Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

“I’m suggesting you let him be himself. Don’t do anything to make it worse.”

She arranged the chicken piccata on three plates, then suddenly threw the Teflon spatula into the sink. “Damn it. What’s the objective here? Is everyone just covering their ass, or are we supposed to recommend ways to protect the citizens of California?”

That sobered Evarts immediately. He despised the politicking side of city government and steadfastly refused to be manipulated by the council. He responded to their directives but resisted any inducements to publicly present their ideas as his own. Now, he was advising his wife to play games and hide behind a nincompoop.

“I apologize,” he said. “That was worse than bad advice. Go up to Sacramento and do the best job you can for the people of this state. Don’t worry about the pols. They can’t hurt you. You’re smarter than the lot of them.”

He knew she was right to have responded with anger. Disliking Ashley was no reason to set him up as a fall guy. Evarts picked up two plates, and Baldwin gave him a pat on the shoulder and a smile. Without another word, they returned to the great hall.

As he set a plate in front of their guest, he checked the presentation. Thank goodness he hadn’t slipped food around on the plate as he walked. He had done so previously after too many glasses of wine before a meal. Ashley nodded appreciatively.

Ashley said to Baldwin, “You know, if I had not gratuitously given you credit for my journal article, I would be the one on the Seismic Safety Commission.”

Baldwin snapped her own plate a touch too hard on the table. Then she laughed to disguise her irritation. “Jon, if you want to take my place, I’ll talk to the lieutenant governor. When I complained to Greg about this assignment, I had forgotten it was your fault.”

Ashley’s dismay pleased Evarts. “No, no … I am perfectly fine acting in a consultancy manner. Heavens, you are much more experienced at mollifying bureaucrats. I am just horrid at politics. Been my downfall in academia.”

Evarts suspected there were other reasons that Ashley hadn’t gained a full professorship. He glanced at Baldwin, and she gave him a slight shake of the head. Again, she was right. There was nothing to be gained by arguing with a dullard carrying a large chip on his shoulder.

Baldwin said, “It’s a shame that success at the university depends on personal relationships.” She shrugged. “Same everywhere, I suppose.” She snapped out her napkin and let it float to her lap, then nodded toward the window. “You don’t suppose this weather is the start of some calamitous event, do you?”

“Hardly,” Ashley said. “This is just above-average rainfall. We need rain after the last several years of drought. People complain when it is dry … and then they complain when it is wet.” He laughed. “People should be forced to take remedial math to learn what average means.”

“How can you be sure this isn’t the start of something big?” Evarts asked.

“The Great Flood of 1862 was caused by bands of water vapor a mile above the earth extending for thousands of miles. They are called atmospheric rivers. Satellites show no similar pattern today.”

“Is that what happened in Peru?” Evarts asked.

“You know about Peru?”

Ashley’s surprised expression irked Evarts. He took a deep breath before saying evenly, “It was in the news. They got ten times their normal rainfall.”

“Indeed. Over one hundred known deaths, no transit, no electricity, no drinking water, mud slides everywhere. Untold havoc and dislocation. But Peru does not have the infrastructure to sustain heavy rains. We do. We will be fine. Besides,” he waved toward the window, “this is hardly ten times our normal rainfall.”

“I looked up the Peru flooding this afternoon,” Baldwin said. “Normal Lima rainfall is three inches a year, and they received twenty-five inches in a couple weeks. There were 157,000 homes flooded or washed away, 157 bridges collapsed, and 2,000 kilometers of highway destroyed. Lima streets roared with sludge-colored rivers. The city lost water and sewage systems. Few of their nearly ten million residents escaped harm, and the reconstruction estimate is over six billion.” She shook her head. “It’s shocking what rain can do.”

“That was not unusual,” Ashley protested. “Twenty years ago, a Lima flood killed over 400 people. This tragedy comes to Peru with every El Niño. Their infrastructure is just horrid. To have an equivalent effect here would require much more extreme weather.”

“How much rain fell in 1862?” Evarts asked Ashley.

“Seventy-two inches,” Baldwin answered before Ashley could speak.

Evarts faced Ashley. “Seventy-two inches sounds more extreme than the twenty-five inches Peru got.”

“Of course,” Ashley said. “A repeat of the 1862 Great Flood would kill thousands and cause untold billions in damage, but the state has received only seven inches, one tenth of that amount. Oh, it will happen again. Just as someday we will have another 7.8 earthquake, or a wildfire that consumes hundreds of thousands of acres, or a tsunami that will wipe out those comfy beach houses in Malibu. Everything that has happened can happen again. But mostly, they do not. The really big catastrophes happen seldom, so although it is prudent to prepare, we must resist envisioning that every weather anomaly is going to eliminate life as we know it.”

Evarts had to admit that Ashley’s remarks espoused something akin to wisdom. His wife lifted a fork in the air to signal that they should start eating. The conversation abated while they ate several mouthfuls. Baldwin wasn’t a cooking enthusiast, but she prepared this dish well, and this evening’s efforts did not disappoint. He chewed in great satisfaction, thinking that Ashley was not a complete fool. Disasters were always possible, but—

“You know,” Ashley said with a self-satisfied smile, “a single atmospheric river can carry more water than the Amazon. Typically, there are three to five of these plumes somewhere in the world. If we get a really big one, look out … and get