Flood

by Stephen Baxter

  “Such as?”

  “ ‘Hedgie.’ ”

  Lammockson boomed laughter. “A hedge-fund manager. Probably describes twenty percent of the people here.”

  “But not you,” Lily guessed.

  “The Financial Times once called me a ‘private equity magnate.’ I like that word, don’t you? ‘Magnate.’ Sounds like a wealthy Byzantine. Of course there is a whole class of us these days. London, thank God I was born here! It’s so liberal it’s like a tax haven for people like me.”

  Gary asked, “And, ‘hydrometropole’?”

  “Ah. Now that’s more interesting.” Bizarrely, Lammockson jumped up and down, his massive weight thumping into the floor. “We’re afloat,” he said. “The whole of this mansion is. I’m sure you saw that from the air. Afloat, even though I’ve got a swimming pool and a cinema and a gym and kitchens like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve even got a floating greenhouse. I’m the amphibious man! The ultimate floodproofing, yes? You just ride it out.

  “This is a floating city, a Dutch design. Now the Dutch have been fighting the sea for centuries—hell, their ancestors have been at it for two thousand years. Let me tell you something. The levees in New Orleans that failed when Katrina hit, they were designed for a once in thirty years extreme event. The Thames Barrier was designed for once in a thousand years. But in the Netherlands they plan for every ten thousand years. You want to guard against a flood, my friend, hire a Dutchman.”

  “And this is what you spend your money on,” Gary said, flushed. “This raft.”

  Lammockson stared at him. “You’re enjoying the champagne, aren’t you?”

  “We’re none of us used to alcohol,” Lily said hastily.

  Lammockson laughed. “That’s fine, you deserve it, drink what you like, say what you like. Look—what should I spend my money on? My son Hammond attends the best private school in London. Everything I do, I do for him.” He pointed to a plump, sour-looking boy of about ten, wearing a tuxedo, who hovered near a waiter with a tray of wine. Lammockson said, “Father of my grandchildren someday. But there’s only so much money you can spend on a kid. What else? I’ve climbed in rainforests, and flown around the Moon in a Russian Soyuz ship. Look at my watch.” He brandished his arm before Gary and pulled back his sleeve to expose a heavy bit of jewelry. “You know what this is? A Richard Mille RM004-V7. Cost me a cool quarter million. And I don’t just own a watch. I have a watch wardrobe.”

  Gary grinned. “Well, that’s class.”

  “But I can only wear one watch at a time, right?” He glanced around at the shining throng drinking his champagne. “You know, most of these guys don’t get it. Even the ones who’ve actually made far more than me, they just don’t get it. But I have a feeling you people do. You who’ve seen the other side of life.”

  “Get what?” Lily asked.

  “That all this, the way we’ve been living, the way we’ve made our money, is under threat. Everything’s changing.”

  “Climate change,” Gary guessed.

  “Yeah. Especially this fast new sort, the sea-level rise, climate change on speed. But that’s not to say there isn’t still money to be made. A time of change is a time of opportunity. When Rome fell, you know, there were guys who got richer than ever before. They’d already owned half of Europe. You just got to know when to move out, and how. You have to be a realist.”

  “And you’re a realist, are you, Mr. Lammockson?” Lily asked.

  “I try to be. Call me Nathan. Listen to me. The old way, the hyper-capitalism behind the private equity game, it was always a bubble and it’s going to burst as soon as the stresses set in. The housing market in London is already going to hell, for example, everybody buying up the high ground, Hampstead and the Chilterns, and that’s distorting the whole of the UK economy.

  “But I got out of housing long ago. Now I’m making a fortune from disaster recovery projects. You know the idea? When the computers in some bank’s basement go on the fritz because the floods come, I can switch over their operation straightaway to a dedicated backup suite in Aberdeen. The insurance industry, that’s another open goal right now, the traditional firms are crashing from a new rush of claims.”

  “And ‘AxysCorp durables,’ ” Lily said. “I saw the posters.”

  “Right,” he said energetically. “People sense we’re moving out of the old throwaway age. So now they want clothes that will last a decade, washing machines and cars that will run forever without maintenance, like that. And that new niche is precisely what I’m selling to.”

  “So while the world goes to hell you get even richer,” Gary said.

  “That’s the general idea. But I want to do more than make money. I feel it’s time for somebody to show some leadership, to show we can cope with this fucked-up world of ours.”

  “Somebody like you,” Gary said.

  Lammockson grinned. “You’re being ironic, my drunken friend, but you’re correct. That’s why I’m going public, it’s a conscious decision and a concerted strategy. Of course a high public profile needs big strokes. Stunts.”

  Gary said, “Our rescue was a stunt, was it?”

  “It got you out, didn’t it? I don’t see anything wrong in doing good for you while getting something out of it myself. See those guys in the corner?” He pointed to a group of middle-aged men happily feeding on vol-au-vents beneath the great chandelier; dark-skinned, short, they wore their lounge suits with a kind of indifference. “Elders from Tuvalu.”

  Lily asked, “Where?”

  “Island nation. Threatened by sea-level rise,” Gary said.

  “You’re out of date, my friend,” Lammockson said. “No longer threatened—swamped, drowned, vanished. It was abandoned long before the end, when the salt water ruined the crops and killed the coconuts. Oh, nobody died, though a nation did; all ten thousand people were evacuated to New Zealand and elsewhere. And the very last choppers to rescue the weeping elders from the rising waves—”

  “Were AxysCorp?” Gary guessed.

  “Damn right,” Lammockson said. “Doing good in a public way. Showing leadership in a troubled world. That’s my angle. That’s what I’m doing with my money. And it’s going to be essential in the future, believe me. I mean, as regards flooding, in this country you’ve got an Environment Agency that shows about as much leadership as a drowning kitten, and a government that keeps paring back investment in flood defenses. But if this fucking sea-level rise continues, we’re going to see some major events.”

  Lily began to feel alarmed. “Surely it won’t go that far.”

  Gary frowned. “I’m far out of the loop—I really need to find out about all this.”

  “You know, I’m serious about keeping in touch with you guys,” Lammockson said heavily. “You have a unique perspective, a fresh look after years away at a world going crazy. And I—”

  An alarm chimed, a subtle gong. The string quartet stopped playing.

  George Camden listened absently into the air. “It’s the storm, sir. It’s coming this way, heading for the estuary. We’re in no danger. But the guests should be informed.”

  “See to it,” Lammockson snapped. Camden nodded and hurried away. Lammockson turned to the hostages. “Look, I hate to break this up but I should be elsewhere—”

  “No.” Helen had said nothing during Lammockson’s monologue. Now she laid a hand on his arm. “Wait. I need to talk to you about my baby.”

  He refocused on her. “Miss Gray.”

  “It was one of your men, your doctors, who took her away from me. Wherever she is now, that makes you responsible.”

  “I fully accept that. We’re doing all we can—”

  “It’s not enough,” Helen said, a little wildly. She waved a hand. “Look at all these cameras, the microphones. Why don’t I stand up and tell them that Nathan Lammockson, savior of the world, stole my baby?”

  Lily touched her arm. “Helen, come on—”

  “Why don’t I go to the papers? Why don’t
I write a bloody book?”

  “Miss Gray,” Lammockson said. He faced her squarely, his full, formidable attention fixed on her. “Miss Gray. I hear what you say. And you know what? I fully accept it. You’re absolutely right, morally. My men took custody of the child, and we took our eyes off the ball, and we’re responsible. I’m responsible. I give you my word, solemnly, that I will find your baby and get him back to you.”

  “Her,” Helen said bitterly.

  “Her. I’m sorry. Look at this place. Do you doubt I have the resources to do it? No. Do you doubt I have the commitment to see it through? No. I got you out of Barcelona, didn’t I? Go public if you want, Miss Gray, that’s your right. All I’m asking is for a little time to deal with this, to resolve it.”

  Lily saw Helen was confused, trying to resist the force of his personality. Lily took her hand. “Helen, that sounds like the best bet to me right now.”

  Lammockson nodded, apparently satisfied. “Are we good? Yes?” He held Helen’s shoulders. “We’ll see this through, you and I. But for now, I’ve a room full of rich folk to comfort.” He turned and walked away, staff clustering around him like ducklings following their mother.

  Piers hurried back to Lily. “It’s all kicking off. There’s an alert out all along the estuary. I’m in contact with Gold Command. They’re mobilizing everything they’ve got. AxysCorp are putting their choppers in the air too, to be assigned to rescue operations. There’s work we can do—will you come with me? Lammockson’s staff are organizing a chopper for us. We can beat the storm if we move fast.”

  “It’s a long time since I flew.”

  “You’re not expected to pilot anything. But you know your way around choppers. You could be a big help.”

  Lily suddenly thought of her sister and the kids, who were supposed to be in the Dome this afternoon. Transport out of there was always a bottleneck. “Can you get me to Greenwich?”

  “I’m sure we can.” Piers turned to Gary and Helen. “You two may be safest here.”

  Gary said, “No thanks. Listen. Piers, could you arrange to get me to the Barrier? I’m in touch with some colleagues there. I want to try to find out what’s going on.”

  Lily said, “Gary, you’re drunk. You’re in no fit state—”

  “Not drunk for long.” Grinning, he held up a card of pills. “These days they have sober-up pills, Lil. You should check your mini-bar.”

  Piers said, “The Barrier it is. But we need to move.”

  Lammockson’s deep voice boomed over a PA. The party was being spiced up by a flood warning, he announced, but there was no need for alarm, the hydrometropole was fully flood resilient, and everybody wise enough to have booked up for a disaster vacation would be whisked right out of here and catered for.

  And the floor tilted beneath Lily’s feet. The whole of the floating building was rising like a vast elevator car, carrying Lily with it. Some of Lammockson’s guests stumbled; there was excited laughter.

  Gary said, “Holy cow.”

  The room began to settle.

  Lily said, “How high do you think that was?”

  Piers shrugged. “Hard to say. A meter? Two?”

  Lily knew nothing about the Thames Barrier, and London’s flood defenses in general. “Surely the Barrier will be able to handle a wave that size?”

  “I don’t know,” Gary said honestly. “The estuary will funnel the storm—the riverbed will be shallow. The surge will be higher by the time it reaches the Barrier.”

  “How much higher?”

  He had no answer.

  Piers snapped, “Come on, let’s get our stuff.”

  They hurried after him, grabbed their coats, and ran out through the glass-walled pier to the helipad.

  Lily checked her watch. It was just after three in the afternoon.

  10

  Fifteen minutes later an AxysCorp chopper was rushing west, heading back up the Thames, carrying Gary Boyle to the Barrier. The storm system was already funneling vigorously into the estuary, but it would take an hour to travel from Southend to the Barrier. The chopper easily outran it, though the winds and driving rain were ferocious. And, below, the river raged, turbid and frothing, pushing against the banks that contained it. Already the mud flats opposite Canvey and Tilbury were submerged, and floodwater glistened at South Benfleet, East Tilbury, Northfleet and on Rainham Marshes.

  Gary was dropped off at the control tower for the Thames Barrier, on the south bank at a place called Woolwich Reach. The chopper lifted again immediately, reassigned to help out with evacuation operations.

  Gary, left alone for a moment, walked to the riverbank. He had to lean into the wind, and the rain lashed his face. It was a July afternoon and the air wasn’t cold, but the low scudding clouds made it as dark as a fall day.

  The Barrier piers strode across the river, steel sails each five stories high, glistening in the rain. The gates between the piers had already been raised, hollow slabs of plated steel each twenty meters tall, rotated up on tremendous wheels to turn the Barrier into a solid wall that rose seven meters above the regular water level. Bright red lights shone on the piers to warn any shipping that the river was closed. Gary had never seen the Barrier up close before, and the scale of it struck him. Each of the four central navigable channels was as wide as the central span of Tower Bridge, and each gate weighed four thousand tons. The Barrier was a monument to man’s attempts to control nature.

  But the natural was testing the human today. The river on the downstream side, pushing in from the ocean, was already significantly higher than that upstream; spray leapt over the clean lines of the gates.

  And through the howl of the wind, Gary could hear sirens wail all along the estuary.

  Two figures approached him, both swathed in luminescent orange coats. “Gary! Is that you? You asshole, you’ll get yourself washed away. Have to put you on a lead, like those nutty Christians did in Barcelona.”

  “Nice to see you too, Thandie.”

  She wrapped him in her thickly sleeved arms. Thandie Jones was an oceanographer. When Gary had been captured she had been employed on weather-system modeling and climate-change studies for NOAA, America’s National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. A black, strong-featured Chicagoan, she was taller than Gary but wiry, always stronger.

  The man beside Thandie had his hood closed up over his mouth, so only his nose and bespectacled eyes showed.

  Thandie said, “Gary Boyle, meet Sanjay McDonald. Another climate modeler, poor sap.”

  Sanjay exposed a bearded face and grabbed Gary’s hand. “I work at Hadley—that is, the Met Office’s Hadley Center for Climate Prediction. I heard all about you. Good to meet you, Gary. And I’m sure you’re glad you’ve come back to find some real weather going on.”

  “Yeah,” Thandie said. “Speaking of which, let’s get out of it.”

  She led them both into the control tower. She took Gary down to a kind of cloakroom, where she fitted him out with protective gear: a wetsuit, boots, a thermal jacket, a hard hat, even a life jacket. Gary had never been shy before Thandie. He stripped down and began to prize himself into a wetsuit that didn’t quite fit.

  “You did me a favor phoning ahead to meet me here,” Thandie said. “You’ve got a teeny tiny grain of celebrity, Boyle.” She held her thumb and forefinger invisibly apart. “But it was enough to requisition me a chopper. We’re goin’ storm chasin’.”

  He grinned back. “I knew it was a good idea calling you.”

  Sanjay McDonald said, “I take it you two know each other well.”

  Gary said, “We were at MIT together. I studied under Thandie, actually. I went off to work at Goddard, and Thandie drew the short straw and moved to NOAA.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she shot back.

  “But we worked in the same area, climate modeling, with Thandie focusing on the interaction of the ocean and atmosphere—well, I guess you must know that. We worked together on some predictive modeling to aid the post-Katrina levee r
econstruction project at New Orleans.”

  “Our world, the world of climate modelers, is small,” Sanjay said solemnly. He looked Asian to Gary, but his accent was as Scottish as his surname.

  “We missed you,” Thandie said to Gary. “I kept in touch with your mom. We signed the petitions, kept up the websites, nailed up the posters, tied the yellow ribbons on the trees on your birthday. Kept you in the public eye.”

  This sort of thing touched Gary deeply. During his captivity he had had no idea that people were making such a sustained effort on his behalf. “I appreciate that. I mean it. It must have played a part in getting me out of there. And I know Mom needed the support. I haven’t seen her yet, though we’ve spoken . . .”

  A few of the Barrier staff came through, all British, mostly men, looking harassed but excited.

  Thandie said dryly, “Today’s the kind of day that makes it worthwhile for the guys who work here. Validation Tuesday. We’re trying to keep out of the way. Officially we’re guests of the Met Office’s Storm Tide Forecasting Service. They have a big modeling center up in Liverpool—”

  “But the production models don’t work so well anymore,” Sanjay said.

  “So,” Thandie said, “here we are at the front line with our experimental models trying to patch together new solutions.”

  Gary said, “If the models don’t work, I guess the Met Office can’t say how this storm is going to play out.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Sanjay said. “And that’s why no warnings were issued about this storm until just recently. Ideally they like twelve or twenty-four hours’ notice, so they can order the schools to stay closed in the morning, and keep the commuters out of the city, that sort of thing.”

  Thandie said, “And the models don’t work because the world is going awry. You’ve been missing all the fun, Gary Boyle.”

  A deep mechanical groan reverberated through the concrete structure. Gary imagined the tremendous weight of the rising river water, pressing against the Barrier gates.