by Noah Waters
Slipping back into the jeep driver’s seat and pulling out onto Highway 90, Noah was almost home. Her apartment was only about one-half mile from the beach itself. With Beach Boys music now blaring, Noah took a sharp right off the main road and proceeded over the railroad tracks.
The sudden wail of a siren interrupted her harmonious sing-along. Shaking her head, Noah pulled over. “Damn it.”
As she slowly reached over into her seabag to search for her wallet, the halogen blue light flashed across her rearview mirror. The large gold star on the driver’s door was polished and glistened in the high-noon sun. The shiny black boot heels clicked as the driver stepped from the driver’s seat onto the shoulder of the road. Noah had managed to grab her registration to present it with her driver’s license.
“You didn’t think you could come back home without us knowing you had arrived, did you?” said 5′, 3″, 185 pounds, short and stocky, J.J. Hawkins. The double Js stood for James Jamison Hawkins, but Noah had always called him J.J.
“Shit, J.J., I thought I had done something wrong.”
J.J. laughed heartily. First time he thought he had ever pulled something over on Noah.
“How was the military?”
“Sweet.” Noah pulled down her sunshades.
“You’re probably the only person who would call the military sweet.”
“What can I say—one weekend a month, 2 weeks out of a year and my master’s degree paid for. Doesn’t that sound sweet to you?”
“I’m glad you had your sugar fix while you were gone. It’s been busy here.”
“Yeah, I saw the darkened clouds gathering along the horizon.”
“Lt. Bisk has everyone here running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Hurricane Gabrielle has not made up her mind which damn direction she wants to go.”
Noah paused as she tried to recall just what she had heard last. “I thought she was heading more toward the upper East Coast.”
J.J. had raised his left leg up into a resting position on the side of the jeep. This was a position he often took for a comfort zone. “Could be Florida,” he replied as he leaned over to spit out his constant companion, a wad of Skoal. “Don’t really matter much, Florida, Carolinas, Alabama. All the precautions have to be taken anyway. With only six officers per shift, your being gone hasn’t helped much. When’s your first day back on the clock?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Noah responded shaking her head. She continued to enjoy the nonmilitary atmosphere and the approaching storm was the furthermost thing from her mind.
The crackling of the radio could be heard from more than a block away as J.J. had left the intercom on in case of a call.
“Unit 89, need to respond to a domestic dispute, 1416 Allison Lane. Unit 12 is en route for backup.”
“Looks like you gotta roll,” Noah declared as she put her registration back into the glove box.
J.J. replied, “Same ol’, same ol’,” as he reached into his boot to pull out another can of Skoal. “Damn rednecks don’t do anything but fight.” Noah laughed as she reached down and turned the key.
“See you soon.”
The few palm trees that lined the highway were not native to Biloxi. Noah loved them, nevertheless. That was the primary reason she had picked this particular set of apartments. The palms would sway in the evening breeze that constantly blew off the beach. The apartments had snow-white siding with sunny yellow shutters and lots of greenery. They offered peace and calm in a chaotic world.
Noah pulled directly in front of her apartment. Within seconds, the landlord’s door flew open and Honey Baker stepped out. Although Honey was Noah’s landlord, she had become a steadfast friend. Honey had learned over the years that Noah was the adventurous type, holding on to nothing for long and challenging anything that came across her path. She never knew what Noah would be up to next. While Honey was a friend, all she really cared about was that the rent was paid on time and the noise was kept low. Having an officer on the property would keep problem tenants out.
“Welcome home.”
Honey could be heard for two blocks away—as only a hefty Southern woman can. She was a rather hearty lady who showed the results of down-home baking over 30 years. Her bees nest hairdo caused Noah to imagine how horrible it would be to sit behind her in a church pew.
Before Honey could reach Noah, Cannon barreled toward her at top speed. Squatting down next to the Jeep, Noah opened up her arms just as Cannon leaped forward to lick her face. “Hey, buddy, I’m back home.” No one was more excited than Cannon to see Noah back home. He often missed Noah on her long shift hours at the Sheriff’s Department. This particular trip had seemed rather long to Cannon and he had lots of kisses to give to make up for lost time.
“Everything with Cannon go OK?” Noah always checked Cannon’s behavior with Honey as if he were a child.
“He’s a doll. No problem whatsoever. Will you be setting down a while or will you be returning to work soon?”
“Absolutely,” Noah responded, causing Honey to shake her head still not knowing the answer to her question. Noah reached in and grabbed her seabag and with a hefty tug pulled it over the side of the jeep. All she could think of was rest. The trip had been long and tiring and if J.J. was right, she knew that Lt. Bisk would have them as busy as bees once she reported in for shift work due to the approaching storm.
Once inside, Noah collapsed on her large king-sized, white water bed. The last thing she remembered seeing was the palm leaf ceiling fan spinning directly above and feeling Cannon’s continuous licks.
Inside the Harrison County Sheriff’s Office the ceiling fans were spinning fast and the breeze was welcome. Several phones were ringing simultaneously. You could hear the rustle of paper against the wood grains of a desk.
“Somebody answer those phones,” echoed down the hallway from a voice full of agitation. “Anytime the TV mentions a hurricane, these people go crazy. It is not likely the Sheriff’s Department controls the weather after all,” Lt. Bisk mumbled out loud. Several Sheriff Department officers were scampering about the briefing room in attempt to appease the supervisor. The agitated voice belonged to Lt. Harold Bisk. Lt. Bisk at 55 had little patience as he reached the end of his tenure with the department. While his patience was thin his experience was vast. He saw himself as an enforcer of the law in a county where the locals often challenged it on a regular basis. Everything was to be organized and in its place. The hurricane that was approaching caused chaos in Bisk’s mind and chaos was something he considered intolerable. His walk was stiff from an old war wound and his voice was stern with commitment. In the background several phones continued to ring.
“If I have to tell somebody to answer those damn phones one more time, someone is going to be assigned down in the harbor.” North harbor was beautiful, but the bad area that Lt. Bisk considered a punishment assignment was the East side, a highly drug-infested part of town made up of a mixed flood zone and previous swamp. It was a place where the deputy sheriffs could definitely obtain part of the arrests to meet statistical reports. The officers’ view of the East side focused on all the enormous paperwork being assigned there resulted in. While each officer rotated through the area, no one wanted to be assigned there on a permanent basis. Within seconds, the phones had stopped ringing.
The briefing room chairs resembled those used in a one-room schoolhouse. Wooden and rather small, yet sufficient to offer each officer a place to write and take their notes before their patrol shift began. A rather large cork board hung to the right of where the officers sat showing the FBI’s Most Wanted. You could often find local residents who had managed to evade capture for not paying a fine hanging there as well.
The sheriff was a rather jolly man who would often step in during shift briefings to keep up with what was going on. He liked to keep in touch with his public, after all, in the last election he had won by a large margin. The prior sheriff had been investigated for corruption just before the election. The ne
w sheriff, Tommy Cain, although jolly, had a militaristic sense about him. This made the sheriff and Bisk like two peas in a pod. There was no doubt that Lt. Bisk had been handpicked by Sheriff Cain. Neither of them had a tolerance for the breaking of the law in any shape, form, or fashion. Corruption would bring shame to the great Cain name. A name that had been in the Deep South connected in one form or another with law abidement—for years—four brothers in all, each of them representing law enforcement or the judiciary.
The glass door was pushed open with some degree of force as Noah stepped into the briefing room. Her uniform crisply starched and her leather gear creaked as she walked.
“Well, well, look what the cat drug in,” Lt. Bisk remarked looking directly over his Benjamin Franklin round style glasses. “Are you finished playing with the feds and ready to get back to real work?” he said sarcastically.
“It is good to know you really missed me, sir,” replied Noah sarcastically. “J.J. told me hardly anything got done while I was gone.”
“J.J. lied.” Bisk’s voice dropped and his eyes shifted downward at the papers in front of him. “Yep, nothing new here.”
Noah continued on as she took her seat.
Lt. Bisk stood up to approach the briefing podium. “Attention everyone,” as he lightly tapped the side of the podium with his baton. “First in today’s briefing, we would like to welcome back, Officer Waters.” A mixture of boos and yeahs came from the other officers. “Unless you all want more work to do, I suggest you welcome the distribution load.”
“Hurricane Gabrielle is our first topic this morning. She’s on course for the lower Southeast area. Everyone knows we have problems at the gas stations. Officer Frank, you take the east side of town.” Groans rolled through the air. “Officer Smith, take the west side of town.”
“Aye, aye, sir” came from an officer. Noah caught a wink from both officers as the “Aye, aye” was mimicking her new maritime lingo.
Bisk continued, “We have the warehouses to guard, the grocery stores, and Officer Waters, due to your love of the beach—it’s yours. If you need backup support, don’t forget we have the ATV units and any air support required. This morning’s weather report show her winds are clearly looking like she may get up to 100 miles per hour. The city will be preparing for boarding businesses as well as homes. Let’s watch the traffic in and out of the parking lots of the distribution centers.”
“Predictable landfall?”
“Anywhere between September 10 and 14.
“Just a couple of days?” Noah asked.
“She has been brewing for a while. However, she could die once she hits landfall rather quickly,” Lt. Bisk announced. “Dismissed—be safe out there.”
The officers hustled out of their seats, taking their notebooks out of the briefing room and into narrow hallway. They passed Noah in the hallway, providing shoulder pats and welcome-back-home hugs.
“Back to the beach,” Noah stated out loud in a giddy excitement. “Bikinis, buns, beer, and bad weather—that’s what life’s all about here in Biloxi.”
The parking lot was a sight to behold. The patrol cars all lined up in a row were the finest in the state—the Crown Vic—black and white with blue halogen lights and large gold stars that reflected in the sun. Each officer’s name in gold lettering on the side of the patrol car—always polished to a high shine. Anyone could see their reflection at any time, sometimes even at night, if the moon was just right.
“Unit 96.”
“10–8,” Noah pronounced into her keyed up microphone. On the other end, there was a good friend—Dorothy Alexander—who had been a dispatcher for many years and knew Noah well.
“10–4,” Dorothy replied, “Welcome home. Assignment?”
Noah couldn’t help but smile, “The beach, where else?”
“I copy, Unit 96, the beach.”
As Noah proceeded down Highway 90, her vision took in all the varieties of colors that painted the coastline for miles—lime greens, florescent oranges, brilliant yellows, hot pinks, striking lavenders, beads, bangles, and trinkets of all kinds for sale. T-shirts, surf boards, wind chimes, and swimsuits were mixed among other feature items such as shark tanks, exotic birds, and a large aquarium business. Between the trinket shops loomed the magnificent towers of hotels from brand names directly related to Las Vegas.
Six-inch, steel-red spider strappings, white go-go shorts, and a navy blue halter top caught Noah’s eye as the woman proceeded to walk along the sidewalk. From the back, the woman had a head full of red crimped hair that hung to the waist line. Large bangle earrings with black spider net hosiery. To some, she was an exotic sight, to Noah she had been part of business in Biloxi for a long time. Pulling up along side the curb, Noah rolled the window down. The sharp piercing glance directed to the patrol car was suddenly softened by the acknowledgment that it was not any cop—it was Noah.
“Pinky,” Noah cried, “how’s business?”
“Damn storm’s freaking everybody out—no one wants to have a good time.” Pinky’s voice had a down home sweet tone to it. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I went to the Northeast for a few weeks.”
“What’s it like away from here?”
“It’s not much different. Different scenery. They had a beach, a lighthouse, and good food, but we have all that here. Do you have somewhere to stay during the storm?”.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll hitchhike up the road—what is today’s date?” Pinky questioned.
“September 9, 2001,” Noah replied.
“You think this storm is going to do a lot of damage?”
“I’m hoping, for the most part, we only get slight winds and a small tidal surge. You know there will be some dumb ass out here attempting to surf. That’s why I’m here.” Noah’s voice contained a “I can’t believe they are dumb enough to try to surf every time” tone. “I am on the clock so I’ll talk to you later.”
Pinky wished that Noah didn’t have to depart so soon as she enjoyed the rare relationship they had, but she understood it had its limits for each of them.
Driving down the beloved beach that Noah had called home for so many years, she could see in the far distance the darkening of the clouds. There was no doubt the storm was brewing and that no one had a clue what they would really be facing over the next few days.
A slight pinkish hue reflected on the water while some fished and others built sand castles. The police radio, for the most part, had been rather quiet. Noah figured everybody was probably prepping for the storm. That usually meant shopping for extra groceries, hoarding extra fuel supplies, and boarding windows. Throughout the day, Noah visited a few of her regular locations.
Finishing the afternoon up with the best shrimp salad in town, Noah’s day finally came to an end. Returning to her apartment, she parked in her usual spot and secured the patrol car. The reflection of sun faded in her windshield as it slowly sank hiding behind the Southern coastline.
The blender roared as Cannon barked in time with it. Large chunks of ice, fresh strawberries, seasoned pineapple, and slices of mango were all being mixed together with large scoops of protein powder—breakfast of champions or at least Noah’s breakfast. Cannon often just looked at Noah with nothing to contribute except his presence. Noah had taken today off as there was still unpacking to be done and she remained tired from the trip in general. Today would give her a chance to do a lot of little things that needed to be done. She opened the back door to see where the storm stood; the day appeared to be gorgeous. Noah leaned further out so that she could see beyond the palm trees. Where did the storm go she wondered. The skies were crystal blue, the sun a brilliant yellow, and the heat had already arrived. Still, uncertainty remained.
“Must be the calm before the storm,” Noah muttered. Flipping on the TV switch, she scanned the multiple channels in search of an update. “Ah, there it is,” she said as she glanced down at the CNN news weather forecast. “You’re not that far off; it looks like a
sneak attack.” Noah often had conversations with herself. Her quiet solitude was suddenly interrupted with a high-pitched telephone ring.
“Hello, hello, Noah,” the voice said.
“Yes, this is Noah. Can I help you?” Within seconds, she recognized the voice. It was Chief Isaac Little.
Noah always thought Isaac Little was an interesting character. He was her Coast Guard recruiter. Noah thought he was the best in the business. She remembered the first day she met him standing on the corner in front of Loyola University. Noah had been in such a hurry that morning that she literally bumped into him.
Immediately, Little went into his well-practiced presentation on how to let the military pay for your schooling with a payback of only 1 weekend a month and 2 weeks of your time a year. Until that very minute Noah had never thought about the military. After all, she had a 3.9 GPA. In her mind, this would get her the help she needed or at least a couple of scholarships. It didn’t take Isaac Little long to convince Noah. He was thin and tall, almost bald and had more energy than Noah had ever seen in any one man. He was wiry in appearance, which made him look awkward when he walked. His smile was broad and he laughed frequently. This led Noah to conclude that if he could make it through any military boot camp so could she.
For the next several hours that day, Noah and Little became acquainted. They walked and talked among the large oak trees filled with tangled, drooping Spanish moss. You could feel the high humidity and hear the deafening crickets call. Before long, Noah was signing on the “dotted line.”
“Are you there, Noah?” Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted. “Noah, this is Isaac.”
“Sorry to call you so soon from your return from Cape May, but I wanted to touch base with you to let you know your commander from the Port Security Unit will be in touch with you soon. I am sure he will provide you with a report or at least update you on what he expects from you. Remember, if you need anything, you have my cell. You can call anytime at all. The kids are usually up, or at least one of them is, any hour of the day. Oh, and did I tell you we are expecting No. 9?”
