Thousands of men, women, and children were hurrying through the streets with no clear destination in mind. Some were like lemmings running toward the ocean, seemingly oblivious to the repeated warnings being broadcast throughout the area to evacuate the coastal regions. Of course, Manuel thought, evacuation is now a physical impossibility for most of the population. The broadcast warnings from official sources could not even begin to describe the hideous watery grave that awaited those who were still alive at seven o’clock.

Manuel watched as the cameras picked up a nondescript black-and-white mongrel dog lying on the side of the road. Her eyes were open and staring blankly into space, her tongue hanging out of her dry, parched mouth. A half-dozen puppies, no more than a week old, had been nursing beside her when they died.

A picture, someone said, is worth a thousand words. That picture says it all, Manuel thought. That was the last picture his station, KTTV, would ever transmit.

Manuel’s work was over as quickly as it began. He followed shut-down procedures for the transmitter to allow the blower fans enough time to cool down the big tubes in the final output section of the transmitter. Then, to avoid electrical fires, he threw the main breakers to cut off all power into the building. The automatic shut-over mechanism fired up the auxiliary generator at reduced power. He said a silent prayer, hoping that the propane tank was buried deep enough to be shielded from the heat.

The job was over, but he couldn’t afford to slow down now. Survival came next.

Manuel went to the storeroom and opened a metal cabinet. He took out two long-handled shovels and walked outside. He called the two oldest boys and said, “Okay, you guys, this may be the most important job you’ll ever have. I want you to take turns digging.”

He led them to an area off to the side of the hill. “We’re going to need five trenches, each one big enough to lie down in. I know it’s going to be hard work, but I want you to dig five big foxholes, each one about four feet deep. Can you do that? If there’s too much rock down there, we’ll just have to mound the dirt up. But we’ve got to make them at least four feet deep.”

Miguel and Ricardo took the shovels without complaint.

“This may not work,” said their father, “but it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

“How much time do we have to dig all five holes, Dad?” Miguel asked.

“It looks like we’ve got about five hours,” Manuel answered. “We’ll all pitch in. But you guys go ahead and get started, and do the best you can, okay? I know it’s going to be hard work, but it means everything. So, you’d better go ahead and get started now. I’ll be back soon to help.”

“Okay, Dad,” Ricardo said. “You can count on us.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE CONTINENTAL 767 carrying Carl and Lori Throneberry taxied down the main east-west runway at LAX, then climbed straight out over the Pacific. At five thousand feet, the plane banked left, leveling out on a course heading east-southeast, then climbed to clear the Santa Ana Mountains south and east of the city. After about twenty minutes, the plane reached cruising altitude at thirty thousand feet, and immediately it encountered clear-air turbulence.