timing,” she muttered, glad it hadn’t come moments before. The birdie put her two strokes ahead of her partner and lover, and that much closer to the wager they had riding on today’s game: who was going to be the submissive during their sex play that night.

Tempted to ignore the insistent buzz, she nevertheless pulled the phone from its clip and noted the number of the incoming call. Theo Meadows, the COO of AvaChem, wouldn’t call during her Friday golf time unless there was something important going on.

“Nice shot,” her lover, Roger Brady, complimented as he dropped the pin flag back into the hole. “Haven’t you trained your husband not to call you when you’re on the course?” he joked. “Of course, if he’d called sooner, during your shot, I might be the one handling the whip tonight.” His eyes gleamed wickedly.

“It’s Meadows. I’d better answer it,” Barbara replied, flipping the sleek phone open. “Melton.”

“Jesus, Barb, have you heard?”

Barbara’s heart stuttered as she slid her putter back into her custom tooled-leather bag. The last time Meadows had started a conversation with that question, the news AvaChem was dumping toxic chemicals into the Delaware River had just hit the press. “I’ve heard nothing. I’m on the fifteenth hole. What is it?” she snapped, nervous and impatient.

“Allentown, Terre Haute, and Hays — the plants are gone.”

“Gone? What the hell do you mean, gone? In flames?” She leaned against the golf cart, and began to fumble for her nitroglycerine tablets. There was always the risk at a chemical plant for an accident to occur, but three of them at once …. “Bombs?” Barbara heard the squeak in her voice that made her sound like a teenybopper.

“You won’t believe it ….Earthquakes!”

She paused, her hand inside her pocketbook. “You’re joking.” She started to laugh, strained, but feeling the relief that trickled through her.

“Turn on the fucking news, Melton! It’s all over the country! Three earthquakes, all of them where our buildings are located. They’re completely destroyed. Everything’s gone.” Meadows’ voice spiraled into a hysterical wail. “The IPO’s shot, and we’re fucked. We’re fucked, Barb, do you hear me? And those federal fines ….they’re coming out of your pocket and mine, now, do you hear me?”

Barbara heard him, but she didn’t believe him. Three plants, leveled by earthquakes — in the most unlikely places all over the country? All on a Friday afternoon?

All at once?

It couldn’t be a coincidence ….pure, unadulterated bad luck.

It had to be those damn Greenies.

And there was no way Barbara was going to be stuck for two mil because of their tree-hugging antics.

She snagged her driver out of the bag and turned to the sixteenth tee.