by Ginger Booth
“He’s not dead,” I argued, still whispering. I tried again, to yell it out loud in defiance, “He’s not dead!” My voice, cracking, came out barely any louder. My face crumpled into tears. “What if he is dead? What if I never see him again?” Even I couldn’t hear my voice that time, only feel my mouth moving.
If Emmett were here, his indoor slippers would sit under his side of the bed, in winter. His father taught him to do that, he told me. Put your shoes under the bed so you start the day down on your knees to pray. Like most habits Emmett inherited from his father, including the army career, I privately suspected that had his father lived, the man wouldn’t have made as big an impression. Adolescent hormones, and the living example of a grown man who continued to screw up and let his son down time after time, would have cured Emmett of idolizing his dad. Instead, the father-son dialogue was arrested in mid-word. His father was killed in action when Emmett was 12, just months after he’d gone to live with his dad again for a school year, after years of limited access following his parents’ divorce.
Then again, Emmett wasn’t trying to cure himself of what he learned from his dad. He took the lessons to heart. He’d admitted to me that at first, after his dad died, he prayed as a way to continue the conversation. But that was long ago. Emmett prayed today because that’s how Emmett chose to live his life today.
Well, yelling wasn’t working for me. To apply my battered knees to the gleaming hardwood floor wasn’t tempting, either. I considered tossing a pillow down, but opted to kneel and pray on the bed. I set myself up, still snuffling, hands clasped atop the headboard as a prie-dieu.
“God, please…” God wasn’t a genie in a bottle to make wishes on. No, I wasn’t too experienced at prayer, but I’d learned a bit during my captivity that autumn in West Virginia. First, see God. Ask for something later.
I mentally reviewed the day until I felt awe at seeing God sprinkled throughout. The incredible power of those waves. The sheer magnitude of ice moved from Antarctica. The chance that Cam and I reached Jones Beach just as the water sped out across the beach, to gather itself into a wave over two stories tall. The utter miracle that we’d both survived. Millions of people mobilized to act in the disaster.
“Thank you,” I murmured, in humble wonder. “God…hold Emmett as you’ve held and protected me today. Let him come back to me, please. And guide me to do what I can to help Hudson and all of its creatures.”
The thought flashed in my mind that maybe I should email Mel. I would have ignored the impulse, except for what I’d been praying right then. Yeah, what the hell. I paused and shot off a quick text:
Mel - I understand. And I’ve got your back. - Dee
I took up my prayer posture again, feeling silly. Where was I… Oh, yeah.
“God, please bring Emmett back safe to me.” I dwelt uncomfortably on my guilt over the unfinished wedding dress. The sad look on Emmett’s face as the pins and hemp spilled from his fingers. The last time I’d seen him, rousted in the middle of the night to enter combat against the very people he was trying to help in Jersey. Well, not exactly the same people.
I’d considered telling him over the phone what I’d decided that night, that we should just go ahead and get married the next morning. But I didn’t. He wanted me to care about the wedding, so it wouldn’t have made him happy. It could wait, I thought.
“I really do want to marry him,” I argued. But I had to wonder who exactly I was trying to convince on this point. God? If Emmett showed up overnight, the poor man would be married on the spot. Except that he already considered us common-law married, and so did I. Or rather, I conceded the point.
So what kind of wedding ceremony could be created ‘on the spot’? We couldn’t even get married by a sea captain. The Coast Guard and Staten Island ferry were staying off the troubled waters. I was underwhelmed as usual by how romantic I failed to get when I imagined an actual wedding. It was supposed to be a joyous celebration, not a logistics puzzle. Dee Baker, master of anti-romance.
A beep on my new phone saved me from flailing at my prayers. Or self-flagellation, or whatever I was on about.
Dee - T H A N K Y O U !!! Amenac directors meeting, 4 pm tomorrow. PLEASE! - Mel
Well, cool, I made Mel’s day. Right after he held a gun to my friend Shanti’s head and put my friend Mangal in jail. “God, You suck,” I commented sourly.
“No. I didn’t mean that,” I repented in haste. “God bless Mel, and guide him, and let him not destroy Amenac and PR News.” Yeah, that was right. Whatever I felt about Mel’s actions, everyone needed to align to Amenac’s mission, not fall apart over Mel and Mangal’s misadventure. “And please send Emmett home safe to me. Forget the wedding. I love him and want him back.”
Enough with the praying. I crumpled down under the covers and clutched a pillow to my chest, imagining it was Emmett. I was sound asleep in seconds.
10
Interesting fact: On March 11, 2011, a tsunami struck Tohoku prefecture in Japan, resulting from an offshore earthquake. The highest waves were 43-49 feet, overtopping the 33 foot seawall protecting the Fukushima nuclear power plant. The reactor piles correctly scrammed, to arrest the fission reactions. But the control rods require cooling for a nuclear pile to stay scrammed. The water cooling pumps were powered by emergency diesel generators, most of which were destroyed in the tsunami. A side reaction also built up hydrogen in several reactors, which exploded. In the end, three out of six reactor cores went into nuclear meltdown. The government ordered evacuation up to a 12 mile radius of the disaster, about 150,000 people.
“So how are Dee’s projects coming along today?” Carlos asked, dropping into a seat beside me at the dining table. He and Sean and Ash had kept custody of the office. Cam’s swollen knees and broken feet kept him on the living room couch mostly.
“Does my CO know you’re supervising me?” I inquired. If Carlos was my commanding officer, it was news to me. He was the military censor on Amenac and PR News. Which wasn’t at all the same thing as being my boss as a Resco assistant.
“Coordinating, not supervising. Don’t know. Who’s your CO?” Carlos asked.
I instantly regretted my testy quip. “Damn, Carlos, I’m sorry. Hard for me to remember you’ve only been with us a few weeks. I mean, in Hudson.” Because he’d been with me for over a year now.
“OK,” Carlos allowed. “Still don’t know your CO.”
“Pete Hoffman,” I supplied. “Because I can’t work for Emmett, and it would be hard to pick which of the light colonels to work for, when they’ve all got projects for me. Emmett, Cam, Ash. Rarely Tony and Pete. So, Pete decides. He’s good. I mean, usually. But I haven’t heard from him. Do you know what’s up with Pete?”
“Mm,” Carlos demurred. “Governor Cullen said he was grateful to have me look after you and Cam. So how are Dee’s projects?” he repeated. “There were three, right?” He raised fingers to count. “Cam-sitting, map-making, morale voodoo.”
“Cam is sitting, because he can’t stand,” I agreed. “He doesn’t have anything for me. On the maps, I’ve got software architecture sketched and emails out. This morning I’m mostly looking at morale. Which is damping my morale. And a steering committee meeting for Amenac this afternoon. Are you invited to that?”
“Yeah. Can’t wait,” Carlos replied sourly.
“I’m making nice to Mel,” I told him. “Decided to go through him to ask about Mangal. Called Shanti, his wife. She brushed me off with great kindness and dignity.”
Carlos shrugged. “Talk to me about morale. Or wait – the question is whether we need to bring you in to talk about this. Resco meeting at eleven. Just wanted to check in on your projects first.”
“So I’m not invited to the meeting,” I concluded.
“Do you need to be? Is the question.”
“I’m usually included,” I pointed out.
“OK,” he shrugged. “But do you have anything important to present? Dee, the meeting is mostly military, not
civilian side. So how is public morale?”
I relented. In the end, it would be up to Sean, not Carlos, whether I had anything to contribute to his meeting. And if they were talking combat ops, the answer was ‘No.’
“Good news first,” I reported. “Volunteerism sky high. Contributions are generous on everything we’ve asked for. Flowing nicely…south. Where it enters a black box of mystery and consternation.”
Carlos met that with a stone face, no response.
I continued, “The volunteer website and database are working great, chatter there is positive and constructive. Great ideas for everyone to help. The PR News websites are moderated to a choke-hold. Civility reigns there.
“The Amenac boards have greater leeway. Several bones of contention. I would recommend that by tomorrow at the latest we get a missing persons database going.” Carlos frowned at a wall. “Lot of positive comments, Hudson and our Rescos and Cocos and clerics are really on the ball. Yay, us. But comparisons are odious. In the neighborhood, New England, Penn, and VA are not so well organized. We’re getting demands for volunteer databases like Hudson’s to be opened for other super-states, from the citizens. But those other super-states are telling us that relief operations are military, and the public is not invited.”
“In New England?” Carlos asked for clarification.
“In New England…people are pissed. They teamed up with Hudson on Project Reunion. We partner on the power grid. Connecticut easily transferred to Hudson a few weeks ago. It rankles that they’re left out on this one. Civilians are barred from the Narragansett disaster zone. Their martial law government isn’t accepting volunteers or contributions. So Hudson volunteerism is generating New England rage.
“But Hudson is stonewalling too,” I pointed out. “And concern about that is mounting. You guys haven’t told me much about Jersey. But what I’m reading on the boards sounds like we’ve redeployed the old population control borders throughout Jersey. People near the coast aren’t allowed to flee. People in Emmett’s urban North Jersey corridor are bottled up. Communications deliberately curtailed. Running battles with insurrectionists.”
“You’re reading this on public boards?” Carlos interrupted.
“No, the moderators are going nuts deleting half of this,” I replied. “But I read the deleted comments, too. You asked me to look at public morale. And Carlos, each time one of these posts goes up, people see it before the moderators delete it. The censorship is visible, and really pissing people off.”
“We might need to lock down discussion of Jersey with a statement,” Carlos said. “All comments go to moderation before approval for posting.”
“And that statement would be?” I inquired.
“‘Martial law operations are currently required in Jersey to ensure public order during this national emergency. All comments regarding Jersey temporarily require moderation before posting,’” Carlos suggested. “Amenac has the machinery to do that.”
I blew out through pursed lips. “We could,” I allowed, and jotted down a note. “Let’s get back to that. Some other things I find disturbing myself. The biggest one is that we have nuclear power plants on the coastline. People remember the Fukushima nuclear power plant disaster with that tsunami in Japan. I looked up our nuclear installations. Nearby, we’ve got Toms River in New Jersey, Millstone in Connecticut, Seabrook in New Hampshire, and Surry Virginia near Newport News.”
“You saw all that on the Amenac boards?” Carlos asked in concern.
I shook my head sadly. “Just comments that made me dig for myself. Carlos? Are those power plants OK?”
Carlos traced his finger on the table for a moment, then allowed quietly, “That’s why Tony Nasser isn’t here. Emergency shutdown on Toms River and Millstone. There’s another nuclear plant in Jersey, Salem, that isn’t in danger at the moment, but he’s ordered it shut down too. Virginia is out of our hands. I’m worried about Seabrook. Tony’s tapped out. I don’t think New England is coping. Any nuclear plants farther south?”
“North Carolina and south Florida,” I replied.
“Shit,” Carlos whispered. Then he slowly and deliberately laid a gentle karate chop on the table. “Two separate issues. Dee and Carlos worried about nuclear plants going critical. And public morale. Is there chatter on the Amenac boards about nuclear plants?”
“There is,” I said. “And increasingly shrill demands that Hudson do something about Seabrook. And demands for a public statement about the status of all of the nuclear plants. And maybe it’s just me. I don’t remember whether I read it on the boards. But naturally I wondered if our temporary ‘power grid’ issues aren’t a permanent and severe power cut to the region.”
“Millstone provided all the electricity in Connecticut,” Carlos admitted.
I blew out a long breath, sat back, then jotted another note. “I think we need a public statement on nuclear plants,” I said softly.
“Moving on,” I rallied, “there’s a whole lot of chatter – No, I’d say outright fear. About our neighbors to the south. From what I’m seeing, Greater VA and the Carolinas and Florida are in really bad shape. Probably Georgia too, but not as bad. Those nuclear plants down south – are there even survivors manning those power plants? The Carolinas have a flat low coast, practically swamp. South Florida is flat and low. Destruction and casualties there must be stunning. Reports of up to 27 foot tsunami waves in North Carolina, washing miles inland. Barrier islands obliterated, probably much worse than LI and Narragansett. People in greater VA are starting to demand their ‘right’ to move inland into KenTenn and Penn, even Jersey.”
“That’s not happening,” Carlos acknowledged.
I nodded, but continued, “There’s chatter now about ‘Floribama.’ This one made my eyes bug out. Apparently this week Florida invaded Alabama. Now Florida claims Floribama is a new super-state, in a state of war against Georgia. That used to be Georgiabama versus Florida.”
“Not Hudson’s problem,” Carlos said, shifting uneasily in his seat.
“Except for the timing,” I countered. “People are connecting it to the ‘extreme unlikelihood’ of a tsunami reaching us from the south pole. Yeah, we get it that a half continent of ice fell into the ocean fast. But, that fast? Abruptly enough to cause a tsunami? That seems far-fetched. The accusation is that this event was maybe not man-made, but man-accelerated. And Florida knew it was coming.”
Carlos shrugged. “Conspiracy theory.”
“Like the earthquakes in California,” I reminded him. “Triggered by nuclear warheads. That makes it a plausible conspiracy theory.”
Carlos waved a hand. “We didn’t do it. Rumors we can neither confirm nor deny.”
I paused. “Carlos, do you believe a natural breakup of Antarctic ice could cause a tsunami? One that could reach the North Atlantic? With 20-plus foot waves?”
“I don’t know, Dee,” he said. “Period. Maybe Cam could get those answers. He’s got the boffin connections.”
“OK,” I acknowledged, and made a note to follow up with Cam. “Next, people want to know what that much ice falling into the ocean is going to do to the weather.”
Carlos sighed. “Me, too.”
“Wind patterns, ocean cooling, currents, thermohaline circulation,” I listed.
“It’s a priority for our climate change experts,” Carlos agreed, then shrugged. “Not like they have any way to predict it, really. It’s never happened before, that we know of. So what happens this time? We don’t know. The scientists can spin theories all they like, but that’s the bottom line. We still won’t know.”
“It’s windy,” I sighed. “People are worried about the wind.” The wind was nearly gale-force across the Hudson and New England coasts that morning. The February fake-spring warmth of yesterday had broken and blown away. It was barely above freezing now, the wind chill bitter. The chances for tsunami survivors, wet and exposed, were dwindling fast. They’d die of hypothermia if help didn’t reach them soon.
&n
bsp; “Oh, for Christ’s sakes,” Carlos returned. “Wind happens. If they’re sitting on the Internet, they’re fine.”
I looked at him until he sighed and nodded.
“Executive summary, Carlos,” I concluded. “Morale is iffy. Could get ugly fast.”
He nodded. “Duly noted.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “See if you can prepare a ten minute pitch, suggested action. Email to me only. Based on that, I’ll see if we can spare time in the meeting.”
Apparently they couldn’t. I wasn’t invited into that meeting. From the looks on their faces when the Rescos emerged after an hour, they had far more urgent problems on their plates than public morale.
11
Interesting fact: No one knows where the phrase ‘Resco Raj’ originated, referring to the martial law power structure under the Calm Act. The Rescos – Resource Coordinators – were the public interface to the mostly-army martial governments of the super-states. ‘Resco Raj’ was immediately clear, and a useful shorthand. Though like ‘Apple,’ the term wasn’t well-defined.
Aw, it looked like the party started without me. Carlos and I joined the Amenac steering committee meeting by video, using separate bedrooms in Brooklyn to avoid microphone echo. On the Totoket end, a camera provided a panoramic view of Amenac HQ, crowded with people who weren’t on the steering committee – the Resco of New Haven, four local Cocos, two humorless souls wearing suits that cried out ‘Homeland Security,’ and a few Mafia thugs.
We could always count on Vito, Coco of next-door East Haven, to bring fun henchmen to a party. Amen1 hacker Popeye and one of the thugs appeared happily engaged in a contest for biggest white male supremacist jerk in the room. Mel was ineffectually trying to get the testosterone poisoned to sit down and shut up.
Mangal and my half of our partnership, alumni of the late great news and infotainment behemoth UNC, was under-represented in the room by our graphics designer Will, and my programmer protege Shelley. Though Shelley was in her militia uniform, and too junior for the steering committee. At any rate, she and Will sat with arms and legs crossed, looking mulish and silently belligerent.
