Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (top romance novels txt) 📗

“Not bored. I want you to put me in touch with someone high up in the military.”

Evarts pressed the accelerator and backed into the street. “Been a long while, hon. I don’t really have a lot of contacts, anymore. The people I know are … hey, is the governor considering martial law?”

“No one is considering anything. That’s the problem. There’s been a fourth dam failure. Castaic Lake. This one’s bad. Taking out the same valley as the Saint Francis Dam collapse in 1928. Except the population is far greater today. We must shed this water before it literally drowns the state.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“At this point, it’s just an idea.”

“Okay, it’s just an idea. Out with it.”

“My little group of four musketeers has a last-ditch plan. We’ve presented it to no one. Before we make fools of ourselves, we want to pass it by someone in the military who can tell us if it has any chance of working. Just a brainstorm.”

“Trish, there’s all kinds of specialties in the military. I was in intelligence, which probably won’t help you. Tell me what expertise you’re looking for.”

Everts heard some mumbling offline.

“Munitions … bombs … big stuff.”

“Munitions? What are you planning? In case you haven’t heard, the politicos scattered to the four winds.”

“Greg, we don’t intend to bomb people … and remember, this is just an idea.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s too preliminary. I never should have called. At least, about this. So, tell me, how are things up your way? Any more gang invasions?”

“Nice try. Tell me your idea. I attended classes at the Army Command and General Staff College. I can at least tell you if you need additional expertise.”

More offline mumbling.

“Okay, but you need to promise to tell no one. This has spousal immunity.”

“I promise … but I don’t think spousal immunity is a thing.”

“It is now.” She took a deep breath. “We’re toying with the idea of blowing a waterway through the Southern Coastal Range to drain water away from the Central Valley. Now, don’t go ballistic, it’s just a far-out idea. And remember, you’re the one who told us to think outside the box.”

Evarts pulled the car over and parked.

“Wow. Where?”

“Between the San Luis Reservoir and Watsonville, just north of Salinas. In the old days, there was a natural channel there. It was a long, long time ago, but the terrain still shows us the pathway.”

“Trish, that’s home to some of the most expensive real estate in the state.”

“No, it’s not. Watsonville is primarily agricultural.”

“Pebble Beach, Monterey, and Carmel are just down the road, and Santa Cruz is just up the road.”

“The excavation of a waterway is inland.” He heard louder chattering, before she added, “Greg, I don’t want to debate this. We want to pass it by an expert. Do you know someone?”

“Let me check my Rolodex and do a little research,” he said. “I’ll get back to you after lunch.”

“As quickly as you can. We don’t know when we’ll be pulled in to see Gleason.”

“As fast as I can.” He terminated the call.

Evarts went to a fast-food joint, ordered a double cheeseburger and fries, and took them back to the station house. He chuckled to himself when it occurred to him that burgers were about the best food possible for the End Days. He sat back down at the same desk and started some preliminary Google searches. He read an article while he chewed his lunch.

He nearly spit food all over the screen.

“Holy shit!”

Chapter 38

The governor and his staff had taken over an administrative building at San Francisco State University. Because of the rain, cabs and Uber were impossible, so they had walked to a Muni bus and then walked through the campus, getting dripping wet despite umbrellas. Wilson had given each of them a cheap collapsible umbrella, the type that magically appeared for sale on every city corner whenever it rained. In Sacramento, the rain had been harder, but it fell perpendicular. San Francisco added a nasty wind that threw the water sideways, which made umbrellas near useless. The one Smith carried turned inside out, so he dropped it on the sidewalk with all the other umbrella corpses.

They had dried out during the three-hour wait, and Baldwin now ate lunch brought in by an intern. Harried staffers and important looking people had rushed in and out of the office all morning long. Baldwin wondered why Gleason had insisted that they drop everything and hurry over if he intended to ignore them. Perhaps as punishment for their transgressions. At least he had bought them Italian subs, baked chips, and soda for lunch.

Wilson whiled away the time on her laptop, surfing the web and playing with her flood model. Smith paced, poking at his smartphone. Ashley left, saying he wanted to wander the campus, seemingly unconcerned that he might miss Gleason bidding them into his inner sanctum. Baldwin spent her time on the telephone. Besides talking to her husband, she called the chairman of the Lincoln conference in Los Angeles and told her she was stuck in San Francisco. She called friends and colleagues around the state, trying to get on-site assessments of flood conditions. The news was universally grim.

Baldwin terminated a call. “Sherrell, does your model have anything to say about San Diego?”

“No, it’s designed exclusively for the Central Valley. Why?”

“The San Diego River overflowed and flooded Mission and Ocean beaches. The whole of Mission Bay has turned into a huge lake. Sea World’s closed. Despite emergency drainage, Sweetwater Reservoir is full.”

“Not my immediate concern,” Wilson said without looking up from her computer.

“What is your immediate concern?”

“The USGS added a day to their rainstorm forecast. They project six more days of this.” She glanced out the sole window in the spartan room. “Sacramento may be submerged for up to five years.” She looked at Baldwin. “If you’d like some lakeside property, buy in the upper elevations outside of Bakersfield.”

“Do you think that’s why we were called in?”

“I don’t know, but they must be