aside and turned to her notepad. “You also had two calls. One from Mickey Blake, and one from Allison Cauldwell.”
He nodded noncommittally. Blake owned an auto-repair shop on the mainland and was pushing for a second, in Spray Beach, but needed the zoning permits. He and Harper had gone to high school together. He was a nice enough guy and ran an honest business, so Harper had been planning to help him. Allison Cauldwell, on the other hand, was a little bitch who had taken over her late father’s three-office real-estate business and wanted to grow it to fifty. She was absolutely off her rocker, obsessed with becoming New Jersey’s next Diane Turton. Turton wasn’t any less driven or ambitious, but at least she had some finesse. Cauldwell had a set of lead-pipe sensibilities that would make a stampede of elephants look like a ballet recital.
“Okay, thanks.” He ran a hand through his hair and headed back to the cave.
He blanched when Marie’s phone rang again. This is how it was now—
Could this be The Call?
he wondered every time. He paused at the double oak doors, half-hoping for the worst just so this nightmare would come to an end.
“Donald?”
He tried to act as though he hadn’t been listening but it was an exercise in pointlessness; they both knew he had.
“Hmm?”
“A Major Gary Oberg for you. Says it’s urgent.”
What would Gary be calling me for? Harper wondered. To offer condolences?
A mild nausea came over him. Old friends and familiar faces would be emerging from every direction with wan smiles and words of tender reassurance.
This has to be the worst part of it
.
Oberg was a genuine friend, one of the few people he trusted implicitly. Small and thin, with dark, almost Mediterranean features, he was a career military man who believed in the sanctity and fundamental goodness of the United States of America. He was old school, a product of the Greatest Generation, and slightly at odds with modern times. Harper met him in 1974 when they were assigned to the same base in Virginia, and they’d kept in touch after Harper left the service following his four-year tour of duty. Oberg was reassigned to the National Guard base in Sea Girt, New Jersey, in the spring of 1992, and since then the two men got together fairly regularly.
Harper took the phone. “Hello, Gary.” He was aware of how tired he sounded but didn’t have the will to mask it.
“Don, have you heard about the tsunami?”
No preamble, no small talk, which was very unlike the man. Suddenly Harper felt uneasy.
“Tsunami? What tsunami?”
“Don, listen. You’ve got to get everyone off the island, and you’ve got to do it
now
. We just received an emergency call from Rutgers about a tidal wave that’s moving in your direction.”
“Come on, Gary.”
“No joke. You know that plane that went down this morning? The flight from the Netherlands?”
“Yeah, I heard about it on the radio.”
“There was a bomb on it. Part of some new terrorist plot. It was bound for DC, so they think that was the original target. But something went wrong and the plane went into the drink. The bomb exploded and somehow triggered this thing. I don’t know the details.”
Harper absorbed every word and calculated the scenario instantly. He knew a little bit about oceanography, having been as enamored with the shore as millions of his fellow residents.
“Jesus Christ. Are you certain, Gary? Absolutely
certain
?” The words sounded far away, as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth. Harper’s body had gone numb. Not cold, just…nothing. It was as if everything from his neck down was no more than a wooden prop for his head. A sufficiently surreal morning was developing into a trip through the Twilight Zone.
“Yes, I’m positive. Some Rutgers scientists in Tuckerton spotted it. They’ve checked and rechecked and there’s no doubt. It all adds up.”
“My God….”
“Don, I have to go. We’ve got a million things to
He nodded noncommittally. Blake owned an auto-repair shop on the mainland and was pushing for a second, in Spray Beach, but needed the zoning permits. He and Harper had gone to high school together. He was a nice enough guy and ran an honest business, so Harper had been planning to help him. Allison Cauldwell, on the other hand, was a little bitch who had taken over her late father’s three-office real-estate business and wanted to grow it to fifty. She was absolutely off her rocker, obsessed with becoming New Jersey’s next Diane Turton. Turton wasn’t any less driven or ambitious, but at least she had some finesse. Cauldwell had a set of lead-pipe sensibilities that would make a stampede of elephants look like a ballet recital.
“Okay, thanks.” He ran a hand through his hair and headed back to the cave.
He blanched when Marie’s phone rang again. This is how it was now—
Could this be The Call?
he wondered every time. He paused at the double oak doors, half-hoping for the worst just so this nightmare would come to an end.
“Donald?”
He tried to act as though he hadn’t been listening but it was an exercise in pointlessness; they both knew he had.
“Hmm?”
“A Major Gary Oberg for you. Says it’s urgent.”
What would Gary be calling me for? Harper wondered. To offer condolences?
A mild nausea came over him. Old friends and familiar faces would be emerging from every direction with wan smiles and words of tender reassurance.
This has to be the worst part of it
.
Oberg was a genuine friend, one of the few people he trusted implicitly. Small and thin, with dark, almost Mediterranean features, he was a career military man who believed in the sanctity and fundamental goodness of the United States of America. He was old school, a product of the Greatest Generation, and slightly at odds with modern times. Harper met him in 1974 when they were assigned to the same base in Virginia, and they’d kept in touch after Harper left the service following his four-year tour of duty. Oberg was reassigned to the National Guard base in Sea Girt, New Jersey, in the spring of 1992, and since then the two men got together fairly regularly.
Harper took the phone. “Hello, Gary.” He was aware of how tired he sounded but didn’t have the will to mask it.
“Don, have you heard about the tsunami?”
No preamble, no small talk, which was very unlike the man. Suddenly Harper felt uneasy.
“Tsunami? What tsunami?”
“Don, listen. You’ve got to get everyone off the island, and you’ve got to do it
now
. We just received an emergency call from Rutgers about a tidal wave that’s moving in your direction.”
“Come on, Gary.”
“No joke. You know that plane that went down this morning? The flight from the Netherlands?”
“Yeah, I heard about it on the radio.”
“There was a bomb on it. Part of some new terrorist plot. It was bound for DC, so they think that was the original target. But something went wrong and the plane went into the drink. The bomb exploded and somehow triggered this thing. I don’t know the details.”
Harper absorbed every word and calculated the scenario instantly. He knew a little bit about oceanography, having been as enamored with the shore as millions of his fellow residents.
“Jesus Christ. Are you certain, Gary? Absolutely
certain
?” The words sounded far away, as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth. Harper’s body had gone numb. Not cold, just…nothing. It was as if everything from his neck down was no more than a wooden prop for his head. A sufficiently surreal morning was developing into a trip through the Twilight Zone.
“Yes, I’m positive. Some Rutgers scientists in Tuckerton spotted it. They’ve checked and rechecked and there’s no doubt. It all adds up.”
“My God….”
“Don, I have to go. We’ve got a million things to
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