If no additional actions are taken to mitigate damage before such a quake hits the nation’s second-largest city, about 2,000 people will die, 50,000 people will be injured, and property and infrastructure disruption will cost about $200 billion to repair, the report said. Perhaps five high-rise buildings will collapse. Some 8,000 buildings and houses of unreinforced concrete will collapse, though retrofitting has already helped reduce the likely loss of life. Households will be without water and power for months.
It all sounds pretty bleak. And yet parts of the report indicate something hopeful, Jones says while sitting on a couch in her office on the California Institute of Technology campus: Better science can save lives (and money). For example, the ShakeOut Scenario estimated that on the day of the quake, 1,600 fires will be large enough to warrant a 911 call. But some will start small, meaning that if residents keep fire extinguishers at the ready and know how to use them, much damage can be avoided. Similarly, 95 percent of those rescued will be aided not by emergency response teams but by friends and neighbors. So if people can be persuaded now to make their homes and offices safe (retrofit unreinforced masonry, attach heavy bookshelves to the wall to keep them from toppling), they’ll be in a better position to aid others. “The earthquake is inevitable and disruption is inevitable,” Jones says, her shoes off and her bare feet tucked underneath her, “but the damage doesn’t have to be.”
Millions of Californians have participated in earthquake drills designed by Jones’ office to teach people how to cope in crisis. (Don’t run outside; do drop, cover and hold on.) Nevada, Oregon and Idaho have done their own versions of the ShakeOut drill, as has the Midwest, where last April the event was timed to the 200th anniversary of a series of quakes around New Madrid, Missouri, still the most powerful temblors east of the Rockies.
“A magnitude 7 quake happens somewhere in the world every month,” Jones says, “a magnitude 6 happens every week.” Many occur in remote or uninhabited regions or under the sea.We pay attention to a disaster like the one that struck New Zealand last year—a 6.3 earthquake near Christchurch that killed 181 people—because, Jones says, it “just happened to be near people. But the earth doesn’t care about that.”
A fourth-generation Southern Californian, Jones grew up in the ’50s and ’60s, when girls were not typically encouraged to excel in math and science. But her father, an aerospace engineer at TRW, who worked on the first lunar module descent engine, taught his daughter to calculate prime numbers when she was 8 years old. Jones got a perfect score on a high-school science aptitude test. A guidance counselor accused her of cheating. “Girls don’t get those kind of scores,” the counselor said.
Despite a math teacher’s suggestion that she attend Harvard University “because they had a better class of men to marry,” she chose Brown, where she studied physics and Chinese and did not take a geology class until her senior year. She was transfixed, devouring the 900-page textbook in a week. Graduating with a B.A. in Chinese language and literature (she studied earthquake references in ancient Chinese texts), Jones went to MIT to get a doctorate in geophysics—one of just two women at the school pursuing an advanced degree in that subject. (And she found time to master the viola de gamba, a Baroque, cello-like instrument that she still plays today.) A few years after the 1975 Haicheng earthquake in Liaoning, China, an adviser said, “Why don’t you start studying foreshocks, and then if China ever opens up, we’ll be in a position to send you to go study there.” In February 1979, while still in grad school, Jones became one of the first U.S. scientists to enter China after Westerners were allowed in. She was 24.
Earthquakes would take her around the world—Afghanistan, New Zealand, Japan—and introduce her to the Iceland-born seismologist Egill Hauksson, a Caltech researcher. The two have been married for 30 years and have two grown sons.
In 2005, she had to choose between continuing her geophysics research and taking the helm of a new project that she helped organize after Hurricane Katrina. “OK, I’m 50,” she recalls thinking. “I’ve got 15 years left in my career. If I go back to research science, maybe I’ll write 30 more papers, of which five will be read and two will matter. And that would be doing pretty good.” By contrast, if she opted to work in the new field of hazard science, using her familiar face and no-nonsense demeanor to change people’s behavior, she realized, “I knew who would write those papers instead of me.” (They have in fact been written.) “It was a question of what mattered to me at that stage in my life. Did I want to get that one more level of academic achievement, or did I want to try and get the science used?”
Of course she chose the latter, and since this past October has served as science adviser for risk reduction at the USGS, working on a project to establish steps that people nationwide can take to minimize damage from all natural hazards.
One morning not long ago, when she was still focused primarily on California, I went with her to a meeting of the Los Angeles City Council, where she would discuss the necessary but rather tedious subject of building codes and still be greeted like a rock star, with one council member proposing an “I Love Lucy Jones” night at a local restaurant. While sitting on a hard bench awaiting her turn to speak, she took out her iPhone and clicked on an e-mailed video of a landslide. Trees, rocks and dirt all hurtled down a slope and over a roadway, suddenly more fluid than solid. As she watched it, Jones—whose brown bangs and spectacles make her look far younger than her age—radiated delight, as if the earth had a secret that she was being let in on.