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Chapter 51
Monday, August 29, 2005
K-hour
Buford was beside
the Superdome management offices, the howling of the winds outside
a steady background. But it wasn't the gale that sent a chill
down his spine - it was the sound of thousands of voices screaming
in fear, along with the terrifying reverberation of metal being
torn away.
"What the hell!?
Come on!" he cried.
Fighting his way
through the panicked crowd, Buford and others finally made their
way into the arena, only to stop short. Rain and light were pouring
into the building. Looking up, they could see two huge holes
torn into the ceiling of the Superdome. For the first time since
Afghanistan, fear choked any words Buford could utter.
Oh my god! Is
the Dome collapsing?
~*~*~
At 0945 CDT, the
monster made final landfall six miles south of a small, wide
place in the road called Pearlington, Mississippi, almost on
top of the Louisiana/Mississippi line in the delta of the Pearl
River. Near the John C. Stennis Space Center and just a few miles
west of where Hurricane Camille had come ashore, Katrina was
far less kind than its famous ancestor and simply annihilated
the hamlet. By this time, her winds were down to 125 mph, which
the experts call a Category 3.
That wasn't the
problem for the rest of the region - Pearlington was beyond help.
It was the twenty-eight to thirty-foot storm surge spread over
one hundred miles that was the problem. St. Bernard and Plaquemines
were already destroyed. Now the fury of the monster was concentrated
on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.
~*~*~
What the hell
was that?
John Waguespack
sat up in bed, having the strangest feeling that his world was
moving. The first thing he realized, as he fought through the
haze of alcohol and cocaine that still wrapped his brain, was
the whine of the winds buffeting the condo. He threw his feet
to the floor and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands.
He glanced behind
him. Lucy, nude, was still lying face-down in the bed, completely
passed out. He was surprised at the amount of blow and booze
she had consumed. After the power failed, they had spent the
early hours of the morning trying to set a new record for fucking
each other's brains out. At the time, the sound of the winds
only spurred them on.
Now, the howling
excited him in a whole new, different, and unpleasant way.
Waguespack reached
down and pulled on his navy shorts. Padding into the den, he
tugged on a black Southern Miss t-shirt as he approached the
window. At first, all he saw was grey. He couldn't tell the sky
from the land. He blinked.
Was the land
moving?
The fog of the night
before was washed away by an icy feeling in his gut. He couldn't
see the highway. Where the hell is the highway?
There was movement.
Waguespack peered though the rain-swept window, focusing. His
eyes snapped wide open.
It was a floating
car.
He made his mind
work. The storm surge. The storm surge is here. Holy shit,
there's no land! The surge is already over US 90, and it's deep
enough to float cars! How deep is it?
Waguespack only
had windows facing the Gulf, so he moved to the front door, which
overlooked the parking lot. As he unlocked the door, a shudder
almost caused him to fall. With horror, he realized that what
had awakened him was his building moving. He pulled open the
door, fighting the suction of the winds and staggered to the
breezeway.
Looking down through
the sideways-moving rain at the parking lot, he couldn't see
the cars. Instead there were waves as the Gulf of Mexico, being
driven by winds of over 120 miles per hour, was trying its best
to tear down the condo complex. Already, the waves had reached
the bottom of the second story, the water going through holes
gouged into the bricks.
Panic gripped Waguespack
as he tried to process what he was seeing. The storm was destroying
his home. Katrina was trying to kill him.
He looked back towards
his door. Lucy? I gotta get Lucy!
Just then, he was
thrown to the concrete floor of the breezeway. The whole building
was shaking, tilting. The condo was in danger of collapsing.
He had no time left.
As quickly as he
could, he moved to the stairwell and began to descend. The hurricane
force winds tore at his body, the rain stinging his skin like
needles. He could see pieces of roofing and tops of trees flying
about. He got halfway down when the building moved again. Without
another thought, he threw himself into the turbulent water.
Striking out with
his arms, he swam towards a nearby tree, knowing he had to get
as far away from the building as possible, as quickly as possible.
The warm waters were pulling him inland and the waves were crashing
over his face. Blindly he reached out, stretching for all he
was worth. At the last instant, his fingers touched the branches.
Waguespack pulled
himself into the limbs before he looked back at the condo. Gasping,
water splashing all about, he watched the building, wondering
if the place would survive after all. Suddenly the building shuddered
and slowly collapsed into the maelstrom. Horrified, he watched
it turn into kindling, knowing he had just seen Lucy die.
He held on to the
tree limb with an iron grip, trying to decide his next move.
The rain was painful. The tree seemed to withstand the waters
better than his condo, but he was afraid that it could fall victim
to the waves at any time.
He thought back
to what he knew about hurricanes. The storm pulled in the surge
as it came ashore, but the waters would eventually recede. If
he was going to live through the next few hours, he would have
to get inland. The land rose, so it would be shallower. Swim
a couple of blocks, and he would be able to walk in.
Should he wait for
the eye? No, the winds were straight out of the south. The winds
of a hurricane are counter-clockwise. If the winds were from
the south, the eye would pass to the west. No calm time for him.
He would have to leave now if he was going to leave at all.
Waguespack took
a few deep breaths and pushed himself out of the tree. As he
expected, the waves were pushing him inland. At first he tried
to lower his legs, but after hitting his knee against something
hard - a sunken car, maybe - he attempted a breast stroke as
he moved with the grey waves.
Just keep going
- just focus on going on. The further I go, the shallower it
will get. Just keep going.
~*~*~
The failure of the
east storm wall of the London Avenue canal wasn't enough to relieve
the pressure on the rest of the levees. A half-hour after the
storm came ashore, the west levee collapsed. Now water was pouring
into Lakeview from two directions. It only sped up the unavoidable
annihilation of the neighborhood.
In Jefferson, the
price to pay for the decision to evacuate the pumping station
operators was coming due. The surge flowing into the canals,
the breached 17th Street, and the others were forcing water up
the wrong way into the pumping stations. There was no one to
shut off the valves, so the water backed up into the drainage
system. Already suffering from six inches of rainfall, Metairie
and Kenner now had water coming out of the storm drains. Orleans
was flooding rapidly - the East Bank of Jefferson was flooding
slowly.
~*~*~
K plus one hour
The sound of Chuck's
battery-powered radio, tuned into the hurricane coverage on WWL-870
AM, was the only sound to compete with the winds blowing outside
of the Bingley house. He heard the drama of the announcer taking
shelter in a closet as the window of the studio blew in, all
reported live as it happened.
Shit - WWL's
in the Dominion Tower, next to the Dome! How can the winds be
that strong down there? I'm closer to the storm than they are.
What Chuck didn't
know was that the winds were much stronger the higher up they
were. Trees, structures, even the "ground effect" -
all reduced the power of the winds. A tall glass office building
was the last place anyone should be during a hurricane. That
was why ideas of "vertical evacuation" - seeking shelter
in high rise office buildings - were dismissed by the experts.
Chuck had learned
a lot in the last few hours. The northerly winds weren't steady.
They came in gusts, and that's when things got interesting. Every
time the winds increased in power, down would come another of
the tall pine trees.
It was fascinating
to watch, in a car wreck kind of way. The rains, moving horizontally,
weren't heavy enough to obscure what was happening. The process
was a lot slower than Chuck had imagined. The pine trees seemed
to fall in slow motion. Only the floor-shaking thud vibrating
through his feet proved that what he was seeing was not a dream.
When a tree struck
a building, like his neighbor's detached garage, it didn't cut
right through it. At first, the trunk buried itself into the
roof. Over time it would make its way through the framing and
sheetrock, until, an hour later, the tree was lying flat on the
ground, cutting the structure in half.
So far, Chuck had
been fortunate. He had a lot of trees down, but they had all
missed the house. His fence wasn't so lucky. He could see at
least five trees had fallen on it, and there were probably more
he couldn't see. He was glad Rufus was in Baton Rouge. Otherwise,
he would have to walk him on a leash rather than just let him
run wild in the backyard. The rain wasn't heavy or consistent,
but it had been raining for hours. Chuck figured maybe six inches
had fallen so far.
Chuck rested his
eyes for a moment, as the voice on the radio droned on. It sounded
like the storm had made landfall. Damage to the city seemed to
be minor - it looked like New Orleans had survived another storm.
But as for the Mississippi Gulf Coast, Chuck could only worry.
He expected it got hit hard. There would be plenty of work for
the bank to help out in reconstruction loans…
A change in the
ever-present howling outside caught his attention. The winds,
steadily out of the north for hours, shifted to the northwest.
Chuck tried to picture what was happening.
Winds move in
a counter-clockwise direction around the eye of the hurricane.
North means the eye is due east. The storm itself is moving north.
So, if the winds shift to a more westerly direction, then that
means the hurricane is well inland. The eye is northeast of here
and moving away. It's almost over. Thank God!
Even through the
grey rain, there was more light coming in through the windows
than before. The tree canopy's destroyed, Chuck thought.
Hundreds of tress must have come down in the area. All the
beautiful trees around the neighborhood - gone. It would never
be the same…
The room darkened
suddenly. Chuck's eyes popped open. It took an instant to register
what he was seeing - a shadow growing from the northwest.
What? A…a
tree? Oh, shit - a tree!!
This time the rumble
was not one that came from far away. The crash was loud, close,
and sickening. The whole house shuddered. Chuck's stomach dropped
to his knees. He knew his beloved house had taken a hit.
Chuck dashed up
the stairs as quickly as he could. The shadow seemed to be pointing
to his daughter's room. Sure enough, the sounds of the storm
grew much louder after he opened Hailey's bedroom door. Where
a window used to be was now a tangle of wood, glass, sheetrock,
and pine tree. Rain was blowing into the house from a gap between
the trunk and what was left of the window frame.
Chuck wasted not
a moment before stripping Hailey's bed and using the mattress
as a plug. He jammed pillows and sheets around the mattress to
hold it as firmly as possible. He knew he had to stop the rain
from coming in. The water would rot the drywall, carpet and floors.
Finally, the hole
was filled, and Chuck collapsed to the floor. Sitting with his
back against his daughter's dresser, he surveyed the damage.
It was surreal. The room was almost untouched, except for the
tree in the middle of the window. A long branch stuck out, knocking
the ceiling fan sideways before burying itself into the wall
on the far side of the room. Pine needles were on the carpet.
Chuck watched the
tree closely. It didn't seem to move. Might this be the extent
of the hit? Was the tree close enough to the house that it would
remain in its current position?
Another thought
occurred to him. How the hell am I going to get it out of
here? How do I fix this?
~*~*~
K plus two hours
The winds were beginning
to die down to an acceptable level in the Quarter, which gave
the media the chance to do their stand-ups in the street.
"…and
as you can see behind me, except for a little water and minor
debris in the street, it looks like New Orleans was spared the
knock-out blow so many feared. Earlier, this scene wasn't so
benign."
"And…cut!"
said Middleton. "Good take, Bryan."
Thorpe nodded as
he ran his hand through his hair.
Middleton checked
his notes. "We'll run Sam's footage right now, so…are
you ready for the close? Good. On my mark - five - four - three
-," He counted down the last silently and pointed at the
reporter.
Thorpe gave the
camera his best sincere look. "It's much more peaceful now,
as Katrina races northward. I can safely say that the Big Easy
dodged the Big One this time. This is Bryan Thorpe for Action
NOW News!"
~*~*~
Lizzy and Will joined
Mrs. Reynolds in the kitchen and discussed the storm while they
fixed sandwiches.
"A lot of water
in the yard," Will reported as he looked out of the small
window over the sink. "Sugarcane doesn't look good."
"Do you think
the farmers will get any of it out?" asked Mrs. Reynolds
as she sliced tomatoes.
Will rubbed his
head. "Well, it's the end of August. Harvest doesn't start
until October. That's a month for the cane to recover. If it
stays dry, it ought to straighten up a bit, and the new chopper
harvesters are real good at getting out flattened cane."
"Not like it
was during Andrew," said Lizzy, placing three cans of Coke
on the counter. "The farmers lost a lot of cane that year."
"I remember.
Even with the new machines, the farmers are going to hurt."
"I wonder who
else got hurt," said Lizzy. "You've got to figure the
coast got hit hard. Do you think the reports are right - that
the city was spared?"
"Don't know.
If the reporters would get their asses out of the Quarter, we
might find out."
"Be nice of
them to work for a change," Mrs. Reynolds observed. "Do
you want any cheese on your sandwich, Miss Lizzy?"
~*~*~
"It's not in
here! IT'S NOT IN HERE!" Emma cried.
Cathy watched as
Emma knelt in the parking lot of the hospital, franticly going
through Abe's suitcase.
"What are you
looking for, Emma?"
"Papa's kittel.
It's a special white robe. It's…it's very important."
She sat back on her heels, and Cathy knelt beside her.
"Why?"
Emma expression
was numb. "It's our tradition. Jewish men are buried in
their kittel. Whenever we go on long trips, the men are
supposed to take it with them. Papa must have left his in New
Orleans."
"Can we get
it later?"
"No. You see,
we…we bury our dead as soon as possible. No embalming, no
fancy casket. We don't have time to get his kittel."
"You mean,
you have to bury him here? In Lake Charles?"
"If we can't
get him back to New Orleans very soon - yes."
Cathy took her hand.
"I am so sorry, Emma."
Emma nodded. The
two women closed up Abe's suitcase, returned it to the trunk
and returned to the hospital, where the emergency nurse indicated
they had a visitor. In the waiting room they found two elderly
gentlemen who rose from their seats as they entered the room.
"Shalom,"
greeted the shorter of the two. "I'm Daniel Copeland, a
member of the local chevra kaddisha. This is Leonard Rosen.
Are one of you Mrs. Katz?"
Emma stepped forward.
"I am."
He took her hand.
"Mrs. Katz, please accept our condolences."
"Thank you.
How…?"
"The hospital
left a message for us after your father passed."
Emma's legs began
to give out. She excused herself and sat down. "That was
very kind of them."
Mr. Copeland smiled.
"We have a good relationship with Memorial. The Jewish population
in Lake Charles may be small, but we take care of our own. We
will see to everything."
"Thank you."
Emma noticed that she had not introduced Cathy, so she did the
honors.
Cathy shook their
hands. "I'm sorry, but I'm not Jewish. What is it that you
do?"
"We care for
the body, Mrs. Tilney," Mr. Rosen said. "We prepare
it for burial and watch over it and pray until the funeral. It's
our way."
"We don't have
Papa's kittel," Emma said.
Mr. Copeland nodded.
"Don't worry. All will be as it should be. Whatever's missing,
we will provide."
"I…I don't
know when we can have the funeral. My husband's in New Orleans,
and my sister is in Washington, D.C. She can't get here until
tomorrow."
"I understand.
Is your husband all right?"
Emma shook her head
in frustration. "I don't know. The phone system's out."
"It's bad even
here," Mr. Copeland remarked. "Well, nothing can be
decided until tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay?"
Emma shook her head,
and Cathy said, "I thought she might come back with me to
Bayside for the night."
Emma looked at her
friend. "Cathy, that's too generous…"
"No, it's not.
Come with me. Didn't you say your sister's flying into Houston?"
At Emma's nod, she continued, "Well, then, she can pick
you up on her way to Lake Charles. Come on, Emma, let me do this
for you."
Exhausted and dispirited,
Emma agreed.
~*~*~
K plus three
hours
Fitz had his patrol
cars out during the storm. While the cell phones were shot to
hell, which meant the computers in the cars were inoperable,
at least the radios still worked. The reports up to now were
uneventful - just the usual damage - but suddenly everything
changed.
"Say again,"
Fitz ordered into the microphone as he leaned over the dispatcher.
"Lots of
water in the streets around Lakeview and Carrolton. It's starting
to get deep. And it's moving."
"Moving? Is
it the wind?"
"No, it
doesn't seem so…hold on…"
The Third District
held its breath as they awaited the response from the patrol.
"District,
we have an eyewitness here that says there's a breech in the
17th Street Canal. Repeat - a report of a breech in the 17th
Street Canal."
Fitz cursed. "Can
you verify?"
"We'll try
to, but the water's getting high."
"Do your best,
but be careful. We'd rather you come home than not."
"Roger that.
Out."
Fitz turned to his
captain. "I know this report's unconfirmed, but I think
we ought to pass it on downtown."
"Agreed,"
his boss said. "See to it."
Within a few minutes,
it and other reports flowed to headquarters, compelling enough
for the mayor to report a break in the 17th Street Canal. No
one yet knew the scale of the trouble, so the comment was rather
low key.
~*~*~
The copters were
in the air again.
The US Coast Guard
knew they had to get ships and aircraft back to New Orleans and
the coast as soon as possible. So, even while the monster was
moving inland, now something between a Cat 2 and Cat 1, the Dolphins
and JayHawks were launched and headed back to their forward bases
in Mississippi and Belle Chasse. They were coming from all directions
- from Lake Charles, Alexandria, Shreveport, Houston, Tampa,
and other bases. It would take hours, but that's what the crews
were paid to do.
In bases all over
the country, National Guard troops were on alert, awaiting activation
orders. In Georgia, the Army's famous US 82nd Airborne, just
back from the wars, was preparing to go in.
From the sea, Coast
Guard and Navy ships that had been pre-positioned to ride out
the storm steamed through mountainous seas towards the mouth
of the river to await word that the channel was clear of sunken
boats.
~*~*~
K plus four hours
Chuck shut off his
generator to save fuel and walked out of his garage into the
misting rain in the still gusty winds. He needed to survey the
damage to the house and see if any potential danger still threatened
his home.
He knew it was bad,
but he had no idea it was this bad. Trees were down everywhere;
he lost count after twenty. He couldn't see the grass for the
limbs, leaves and water - water all over the place. He tried
to get to the street, but it was covered with water. The debris
in the ditches had limited the drainage.
But the worst sight
was the power poles. They had faired no better than the trees.
Chuck knew it took hours for the utility company to replace a
pole taken out by a thunderstorm or a drunk driver. How much
longer would it take after a hurricane? Just on his street alone,
dozens of poles were down, mixed with large trees. How big an
area did Katrina hit? How many hundreds of square miles? It could
take weeks to fix.
Hell, it could
take months!
The rain returned,
chasing Chuck back indoors. He got a tumbler from the cabinet
and tried to get water from the kitchen faucet - and failed.
The water was out.
Of course - there's
no power for the pumps at the water utility.
Things had just
gotten worse.
~*~*~
Carrie was worried
as she prepared to check in at the capital. Her first concern
was for John; reports had come in about damage to the Superdome.
But, except for talking about downtown New Orleans, it was if
the rest of the area had ceased to exist. Jane was doing her
best to be calm, but there was hardly anything out of the North
Shore. No calls and few reports, except for one lunatic from
the Weather Channel, who thought it was a great idea to stand
in the wind and rain outside of Covington. The tone of the reports
around the region varied from cataclysmic to hopeful and back
again.
And there was Catherine.
Carrie knew her mother could be difficult even at the best of
times, but now, in the face of this calamity the woman had lost
all sense of proportion. She was sitting on the couch, listening
to the radio, engaging in catastrophic event fantasies.
"I hope Chuck's
all right, dear," she told Jane, "but with all this
damage, well…I just hope he's all right."
"Mother, please!"
Carrie hissed. Can't she see that Jane's pregnant?
Jane got to her
feet. "Excuse me, but I'd better walk Rufus now that the
rain has stopped." The others remained quiet until the back
door closed. Once it did, Carrie began.
"Mother, I
wish you wouldn't say such things in front of Jane. She's worried
enough about Chuck as it is, but in her condition…well,
you ought to have more tact."
"Tact? This
is my house, and I will say what I please!"
"And what about
Jane's feelings?" Carrie shot back.
"I know Jane's
feelings very well; that's why I haven't said what needs to be
said!"
"What are you
talking about?"
Catherine sat up
straight, her voice the tone of finality. "If Charles is
killed and she and the children move in with me, I will NOT have
that dog in my house!"
Carrie looked towards
the stairs. "Mother, the children! Lower your voice!"
After a pause, "Why are you even talking about that? Chuck's
fine, I'm sure."
"We have to
be prepared for any eventuality."
"That's ridiculous!
Why would you even think that, much less drop hints in front
of Jane? Have you lost your mind?"
"Don't take
that tone of voice with me!" she cried. "If Charles
had done what he should have and evacuated, we wouldn't be having
this conversation. He should be taking care of his family, instead
of imposing his responsibility on others. But, I shouldn't be
surprised - he's just like his father. And now, I'll probably
have to raise his family in his stead!"
Carrie knew that
her mother's behavior was only a response to her own worries
and fears - that she wasn't really serious - but it was potentially
damaging to Jane in any case.
"Look, Mother,
there is no good talking about things like that while Jane is
so worried. You wouldn't want anything to happen to the baby,
would you?"
"Of course
not!"
"Then, please,
try to keep your conjectures to yourself. You know Chuck as well
as I do. He loves Jane and the kids more than life itself. He'll
try to call us as soon as he can find a working phone - you'll
see."
Catherine shook
her head. "Is this our lot in life - to be abandoned by
our men just when we need them the most?"
"Mother, please…"
She tried to tell herself that Catherine's jab wasn't aimed at
John, too.
"All right!
I'll keep my thoughts to myself, just as I always do! If people
would just listen to me sometimes…" She saw Carrie's
glare. "I said I'll keep this all to myself, and I meant
it!"
"Thank you,
Mother. I have to report in now. I'll be back as soon as I can."
She leaned down and kissed Catherine.
"At least John
has a gun…" Catherine mumbled.
Carrie smiled. "Yes,
at least there's that."
With that, she walked
outside to have a quick word with her sister-in-law. She found
an aggravated Jane in the backyard, tugging at Rufus' leash.
"C'mon, c'mon,
do something…" she urged through gritted teeth. She
noticed Carrie approaching. "Rufus just won't go while he's
on a leash, Carrie! It's so frustrating!"
Carrie stood next
to Jane in the soggy yard as Rufus continued to sniff the grass.
"I'm sure he's not the only reason you feel stressed, Janie."
Jane closed her
eyes and her free hand touched her abdomen. "Catherine's
been very kind in allowing us to stay here. I should be more
grateful - have more patience."
"Oh, bullshit.
She's your mother-in-law; it's the least she can do." Jane
glanced at her before returning her attention to the dog. "Look,
I've got to check in at work. I've talked with Mother. Hopefully
she'll curb her tongue a bit more - at least for a little while.
If she gets too much, just go to your room. I'll be back as soon
as I can."
"I was planning
to spend some time with the kids after I finished with Rufus.
Shall I walk Max, too?"
"Only if you
have Hailey help you," she replied as she gave Jane's midsection
a look. "You've got to take care of yourself."
"You, too."
Carrie laughed as
she rubbed her own belly. "That's why I know you're stressed."
She kissed her sister-in-law's cheek. "Don't worry, Janie.
Chuck can take care of himself."
Jane smirked. "Shall
I tell you not to worry about John?"
"You can try."
"Will it work?"
"No."
They hugged each other. "I'll be back soon. Hang in there."
~*~*~
Buford had helped
oversee the movement of the people off of the field of the Superdome
into the stands. They were out of the rain, but the surface of
the field was soaked. To save power, the air conditioning was
off. More refugees were showing up every minute. And the folks
were getting restless.
The neighborhoods
of New Orleans were very territorial, especially those that contained
a public housing project. Gentilly did not get along with Iberville,
which didn't get along with Algiers, which didn't get along with
St. Claude, which didn't get along with New Orleans East. At
first, the groups tended to congregate in different parts of
the Dome. But, as the hours passed and more and more people streamed
in, the young men from the 'hood reverted to type and began arguing
over turf.
The National Guard
was stretched thin, trying to control and patrol, much less feed
the mass of humanity. To make matters worse, most of the troops
were unarmed. For not the first time, Buford missed the feel
of his sidearm against his hip.
Another twenty-four
hours. Just hang in there for one more day, and we can send these
people home.
~*~*~
A few blocks away,
George Katz walked outside of the main building of Tulane Hospital,
taking a break from moving the emergency room back down to the
first floor. The storm hadn't been too bad for the doctors and
patients; the only exciting incident was when a crew from one
of the cable networks, who had ridden out Katrina with them,
tried to do a stand-up outside during the worst of the winds
and caused rain to be blown all over the lobby.
George stretched
his aching muscles - medical equipment could be heavy - trying
to get his mind off of Emma and Abe and failing. Emma had called
early this morning with the bad news, just before most of the
phones failed. George wrestled with his sorrow and guilt. In
the last couple of months, things had been going well. Not only
had he and Emma turned a corner in their relationship, but so
had Abe. He was again the friend he had known most of his life.
Now that things were finally looking up, Abe was gone.
And Emma had to
handle it by herself. It was irrational to feel guilty about
that, but he did. He felt that he, somehow, should have been
with them. Maybe he could have saved his father-in-law. But,
that was impossible - George knew his place was at TUMC during
the crisis.
He glanced down
the street at the Park Plaza Hotel. I screwed up, he realized.
I should have made Em and Abe stay in town with the other
dependants. Maybe he wouldn't have had his heart attack. Or,
if he did, I would have been there. I would have saved him. Abe
would be alive right now if I had just gotten my head out of
my ass!
George's self-incrimination
was interrupted as he was jostled by a passer-by. "Hey,
man, watch it, will ya?" the young black man advised as
he steadied the shaken doctor.
"Oh! Excuse
me," George offered.
"S'okay, dude,"
the young man waved as he strolled along in the middle of the
street. At first, George was struck by that. Tulane Avenue was
usually one of the busiest streets in the city, but now it was
almost deserted. Except for the staffers of the hospital and
the occasional NOPD squad car, the only person George had seen
was that man, and he was in the middle of the street. It was
strange.
George then noticed
something else. The man's pants were wet - about half-way up
his thighs.
Street flooding
must be bad, he reasoned.
I hope they got the pumps going.
A call from the
door told George his break was over. Time to bring some more
equipment down.
~*~*~
Cajun 101 was in
the air again after refueling at NAS Joint Reserve Base - Belle
Chasse. The old Naval Air Station had taken only minor damage
from the storm and the facility was fully functional, which was
real good - it was about to be one of the busiest airports in
the world.
Lt. Commander Wentworth
turned his Dolphin due north and flew towards St. Bernard, beginning
initialization of search-and-rescue operations. This was what
Wentworth and his people trained for years to do, and they would
be called on to use all their experience, talent, and endurance
in the days to come.
The team was larger
this time out. Besides co-pilot LTJG Price and PO3C Lauck serving
as AST, they were joined by Airman (E3) Randle. Randle was the
rescue swimmer, the man lowered out of the aircraft by the AST
to assist people in distress. His was the most dangerous job
but not the most tasking. That fell to the pilot, who was responsible
for flying the aircraft in such a manner as to take acceptable
risks to save people while not killing the crew.
The winds were still
gusty as the Dolphin crossed the Mississippi River into Chalmette.
The flight down prepared them for the sight of an entire parish
underwater, but it was still disquieting. Fighting the gnawing
of horror in their guts, the crew scanned the scene below, looking
for survivors. It took only a couple of minutes before Price
sang out.
Wentworth dove towards
the contact, the winds buffeting the helo. He made a slow pass
over two people - a man and a woman, waving frantically on the
roof of a flooded house - looking for trees, power lines, and
other dangerous obstacles. He gained a bit of altitude while
considering his approach. Only after Price agreed to his plan
did Wentworth bring the copter around, pointing her into the
wind.
Cajun 101 was placed
into a hover before Randle leaned out of the door. Lauck checked
the man's harness one last time before slapping his crewmate
on the back. He then lowered the rescue swimmer by a cable to
the house below. He stopped just above the roof when the man
a made a move towards Randle, and only continued after Randle's
okay to do so. Randle immediately freed himself from the cable,
and Lauck retrieved it. He then secured it to the rescue basket
and waited for Randle to report back.
The winds were too
much to hold position, and Wentworth was forced to go around.
By then, Randle had life preservers on both civilians and cleared
the way for the basket. Lauck lowered the basket, and once it
was on the roof, Randle helped the woman into it. Safety line
attached, he called the all-clear, and Lauck raised the basket.
Wentworth was drifting
again, so he pulled the Dolphin up. A minute later, Lauck got
the frightened woman out of the basket. He waited for the helo
to get in position before lowering it again to retrieve the man.
Once the male survivor was secured in the aircraft, Lauck dropped
the basketless cable to his teammate. Moments later, Cajun 101
was cleared to leave.
Wentworth made a
bee-line to New Orleans Armstrong International, where triage
was waiting. On the way, the crew could not help but notice that
there was water in more areas than just St. Bernard.
"Holy crap,
skipper," cried Price, "the whole fuckin' city is flooding!"
Wentworth glanced
at his right-seater. He knew Price owned a house in New Orleans
East. "Price!" Once he got the man's attention, he
barked, "Are you up for this!? Are you in the game!? Are
- you - in - the - game!?"
Price paused a moment.
"Yeah. Yeah, I am."
"Hang in there,
Jeremy. I need you. We all need you."
Price's expression
grew stony. "I'm good, skipper. Let's get to work."
Lauck patted the
officer on the shoulder. "Fuckin'A, sir."
Price switched on
the microphone. "Moisant(1), Cajun 101. Inbound with survivors.
Request approach vector."
~*~*~
K plus seven
hours
Nobody knew the
scale of the impending disaster, but the people of the Ninth
Ward, Gentilly, and Carrolton could see the water rising. It
was time to get to shelter. Mostly on foot, the people made their
way downtown. The vast majority went to the Superdome, the "shelter
of last resort," but others, for reasons known only to them,
went towards the river and the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center.
The largest building
downtown at over one million square feet, the Convention Center
was the real centerpiece of New Orleans tourism. It was big enough
to hold national conventions from the largest groups, like the
American Medical Association or the National Federation of Teachers.
It was a massive
structure, but it wasn't intended to be a shelter. Built at ground
level, it didn't have the generators the Dome had. No one was
supposed to gather there. But gather there they did.
By 5:00 p.m., about
1,000 refugees milled about the locked doors. They were but the
vanguard.
~*~*~
(1) - Before adopting
the name Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, the
airport was known as Moisant Field, named in honor of early aviation
pioneer John Moisant. The letters MSY on airline tags refer to
Moisant, and many pilots still call the place Moisant.
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