Pangea 2.0 Tsunami Inbound: Pangea

By JAMES SHAW

Follow along as skipper Zidane and his crew of the Santa Maria Dauphin endure the frigid arctic seas to find survivors following the aftermath of tsunamis that have ravaged the Alaskan coastline. From the air, the Air Force sends in their Pararescue teams in hopes of finding survivors. And, interwoven in these stories is a family of four who face their own challenges as secrets, infidelity, and murder is uncovered.

 

Packed with action from line one to the end, this book is part of the Pangea series.

This book will not disappoint with edge-of-your-seat suspenseful writing. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: James A. Shaw
• Release date: Oct 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215764015

JAMES SHAW

James Shaw is an Alaskan and North Carolina based author. He graduated from Columbus State University in 2009 with a History degree and in 2011 from the University of North Georgia with a Master of Science in Counseling. Later, he went on to Seminary and finished his Divinity degree. It was after a military deployment that he was inspired to write, when he saw that life is too short to let good dreams die. Since then, his imagination for storytelling has not stopped. Peace.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Lucca: Ninilchik

Our red minivan screeches to a stop. Out! yells Dad. Mom, Dad, and Sis jump out. I follow. We are sprinting. From what, I do not know. Behind us is our trusty Volkswagen van, doors left wide open. Hurry, says my father. We run down a sandy embankment through patchy wetland grass, which is several feet high in length, and then back onto an embankment. My sister is ten years older than me, a college freshman who is athletically built. She dashes ahead of me and catches a stride with Dad, leaving footprints in the wet sand. The ocean water rises all around. Its speed is immensely scary, like nothing I have ever seen before. The rocky beach to our left disappears under the fast-approaching water. We run to the far end of the beach where there is a tiny dock for private boats. At the far end is Jon’s boat with the word Sommar on it. The boat reminds me of a tugboat, with a metallic railing and a wheelhouse in the front. It also has two distinguishable antennas on top.

We reach the boardwalk. It sways with grey, splintered planks sticking up. It moves like a pendulum in a clock. Neither Mom nor Dad pauses. Dad runs first. His shiny, black dress shoes clank down the boardwalk. His rented tux will probably not be returned in the same condition. Dad makes it ten feet before he stumbles down to his knees on a sway. He stands back up.

Quickly! he yells back. His dark blue eyes convey a message of impending doom. His puffy, green Patagonia jacket, with EPA in white letters, helps to warm him as it fits snuggly over his sleek suit. Sister jumps forth on the boardwalk. She clutches Mom’s hand and pulls her along. Mom’s short, blonde hair sweeps in the wind. Her dark red dress flies around her white, strapped heels to reveal her ankles, each one with a tattoo of our names, Lucca and Maggie. Mom looks like a hero from a Marvel movie more than a mom. Running down the boardwalk we can feel the ocean water under our soles as it splashes through the cracks. It is a balancing act running across the boardwalk. Up ahead, we see our objective: to board the Sommar 007.

Dad is the first to arrive at the end of the boardwalk. Maintaining his balance, he braces one hand on the boat and another hand on the grey, wooden railing. The boat rocks away from the boardwalk creating a separation of a few feet. Dad acts as a valet to assist us from the boardwalk to the boat. Taking my sister’s hand, he helps her get into the boat, then Mom, then me. Dad turns and gives a final stare at the impending doom.

Geez! he yells out loud.

His face turns pale and white. His fear frightens us. He only says ‘geez’ when he is nervous. His pause allows the boat to drift away from the boardwalk creating a separation of about four feet.

Allen, cries out Mom.

He turns and recognizes that his hesitation allowed the boat to drift away from the dock. He bends at the knees and rocks back then forward. He jumps like something you see in a print ad for adventure sports. Springing forth with his six-four frame, he leaps over the torrent waters. A scuff mark appears as he lands awkwardly. He holds his knee and cringes in pain. Mom comes over and comforts Dad with a hug.

Dad kisses his wedding ring. That was close. He heavily breathes out. He looks over at me. Lucca, do you have my wallet?

I do Dad. I hand it to him where he opens it and checks for its contents. Inside is a picture of mom from when they were younger.

He pats his chest lightly. He says, Can’t lose this.

Onboard, we clamor together inside the spacious cabin. I have never seen anything so nice. Lightly colored, wood trim lines the entire boat. There is even a sweet smell in the air that lingers from the small kitchen. There is also an enclosed toilet, a sink, a stove, and a sleeping area. I feel safe onboard knowing that we can float. The four of us are all breathing heavy. Dad braces himself on his knees, eyes looking down. He removes both of his jackets before putting back on his Patagonia jacket. Mom stares back at us in disbelief. She fixes her dress as it hikes up. I know she is uncomfortable wearing a dress. If she could, she would wear blue jeans and a t-shirt every day, but this was not acceptable at our cousin’s wedding.

At the forefront of the boat stands Jon, an old friend of Dad’s who towers behind the wheel of the boat. Sometimes we call him Uncle Jon, because of his close connection with our parents. Dad and Jon are nearly identical in both build and looks, except Jon wears glasses and has a darker skin tone. Today, he is wearing a black Harley Davidson hat and raincoat. He looks us up and down for a second and then turns around toward his podium of controls.

He eyes me. Talley ho, he mouths in his deep voice.

He pushes down on the silver, three-prong throttle and spins the wheel. The engines come to life with a vibrant grumble. The boat spins a hundred eighty degrees in the water. Large chunks of water kick out of the dual outboard engines. As I peer out the back window, splashes of ocean water rain down on the tattered boardwalk. It is a scary sight to see once the boardwalk gives way. Under the tension and stress from the swaying, the boards start snapping one by one. Small splinters of grey wood shoot up and ocean water sprays through its punctured holes.

Are you okay, Little Bro? asks Maggie. I turn around and look at her.

Yea, you? I reply.

My God. I have certainly had better days than this. She takes her hand and brushes her shoulder length, dirty blonde hair back. Her hair was nicely done up only a few hours ago, and now it hangs off her broad shoulders in disarray. She wraps it into a ponytail before fixing her lipstick, pretending that I did not notice. She wears a bold, short, cream-colored dress that upsets Dad. She paired it with white Converse shoes and a blue sport jacket that was left in the house by her ex-boyfriend. I think we should have stayed, stammers Maggie. What good does it do to be on a boat? We could sink.

I do not answer her question but become annoyed. She fidgets. Her nervous energy is spiraling out of control. She moves around the back of the cabin, trying to fix her dress and speaking badly about Alaska. However, it does not take long before Maggie changes topics and complains about having to wear a dress on a boat. One thing about our family, we hate to dress up. We love hoodies, but as Mom always says, There is a time and place.

The sea is rough as we pick up speed. Up and down, we ride the roller-coaster waves. Behind us, I see the village of Ninilchik slowly disappear because of the rising water. Above this old fishing village is a wonderful landscape. The mountains descend to a magnificent cliff. My imagination tells me that this would make an excellent Army fortress. Beautiful homes stand on the cliff and offer amazing views. However, many of these homes are at the tipping point of falling into the ocean. It is just a matter of time, like watching a game of Jenga being played out on a wobbly table. I can see the earth giving way. An old Russian cemetery begins to crumble on the cliffside as Eastern Orthodox crosses cartwheel down into the water.

Once we are out on the open water, it is biting cold, even though we are inside the cabin. This time of year, October, is hoodie weather. Snow could fall at any time. My hoodie has holes from its use. I wore it practically every day this summer, even causing my mom and dad to offer to buy me something of similar taste. My hoodie reads Seattle Mariners with a soft blue tone and sports a yellow pitchfork in the center. Underneath my hoodie is a new and pressed, white dress shirt, which was purchased only days before. Now I am thankful to have my hoodie, even though my father was mad that I was wearing it to the wedding.

Because I always talk about baseball, my father asks me sometimes what I want to be when I grow up.  When I say, I don’t know, he drops his shoulders and leans in to give me his fatherly advice.

Now listen, Son, stick with your studies and make good grades. Take it from me, sports get you nowhere. Whether it’s injury or stupidity in decision making, it all stunts you. He goes on and tells me about his past mistakes and how sports ruined everything. He is glad he finished his degree and entered the workforce, eventually landing a coveted government job with the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). After he finishes his long-winded rant, he finally asks, Does this help change your mind about baseball?

And as always, I reply with the same, No. Not really.

The terror of the water behind us causes everyone to ask questions. It is not until we travel some distance up the coast toward Anchorage that Maggie finally calms down. She leans over to speak to me. I don’t think we are going to make it.

What? Why would you say that? I reply.

I think I am going to die. I mean. We all are going to die.

Don’t say that, I utter back.

Listen, Little Brother, this has to be the worst week ever. Last week, Adam, and now this. I wish I never came here. I hate this place. I hate this state. I hate men. She starts to breath heavily. Her words upset me. She returns to staring out of the porthole and looking at the water. The uncomfortable silence between us is worse because the radio is turned on full volume.

Over the crackling, loud static, the aged broadcaster’s voice relays information. I look around the cabin. Mom, Dad, and Jon are glued to the radio. Like a musical conductor raising the baton, all eyes and ears waiting for the first note. The broadcaster echoes his own words. He repeats, Attention, Attention. This is not a test, but an emergency broadcast. Tsunami inbound. Seek immediate higher ground or move inland. A Coastal Flood Warning is in effect for all of coastal Alaska. Stay calm and seek higher ground.

The announcer continues to repeat the message in a raised voice, as Jon turns down the volume knob. He looks at all of us with his dark smile. His face is long and pointy, and he always seems to hide a thing or two with his short sentences. His words come across with mistrust and, while he likes to hang around the family, I cannot say that Dad is fond of him in recent years, but Friendship is friendship in Alaska, as Dad says.

Jon points down at the radar screen. Look here, he says. Come closer and see. Can you see it? Those dots are boats, but you see that flat line that is rising from the bottom? Notice how dots that show up above the line disappear after that horizontal line passes through. That is the Tsunami, and, by my estimate, we are going to get hit very soon.

Geez, I thought we just got hit by a Tsunami, replies Dad. He nervously moves the zipper on his green jacket up and down. Mom touches his arm to calm his nerves. Dad shoves his hands into his pockets to control his energy.

No. That was just a minor burp compared to what we are about to face, replies Jon. He touches the screen and clicks on buoys. Here, he says. See for yourself. Buoy forty recorded a wave height of 103 feet. Buoy fifty-seven recorded a wave height of 123 feet. And this buoy here......eh...135 feet.

Is it getting stronger? asks Dad.

I am afraid so, replies Jon.

Do we have options?

We do, but none are reasonable. What we are facing is a shortage of time.

How much time? pipes in Mom.

Minutes. Maybe thirty. Maybe an hour. But nothing longer than an hour, Jon replies.

Dad looks down at his size thirteen dress shoes. His hands stay in his pockets, and he stretches his back out, bending at the waist with his nose towards the ceiling.

I just don’t know, Dad replies to the group. What are we to do?

Jon, Mom says softly, as she lightly touches his arm, Do we have other options?

Jon answers back, Option one, we race to Girdwood and try to round the bend to Turnagain Arm. In this option, we miss the assaulting wave. Option two, we disembark at one of these cliffsides and try to climb to higher ground. And finally, option three, we turn and face the Tsunami and try to breach the top.

These all sound foolish and reckless, Dad replies confrontationally. We can’t just race it, nor can we face it. The science does not favor these decisions.

I am afraid we don’t have many options, says Jon. It is not like we can surrender. Let me better explain. We are sitting in a valley shaped funnel. That wave is heading in this direction. As it hits the mountain sides behind us, it will both pick up speed and height, as its energy is funneled, like water through a firehose. As a result, I am certain, I mean, we...we must pick an option and since you have your family here... what do you want to do?

Dad looks at us. He loves us. I know. But dad is never the one to come up with solutions with Mom present, since Mom usually takes charge. She will act on impulse, while Dad likes to use his scientific thinking.

Do you think you can do it? says Mom responding to Jon. Do you think you can make it to Turnagain Arm?

Jon replies, I don’t know, but I can try.

Then I vote for that option, answers Mom.

Jon smiles and nods his head before fixing his glasses that are fogging up. Okay, then.

Dad says nothing. It appears Dad concedes to Mom’s vote. He is passive with Mom. I sit by myself on the bench seat in the back of the boat, away from the adults.

Maggie is standing near the back exit door, when she notices that I have been running my finger in a circle on the table. She comes over and sits next to me at the small kitchen dinette that could cozily seat four. She passes me an orange life vest. Here. Wear this. It might save your life. I can’t have my little brother drowning.

I hold the orange vest in my hands. Funny, I think. This life vest could actually save me. Placing it on over my hoodie, it did more to hide me, for it was rather big, but it gave me a sense of comfort. I snap its white fastener, which crosses my chest, and pull down on the straps snugly.

I am just so overwhelmed by all of this, Maggie shares. This weekend was supposed to be fun. It shouldn’t be like this, you know? Who sees their friends and family swept away? Why does all the bad in the world seem to follow me? She looks at me and she breathes in a laborious sigh, obviously remembering the sudden wave that washed our family away. Maggie is visiting this weekend to celebrate the wedding of one of our cousins. She just went off to college a month earlier to the University of Washington. She could not wait to leave the family and move out of the house. She felt like the family was suffocating her. She wanted to be her own person and Anchorage was too small of a city for her. While hoping to go to schools in the Northeast, such as New York University, her grades dropped during her junior and senior year, due to her crazy boyfriend. I nicknamed him Crazy Avery. I did not like him. However, because of tuition, Mom and Dad wanted her to stay nearby. The only way she could convince Mom and Dad to let her leave Alaska for school was by getting a scholarship...and she did. What sealed the deal was that she achieved a partial scholarship to the University of Washington, which just so happened to be where Mom and Dad met. Now, here she is, only ninety days removed from fighting with Dad and swearing she would never come back. I honestly thought she would never return to Alaska. The only reason she came back the weekend was because Mom threatened to cut some of her funding for college expenses.

Maggie looks back at me and decides to come sit. How are things with Mom and Dad? she asks.

They are better than how they were, I reply. Mom is still upset, and Dad goes about the weekends taking care of projects.

Maggie gives her signature corner smirk—a trademark of her defiance. I guess some things don’t ever change, she replies.

Thirty minutes pass and no more words are exchanged. It is a heavy silence. All we can do is stare and brace ourselves against the violent torrent that is underneath us. We watch a small, white bottle cap slide around on the table. Our eyes watch it glide around waiting for it to fall off. It does not.

The water around the boat rises and falls like the Chugiak Mountains. Chops of unrelenting ocean swells swamped our boat every few minutes. It is a terrible ride. The Sommar 007 is equipped with windshield wipers. Despite being maxed out on full speed, they still struggle to keep the glass clear. On the distant northern horizon, we begin to see the city skyline of Anchorage. However, south of us, we are racing a different line. One that we cannot see with our eyes. It is just a line on a radar screen that offers no more than a few rays of light, and yet it terrifies us. It threatens to creep closer and closer to our position.

Look up ahead! shouts Dad.

I peer up and over the shoulder of Jon who sits in the commanding pilot’s chair, which resembles a great throne, if ever there was one for a boat. Coming towards us is a fleet of military helicopters. They grace the sky in a flying V formation. I find it both entertaining and chilling. I want another peak, so I dart out of the rear cabin door and step outside into the cold elements. Instantly, my hands begin to hurt, and a dry cough ensues in my lungs. Above us, three helicopters fly over. As they pass overhead, the lead helicopter tips its wings and appears to break off formation for a better visual of our location. I find the helicopter stunning as it dances in the sky. It is painted grey. It sports a black mustache on its nose. The helicopter tilts steeply to its side, I can see the outlining dots of a pilot and a crewman looking out its side doors. Their scary face masks resemble Star Wars characters. As they race by, I think, What did they know that we do not?

CHAPTER TWO

The Santa Maria Dauphin: Skipper’s Motive

Splatters of rain hit the deck of the Santa Maria Dauphin . The old fishing boat labors along as she batters rising oceans swells. Her heavy bow breaks through the zig zagging ocean current. Her tarnish coat of black with white accent letters spelling Santa Maria Dauphin had seen better days, but she is still a prize to behold at sea. Built in 1977, the 103-foot, steel crabbing vessel is handcrafted out of the shipyards in Seattle. She sports double anchors and a robust diesel engine, which turns a rear five-blade propeller. She holds a hundred fifty crabbing pots and is specifically designed for fishing Alaskan king crab in the arctic waters. She can hold twenty thousand gallons of fuel and stay at sea for over a month. Since her birth, she has fished the Alaskan waters without ever missing a season. Even when her machinery breaks, she is patched together and continues mission, without missing a beat. She is trustworthy and seaworthy and has survived countless arctic storms, brushing off rogue waves.

Based out of Vancouver, Canada, the Santa Maria Dauphin is manned by a six-person crew. Their names are Cookson, Merrick, Sergei and brothers, Otto and Mario. At the helm of this rugged fishing vessel is the widely known Skipper Igor Zidane. He is an odd man, with a constant poker face. He is a lover of naval history, and a heavy smoker whose hidden health issues causes him to be unstable at times. Skipper Igor Zidane fancies the ocean and the ships that sail her beauty. He often thinks about the forgotten, sunken ships that he sails over and their hidden mysteries. There they lie, in a graveyard, with no one to pay their respects.

The skipper loves his crew but has a hard time showing it. Even with his own family, he is often misunderstood when he tries to show affection. He misses home, but only around the holidays. One could say that he is married to the ocean and his wife is his mistress. In fact, over the last thirty years, he has only been present for eight of his October wedding anniversaries. With the hardships of the ocean, the struggles of a failing marriage, and the recently low profits, he has decided that this will be his last fishing season. However, the skipper holds a painful secret. As he hopes for a miracle, he waits to announce his retirement to his crew.

Retirement will not be easy for the skipper, as fishing is all that he knows. He wrestles with his retirement because he has not decided to whom he should relinquish the helm. The Santa Maria Dauphin is his boat, won by chance in a bad game of poker. Statistically, he should not have won the hand, but he did. It was pure luck, and the odds were not in his favor. He swore he would give up gambling and drinking, but he has never made good that promise. Winning the Santa Maria Dauphin meant the world to him. He had poured all his life savings into making the ship the best outfit at sea. But as crew members come and go, he truly