Terminal Justice

by Alton L. Gansky

“Oh,” he replied innocently. “Will it hurt?”

  “The sunburn? A little, but I have some stuff to make it feel better.”

  A soft chime announced the arrival of the elevator cab. The two stepped inside, and David removed a small plastic card from his wallet and inserted it into a slot next to the control panel. Immediately the doors closed, and the elevator began its rapid rise to the fifty-third floor.

  “When we get to our floor, Timmy,” David began, “I need you to take our stuff to the apartment and put it away. You can take a shower then watch television. I have to meet with someone for a few minutes. Then I’ll be up. Can you do that?”

  “Sure,” Timmy said. “Can I have a soda?”

  “Absolutely,” David replied with a big grin. “Just be sure to put your wet clothes in the bathroom. I’ll deal with them later.”

  “Okay.”

  The elevator arrived at the top floor and opened its doors. Timmy stepped out and walked toward the penthouse apartment he shared with David. When the mantle of leadership passed from the murdered A.J. Barringston to David, the Board of Directors insisted that he move into the large flat. David resisted, feeling it was an unnecessary extravagance. It would remind him of his lost friend—a violence he had yet to overcome. Nonetheless, David acquiesced.

  It wasn’t long before David realized the importance of living in the suite. Directing Barringston Relief’s worldwide efforts was not a nine-to-five job. Over the last sixteen months he had averaged working fourteen hours a day when he was in the country and longer when abroad.

  The luxurious suite presented some problems, as did the entire Barringston Tower. Visitors often assumed that monies that could be used in hunger relief and other efforts were being spent on the magnificent high-tech building. More times than he could count, David had explained that the building, everything in it, as well as the staff of nearly five hundred was largely subsidized by Barringston Industries. The top ten floors were used rent- and utility-free by Barringston Relief. The thirteen floors below were occupied by Barringston Industries, and the remaining thirty floors were leased to various businesses. The lease money from those organizations paid for the building and the cost of its operation.

  Barringston Industries was led by the enigmatic Archibald Barringston, founder of the global construction company that built high-rise structures in scores of foreign countries. It had been Archibald Barringston who, twenty years prior, had given a ten-million-dollar jump-start to his son Archibald Jr., known to everyone simply as A.J. From there, A.J. had guided the relief agency from conception to being the largest such nongovernmental organization in the world.

  Monies for the actual relief work came from several sources. First were donations from people around the world. Since almost all of the relief organization’s overhead and operational expenses were covered by other sources, more than 90 percent of donations received from individuals and businesses went directly to relief work—more than any other relief organization in the world. Substantial funds were gained from patents on research done by Barringston scientists and engineers. Barringston Relief did more than take meals to the hungry; it was the leader in the development of the bio-technology necessary to end famine and famine-related diseases. Side benefits from this research improved crop production in the United States and other countries. Funds from these products were poured back into the relief work.

  The elevator descended two floors, and David exited it into a lobby. The lobby was empty except for a few potted trees and chairs situated around the perimeter. The floor was shared by three departments: the Communications Department, the Political Analysis Department, and the Catastrophe Monitoring Department. A large pair of oak doors led to each office complex. The C.M.D. was behind the doors to his left.

  Casually he strolled through the half-dozen cubicles that delineated the work areas and tried not to look conspicuous. Although there was no dress code for employees, and attire ran the spectrum from jeans and polo shirts to three-piece suits, his swim trunks, sandals, and a San Diego Padre tee-shirt were stretching it. David said hello to the few workers who caught his eye. When he had left the beach, he had planned to head straight to his apartment, change clothes, and then quickly make his way to the C.M.D. offices. That plan had changed, however, when Timmy made his disappointment about leaving known by lowering his head slightly, a heartbroken expression across his face. David knew he was being manipulated, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty. He made things right by promising to stop for a hamburger and shake on the way home. That had added an additional twenty minutes to the trip. David had promised to meet Osborn in thirty minutes; he was now twenty minutes late.

  Osborn’s office, a twenty-by-twenty room with a teak desk and credenza and floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls, was in the corner of the tower and overlooked the dense cluster of buildings of urban San Diego. From fifty-one floors up, the view was captivating. Osborn, a stately, middle-aged African-American, was not looking out the window. Instead, peering through small, wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were fixed on his computer screen.

  “I’m sorry to have taken so long, Oz,” David began, “but things took longer than I expected.”

  “No problem,” Osborn answered without looking up. “Let me show you something.”

  David walked over to stand behind Osborn. On the large color monitor was a photo of the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea. The picture was detailed, showing mountains, valleys, rivers, and even clouds overhead.

  “What am I looking for?” David asked.

  Osborn picked up a pencil and pointed at the monitor. The sharpened end touched the glass screen and gave a discernible tap. “Here, fifteen degrees north by about seventy degrees west.”

  David leaned forward and squinted. “That clump of clouds?”

  “Yeah,” Osborn leaned back and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Except it’s more than a clump of clouds. It’s a tropical storm, a big one, and I think it’s on its way to being a hurricane.”

  “Hurricanes happen every year,” David replied. “I don’t think you called me here to show me a new one.”

  “We’ve already had two this year,” Osborn said as he leaned forward and tapped a key on the keyboard. Instantly, the map zoomed out to reveal more of the area. Again Osborn clicked a key, and again the map shrank. David could now see the entire eastern seaboard. “The first two started well out in the Atlantic and moved toward the coast, but each turned north and never made landfall.” As he spoke, Osborn traced the paths of the previous storms. “No harm, no foul. This one, however, is sure to hit something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Too early to tell. It’s not even a proper hurricane yet, but it will be, and I think it’s going to be a big one.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Gut feeling right now, but this is what I do. This is why you hired me last January. I study catastrophes; it’s my science, my passion.”

  That was true enough. Barringston Relief had been heavily involved in the easing of world hunger. Its considerable resources were aimed at meeting immediate and long-term needs. When the mantle of leadership fell to David, he added another dimension to the work: emergency aid to victims of cataclysm. Every year millions of people were killed, injured, or left homeless by natural disaster. It was David’s dream to ease that pain. That’s when he hired Dr. Osborn Scott, one of the highest acclaimed students of catastrophe. His reputation was global.

  “So you think it’s going to be a problem?”

  “Oh, it’s going to be a problem all right. I just don’t know how big a problem.” They both studied the map for a few moments. “If you promise not to tell the world yet, I’ll give you my best guess.”

  “I promise.”

  “If I were a betting man,” Osborn began, “I’d wager that this fellow will reach hurricane status tonight or tomorrow and that it will take a northwesterly track.” Once again he pointed at the screen. “Worse-case scenario: It grows to a four or f
ive, plows across Cuba, picks up steam in the Gulf of Mexico, and makes landfall again somewhere around here.” He pointed to New Orleans.

  “That would be bad,” David said seriously.

  “That would be very bad,” Osborn corrected. “In the next three days, David, people will die, and homes will be destroyed. You can bet the farm on it.”

  David reached for the phone on Osborn’s desk and quickly punched in the number of his personal assistant. A second later he spoke: “Ava, I need you to set up a meeting with the R.R.T. Make it for …,” he looked at his watch, “4:30. That’ll give everybody a couple of hours to rearrange their schedules.”

  David listened for a moment, then said, “No, better put us in the big conference room. I’m not sure how long we’ll be meeting, so you better arrange for some coffee, water, that sort of thing. Thanks, Ava.” He hung up.

  “I think convening the Rapid Response Team is wise,” Osborn said.

  “It can’t hurt. Besides, I’d rather be ahead of the game than behind. I’m going to go clean up while you prepare to make a presentation. Bring whatever information you can, and be ready to answer questions. You’re the authority on this, and the team will need all you can give them.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Osborn said resolutely.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Oz,” David said, “but I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me too,” Osborn answered. He paused, then continued, “But I’m not.”

  Indian Ocean

  Depth: 21,645 feet

  Slowly … steadily … unfailingly … the jigsaw pieces of the Earth’s crust moved—not by feet, but meager inches each year. The plates expanded as the fluid rock beneath purposefully produced new crust, and other plates tediously gobbled down the existing shell, melting and blending it with the mantle beneath. Not a day passed, not a minute ticked by, without the ancient ballet continuing.

  Overhead rested a four-mile thick blanket of saltwater, always in motion. It was a concert conducted since creation, a dance of endless motion.

  With almost intelligent tenacity, the Indo-Australian plate slowly twisted clockwise creating pressures, magnifying stress, sub-ducting with a plate 800 miles east and diverging with its sister plate 1500 miles west. At its center was a portion of crust, 60 miles thick, that fractured and elevated a slab of rock the size of California in a titanic eruption of power. With it, rose 625,000 cubic miles of ocean.

  Two minutes after it began, the eons of stress relieved, the ocean floor resumed its sluggish dance only slightly altered, moving in restful moderation.

  Not so the ocean.

  The conference room was a large trapezoid, wider near the double-entry doors, narrower by ten feet at its head. David stood with his hands clasped behind him and faced the gathered executives of Barringston Relief; ten pairs of eyes returned his gaze. Behind him was a large and technically sophisticated projection screen. To his right was a computer terminal.

  The room itself had no windows, a purposeful design meant to decrease distractions. The walnut-paneled walls were adorned with pictures of Barringston Relief work around the world.

  A large walnut table dominated the center of the room. Seated around the table were the ten department leaders who comprised the Rapid Response Team—the R.R.T. Each was an expert in his or her field.

  “First let me thank each of you for rearranging your schedules to be here,” David said. “I believe this is the first time we’ve met like this since the inception of the team six months ago. Two hours ago, Dr. Osborn Scott brought a serious matter to my attention. I’ve asked him to bring us up to date. Oz, if you would please.” David stepped away from the lectern and took a seat.

  Osborn, a thin, handsome man, stood and took his place at the head of the table. He carried no notes. Before he began, he paused at the computer terminal next to him and tapped in a command. On the floor-to-ceiling screen behind him a satellite photo appeared in bright colors. He stepped to the side so as not to impair anyone’s view.

  “This is the latest satellite photo from the NOAA. As you can see, it is of the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean.” Facing the image, he pulled a penlike device from his pocket and clicked on a small switch. A low power laser emitted a small red beam that appeared as a small dot on the satellite image. Aiming the device at a smear of clouds, he continued. “This accumulation of clouds here is a massive tropical storm that is quickly growing in power and size. The National Hurricane Center has named the storm Claudia. While it’s too early to say with certainty, I estimate there is more than an 85 percent chance this storm will grow to hurricane status and do so quickly, perhaps as early as tomorrow morning. When it does, it is sure to cause severe damage.

  “It’s impossible to predict the track a hurricane will take,” Osborn continued, “but because of its present position with Venezuela to the south, several Central American countries to the west, Cuba and the Caribbean Islands to the north, we can safely say that some country, most likely several countries, will be adversely impacted by this storm. Someone is going to take a beating.”

  “How strong a storm do you anticipate?” Kristen LaCroix asked. Kristen was the Director of Public Relations. She was a bright woman with deep red, shoulder-length hair. She was also David’s closest friend.

  “Prognostication is a tricky business,” Osborn answered, “but I think it’s going to be a four, possibly a five.”

  “Please explain,” David directed, wanting to make sure everyone understood the magnitude of his words.

  Osborn nodded. “Hurricanes are rated on a scale of one to five, with category five being the most severe. Hurricanes are judged by their wind speed and the low pressure cell around which they rotate. For example, Hurricane Andrew devastated Florida, annihilating several towns, cutting a swath of destruction 35 miles wide, and severely damaging even a much wider area. It had sustained winds of 145 miles per hour with gusts up to 175. Before it was done, it left forty dead and caused twenty-five billion dollars in damage.”

  “That was a category five?” Kristen asked.

  “No,” Osborn replied. “That was a category four. A five is described as catastrophic and maintains winds of 156 miles per hour or greater with gusts that top 200 miles an hour. In addition, it brings a storm surge of eighteen feet or more.”

  “Storm surge?” asked Tom Templeton, Director of Inner-Agency Relations. His department maintained communications with other relief organizations worldwide, as well as governmental agencies.

  “Yes,” Osborn replied. “Most people think that a hurricane’s winds are the most dangerous part of the storm, but that’s just one segment of the problem. The storm brings a water surge with it. This surge is like a mound of water that is pushed along by the winds. When the hurricane strikes the shore, this mound of water, which may rise twenty feet above its normal level, instantly floods the surrounding land, engulfing everything—cars, houses, people.”

  “I take it that category five hurricanes are unusual,” Kristen said.

  “The U.S. has only endured two in its history. A four is bad enough.”

  “How bad is bad?” Bob Connick, Barringston Relief’s Chief Financial Officer asked.

  “Factors vary,” Osborn answered. “Much depends on where the hurricane strikes. Developed countries with sophisticated warning systems fare far better than undeveloped countries. Those systems are wonderful when it comes to saving lives, but they can do very little to diminish property damage. To give you an idea of what a hurricane can do, I’ll share a few examples.

  “On October 7, 1737,” Osborn continued, “a typhoon—which is the same thing as a hurricane but occurs in the western Pacific or Indian Ocean—struck near Calcutta and sank 20,000 ships and killed 300,000 people. On October 1, 1893, a hurricane originated in the Gulf of Mexico, just like this one,” he motioned to the satellite image, “and moved ashore near Port Eads and the Mississippi coastal region. It took 1,800 lives. In 1900 a hurricane came ashore at Galveston, Texas, and k
illed 6,000 people. The city was largely destroyed and was later rebuilt—seventeen feet higher than the high-tide level.”

  “But those all occurred a century or more ago,” Bob Connick protested.

  “True. Today we can evacuate many of the people, but there is still a horrible price to pay. In September of 1989, not all that long ago, Hurricane Hugo blasted through the Caribbean islands from Guadeloupe to Puerto Rico before ripping through North and South Carolina. Hugo killed 500 and did several billion dollars worth of damage. And as I said earlier, Hurricane Andrew did over twenty-five billion dollars worth of damage in Florida in 1992 but took only forty lives, thanks to modern technology.

  “But don’t let the low death toll confuse you,” Osborn said, pacing back and forth in front of the looming image of the tropical storm. “These storms are still dangerous, far more so than most realize. November 1995 saw Typhoon Anela strike the northern Philippines with winds in excess of 140 miles per hour. The devastation was unbelievable: more than 600 dead and 280,000 homeless.”

  “Do we need to tell anyone about this?” David asked.

  Osborn shook his head. “No, the experts already know, including the NCEP and other agencies. My concern is Mexico and Cuba.”

  “NCEP?” Kristen inquired.

  “National Centers for Environmental Prediction in Miami, Florida,” Osborn answered. “The National Hurricane Center is associated with them. They already have a plan of action for such storms, and they will be monitoring it as well. I have a friend there who will share information with us. As I said, the real problem is Mexico and Cuba.”

  “How so?” David asked.

  “Many parts of Mexico are populated by small impoverished towns. There’s a good chance that thousands will not get advanced warning, and even if they do, they will not be able to move out of harm’s way fast enough. That will only be a problem if the hurricane doesn’t veer north as I expect it to do. Cuba is the concern. While they are familiar with hurricanes—they deal with them every year—one this size may be too much for them, and unlike the U.S. with its freeways and surface streets, the people of Cuba have no place to go. Getting on a boat sure isn’t going to help. Those with access to hurricane shelters will be safe, but the others …”