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Chapter 58
Monday, September 5, 2005
K plus one week
By Monday the exhausted
Corps of Engineers were able to report that the breach of the
17th Street Canal was temporarily patched. However, pumping out
the stinking floodwaters would be a long process. Not only was
there a massive amount of water to pump, but many of the city's
pumping stations were still inoperable. And the water in Lake
Pontchartrain was still very high.
Now that the rescue
phase of the recovery was winding down, FEMA could concentrate
on what it was designed to do - coordinate federal aid to state
and local governments. To do so required manpower, something
FEMA, by design, was woefully lacking. FEMA had a detailed plan
on setting up shop, and it intended to follow though as quickly
as possible.
The usual first
step was to determine which fellow federal agencies were needed
in the aftermath of a disaster. HUD, Social Security, and other
social services were always needed, whether flood or tornado
or bridge collapse. In the case of Katrina, however, everybody
was needed, even the Department of Agriculture.
Space was needed
for a headquarters to manage the thousands of government workers
and contactors who were and would be flooding into the area.
Since three states were affected, three headquarters had to be
set up - mustn't tick off the local politicians. The usual place
for such headquarters was in the state capitals, so FEMA requested
space in Montgomery, Jackson, and Baton Rouge.
Congress had authorized
massive amounts of aid. Most of the immediate aid was to pay
for the workers, clean up the debris, and begin to fund the reconstruction
of government buildings, such as city halls, fire and police
stations, schools, hospitals, and other public infrastructure.
The need was colossal, time was short, and the staffers on the
ground knew it. The Louisiana-based FEMA director of recovery
command sent out a memo on September 6. She directed that once
local and regional officials approved of a project, the money
to fund it would be released within three days.
Unfortunately, the
senior bureaucrats up the line balked at such a sweeping order.
There were rules to follow - anyone who could read the Stafford
Act could see that! Government had a duty to make sure the government's
money was spent wisely. The order was quickly countermanded.
All requests for money would go through the usual channels.
The result of the
reversal would be to delay needed projects for months and months,
while staffers checked and doubled-checked the requests, looking
for graft. It would be telling that not one single project
was rejected or even sent back for further information. The
money would eventually be paid out, but the fears that were the
basis of the delays would prove to be groundless.
~*~*~
In 70 AD, the city
of Jerusalem fell to a siege waged by Titus Flavius, son of the
Roman emperor, and the holy Second Temple was razed. Thus began
what many Jews call the Diaspora, the scattering of God's people
throughout the world, wandering until the Hebrews returned to
build the Third Temple.
The word "diaspora"
has entered into the language to describe wholesale displacement
of large populations, defined by race, religion, or region. Diasporas
have occurred all over the world - Stalin's purge of the Kulaks,
the Armenians from the Ottoman Empire, the Kurds, the Vietnamese,
and others.
Louisiana was created
by a diaspora - the Great Expulsion or Grand Dérangement,
which occurred when the British expelled about 10,000 Acadians,
over three-fourths of the Acadian population of Nova Scotia,
between 1755 and 1764, because there were fears that they would
not assimilate into the new English government. Most eventually
ended up in the plains and swamps of Louisiana, their name corrupted
to Cajuns.
Now a state built
by a diaspora was a victim of an even greater one. Over one million
people were scattered across the nation, almost 400,000 in shelters
or hotels. Not only every state but almost every county in the
lower forty-eight had at least one refugee from the Gulf area.
They all wanted
to come home. But without housing, come home to what?
~*~*~
It didn't take long
for partisan politics to raise its head. Even while passing the
second of the Katrina relief bills, authorizing an additional
$51.8 billion for pay for the Defense Department's response,
the Corp's emergency levee repairs, and funds for FEMA's Disaster
Relief Account, the Congress was already looking for someone
to blame for the "slow response" to the disaster in
New Orleans. The Republicans pointed at the local officials -
all Democrats - while the Democrats went after the White House.
It didn't help matters
that FEMA Administrator Brown didn't seem to be doing anything.
Even while President Bush was patting the FEMA chief on the back,
thanking him for his "heck of a job," stories were
coming out about his preening for the cameras and his detachment
from the real efforts on the ground. When reports surfaced that
his résumé had been padded, the Administration
reacted quickly and relieved Brown from his duties on September
9. "Brownie," as the President nicknamed him, resigned
three days later.
This wasn't good
enough for some in Congress. Already smarting from Bush's order
to suspend the Davis-Bacon Act in the affected region, and thereby
preventing the politically-connected building trade unions from
profiting from the massive rebuilding of public structures, the
cry from the House and Senate went out for investigations. FEMA
mismanaged the search and rescue operation, it was claimed, and
the government needed to get to the bottom of it.
It didn't matter
that FEMA responded exactly the way Congress designed it to.
In every emergency preparedness plan mandated by the government
in the wake of 9/11 across the county, it stated that communities
must not expect aid from FEMA for the first seventy-two hours,
as it would take that long for the federal response to ramp up.
In other words, for the first three days communities will
be on their own, and should plan accordingly.
The basic fact of
the matter was that FEMA wasn't a search and rescue organization,
and during the first days of Katrina, the organization was actually
involved in matters and issues that were beyond its purview.
It wasn't ineffectual because it was staffed by incompetents.
It was ineffectual because it was rushed in to do things it didn't
know how to do, and it was trying to learn on the fly. Congress
knew this, because it was in the Stafford Act, but kept it from
the people, lest it got tarred by the same brush they were using
on the White House, Louisiana, and New Orleans.
FEMA staffers fumed
and stewed in silent indignation over the unwarranted criticism,
but they did not challenge their political masters and so saved
their jobs and pensions. They shed no tears over the fall of
Michael Brown, as he was only a politically-appointed fool, anyway.
They sat and nodded and promised to do better before the cameras
and public hearings. They knew that their time was at hand, as
Congress handed over $60 billion dollars for FEMA to manage,
and if there was one thing FEMA knew how to do, it was how to
spend money.
Now FEMA would show
the nation just how it was designed to operate.
~*~*~
Friday, September
9, 2005
Elizabeth and Charlotte
made their way to the meeting room at the Department of Administration
for a 10:30 update meeting on housing. Upon entering the room,
Lizzy saw Carrie Buford in an embrace with a slim black woman.
"Lizzy!"
Carrie cried and Lizzy had no choice but to greet her with the
now-standard hug. "How'd you make out?" The two quickly
shared their stories before turning to the others. "Lizzy,
I don't know if you remember my friend from school, Ellie Elliot
- she works for the mayor of New Orleans."
The two shared a
half-hug, Lizzy trying not to stare at the small bandages on
the woman's face. She then introduced Char, and all four got
into a general discussion on the storm. The foursome broke up
as others came in and began taking their seats when a short,
heavy-set man bustled in, his government-issued ID swinging from
a lanyard around his neck.
"Ah! Everyone
here? Wonderful. Let's get started, shall we? I don't know if
everyone is acquainted with each other, so let's go around the
room and introduce ourselves. I'm Bill Collins, a field officer
with FEMA, assigned to short-term recovery."
The rest of the
people in the room stated their names. The City of New Orleans
and almost all of the surrounding parishes had sent representatives
to the quickly called meeting; only Washington Parish was absent.
Collins continued.
"I have some good news. According to information I've received
from Washington, FEMA has begun taking delivery of about 145,000
mobile homes and travel trailers. Also, we've made an agreement
with Carnival Cruise Lines to move the cruise ships we originally
had docked at Galveston, Texas for refugees and move them to
New Orleans. They'll be used instead, for housing for police,
firefighters, municipal workers and their spouses. They will
also be available for FEMA workers and other recovery personnel
not housed in hotels."
"The city thanks
you, Mr. Collins, for responding to our suggestion," said
Ellie.
"You're welcome,
Ms Elliot. Remember - we're FEMA-flexible here!" Collins
checked his notes. "Oh, we're also ready to ramp up Operation
Blue Roof. We've hired contractors to put blue plastic tarps
over damaged roofs at no cost to the homeowner. We've already
been in contact with the local governments about this, but those
of you who want more information please see me afterwards.
"The reason
I've called you all in today is to continue to find locations
for us to establish refugee housing. We know it's important to
bring people and workers back to the affected areas. That is
our priority, here.
"Not that we
aren't looking for housing for displaced people! We certainly
are, but other teams are working that issue, preparing vouchers
for apartments and other rental property, so that will not be
part of our discussion today. Those programs will be offered
directly to the people in the evacuation centers, so that they
will have a place to live until we can get housing back in Southeast
Louisiana.
"We need to
get from all of you a list of acceptable property that can be
used by the mobile homes and travel trailers. The locations should
be a minimum of six acres - ten would be optimal. The lots must
be flat, free from trees, have available power, water, and sewer,
or have some sort of sewage-treatment plant brought in, as I
know there is a lot of well water around here." He pointed
to a map. "As you can see here, we've already identified
two locations in East Baton Rouge Parish, here and…yes?"
The representative
from Jefferson raised his hand. "Mr. Collins, those locations
are several miles outside of Baker. They're nowhere near Metairie
or New Orleans!"
"Uhh…that's
true," Collins admitted.
"They're not
near anything!" cried the St. Tammany rep.
Charlotte spoke
up. "My friend from Mandeville is right, Mr. Collins. We
need these 'FEMA cities' you're building to be closer to the
city, closer to the jobs."
"I wish you
wouldn't use the term 'FEMA cities.'" Collins requested.
"All right
- trailer parks!" Ellie snapped. "Excuse my bluntness,
Mr. Collins."
"No, that's
fine, Ms Elliot. Bluntness is good." The fake smile on his
face belied his good humor.
"Thank you.
Sir, you're forgetting that many of the people that will be housed
in these trailer parks will be poor African Americans from the
inner city. They're used to having shops within walking distance
of their homes. You're taking these people to trailers in farm
fields, miles from stores and jobs. They don't own cars."
Collins interrupted
her. "We're planning to provide shuttle service to local
markets and to bus transfer stations."
"Oh, come on!"
Ellie cried. "These are people who are used to walking!
You're going to put them in the middle of the county!"
"It's the most
efficient way," Collins explained. "We're tied by the
Stafford Act to use government property and assistance in the
most efficient and cost-effective way possible. Now, if you can
find locations in the city when water and sewer is restored,
we can certainly look to establishing parks there."
Ellie waved her
hand in disgust, and Lizzy used it as an opportunity to change
the subject. "Mr. Collins, how large are these mobile homes
and travel trailers?"
Collins rifled through
his notes. "I'm sorry, Ms Boudreaux, but I don't have the
exact figures. Umm, the mobile homes are about forty feet long.
While we're ordering about 50,000 of them, we've learned from
our experiences in Florida that many people don't need something
that big. Also, a large grouping of forty-foot trailers takes
up lots of space. That's why we're also ordering thousands of
travel trailers. They'll sleep between two-to-six people and
they're around twenty-three feet long, if I remember correctly."
"A camping
trailer."
"Yes, that's
what they are."
Ellie jumped back
in. "Why put them in trailer parks? Why not just park them
in people's driveways?"
Collins blinked.
"You mean, individually?"
The St. Tammany
representative spoke up again. "Yes, that's exactly what
my parish president has been asking for!"
"Jefferson,
too!" The other parishes' representatives voiced their agreement
with the concept.
"Let me tell
you, partner," drawled the man from St. Bernard, "my
people from St. Bernard got nothing left of their houses but
slabs, but they ain't gonna live in no FEMA cities, no matter
what you call 'em. Let a man park one of those trailers in his
front yard while he fixes up his place is what you ought to do."
Collins held up
his hands. "Hold it, hold it! We've heard your requests
for individual deployment of the travel trailers, and those requests
have been passed up to our superiors for review. That's all I
can say about this for now."
Carrie was sitting
next to Lizzy, and she leaned over. "So much for being FEMA-flexible,"
she whispered.
Lizzy was caught
between biting back her laugh and hiding her surprise that Carrie
had reflected her own thoughts as to the matter. She decided
to restrain from reflecting on the irony of that until later
and cleared her throat.
"Mr. Collins,
I have another issue to bring up, and that is worker housing.
Our large employers, like the Port, NASA, and the shipyards are
virtually undamaged, and Entergy has done a magnificent job of
restoring power to these locations. But they can't resume operations
until they can get their workers back, and the workers need housing."
"That's certainly
true, Ms Boudreaux," Collins conceded.
"The obvious
solution is to provide housing on site. When we asked before
about providing trailers to Northup Grumman, FEMA said the mobile
homes were too large to park in the parking lots. But these travel
trailers sound like the answer."
"Yes,"
said Charlotte, "they're small enough to be transported
by train or even by barge."
"Bringing them
in by barge makes sense," added the Jefferson representative.
"All the employers we mentioned are on the river or the
Intercoastal Canal."
"I can safely
say the city would back this idea," Ellie stated.
"So would the
state," added Carrie.
Collins looked around
the room. "Very well, I'll send the request to Washington."
He made a note. "Meanwhile, we need to return to the subject
of park locations. Uhh…Tangipahoa Parish, do you have any
locations available?"
~*~*~
Lizzy was surprised
to receive a lunch invitation from Carrie and surprised herself
by accepting. Both Ellie and Charlotte had to beg off, so it
was just the two of them in the downtown café, perusing
their menus while the waitress took their drink orders.
"Just water
for me," Carrie said with a sigh after Lizzy asked for iced
tea. "Two more months - the doctor wants me to stay off
caffeine."
"Two months?
You and Jane are due about the same time," Lizzy observed.
I don't even want to know what was going on around Mardi Gras!
"I have to thank you for taking care of Janie for the last
couple of weeks. She's told me how kind you've been."
Carrie waved that
off. "What's family for? I'm just sorry that things weren't
as pleasant at my mother's house as it should have been. It's
been nice having Jane around while John's been gone."
Lizzy couldn't miss
the wistful tone in her companion's voice. "Have you heard
much from him?"
"He tries to
call once a day, as his schedule allows." Her voice trailed
off and Lizzy was struck by the painful expression on her face.
"And Will? How is he? I know you must miss him."
"Of course,
I miss him - but Carrie! Will's safe in Houston, while John's
been stuck in New Orleans. It's hardly the same thing. I haven't
gone through anything like you."
"Houston -
New Orleans - it's the same thing when your man's gone."
Lizzy saw only sincere
concern on Carrie's face, the concern of a woman who shared her
pain. Lizzy admitted she did not know Jane's sister-in-law as
well as she should, and that was her own fault. True, they had
only socialized at family events, mostly hosted by Chuck and
Jane, but Lizzy never took the opportunity to spend much time
with her. There was still a tiny bit of resentment in Lizzy's
heart over Carrie's pursuit of Will during their college years,
and Lizzy had to admit she was jealous of Carrie's close friendship
with Jane. She had felt that the woman was forever intruding
into her territory - if not her boyfriend, then her sister.
But now she had
to reevaluate Carrie Buford. There was no doubt of the devotion
she had for her husband. And she had to be thankful for Carrie's
kindness to Jane, especially after Jane shared with Lizzy her
difficulties with Catherine Bingley. Lizzy never thought Carrie
would defend Jane against her mother. But, looking back at their
history, she had to admit that Carrie had never been anything
less than polite to her, and many times welcoming. She realized
she had allowed her prejudice against her one-time rival to unfairly
color her opinion of the other woman's character. She had never
allowed Carrie to become her friend.
I've been so
wrong about you. Lizzy
reached out and briefly grabbed Carrie's hand in thanks.
As they ate, Lizzy
found that they had many opinions in common. She wasn't surprised
that neither were impressed with either Bill Collins or FEMA.
"Sending our
request for trailers up the line!" Carrie snidely recalled.
"It'll take weeks to get through the FEMA bureaucracy. I
hope you've got your lobbyists working on this."
"It's on the
top of their list, along with funding for the region. The Port
doesn't have much pull in Washington, but Northup Grumman and
Lockheed Martin certainly do."
"Good,"
Carrie said as she munched on her salad. "I've been talking
to other communities that have had to deal with FEMA in the past
- New York, south Florida, Oklahoma City, South Carolina, San
Francisco. They've all said the same thing. If we wait for the
federal government to pull us out of this, we'll be waiting for
a long time. Most of the recovery needs to start with us."
"Our congressional
delegation seems to be doing a good job."
"That's one
bright spot." The Louisiana delegation wasted no time coming
together across party divides and reached out to their counterparts
from Mississippi and Alabama. Together, the three states were
leading the way, pushing for assistance for the Gulf region.
"Baton Rouge could learn a lot from them."
"Oh, really?"
It seemed to her that Carrie wasn't blindly loyal to Louisiana's
government.
Carrie looked around,
making sure they couldn't be overheard. "You know what I've
heard out of Jackson? Governor Haley Barbour is looking to call
a special session of the Mississippi state legislature before
the end of the month."
"As he should.
Isn't Louisiana doing the same?"
Carrie smirked.
"When the going gets tough, Momma Blanco calls for a conference,"
she said in a low voice. "There are no plans for a special
session anytime soon."
Lizzy's mouth dropped
open. "You're kidding!"
"Shush, not
so loud!"
"But what is
she waiting for?"
"She and the
rest of her inner circle want to plan everything down to the
last detail before they call the lawmakers to Baton Rouge, and
present them with a near fait accompli. Otherwise, there's
no telling what the legislature would come up with, as far as
they're concerned."
"Carrie, some
of the legislators are extremely bright! Why not use them? Use
the committees to hold hearings and formulate plans with the
administration."
"I know - I've
dealt with them for years. But remember the governor's background.
She was a school teacher and marketing consultant. She was a
Public Service Commissioner and was Lieutenant Governor under
Mike Foster, dealing with tourism. She's served only four years
in the Louisiana House, and that was like twenty years ago. She's
not used to the give-and-take of politics. She wants to plan
everything and then reach consensus with the legislature. We
don't have time for that now, but she can't see that."
She lowered her
voice again. "Also, she carries grudges. Don't think for
a minute she's forgotten that Mayor Nagin, a fellow Democrat,
endorsed her Republican opponent, Bobby Jindal, in the governor's
race. You've certainly noticed how tough it was for New Orleans
to get anything through the governor's office before the storm."
Lizzy looked horrified.
"You're not saying she's going to abandon the city, are
you?"
"No! Absolutely
not! But, whatever she does, you watch - she'll make damned sure
that Nagin gets no credit, or as little credit as possible."
"Great, she's
playing politics with this."
"It's who she
is, Lizzy. We permanent employees in the Office of Administration
will do what we can, but we have to be careful. We're protected
by Civil Service, but if we make too many waves, we can be transferred
to another posting, or even have our position eliminated. They're
the only ways they can use to get rid of us, other than an accusation
of malfeasance and a Civil Service hearing, and they hardly ever
win one of those."
"Why do you
put up with it?"
Carrie shrugged.
"I try to make a difference. I'm good at what I do. Besides,
the retirement and health benefits are great."
The ladies talked
of other things as they finished their lunch, during which Lizzy
learned that she and Carrie shared a similar, slightly sardonic
view of the world. The real difference between them was that
Carrie was more willing to voice what Lizzy generally kept to
herself. After settling the bill, Carrie expressed a desire to
have lunch again while Lizzy was posted to Baton Rouge. Lizzy
happily agreed.
"Maybe one
night, while Jane's still here, you can come over to the house
for dinner on your way home," Carrie offered. "I know
you want to see her and the kids."
"I'd love to,
Carrie, and see Trey, too. I'll bet he's grown a bunch since
the last time I saw him."
Carrie smiled widely.
"You don't know the half of it! He takes after his father.
C'mon, let's get back to work."
~*~*~
Time lost all meaning
in the aftermath of Katrina. There were no clocks, no television,
nothing to give a sense of which day of the week it was. There
were no appointments to make, and no places to be. The weather
was unvaryingly hot and muggy. One day was like another, dragging
on and on with nothing to distinguish any of them. Time had stopped
on Monday, August 29, in Katrina-land.
More and more assistance
flowed into the affected areas. Regular Army troops joined the
National Guard. The Navy sent the Bataan to the Gulf Coast
and the Iwo Jima to New Orleans to house the troops and
fuel the helicopters. Utility trucks re-hung power lines. The
Red Cross, the Salvation Army, and other charities inched their
way into the devastation, reaching out to the thousands in need.
Trucks poured into the Gulf Coast to replenish the retail and
grocery stores.
Except for New Orleans.
Under a mandatory evacuation order, the job of the NOPD, the
National Guard, Coast Guard and other military units was to get
people out of the stricken Crescent City, whether they wanted
to leave or not. Meanwhile, the helicopters continued their increasingly
futile mission to rescue stranded people.
Wentworth and his
team were tired - dog tired. Cajun 101 had been in almost constant
operation since the storm, standing down on Sunday only because
of a direct order from the commander. Now they were in the air
again, looking for people. Some of them were stranded on elevated
roadways, others on roofs. A couple of people were found trying
to walk out on the levee by Bayou Savage. The crew of Cajun 101
had to stay in the game - not only for the sake of those who
were in need, but to get their minds off of what each of them
had personally lost. It was never far from their minds - they
had flown over their houses and apartments for days. They had
lost count of the number of people they had saved.
In the months afterward,
it would be determined that the USCG had rescued 33,000 people
throughout the Gulf Coast region, while the National Guard saved
17,000 and the "Cajun Navy" was responsible for 20,000
lives - the greatest rescue in American history.
Wentworth was flying
close to the French Quarter when Price sang out. Glancing over,
he saw nothing at first, and then Lauck took up the cry. There
- a bed sheet was being weakly waved from a tiny attic window,
a thin, dark arm extending from the house.
"Got it, skipper?"
asked Price.
"Yeah."
He switched to Randle. "You're gonna need the axe again,
Randle." This wasn't the first roof the airman needed to
hack through.
"Yes, sir -
got it already," the rescue swimmer replied as he and Lauck
once again went through the preparations for him to be lowered
out of the aircraft.
"You see an
approach, Jeremy?" Wentworth asked his right-seater.
"Not yet, skipper.
How about from the north?"
Wentworth shook
his head. He didn't like how close that billboard was to the
house. He orbited, trying to decide.
~*~*~
Prince Gregory
of Orléans sat in his throne room, as the favorite of
his concubines presented him with a tray of fruit and cheese.
He sipped his tankard of beer, his eyes greedily caressing the
wench's neckline. It was his order that all women in his kingdom
display their bounty for the perusal of their prince, and it
was not unusual for a comely maiden to occasionally fall out
of her top. He idly considered ordering her to the royal bedchamber
for a bit of ravishing, a command she appeared to expect with
some anticipation, when his chamberlain came running into the
room.
"What is
this!?" roared the prince. "You approach your monarch
without being summoned? We can have you killed for this!"
"Forgive
me, my prince!" the terrified old man begged, throwing himself
to his knees before the throne. "All compliments, mighty
sovereign, but the dragon approaches yet again!"
"Why do
you bother us with this? Do we not have guards? They certainly
cost us enough."
The chamberlain
set his forehead upon the floor in trepidation. "A thousand
pardons, my liege, but the guards have all fled in fear. Only
your Power can save the castle."
"What, again?"
Gregory asked in a bored tone. The councilor said nothing as
he trembled at his feet. The prince turned to his companion.
"Well? What say you, my pet?"
"Oh, please,
sire, save us and I shall serve you in any manner you desire!"
Her bosom heaved quite nicely in her agitation.
"Any way?"
Gregory inquired with a leer.
"Yes,"
the concubine returned, her eyes flashing, her voice full of
dark desire,
"Very well.
Prepare for us our Royal Magic Powder, and after we dispatch
this creature meet us in the royal bedchamber - with your sister."
"Your wish
is my craving, O prince," she said as she fulfilled her
task. Gregory fortified himself, and after a quick grope of the
comely maiden, he strode towards the open window and the battlements.
The moat was
nothing but an open sewer, and the stench was powerful, but it
served its use of keeping enemies at bay. But dragons were a
different problem. They had the power of flight, and no earthly
defense could stop them. But Gregory had the Power of the Magic
Powder, which gave him command of lightening and thunder. He
would see to this menace to what was his. He contemplated the
various different combinations he would employ with the sisters
as he awaited the dragon to come within range.
And there it
was - a vast, ugly orange beast, screeching in its characteristically
low voice. The air itself trembled at the monster's approach,
but Gregory stood silently, unaffected, his Power in his hand.
He waited until the beast was almost upon him before raising
his hand and bellowing, "BEGONE, FELL CREATURE! I SEND YOU
BACK INTO THE HELL FROM WHICH YOU WERE SPAWNED!"
Lightening flew
from his Power, and thunder split the air. The dragon came to
a dead stop, frightened by the incredible forces deployed against
it. Wings flapping too fast to see, it began backing up.
"FLEE, YOU
THING OF THE DARK! FLEE FROM GREGORY OF ORLÉANS! FLEE
FROM OUR SIGHT!" Power flowed out yet again as the creature
retreated.
~*~*~
"WHAT THE FUCK!?"
Wentworth cried as a bullet hole appeared high in the windshield
right between Price and himself. "PRICE, DO YOU SEE WHERE
THAT CAME FROM!?"
"No, not…Yeah!
There he is! Shit, it's some nut with a gun! Pull up, pull up!
Hold on, guys!" he warned his teammates in the rear.
Wentworth didn't
wait to respond, working the throttle and collective to first
stop the forward momentum of the aircraft, and then to pull away
and down. Once they were dashing away at rooftop level, he called
for damages.
Price looked around.
"Everybody's okay, skipper. No damage to the aircraft, except
for the windshield. What the hell was that all about?" he
asked as he reached for the radio.
"Hell if I
know. They must be going crazy down there." Wentworth had
heard the rumors of sniper fire at helos, but except for one
confirmed report, most of the shooting turned out to be people
trying to shoot a hole through their roofs and escape from their
flooded houses. This was the first crazy that Cajun 101 had come
across.
"Command, this
is Cajun 101," Price reported on the joint distress channel.
"We are under fire. Repeat, we are under fire. Suspect is
on the balcony of a house in the Upper Ninth Ward, near St. Claude.
Repeat, Cajun 101 has received fire and sustained minor damage.
We have taken evasive action and are now in a wide orbit around
the area. Come in, Command."
"Cajun 101,
this is Command. Give us your coordinates…"
~*~*~
With the emptying
of the Convention Center, units of the NOPD Third District had
been redeployed back to the Central City area. Captain Richard
Fitzwilliam was working a mixed detail of NOPD and National Guard
along St. Claude Avenue, enforcing the anti-looting and forced
evacuation orders from City Hall. It was the first time such
an order had ever been issued by any mayor of the city, but it
was understandable. With no power or water or sewerage, New Orleans
was a disease outbreak waiting to happen. What made it controversial
was Nagin's additional order to confiscate all firearms found.
Fitz was of two
minds about the command. There were still too many looters in
the city, and that kept the police and Guardsmen on edge. They
were jumpy, because anyone they saw could be a potential bad
guy, including people who were trying to help. Yesterday, his
people damn near shot two animal rescue fanatics breaking into
a residence. Until order was restored, somebody was likely to
get hurt.
Certainly the streets
would be safer if there were fewer guns, but on the other hand
there was that pesky thing called the 2nd Amendment to the US
Constitution, as well as safeguards in the Louisiana Constitution.
The NOPD was short-handed, and even with thousands of National
Guardsmen and other law enforcement personnel supplementing them,
they couldn't be everywhere to protect lives and property.
Fitz finally decided
to do what he was told and leave the legal arguments to the lawyers.
They had just loaded a short, half-crazed, middle-aged white
man who kept yelling, "I can't leave! Don't you know who
I am? I'm Reginald de Courcy, and I must save the theatre!"
over and over again into the back of a National Guard truck,
when the call came in about shots fired on a USCG helicopter.
Fitz's team was the closest detail to the area, so it was the
first responder.
The water in the
streets in this part of town, close to the French Quarter, varied
from almost dry to three feet deep. Fitz set his command post
almost three blocks away, looking towards the Lake at the house
where the suspect was alleged to be holding up. Thanks to high-water
trucks from the National Guard, Fitz was able to surround the
area with officers and troops. The standard procedure was to
reconnoiter the vicinity, waiting for the arrival of a Special
Operations Division SWAT unit to initiate operations against
the building. With the city gone to hell, it might take hours
for the SWAT unit to arrive. Fitz pulled out his binoculars,
propped his arms on the roof of his un-marked squad car, and
scanned the two-story house.
"Suspect
has just left the interior of the house and is on the second-floor
balcony," his
radio blared.
Fitz moved his binoculars,
refocused - and damn near dropped them. The man was pacing from
one end of the balcony to the other, looking up into the sky,
occasionally shouting and waving a black handgun in the air.
It had been over five years, he couldn't hear the suspect's voice,
and he had lost a lot of weight, but it was still the face of
the man that had haunted Fitz's dreams.
"Wickham,"
he breathed.
~*~*~
Greg Wickham was
still deep into his drug- and hunger-induced, sword-and-sorcery
fantasy. Since the deluge began, he had consumed more and more
of his product. He no longer knew where reality ended and his
dreams began. Sometimes he was a 1970's mob boss in the Bronx,
sometimes he was an eighteenth century pirate on the high seas.
The Gregory of Orléans hallucination was a favorite. Wickham
forgot he was trapped in a half-flooded house in the Upper Ninth
Ward. He was the Prince of Orléans with women at his beck
and call, protecting his castle from the dragons of his enemies.
In his mind, Gregory
strode up and down the battlement high on top of his keep's walls,
screaming for the dragon to return to face its ultimate destruction.
He gestured in his anger and impatience, brandishing his instrument
of Power above his head.
~*~*~
"Wickham."
Without moving his attention from the spiky-haired drug dealer,
Fitz reached for his radio. "Attention all units - weapons
free. I repeat, weapons free."
"Sir?"
Fitz turned to the patrolman behind a squad car parked next to
him, a scoped M-16 in his arms. "Aren't we to wait for the
SWAT team?"
"The suspect
is armed and dangerous," Fitz said. "He has fired upon
a Coast Guard helicopter engaged in search and rescue. We can't
wait hours for a tactical team." Fitz activated his radio
again. "All units. We cannot wait for back-up. The sniper
is a danger to us and rescue personnel. It is incumbent upon
us to neutralize this situation in quick order. We are acting
on my authority. Take your positions and stand by." Fitz
turned to the M-16 armed officer. "Can you take him from
here?"
The patrolman had
sunglasses on, so Fitz could not make out his expression, but
his voice was confident. "I've had sharpshooter training."
He raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted the target in
the scope. "He's within range, sir. Am I clear to shoot?"
Fitz returned to
his binoculars. Wickham was walking back towards the near side
of the balcony. "You are clear to shoot," Fitz croaked,
his mouth dry. He waited intently, following every move of his
nemesis.
Now! Shoot him
now! Kill him now!
"Take him!"
he hissed through his teeth.
As intently as Fitz
scrutinized his quarry's every movement, the report of the gunshot
next to him was startling, jerking the binoculars from the lock
he had on the house. Fitz tried to reacquire his target, but
the balcony was now empty. No! Did he get away? Did he escape
again!?
"Suspect is
down, suspect is down," he heard the sharpshooter report.
"Torso shot - upper chest."
Fitz turned to the
officer, trying to believe the words. After a moment that seemed
to stretch for hours, he raised the microphone to his lips.
"All units
- suspect down. The suspect is down. We do not know his condition.
Begin moving in. Follow standard procedures. Repeat, the suspect
is down, and his condition is unknown. Move in following standard
procedures."
~*~*~
It took almost twenty
minutes for the first officers to reach the building, as procedures
called for approaching in such a manner that maximized the safety
of the officers. They determined that the suspect was lying motionless
on the balcony, so a National Guard truck was brought in to use
as a platform for ladders. The first police in the house were
surprised to see their assistant precinct captain right on their
heels. Fitz hauled himself over the railing and stepped onto
the balcony. There, five feet from him, lay Wickham, surrounded
by the initial assault team.
One of them looked
up. "He's dead, Captain."
"Dead,"
Fitz repeated in a voice devoid of emotion.
The officer glanced
at the trail of blood at Wickham's feet. "Suspect appears
to have dragged himself to this spot after being shot, and then
expired. Not long - he's still a bit warm." He sighed. "Maybe
ten minutes, sir."
Fitz nodded as more
police climbed over the railing behind him. While the others
fanned out to search and secure the premises, Fitz squatted next
to the filthy body of his late opponent. His mind was filled
with incomplete thoughts as he wrestled with the concept that
his long odyssey was over. The fog of hate that clouded his thoughts
was gone, and he could see the obvious. Death could not hide
the fact that life for Gregory "G-Daddy" Wickham had
not been good. The wretched man's limbs were basically skin and
bones. Wickham appeared as malnourished as any survivor of the
Holocaust or Darfur.
Was this someone
to fear? he considered.
Wickham had been a walking dead man. The sniper's gunshot had
ended his existence only a few days before starvation would have
killed him. Fitz glanced back at the Glock, still lying where
Wickham had dropped it after being hit. How many rounds were
left in that thing? For the first time he considered, Might there
have been another way?
"Captain!"
Fitz tore his thoughts
away from his musings and looked up.
"There's a
methamphetamine lab in one of the bedrooms, and we just found
a cache of hand grenades in the closet!"
Fitz leapt to his
feet, back in command. "All right, everyone out! Now! Nobody
touches this place until the Bomb Squad clears it. Now, move
it!" A cop started towards the body. "No. Leave Wickham
where he is."
The officer started.
"You know him, sir?"
Fitz sighed. "Yeah,
I knew him."
Less than five minutes
later, the police were gathered around the impromptu command
post. Downtown had been alerted, and the Bomb Squad and a medical
examiner were requested. Fitz set his people to work. He would
take command of the crime scene with a small deployment and wait
the hours it would take before being relived, while the rest
of the team went to rescue the people the Coast Guard had spotted.
The police sniper, as per regulations, stayed behind with Fitz,
to await transfer back Downtown and desk duty until cleared by
PID. Fitz hated to lose a man, but he had broken enough rules
today.
It was a clean
shooting, he told himself.
That officer will be back on the streets in no time. I mustn't
do anything to jeopardize that. We need him. We need all of my
people. We've got to save the city - my city. We've got to save
it so we can rebuild it.
Captain Richard
Fitzwilliam had found his new obsession.
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