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

“Can we predict them?” Evarts asked.

“Absolutely. In the past few years, the National Oceanic & Atmospheric Administration has developed AR observatories. There’s one in California, on Twitchell Island, in the San Francisco Bay Delta. Their automated techniques use satellites and sophisticated computer models.” He puffed his chest. “We can predict atmospheric rivers five days in advance, maybe seven. There is still work to be done on duration, but all in all, we have made great progress.”

“Five days?” Evarts asked. “No longer? You mean tomorrow you could tell me that in less than a week, we’ll get buried under a deluge?”

Ashley gave Evarts a condescending look. “Plenty of time. Water does not fall from the sky in one fell swoop.”

Evarts set his fork aside. “But it can drop fast … and after all this rain, the ground is saturated. Bring on one of these atmospheric rivers and … I don’t know, what can it do?”

“I am not sure we should focus on the worst case,” Ashley said. “The odds are far too long. Besides, that is the purpose of our meeting. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Actually, it is my concern. In case of emergency, I report to the Law Enforcement Branch of the Emergency Operations Center. And we’re woefully unprepared for a natural disaster. Ever since 9-11, the whole apparatus has been redirected toward terrorism.”

Evarts went back to eating, but Baldwin didn’t look pleased with the dinner conversation.

“Are we really ill prepared?” she asked.

Evarts shrugged. “Our monthly bulletins and annual exercises emphasize terrorism to the exclusion of all else. I guess some of the coordination and training is transferrable to a natural disaster, but … yeah, I believe we’re ill prepared. The state pols fear they’ll be blamed for a terrorist attack but think they can avoid accountability for a natural disaster. If an act of God defense doesn’t work, they’ll shift blame to the national level, á la Katrina or Sandy.”

Ashley was miffed. “You are insinuating that our political leaders cover their asses instead of protecting the citizenry. I find—”

“I didn’t insinuate,” Evarts interrupted. “I said it outright.”

Chapter 4

Baldwin switched the windshield wipers to high speed. They still couldn’t clear the windows fast enough so she could drive more than forty miles an hour. If this kept up, her six-hour trip would turn into eight hours—or more. Ashley seemed content to sit comfortably beside her and allow her to do all the driving and worrying.

“This rain is nerve-racking,” she said. “Damn, when will it let up?”

“Not today,” he said. He checked his smartphone. “Heavy rain forecasted well into the evening.”

“And this isn’t one of your water plumes?”

“Wrong terminology, my dear, but no, this rainfall does not come from an atmospheric river. At least, not according to the American Meteorological Society. Just drive at a controlled speed, and we will be fine.”

“You sound so calm. Slick streets. Idiot drivers whizzing by us at ungodly speeds. I can barely see … and that rat-a-tat-tat on the roof drives me crazy. It’s so loud. I won’t be able to hear a siren directly behind me.” She glanced at him. “Doesn’t this unnerve you?”

“No sense shouting into the wind.” He chuckled at his own witticism. “I do not understand experiencing anxiety about things which one can do nothing about. Besides, this big, heavy German car is engineered for bad weather.” He rubbed the leather armrest. “I wish I could afford one.”

If Ashley had some gumption, maybe he could afford a car like this. She bet he never walked up an escalator. Just picked a step and glided, all the while complaining about people who tried to step around him. He probably drove the exact speed limit in the fast lane and felt sanctimonious about hindering other drivers from speeding. Then she felt a twinge of guilt. She had grown up privileged and inherited a fortune. But damn it, that just enabled her to afford the car; it had nothing to do with her becoming a renowned historian. That took work. Grueling work. And the only way you worked that hard is if you wanted it desperately.

Desperately? That stopped her. Why did she want acclaim so much that she was willing to work as hard as necessary to acquire it? Parents. People driven by inner demons normally didn’t have comfortable childhoods. Her parents had been dead for over four years, yet she still wanted to prove something to them. What did she need to prove? And, for god’s sake why? During her teens and young adulthood, she had deplored their lifestyle, but she had since discovered that she had misjudged them. They were not selfish elitists, but patriots who had fought to protect their country from a real evil force. She had learned that her parents were undeserving of her fervent rebellion. Furthermore, they were no longer around to be impressed by her accomplishments. It was all so dumb and pointless. She sighed. In the end, it didn’t matter what drove her. Her programming had already been etched into her character, the compulsive striving solidly melded to her personality. She was an adult trapped in an adolescent’s belief system.

Ashley broke her reverie. “How much did this car cost?”

“A lot. I don’t know,” she lied. “Greg brought it home.”

“I like it,” he said, rubbing the armrest again. “It may be pretentious, but I feel safe.”

As he should, she thought. She preferred heavy cars with power to go and power to stop. American muscle cars could rocket from zero to sixty, but even the cheapest European car could stop faster. She wanted trouble-free driving. In her teens, on a summer trip to Europe, she had noticed that many taxis were Mercedes, and she learned that this was due to their durability. As a result, since college, she had always driven a Mercedes-Benz.

In her rebellious days, she had dated a DEA agent who had taught her high-speed driving skills. She was confident in her driving but frightened by idiots who found electronic devices worthier of