|
Chapter 48
Sunday, August 28, 2005
K minus thirty-three hours
The monster had
fed well. The winds whipping around the eye were now moving at
144 mph. It was now a Category 4 storm, moving towards the Gulf
Coast at twelve miles an hour, and there was nothing but more
warm water before it.
~*~*~
The leadership of
the NOPD Third District read the daily duty roster in dismay.
All hands had been called in for special duty during the state
of emergency declared because of the approaching storm. All leaves
and vacations were canceled. Yet, fully one-third of the district's
personnel had failed to show up for roll call. True, most of
them were either civilian employees or desk jockeys. But there
were patrol officers among the missing, including a few veterans.
No one wanted to say there were deserters in the ranks - yet
- but these people were definitely AWOL.
The precinct captain
gave the list of no-shows to a lieutenant. "Get some people
on the horn, and get these stragglers in here."
"Screw 'em,"
cried Richard Fitzwilliam to his boss. "I'll get my people
on the street and get ready for this thing. We'll do the job.
Let's take care of those assholes later."
"Get 'em going
then, Fitz, and leave this personnel shit to me."
Fitz nodded and
left for the duty room to issue the orders for the next shift.
~*~*~
K minus twenty-seven
hours
Atmospheric pressure
technically is the pressure at any point in the Earth's atmosphere,
but in common usage, atmospheric pressure or barometric pressure
is the air pressure at ground level. In the United States, mercury
barometers, which measure air pressure in inches of mercury,
are still commonly used by TV forecasters for the same reason
Americans have retained the Fahrenheit scale for temperature
- it's familiar. Meteorologists worldwide have long measured
air pressure in millibars (mb). One atmosphere of pressure is
equivalent to 29.9 inches, or 1,031 mb. This would be considered
"normal."
If there is one
truism about the weather, it is that it is never "normal."
Atmospheric pressure is in constant flux and is intricately tied
to weather systems. Generally, high pressure means fair weather,
while low pressure is associated with storms. The range of pressure
is relatively narrow, as the highest recoded barometric pressure
was 1,086 mb (32.06 inches), while the lowest recorded outside
of a tornado was 870 mb (25.69 inches) during a typhoon in the
Pacific.
Therefore, the range
of possible pressure is approximately 216 millibars, or 6.37
inches of mercury. Roughly, tropical storms can exist at a pressure
of about 1,000 mb, and a Category 1 hurricane starts somewhere
south of 990 mb. The stronger the storm, the lower the pressure.
An hour after Hancock
County, Mississippi ordered a mandatory evacuation, the reports
out of the National Hurricane Center in Miami affirmed the wisdom
of the Hancock officials. Incredibly, the data showed that the
internal pressure of the monster had dropped from 930 to 909
millibars, and the maximum sustained winds were whipping around
the eyewall at 167 mph. The monster was now a Category 5 horror,
and it had not deviated from its track towards the Louisiana/Mississippi
line. It was 250 miles SSE of the mouth of the Mississippi River,
still traveling at 12 miles per hour.
~*~*~
At 0800, the troopers
of the Louisiana National Guard took up their positions. Buford
walked around, reviewing the final instructions that had been
given to his people. Only a few of the troopers were armed, and
they were not his people. But the camouflage BDUs did give a
sense of authority. The Guard expected no problems. They were
ready.
"Okay, open
it up," he ordered.
The doors opened,
and the first of the enormous horde of people outside began to
trickle into the stadium.
~*~*~
Emma closed the
door to her car and glanced at her father.
"Ready, Papa?"
He took a breath.
"Ready as I'll ever be, Princess."
"It's going
to be a long drive. You do know that, right?"
"I know. We'll
be lucky to make it to Houston before nightfall."
Emma gave Abe a
tight smile and reached over to peck his cheek. "Let's prepare
for the worst and hope for the best."
Abe grunted. "C'mon,
we're burning daylight!"
Emma laughed as
she backed out of the driveway.
~*~*~
A few minutes after
talking to President Bush, Mayor Ray Nagin ordered the first
mandatory evacuation in the history of the City of New Orleans.
Not that is was necessary, for the greatest mass departure ever
in the United States was already underway.
Over two and a half
million souls lived in the strike zone - the Greater New Orleans
area, the six southern counties of Mississippi, and the two counties
that made up Mobile, Alabama. The lesson of such storms as Camille,
Andrew, Georges, and Ivan were well learned by many: Get out
now. By the thousands, the cars and trucks streamed in three
directions - Louisianans to the north and west, the others to
the north and east. Most took the interstate highways and fought
enormous traffic jams. Others, more familiar with their surroundings,
stuck to the state roads, in an attempt to make better time.
For some, the drive was short - only a few score miles inland
to high ground. For others, their destinations were hundreds
of miles in other states. But it went without major incident,
for this was not the first evacuation for many Gulf Coast residents.
Cooperation between
the states was the key. Earlier in 2005, the states of Mississippi
and Louisiana agreed on the Contraflow of Interstate 59 from
Slidell to Poplarville, and Interstate 55 from Laplace to Brookhaven.
When Baton Rouge initiated Contraflow the day before, it was
a decision made in concert with their counterparts in Jackson,
Mississippi. Alabama, working their part of the plan, was encouraging
their people to head away from the congestion to the west. Within
hours, the coastal cities of the region would be ghost towns.
It was estimated
that ninety percent of the people in the coastal areas left in
the thirty-six hours before the monster's landfall, including
about one million in the New Orleans area alone, a feat the experts
had deemed impossible.
But that meant that
not everybody left. Those who remained had also learned lessons
from the previous storms, but theirs were very different. Too
many times had they heard the local weather forecasters go ballistic
over "the big one" headed right for their home, only
to see it fizzle or turn away. They were tired of uprooting their
families, driving for hours, and spending hundreds of dollars
for motel rooms, food, and gas only to return to an undamaged
town and a house ransacked by looters.
They knew better
than their neighbors. Hadn't they survived Betsy, or Camille,
or Andrew? Certainly they had been told that a Category 5 hurricane
would destroy the city, but they looked at the last two Cat 5s.
Camille did wipe Bay St. Louis off the map, but it was so small,
New Orleans barely felt it. Andrew devastated Homestead, Florida,
but nearby Miami remained virtually unscathed. The odds of Katrina
having a direct hit on New Orleans were astronomical. Yes, the
levees could be overtopped, but the pumps could take care of
that.
No, it was better
to stay and protect their property, they decided.
Others had a different
excuse. They were homebodies, used to their ordinary, unchanging
life. The last thing they wanted to do was to spend days cooped
up in some shelter, elbow to elbow with a bunch of smelly and
untrustworthy strangers. Mostly elderly, they preferred to sit
quietly in their favorite chair in their kingdom of denial, while
Armageddon approached at a dozen miles each hour.
Some had no way
of getting out. The city offered buses to the Superdome, but
not transport out of the area. To many, the prospect of sitting
uncomfortably in a sports stadium with a bunch of strangers was
worse than the storm. If they didn't have family or friends or
neighbors who could give them a lift, they stayed put.
Some had to stay
because of their jobs in law enforcement or public service or
health care or hospitality. Yes, hospitality. Someone had to
run the hotels for the guests who couldn't get out and serve
the new guests coming in. The press, drawn to what promised to
be one of the major stories of the year, descended in force upon
New Orleans, booking the prime rooms in the fancy French Quarter
hotels. These hardy reporters and correspondents were going to
brave Nature's fury, but not without 600 thread count Egyptian
cotton sheets.
That was why Justin
Middleton found himself back in a city he had forsaken so many
years before. As a producer at a local network affiliate in Delaware,
he had no choice. Bryan Thorpe, an up-and-coming reporter for
the station, had demanded to cover the hurricane, and the news
director agreed, for he saw it as a chance to steal rating from
the other stations in the market. Justin was his producer, and
where the talent went, so did he.
"You got all
the stuff, Justin?" Thorpe asked as he carried his hanging
bag over his arm as he walked into the Napoleon Quarters Hotel.
A sweating Justin
glanced at the jerk as he and the cameraman, Sam Watson, struggled
with the rest of the gear in the trunk of the taxi.
"Oh, yeah,
Bryan," Justin answered with thinly disguised sarcasm, "we
got it covered. Don't we, Sam?" Thorpe waved as he went
though the doors.
Watson shook his
head. "Asshole probably thinks this will be his ticket to
New York City and the network." He chuckled. "He's
got the hair for it."
Justin shrugged
and paid the driver. He looked around. All the biggies were there
along the street: ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, FOX, and the Weather Channel.
Everybody wanted a piece of the action, just in case they got
lucky and the city took it in the shorts. The dish trucks jockeyed
for a clear line towards the satellites orbiting high above.
Justin had already arranged for time on the network's dish so
that Thorpe could beam back his reports.
With no bellhop
around, the two men lugged the gear into the hotel.
~*~*~
Greg Wickham stood
on the small balcony of his house, smoking a cigarette and watching
the neighbors leave. He had to be patient and wait until the
storm was almost here before making his move.
"Hey, Steve!"
the skinny black man from across the street yelled. "Ain't
you gittin' out?"
Wickham took a puff
before he answered. According to his neighbors, he was "Steve
Martin." Everybody thought having the same name as the famous
comedian was hilarious. Hiding in plain sight was sometimes the
best thing to do.
"Maybe later.
Traffic's too bad right now."
"Shit - It'll
be worse when that storm gets here. I'm gittin' my black ass
to Baton Rouge."
"Hope you took
a leak, dude. You're gonna be sittin' in that car for the rest
of the day."
The man flashed
him a toothy grin and drove his truck down the street. Wickham
flicked his cigarette butt off the balcony and returned to the
house, escaping from the heat of the day. He decided to get a
little rest. He was going to be busy later.
~*~*~
Preparations continued
throughout the area at a fevered pace, nowhere more than the
utilities that provided energy for the region. The electricity
providers knew their power poles would fall before the might
of the storm, so the call went out to utilities all over America.
Usually competitors in normal times, they became lifesavers during
emergencies. It wasn't free, of course. The local utilities would
eventually pay for the assistance. But last summer it was Entergy,
Southern Company, and CLECO that shipped their linemen to help
in Florida. Now, it was their turn.
At Entergy's Waterford
III nuclear power plant in St. Charles Parish, the workers began
the process of powering down the facility. Generating over 1,000
megawatts of power, it was the major producer of electricity
for New Orleans. Yet, the emergency plans called for the plant
to be shut down if a major hurricane approached the area, and
Katrina certainly fit the bill.
So, it wasn't a
matter of if New Orleans and the region would lose power,
but when.
~*~*~
BRRUUUUURRRRRPPP!
Chuck Bingley smiled
as he fired up his new gasoline-powered portable generator. The
salesman had told him that the 800 watt unit would run for eight
hours on a six-gallon tank-full of gas and could easily power
his refrigerator, freezer, a television, and a couple of other
items. He also said it was easy to start, and Chuck was relived
to see he was right. He reached down and turned off the engine
to preserve the fuel.
Chuck had three
six-gallon tanks of gas, along with another three two-gallon
cans. With the fuel in the generator, he had power enough for
forty hours - a little more than a day and a half. He knew he
couldn't have the thing on the whole time the power was out,
but by using the machine sparingly, he would be able to keep
the food cold in the icebox for the expected three days or so
until the power was restored. Besides, he could always get more
gas.
He moved out of
his packed garage and took one more walk around the yard. He
had spent the last two days dragging the loose furniture and
other items into the half of the garage usually occupied by Jane's
minivan. What was too heavy to move, he turned over or propped
next to a tree. The trash cans were jammed underneath the bushes.
A bonfire was smoldering, turning the last of the large branches
on the ground into harmless ash.
Chuck wiped his
sweaty, soot-stained face with the bottom of his t-shirt. It
wasn't too hot for a Louisiana summer's morning, but he had been
working hard. Now that his job of preparing his beloved home
was done, he thought about taking a shower while he had the time.
Ought to wash
my clothes. Run the dishwasher, too. Could be a few days before
I can do that after the storm passes.
Chuck took one last
look about his yard. Jane often jokingly accused him of loving
his home more than his family. She was wrong, of course - the
house came in second. A very strong second, he had to admit.
In his mind, they were inseparable. He loved the house because
it was the home to his family. They were a part and parcel of
each other.
With a last check
of the front gate - he secured it not to keep people out, but
to prevent it from banging open in the wind - he went inside,
pulling off his sneakers first. It was Jane's request that dirty
shoes be removed by the back door, and even though she wasn't
there, he did it automatically. On the dining room table were
a box of matches, a battery-powered radio, several flashlights,
and every battery in the house. Candles were placed strategically
about the house. Extension cords snaked from the appliances to
the doorway into the garage.
He stripped off
his shirt as he turned on the shower, thinking he had nothing
else to do. He was ready. Might as well watch a football game
after he called Jane.
~*~*~
In case of emergency,
each community in the region had its own Command Center. It was
usually located in the county or parish seat, was built like
a tank, and since 9/11 had the finest in electronic communications
gear. That was where the top political and law enforcement officials
moved into to await Katrina. Police, EMT, and other First Responders
were also there or strategically located throughout the parish.
Links were established with state officials. Communication with
neighboring governments was spotty - cooperation between communities
was excellent on the North Shore and in the bayou region, but
Orleans and Jefferson had little contact with anyone else besides
the state and each other.
St. Tammy's Command
Center was in the old courthouse in downtown Covington. St. Bernard's
was right in the middle of its massive Government Complex in
Chalmette. In Mississippi, similar facilities were manned and
provisioned.
Jefferson Parish's
was located in the parish seat of Gretna. Every vital group of
public employees was represented, except one. For reasons no
one could later explain, the parish president ordered the evacuation
of the people who manned the parish's system of pumps. Because
of that decision, there was no one in Jefferson Parish who could
run the system to pump the expected inches of rain to come.
Jefferson was not
the only government to do something irrational.
~*~*~
Ellie Elliot crossed
over Poydras Street from City Hall to the Hyatt Regency Hotel.
The city's Command Center was in City Hall, and it was currently
staffed with the police chief and the city's Director of Emergency
Preparedness. The plan called for the mayor to be there, too,
but he wasn't.
Mayor Ray Nagin's
proudest achievement in his first term was to bring city government
into the twenty-first century. It took three years, but now New
Orleans was one of the most cyber-ready cities in the nation.
It was going as paperless as possible. The web site, with its
ability for citizens to do much of their business with local
government in a virtual environment, had won national awards.
All top staffers were equipped with BlackBerries, and were encouraged
to use e-mail as the preferred means of communication between
themselves. There was still more to be done - the NOPD had a
shocking lack of satellite phones. But that was waiting on appropriations
from the Feds, and unlike other communities, the city didn't
have the cash to front the cost and wait for reimbursement. Still,
the electronic revolution at City Hall was impressive - so much
so, the mayor saw little reason to hang around the Command Center,
taking up space.
The usual procedure
of the management of the Hyatt Hotel was to offer a suite of
rooms to city government during an emergency. It was right next
door and far more comfortable than a cot. All the rooms were
fully wired for Internet, so the mayor and his staff simply relocated
to the hotel, staying in contact with the Command Center via
voice and Internet connections.
Ellie entered the
towering atrium, which took up the center part of the building.
It was the scene of countless parties, as the glass-covered,
X shaped hotel was adjacent to the Superdome, attached to it
by a skyway. She entered an elevator and pressed the button to
her floor.
Within minutes,
the elevator stopped at the floor where the Government of the
City of New Orleans had temporarily relocated. Staffers were
working the phones or pounding on their laptops - another innovation
mandated by the mayor.
"Ellie,"
called out one of the workers, "are the RTA buses making
their runs to pick up people for the Dome?"
Ellie checked her
notes on her pad. "A lot of the drivers failed to show,
but we've been assured that buses are running." Exactly
how many people were being picked up no one knew.
"How come they're
missing drivers? Don't they know it's an emergency?"
"I've been
told that without a contract, a lot of the operators refuse to
do any overtime." The RTA drivers had been without a labor
agreement for some time.
The worker shook
his head and returned to his laptop. Ellie took a moment to look
out the window. It was facing the Dome, and she could observe
hundreds of people waiting in line to enter the one set of doors
leading into the stadium. More people were streaming in from
the streets. Armed NOPD stood guard to prevent the gathering
crowd seeking shelter in the Dome from gaining access to the
Hyatt.
"I wish they
had gotten out," she murmured to herself.
What wasn't mentioned
was that the RTA buses that were running were taking people to
the Dome. They weren't taking them out of the city to shelters
in Baton Rouge. And the Orleans Parish School buses remained
idled, their drivers all evacuated. No solution had been found
for the impasse with the School Board.
Yes, the first-ever
mandatory evacuation of the city was going well. The highways
were jammed, but they were moving at a better pace than during
Ivan last year. Still, that left thousands who couldn't or wouldn't
leave.
Everything depended
on the levees.
~*~*~
K minus twenty-two
hours
Kaywanda Johnson
drove the few blocks from the Shop Rite convenience store back
to her mother's house, a small bag of last minute items in the
seat beside her. The last thing she expected was to see a certain
beat-up sedan parked in front of the house.
She took a couple
of deep breaths after parking her car in the short one-lane driveway
on the side of the house. She knew Scott was back to try and
bully her into abandoning her momma, and she needed all her willpower
to stand fast to her resolution to resist him. With a grim look,
she collected her bags and marched into the house.
"Baby?"
called her mother. "Look who's here."
"I know, Momma,
I saw…" she cried before she lost the ability to speak.
Scott Davis was sitting next to Mrs. Johnson on the sofa - and
there was a duffle and a sleeping bag on the floor next to them.
"He came back,
baby," Mrs. Johnson said as she patted his hand. "He's
gonna stay with us."
Kaywanda could only
gape.
With a sheepish
look, Scott got to his feet. "Umm…Miz Johnson, if you
would excuse us?" She nodded with a smile, and Scott took
the shopping bags from Kaywanda's hands. "Can I talk to
you a minute, K?"
She nodded and the
two retreated into the small kitchen. As Scott placed the bags
on the counter, Kaywanda recovered her ability to speak.
"What're you
doing here? I thought you'd be long gone!"
Scott kept his back
to her. "So did I." He took a deep breath and turned
around. "I was gonna leave, I really was. But every time
I got in the car to drive outta here, something held me back."
Kaywanda bit her
lip. "What was it?"
"You. I couldn't
just leave you - I couldn't. Look, I've never been brave. I've
run from most things in my life. But I couldn't run away from
you." He looked away. "K, I gotta admit that storm
scares the shit outta me. But if I left you and your mother here
all alone, well…I couldn't live with myself. So, either
we all leave or we all stay."
"You don't
need to do that, Scott."
"Don't I?"
He crossed over to Kaywanda to take her in his arms. Feeling
no resistance, he kissed her soundly. "Still think I shouldn't
have come back?"
"Yes, I do."
She kissed him back. "But I'm glad you did."
~*~*~
Carrie pulled into
the driveway of her mother's house, next to Jane's minivan, Max
whining from the rear seat. "Hush, Max," she told the
Boxer, as if he understood English. "I've got to get Trey
out of his car seat first."
With Trey in one
arm and Max on a leash, Carrie entered the house, to be greeted
by the low bark of a Great Dane, a circumstance not appreciated
by the Boxer. The riot of barking at last alerted Catherine Bingley.
"Carrie, you're
here," she said unnecessarily. Her smile for her grandson
was tempered by her realization that her canine population had
grown by one more dog. "Oh, Carrie! Couldn't you leave the
dog at home?"
"No, Mom,"
she replied, expecting the response. "I told you I was bringing
Max, and I meant it. Is that Rufus making that ruckus? Where
is he?"
"That monster
is in his box where he belongs! And so will that thing!"
Catherine cried, pointing at Max.
Carrie smiled. "Sorry,
Mom. No room for the crate in my car. Guess he'll just have to
sleep with me."
"Carrie…"
Catherine growled. Just then, an overweight Pekinese waddled
into the hallway, barking at the latest intruder. Max immediately
got into a play stance, low in front and hind quarters raised,
cropped tail wagging, and returned the barks. Catherine, unused
to the way of dogs, took the Boxer's actions to be aggression,
and with a yell scooped up Chin Chan.
"Carrie! For
heaven's sake, restrain that animal!" She hugged the wiggling
Pekinese to her chest.
"Mother, they're
just greeting each other. Haven't you seen dogs play before?"
Before Catherine
could respond, Jane and her children were there, which set Rufus
off again. It would be some time before the dogs were settled.
Using the excuse of quieting Max, Carrie fled into her old bedroom
with the dog and Jane, leaving Catherine with her grandchildren.
"So how has
it been?" Carrie asked her sister-in-law as all three sat
on her bed.
Jane colored. "It's…been
a bit…difficult," she admitted.
Carrie's eyebrows
rose. Jane was the nicest person she had ever met. Never before
had Carrie heard Jane speak ill on anyone. For her to mention
a complaint, things must be bad, indeed.
"What happened?"
Carrie cried.
Jane glanced at
Carrie before speaking. Apparently, things had gone downhill
since early that morning. Rufus, after eating breakfast, had
taken residence on Catherine's sofa, basically claiming the whole
thing. At Catherine's request, Jane had shooed the dog off the
couch. He then decided to lie on the floor and chew on one of
Chin Chan's toys, which set Catherine off again. Exchanging the
toy for one of Rufus', the crisis was over, until Chin Chan decided
he wanted the new toy. Rufus defended his property with a growl,
which was the last straw for Mrs. Bingley.
"Rufus has
been banished to his crate for the duration," Jane reported.
"That big old
sweetie? Oh, I'm so sorry, Jane."
"I know this
is Catherine's house, and we're the guests, but I feel bad for
poor Rufus. He didn't do anything to deserve this. The dogs were
just settling their boundaries. Catherine just doesn't understand."
"Jane, you
are too good. You know my mother. She's had her mind made up,
and there's nothing you can do to change it. She's being unreasonable."
She patted her hand. "Hopefully, we can make the best of
it for a day or two. I'll do what I can."
Jane rubbed the
Boxer on the head. "Thank you, Carrie."
"Jane, is there
something else bothering you?"
"Yes. I wish
Chuck had come with us." She looked at Carrie. "I hope
you're not worried about John."
"Of course
not," she lied. "John can take care of himself. Well,
let's put Max in the washroom for now with Rufus and pay our
respects to the old battleaxe."
"Carrie!"
Jane laughed.
~*~*~
K minus twenty-one
hours
The monster had
only grown in intensity. The sustained winds whipping around
the eyewall were clocked at 173 miles per hour - almost three
miles each minute. Worst was that the internal pressure had fallen
to 902 mb. Like God's own vacuum cleaner, the lower air pressure
literally sucked up billions of gallons of seawater, forming
an enormous bulge in the Gulf of Mexico. Rogue waves of seventy-five
feet and more were racing about the surface of the sea, smashing
into abandoned oil platforms and ripping them loose from their
anchors.
Relentlessly the
monster headed north-northwest, without a goal and without a
reason. Eventually, cooler waters would weaken and kill the monster
- yet there were no cooler waters ahead.
Only land.
|
