01.01. Cashmere, WA

Sunday, 05 August 2012 08:15 AM PDT
Cashmere High School, Cashmere, WA


Sheriff Jane Justice, Democrat, serving her second term as Chelan County's chief law enforcer, surveyed the gathering inside the high school classroom. Saturday morning the blonde grandmother arrived in the city of three thousand on the Cascades' eastern slopes from the county seat of Wenatchee 15 miles east. By helicopter. The bridge that once connected Cashmere to the outside world rested at the bottom of the Columbia River. Her office's homepage gave the Sheriff's age at 54. Right then she looked older.

Four days ago noon on August 1 an earthquake hit the state of Washington like the footfall of an angered god. West of the Cascades in the heavily-urban counties saw the greatest human suffering. East of the mountains among the lakes and tributaries feeding the Columbia Basin the river-lying cities counted the most number of lives lost. Cashmere had been fortunate the Wenatchee River stayed its course. 50 miles north sprawled the beauty of Lake Chelan. Like a glass of water in the hands of a toddler 55 miles of glacial-fed lake uprooted from its ancient bed and spilled over its southern end.

The city that stood there regularly doubled in size during summer. Now its beaches resembled the landscape at Tunguska. Five thousand drowned or went missing.

The growl of a multi-engined aircraft passed overhead. Sheriff Justice looked up from photographs of log-choked lakes and calving cliffsides towards a window. Smoke blanketed the peaks of the Cascades to the west. A fire caused by downed power lines and ruptured gas mains overran its western foothills. Planes from Pangborn Memorial and other airfields flew round the clock to stop it from spreading to the cities.

The Sheriff turned towards the group of seven volunteers from Portland.

Sheriff Justice

"I can't thank you enough for coming. I won't even pretend to know what you've gone through."

She spoke to the seven-person group. Bureaucratic foul-ups delayed the volunteers' one-hour flight from Portland to early the previous evening. They spent the night in the gymnasium next to the refugees. It beat sleeping in the hangars across the street with the pilots.

They volunteered with no knowledge of their real assignment before they arrived. Clerks from the Sheriff's office had pulled together two teacher's desks to support a stack of maps and aerial photos. Sheriff Justice pushed a sheet across the makeshift conference table.

It was Lake Chelan.

A red dot marked the southern tip of the narrow lake 1,000 feet above sea level in the North Cascades. The former site of the City of Chelan. Destroyed in the quake's first minutes. 50 miles up its north shore another dot read Stehekin. Swept into the lake with the mountain above it.

Right across the water 10 miles inland a final spot: Avalon. 3,000 feet up a heavily wooded mountain. Also a total loss. But.

"After Chelan City we sent planes over the lake but found no survivors. Two days ago a specially-equipped Air Force drone flying from Pangborn looked under the tree canopy."

She set down mutiple shots of what looked like hospital X-rays. Translucent grey shapes like wire frame models huddling against a black background. Inarguably resembling people.

"There could be a hundred sleeping under the trees. We believe survivors from the village linked up with residents from the Leben Institute."

The Leben Institute for Self-Awareness near the town of Avalon had notoriety as the latest and most exclusive retreat for a highly select clientele. A rehab clinic hidden in the woods of the Northwest. Actors, stockbrokers, heiresses even politicians anyone who rated. And could afford the fee. Britney had been there. So had Lindsay of course.

Inside the classroom a thin, unimposing older gentleman sat in the back row. He adjusted his spectacles and intently examined a clipboard while the Sheriff spoke.

Against a long wall four considerably fitter-looking men in flannel and leather jackets stood with their arms folded. The most senior, as tall and powerfully-built as Bran (but probably 30 years older), had the look of a foreigner. Some European person. Helicopter pilots the group had seen around a pair of large and ungainly-looking aircraft at the asphalt runway that morning.

Helicopters notwithstanding no obvious landing spots presented themselves in the photos. Sheriff Justice interrupted herself.

"Before I go on: I was told you were only made aware you were bound for Cashmere as you boarded your plane. I'm afraid to say this isn't unusual. We've had to hand out missions at short notice. You've seen the pictures. The whole world knows what happened at Lake Chelan. I can only send informed volunteers. Do you have questions at this point?"

Jess fidgeted despite the somber atmosphere; There was plenty of pressure in these moments, and the young artist

She cleared her throat to catch the sheriff's attention and said, "Thanks, Sheriff. Well, I hope it's not presumptuous of me to speak for everyone here and say the club is glad to be of assistance. But I have to ask - what exactly do you want us to do? Are we bringing these people supplies? Leading them back out from the forest? Leading them to a place where they can be airlifted?" She stood and leaned over the conference table in order to poke through the photographs that were on display. "There are plenty of questions to ask, but unless we know what we're doing, we won't be asking the right ones... First give us the overall view; then we'll talk details."

She glanced at the sheriff and then shot a look at the unknown gentleman in the room. Probably her government - FEMA? - minder she mused.

She looked to the other members of the club - men and women she had known for some time, and was glad to have with her (despite their foibles) - and started to hand photos clockwise around the table, passing the information for them to look at and absorb.

Bran had spent the night helping locals and refugees where ever heavy lifting was needed, finally collapsing into him cot in the small hours of the morning, crying. Despite this the big man sprang awake this morning and helped with fixing breakfast for the refugees. He abstained when a local led the gymnasium in prayer, pointedly turning his back. When the team was called his low voice was booming out across the school’s oval a sad song for those taken by uncaring nature.
Entering the room he choose to stand. Initially, Bran just glared at the four men along the wall. When the Sheriff introduced herself he glared at her too but said little. Absorbing the scale of the tragedy Bran shed a tear but kept his face hard. When called on to ask questions he doesn’t hesitate.
“I’ll do everything I can” he began earnestly but then switched to a more sarcastic tone “but where are the emergency services? Hell where are the Marines?” his tone indicating that he thought he already knew the answer "I can see some around but this kind of rescue is thier job". Turning to large men at the wall “Tell me agent-soldier-boy where are your buddies?”

Jess turned to Bran, her exasperation at his attitude showing plainly. Her cheeks flushed at embarrassment that someone in her club would be so gauche (and not a little worry that it might reflect badly both on herself, and on the rest of the club members).

"Really, Bran? I mean ... Really?" She gestured at the maps and pictures on the table, "The marines, FEMA, the National Guard, they're already doing all they can - Seattle is in ruins for God's sake. We've been asked here because people need help, not because the people helping them need to be belittled."

She turned towards the sheriff and the men along the wall, and mouthed a silent "Sorry".

Made a couple assumptions about the situation (i.e. I think I saw you mention that Seattle was hit very hard... It might be *slight* hyperbole on her part) - please correct me if I'm wrong, but Jess would *definitely* want to jump on Bran before one of the non-club people present did; she would feel pride and manners demanded it

Ellen rolled her eyes at Bran's offensive outburst. "Pull yourself together, big guy," she muttered. "You're having a breakdown; no wonder, the way you have to be the hero all the time. But you're useless like this," she told the weeping man, before turning back to listen to Sheriff Justice's reply to Jess.

Padrick takes his cap and glasses off in a quick motion and kneads his eyes and temples contemplating the situation, " Something's going on here a drone? . . . . That guy with the clipboard, there's nothing at all legit about him. Man we've really stepped in it now". Putting his cap back on and cleaning his gasses Padrick looks around at the stack of maps and his club members the chaos of the make shift H.Q. for the rescue efforts. "Chaos, man something is definitely going on, and what the heck, is Bran honestly crying? Wow" , Padrick puts his glasses firmly back in place and runs his hand across the bottom of his face in a worrisome manner.

" Hey big guy, you need to chill Bran, obviously stuff's crazy why else would the government be calling in a hiking club to help out man? There's a lot of ground and they have to be over extended as is.", Padrick looks to the sheriff questioningly hoping for some sort of affirmation to the assumptions he just threw out there.

Shaking his head he bulls forward with a few questions, "Alrighty so questions it is, 1.) will we be accompanied by any rescue personnel? 2.) Exactly what Jess said we need to know what you want of us? 3.) Has there been any type of geological survey, heck even conjecture by a person who took geology in college as to what we could be running into up there after this incident? 4.) Who's Mr. Clipboard in the back?" . Padrick throws a thumb over his shoulder pointing to what he expects is some nefarious government burecrat or some such before crossing his arms and waiting for at least a few of his questions to be answered.

just a heads up format wise, bold= spoken, bold and italicized= thought. If you have any issues at all format wise just let me know. I know everyone likes to see something different.

Jack rolled a coin along his knuckles as he listened to the commentary before toning in. "To save some wasted time, we're middle-rung emergency people. If they had Marines or trained personnel to send, they would, because if we screw up, someone higher up in the political standing gets the heat. This is one of the cases of shit rolling uphill. Next, Patty, calm down, save the paranoia for the suits actually chasing you."

He flicked the coin, caught it and continued to play as he posed his own questions. "What are we bringing? I expect food, water, and medical supplies, but the volume we'll need to discuss. I expect we'll have saws and such too, because rock climbing branches into tree climbing and some sawing later, we can clear a hole in the canopy for airlifting. Next, are we bringing an -untrained- climber for the sake of getting a Paramedic up there? Last I checked, aside for being first-aid trained, none of us can deal with proper injuries. But, we can -probably- drag someone else up with us, depending on the ratio of kicking to screaming."

Stopping the coin between his thumb and curled forefinger he posed one last comment. "Lastly, when we get up there, how long are we staying with them? Will we be doing trips back and forth, ferrying supplies? Will we be there for moral support until the pros show up? And lastly, is there a media block on this thing? Media starlets and all.", that last one possibly to pluck at Pat's conspiracy strings.

Sheriff Justice

Sheriff Justice visibly started at Jesslyn's question like a person surprised by a loud noise. She looked at the seven going from one face to another as if trying not to speak aloud. I see you haven't done this before. She looked contrite answering.

"I apologize Miss Akram. Jesslyn. I'm making too many assumptions. Yes I expect, I mean, I'm asking your help with all three. The main objective's confirming a landing site to remove the survivors by air. A hundred people. Other teams will pitch in when they become available. Right now an experienced volunteer from Cashmere's willing to join your group."

She glanced at the windows. The grey clouds near the horizon looked distinct from the mass of smoke above the burning forest.

"At the very least the survivors need supplies A-S-A-P. Too many uncertainties: the landing site, more warm bodies, the state of the victims. And I can't promise you won't run out of daylight. You may have to weather a night on the mountain. I'm afraid we're expecting rain."

Four days without shelter any survivor teetered at breaking. Hypothermia killed quickly and with little warning. But indeed Seattle and many other places had suffered severely. Too many places. The National Guard, federal agencies, had all they could handle.

"If not for the Air Force hunting for wild fires we wouldn't have known anyone in Avalon survived. This information took time to come down to us. There've been mistakes. We're asking you to go after people others have given up for dead."

Confused the men by the wall looked at each other trying to figure who Bran meant. The foreign-looking one stood to his full (and considerable) height and locked gazes. He had thinning brown hair. His accent was much thicker.

Sergei

"Da. Sergei Suvorovich was soldier, boy . . ."

He drew out saying the last word glaring at the younger man. He looked old enough to be Bran's grandfather. "But it was not Yankee Army who put recruiting station in Bashkortostan. Different uniform."

"Sergei is agent. Sales agent for Russian Aircraft Production Enterprise Kumertau. We Russians, how do you Americans say it, build shit good. Your life depend on it."

Gus

Another man smiled warmly. Like all of the pilots he looked at least a decade older than Bran and Ellen. He held a black b-ball cap that had Extensive Forest Products embroidered in yellow thread.

"Gus Banks. Portland, right? Prineville. Sergei isn't kidding about the Kamov. Does things the Blackhawks we flew in the Army can't. Well I used to be in the Army." He looked at Bran, then sideways at the Russian as he bent forward. He whispered briefly before going on. ("Don't mind how he talks. Cried when he saw it on TV.")

"Me and Bob and Pau here will be working with you guys. Another pilot's trying to reach family in Tacoma. Sergei's a stand-in. He was visiting about a contract and volunteered when the head office saw what happened. We all did."

Extensive Forest Products was a logging company. It owned timber licenses across the Northwest as well as Canada and Alaska. EFP was not universally loved. Activists constantly petitioned against its business. Some took more active measures.