Текст книги "The Flood"

Автор книги: David Sachs

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

5

 

He had seen fear before, in places of conflict and famine, where the worst things happen and life is carried out in unceasing desperation. The low ground, he called that state of living in his own private lexicon. So many millions of people around the world had lived there in the last twenty, fifty or hundred years – yet it was a completely alien place to most Americans. The low ground had followed him home. The low ground had found his son.

These Americans, Travis thought, have never considered death this way: announcing itself to each of them at once, for their families and friends and neighbors. He wondered what showed in his own face, how the possibility of losing everything was displayed in his eyes.

They were shuffled down the hallway by staff standing alongside another opening in the wall, from which a bright glow lit those turning and disappearing into it.

“Head to the light,” the staff called.

There was no need for the direction, the pump was primed and the flow set. The group turned into the light, a wide white-on-white staircase leading only down. After the first flight, the staircase walls gave way to banisters and railings and the open belly of the vessel. Travis saw the vast area of the ship’s Grand Atrium, a football field space with the feel of a Roman plaza, 70 foot gold-foil columns and drapes piercing the great hall vertically, the floor level marked by fountains, flower boxes, food counters and bars, lined by shop-fronts on all sides. The central fountain featured a great marble statue of a thin, broadly-finned fish, its angular impressionistic form curled into a violent surface dive through the array of water sprays. There were several of these staircases, and all those on the port side funneled the refugees in here. The space was already crowding.

Dark wood-paneled columns arose at the sides of the Atrium, supporting the many tiers of balconies above. The tourists, those paying passengers who had departed Key West on their 21-day cruise only the day before, lined the railings on each level. The floors themselves, cutting off at the edge of the Atrium airspace, were front-lit a bright emerald green, while the open staircases, Travis now saw, were alight with bright green paneling as well. From the railings, the rows of tourists looked down in silence at the refugees filling their ship. The line slowed on the stairs, but here there was not the pressure of bodies stacked against each other.

Travis wondered if this could be real. Had he finally taken too many pills to sleep? Was this a dream? Had he died, and this was something else? It was as though the drugs had returned to his blood. He felt as though he was stumbling through a liquid.

“We’ll find out if the president’s an idiot or not,” Corrina said.

As their own group reached the Atrium floor, Travis thought back to high school dances in the gym: that was his standard for crowd estimation, a full high school gym to him meant 800 or so heads. He guessed there were already two thousand in this room alone. He looked up to the crystal roof a great distance above, passing over the faces of the tourists on the radiating balconies. It seemed like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. He realized how much quieter it had become. Individuals crying out for lost loved ones or sobbing over their thoughts could be heard. There was a release of tension at getting where they were going, to a place that promised safety. Their brains now raced through what could happen on this ship. They desperately hoped to feel the ship move.

Travis noticed Corrina and Gerry holding each other tight, and he saw tears flowing down his ex-wife’s cheeks and over her smile. He kissed Darren on the forehead. He’d saved his son. Oh God, it was a terrifying and wonderful feeling.

“Come on,” Travis said. “Let’s push in. Darren, do you have to pee?”

Darren shook his head, no. He had stopped crying; his eyes were red and his nose dripped, but he was trying not to look scared anymore.

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” he said. “I can swim if we fall in. I can swim by myself now in the deep end.”

“That’s great, champ,” Travis said. “We’re not going to go in the water, though.”

They shuffled on together, tightening in the crowd as the city’s deserters continued to stream in from the several staircases. Huddled together, they simply stared, losing track of time. Travis noticed the on-board shops closed and deserted. After twenty minutes, or perhaps half an hour, they felt the vibrations of the engines coming to life. Soon, there was the sound of the ship’s whistle. Nothing else from outside could be heard, and Travis imagined the scene of desperation outside, as the ship freed from the pier.

With the last arrivals still pouring into the room, they felt the escape begin. The ship separated from port and from the unlucky still behind. From the desperation they’d been in moments ago, it was bizarre and jarring for the refugees now to find themselves surrounded by such exaggerated, fantastical luxury.

By the bottoms of the staircases, Travis noticed white uniformed men. Ship’s security, he presumed. This conveyed a real and specific sense of safety. The men were unarmed. Another statement of safety.

“Have you made your pick who’ll be first to piss in the fountains?” a voice near Travis said.

The speaker was the stranger from the pier, his arm outstretched. Travis shook his hand.

”I got that old rummy by the calla lilies,” the man said.

“Thanks for your help,” Travis said.

“No problem, no problem,” the man had a deep, rich and rough voice. “Got a granddaughter about his age. I’m Claude Bettman.”

“Travis Cooke. This is my son Darren.”

“Hi,” Darren said.

Claude Bettman crouched like a baseball catcher. “Hi Buddy. Not so scary in here, huh?”

Darren shook his head. Claude stood up straight.

“This is– Corrina. And Gerry.” Travis turned to include them. “Claude helped us out after the crowd collapsed. I’m really in your debt, Claude, I mean that.”

Claude grinned. His lips were slightly purple, and he had an aristocrat’s smile. “I think this is the kind of event that cancels all debts.”

“Did you hear anything about how the evacuation was working?” Corrina asked.

Claude shook his head slowly. “I heard ships would head out to sea to ride out the wavefront. That was from a military guy on TV.”

“I don’t have the slightest clue what this actually IS,” Travis said. “I just woke up and all hell was breaking loose.”

“An earthquake,” Gerry said. “It split a huge shelf off the Antarctic. They kept changing the story. Whether the earthquake caused the tsunami, or whether one earthquake caused a split of the ice shelf that caused another earthquake, or what. But they say we’re going to have higher water levels. Once the wave comes in, the water may not be going back out. The whole East coast might be under.”

As a few outside the group listened in, Gerry pulled out his cell phone for a more current update. He couldn’t connect.

“Networks overloaded,” Claude said. “Every cell phone owner in America is trying to use it right now.”

Corrina had Darren in her arms now, and they rubbed noses and smiled eye to eye.

Nothing stops her, Travis thought, and he felt the familiar craving, wishing he could just join that embrace.

There was an electric sound as speakers around the ship came to life.

“This is Captain London. To all our new guests, welcome aboard the Festival of the Waves. An unfortunate name for this very difficult time, but this is a good safe ship.”

It was the voice Travis had heard coming up the gangway, the strong voice that first pierced the terror. It had been the captain himself pulling the refugees on board.

“We have an excellent crew that will keep us all comfortable as best we can. We will be making 15 knots out to open sea, and should be rendezvousing with that bump in several hours. That’s all it will be. A tsunami in the open sea is just a wave, you’ll hardly feel it. For safety reasons, I ask that all the newcomers please remain indoors whether in the Atrium or Royal Theater, and that our other guests please remain in their rooms. I will be giving a warning prior to meeting the waves. I know that this is a devastating day for all of you right now. But we’re safe here. Be grateful for that. Breathe.”

6

Lee Golding stood on the Penthouse forward deck, cupping his hands to light a cigarette in the wind. This was the top deck housing cabins, and the level had an extended lip at the bow, an outside deck at the far forward reach of the ship.

Lee Golding, the Mighty Lee Golding, the Alabama Assassin. The biggest name and most-hated-bad-guy of professional wrestling (once upon a time), was on board as a celebrity guest. The cruise line had planned a screening of his greatest matches followed by a Q-and-A. Over the three-week cruise he was booked to do a talk, sit at the Captain’s Table, and provide color commentary for a kids’ water polo game. Two of his films were going to be shown on the Festival’s big screen, the new comedy and one of the action ones. Probably not anymore.

His massive frame had not swollen with fat in his retirement from the ring like many of his comrades’. Not quite that much, anyway. His blonde hair receded slightly around his reddish temples, and hung long to his shoulders. He still had the trademark goatee, dyed silver. His face was neither ugly nor especially attractive. It was heavy and pleasant. He made friends easily.

Around him on deck were several other of the booked tourists, mostly keeping to themselves, enjoying the air that the ship’s captain had just asked them to forsake. There was no social convener to introduce them to each other. The ship’s security was more than engaged in handling the load of refugees in the ship’s belly and didn’t worry themselves with keeping the paying guests off the decks, at least for now. When the crowd below was under control, perhaps they would sweep the decks. For now, the captain’s voice on the loudspeakers was the deterrent. Lee Golding was undeterred.

He’d stayed in his room with his wife Jessica until the ship had left the pier. Then he’d left her there to watch the ship make it out to sea, and to watch what New York looked like being left behind to die.

Lee was out on deck passing by 15th Street and Pier 57. He saw industrial freighters, top heavy with loading cranes. There were still many ships loading, and the crowd remaining did not seem to him hopelessly large. He imagined he could still hear their screams over the sound of the many ships coming and going. As he saw one ship pull away from the dock, he heard shots fired. He thought of New Orleans, how the desperate had shot at helicopters in a gambit for attention. It was more likely the police, he thought. There’s no way you could wait at the back of the crowd. There was no way people would do that peacefully, unless a cop was there with a gun.

He wondered how it would go when the cops left. It would have been so much better for the ones left behind if there’d been no warning. They’ll die just the same, but first they have to go through this. If. If anyone gets left behind. If there really is a tsunami at all.

There were small ships in the water, heading in the opposite direction, up the Hudson and inland towards Albany. The little boats bobbed in the headwind. All those little guys going one way, and this big ship splitting the herd in the other direction. Lee thought of the tsunami in Southeast Asia, the stories of animals sensing disaster and heading to safety while fishermen marched to the docks like any other day.

The Empire State Building stood out above the island’s skyline. The Festival of the Waves rounded Battery Park at the south end of town.  The rough dark waters of Upper Bay opened up before her. The Statue of Liberty came closer. The few there on the deck made towards the starboard rail to watch the Statue pass. It was the reverse trip of refugees of other eras, past the statue, past Ellis Island, Brooklyn to one side, Staten Island to the other, then under the Verrazano Bridge, to leave the outpost of America behind.

“Not quite the same feeling as when we pulled out from Key West, is it?” came a voice.

Lee came out of his daydreaming and smiled as he turned to the man a few feet away along the railing.

“No,” Lee agreed. “The cruise has definitely lost some je-ne-sais-pas.” Lee’s voice was louder than necessary, deep and amiable. Not quite his stage voice, but bigger than mortal.

“I’m Rick,” the smaller man said, a Texas accent. “Rick Dumas. I saw your wife and you a couple times on the ship, I’m just down the hall from you. You’re Golding, right? The Mighty Lee Golding.”

“Yeah,” Lee replied as they shook hands. “You don’t have to say ‘The Mighty’ every time, though.”

He sized Rick Dumas up as they stood together. His ship-neighbor was small, and had a pleasant but nervous face, as if he didn’t know when anyone might turn on him.

“I was a huge fan,” Rick said. “Really, your feud with Sinbad was phenomenal. Can you do your shtick for me? Come on. Do your shtick.”

Lee smiled. His face bulged out red, his eyes popping from his head like eggs, as he laughed devilishly. His fingers went to his lips in a V and he wagged his bendy tongue through the V.

“Golding gonna getcha!” he hissed.

His face softened and he laughed, and Rick laughed, and the Alabama Assassin slapped him on the back.

“Give my regards to Broadway, huh?” Rick said. “So long 42nd Street. Take a deep breath, 40’ latitude, 74’ longitude. That’s central Manhattan. I have one of those GPSs and I try to remember important places. When did you come up and start watching?”

“Just after the pick-up, when we left,” Lee replied.

“I came out when we were coming in. Man, you should have seen the air traffic. So many helicopters.”

“All going to United Nations, I bet.”

“There’s no shortage of people in Manhattan who can afford a helicopter ride,” Rick said. “I bet there were a lot of rooftop landings. Say, could I have a smoke? I don’t usually smoke, but what the hell. How often does the East Coast get destroyed?”

Lee reached for the pack in his windbreaker pocket, contorting his girth. Rick lit his smoke with difficulty, Lee again using his hands as a wind screen, holding the lighter, too.

“You don’t seem nervous,” Lee said. “You worried about this or what?”

“No, no. These ships, they’re really the greatest feats of engineering of our time. I mean, just turn around, turn around.”

Rick spun his finger and the two turned to face the majesty of the Festival of the Waves, towers of decks, of gleaming white steel and glass above them.

“A city under its own power at sea.  A 90,000-ton traveling island of amusements and indulgence for 2,400 paying guests and 930 crew. It’s our era’s Great Pyramids. But they were for kings only.”

“Yeah, but they had to be dead first.”

“Listen, this is as heavy duty as ships come,” Rick continued. “Do you ever hear of a cruise ship going down? OK, there was that one off Greece but the captain was drunk. I mean, they put hundreds of millions of dollars into these. If any company ever lost a ship, they’d be ruined. Just think of the lawsuits.”

“Ever hear of the Titanic?” Lee asked.

“Come on, that hit an iceberg. And that was over a hundred years ago! That’s not even relevant, not to me, anyway.”

“When the captain announced the plan, he said the risk was minimal,” Lee reasoned aloud. “That even if we weren’t picking up the refugees we’d be riding out the wave. So I guess it must be safe.”

“Hey, look at that dude,” Rick said. “He looks like Man Mountain McTavish!”

Lee turned and saw a man standing alone. How had he not noticed this passenger yet? The man was more mountain even than Man Mountain McTavish, who’d always been soft in the ring. The stranger stood close to seven feet tall, and was broad shouldered. He had grey hair down to the bottom of his neck, and a thick beard. His arms came out of his short sleeves like a bear’s, the hairy flesh flexed as the man held the railing.

He stared ahead and was oblivious to the two men who watched him.

“Looking for whales?” Rick called, and Lee laughed.

The man-mountain did not respond immediately. As if some unseen intervening agent passed on the message, he turned after a moment.

“Call me Ishmael,” the man-mountain shouted back.

Lee smiled. That was from Moby Dick. He’d listened to that book on the road from one stadium to the next. It was about a guy who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. And a whale. Lee felt an instinctive connection with this other giant.

The bulk of land receding behind them became more indistinct in its details. By the time the security guards asked them to return to their rooms, the United States appeared as only a thickening of the horizon.

“Please stay in your rooms until you hear from the captain,” one of the white-uniformed guards said. “It will just be a few hours. We really need to rely on everyone’s cooperation to stay safe and get through this without any tragedies.”

The grey-haired man-mountain walked in past the Mighty Lee Golding and Rick Dumas with a friendly glance to include them, so that they could experience with him the shared thrill of this event. The two smiled back. The giant’s facial expressions were so intense Rick and Lee could not help but smile back, but he quickly lost his inclusive cast, turning to his own thoughts. The giant looked away and went on inside.

His name was Adam Melville.

He was a man who looked and planned for special moments. That’s the way he travelled; he was a moment collector. Even with his planned cruise interrupted, he couldn’t shake that habit. An event of this importance made him feel important watching it. And no one knew what was on the other side.

A long-time tech entrepreneur, he had a big imagination, and he was trying to imagine what he could see in the event that others didn’t. As he returned to his room, Adam thought again through the clues: the news reports, the early devastation, the unparalleled evacuation, the reported projections. He was a man who’d always thought of big ideas, and how the big ideas touched his life.

We know a great deal of the world’s history, he thought. From the time of each civilization’s adoption of the written word, we know of all their major events: 5000 years of history among the Sumerians in modern Iraq and in Egypt, 3300 years in China, 2600 years in Mexico. As the written word spread across Europe and the Indian subcontinent, so did our knowledge of history gain over wider swaths of the earth.

This event was beyond all that history’s telling, but that was not our only knowledge. Written history goes back 5000 years, but humanity goes back 7 million years, a much longer period of witnessing. This event had precursors within the collective memory of man. Our myths were older yet than our histories, and they told of such things.

7

Captain London spent more time on the bridge than most in his position.  Many captains on large cruise ships split their time between paperwork and social activities; the running of the ship was left to subordinates. This was not so with Captain London in routine times. It was certainly not so now.

He relegated the first officers to the sidelines as he managed the evacuation and embarkation from New York himself. In fact, the extraordinary traffic in the river and out to sea demanded Captain London stay on deck and he would no doubt remain to ride out the wave. There was no pilot ship to lead them out from harbor this time. Distance required between ships was compressed, and his maximum speed in the harbor had been raised, among the many regulations and laws London had been ordered to break.

London was not particularly troubled that Homeland Security had ordered such safety standards to be ignored, to get as many people out alive as possible. What he didn’t like was the lack of security in letting the refugees aboard. He liked to be in control, and that seemed to allow an element he couldn’t control. Even his security crew was weaponless, but who knew what was coming aboard now?

It was not, however, a situation in which debate or questioning was an option.

The senior officers all wore black suits. One could tell who the captain was without seeing the rank on their shoulders. The captain was at the helm, and the officers orbited around him.

London was not born to lead; he was made so by his own hand. He came from a small town, middle class background, and had understood from an early age that the drive to succeed was a race won not by speed, but by early start. He wasted no time. He had, through years in the Navy, university and various sports teams, cultivated not only the work ethic to rise, but the social connections as well. He hadn’t gained his advantages directly through those connections; rather, by embedding himself among groups accustomed to leadership, he grew to understand it as the expected outcome given the application of his qualities. Here he was, the undisputed chief of a hundred million dollar enterprise, a crew of near a thousand under him. Yet those aggrandizing details were less important to him as a sailor than the more basic fact that he was master of his ship.

Captain London was of average height, with a bearing and a voice weighted by his own gravity. He had a healthy weathered face and thin gray hair, and looked like a club golf pro.

He liked this bridge. It was old school. Out of all the ships on which he’d served in his career, this, with its long curved banks of windows, controls and monitoring equipment below, was coolest. At the center was his chair, a rotating throne he found embarrassingly comfortable.

The Festival was a decades old ship that had undergone major refurbishments twice. She was, to London, a beautiful and messy mix of new and old.

“Get Harrington in here,” he said. “Let’s learn what there is to learn.”

Minutes later, the Chief Radio Officer was on the bridge. He was a young man, fat and always sweaty in his black suit.

“Just the headlines,” Captain London said.

“At 15 knots, the wavefront is not more than five hours sailing.”

“We’ll make better speed when we get out. Go on.”

“Right now the waves are under ten feet but they will be considerably larger after passing onto the continental shelf. However, the troughs are currently long and the waves smooth. Coast Guard pilots have scouted and confirmed that it should be no danger to our vessel. We’re to ride it out and wait. Homeland Security is running the show, and they still don’t know where they’re going to direct returning ships and seagoing refugees. I… got the impression they just don’t now what the coast is going to look like after. Not to mention they’ve been as busy evacuating themselves as planning for everyone else.”

“Your editorial commentary is still unappreciated,” London said.

“So, we’re just supposed to ride it out and wait?” first officer Van der Hoeven asked.

“Yeah,” Harrington said. “Radar shows other ships heading out the same way.”

“Have you heard from the company?” London said.

“They’re satisfied with your decision and urge you to aid in any way, sir, so long as the guests are not put in any danger.”

“Meaning the ship, of course,” an officer said.

“What’s the latest on the event itself?” London said.

“It’s muddled. And what’s clear, is probably wrong.”

“Harrington,” London said.

“Sorry, sir.”

The Communications Officer recited the same outline of events all on the bridge knew already. He had a few extra details: the fault was along the mid-Atlantic ridge; that there had been a major calving of glaciers off the Antarctic ice shelves on one end, and Greenland on the other, seemingly a result of the earthquake; and satellite images and measurements of the rising water levels indicated a major change to the ocean floor topography itself.

“In other news,” Harrington continued, “Washington, or at least our fearless leaders, have been evacuated. President Crawford is in Colorado at a NORAD base. The White House and Pentagon are empty, guarded by Air Force cover.”

There were murmurs of astonishment and excitement from some.

“What’s the refugee situation?” London asked.

“Here or more generally?” Harrington asked.

“In general, first,” London said

“It’s going to be the worst natural disaster in history,” the Communications Officer said, losing his humor for the first time. “Rio has been wiped out, Miami may be underwater as we speak. There’s all this chatter of lessons learned from New Orleans, how they’ve mobilized immense resources so quickly and are directing efforts at hospitals and old age homes. It seems almost useless, sir. In a disaster of this magnitude.”

“Those are lives being saved,” London said. “The actions of our crew are part of an effort that will mean hundreds of thousands saved. The scope may be far larger, but we can still save lives. Thanks for your report. I imagine it will be a while before we receive new orders. In the meantime, Harrington, scan the news. But keep it to yourself. I don’t need the crew distracted with worries of their families. Now, what of OUR refugees, Bausch?”

“Sir, there’s more,” Harrington said.

The others held their breath. London was not often interrupted.

“Go on, Harrington,” the captain said.

“There’s a Navy supply ship that’s lost contact. It was being used in the rescue, and they’ve lost radio contact and the on-board tracking has been shut down. They sent a search jet to its last coordinates, but it’s not on course. It’s disappeared, sir. They’re seeking reports of any sightings at sea.”

“Don’t let your imagination get carried away,” London said. “There are going to be issues as the flood breaks down communications systems. Cell networks have been going out all day. For a while, everyone will be a bit in the dark. Now, Bausch, what of our refugees, please?”

“Twenty-three hundred aboard, all in the Grand Atrium and the Royal Theater. Everything as planned,” said Bausch, the Chief Security Officer. “Birnbaum is out managing the situation right now.”

In extraordinary times, responsibilities were less than clear. Captain London trusted Staff Captain Birnbaum, and had put the new passengers under his management. Captain London had also put the massive resources of the hotel manager at the use of Birnbaum, meaning the restaurants, the wait staff, the housekeepers, the pursers; all could be drafted into the effort.

“They’re double-shifting galley staff to feed the new and old guests,” the Security Officer continued. “My men have swept the decks and have good confidence that the guests have all returned to their rooms. Still… another announcement wouldn’t hurt. There were quite a few out for a look, and with the resources required managing the refugees, we haven’t the numbers to maintain constant watches at all sections of the decks.”

“Have Birnbaum pull the staff together, in groups if he has to, and give them an update of the situation. It’s critical that the staff understand that things are under control and still being managed as tightly as before. Have them told that this is an opportunity and a responsibility to help in a crisis. If the staff maintain composure, the guests will remain at ease and under control.”

“Vince Lombardi it is, sir.”

“Sir, we haven’t handled emergency planning given the new realities on the Festival,” a First Officer said. “Our prior emergency drills have, I think, been rendered obsolete.”

“This is the reality,” London responded. “We are not up to SOLAS standards. I accept my personal culpability for this. Somehow I expect it to be overlooked. We are drastically short on lifeboats, and the Atrium and Theater couldn’t be evacuated in a reasonable, let alone legally mandated, time in any case. So, gentlemen, let’s keep this ship afloat.”

The skies had cleared in the afternoon; the visibility was excellent. Making 25 knots now as it emerged from Lower Bay into open sea, the vessel barely rumbled. The sun was behind them, so that the ship chased its own shadow. The First Officer on duty was left at the helm. The captain stood to watch as other great vessels passed it by to take their turn evacuating the docks.

No external circumstances could take away the beauty of the ocean.

In thirty-three years at sea, London had seen its immense power unleashed many times.  He knew that the manifestation of this tsunami at sea would be minor; over the deep water the waves would be minimized. As it approached shore, the wave’s energy would be directed upward by the rising floor, and the series of waves would run into each other and add their amplitudes. Then would it become the monstrous force that just might change the world.

They were hours out to open sea as their rendezvous with the waves approached, the senior officers crowding the bridge. Finally, Captain London sent them below, keeping only a bare crew, and imagining them away as he looked out over the sea.