Calm Act Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Ginger Booth

  “Is this a good time, Colonel MacLaren?” the disembodied interviewer’s voice asked. The reporter was Amiri Baz. I’d seen him before on cable, reporting from distant battlefields. He was good. He usually embedded himself into armed units.

  Emmett flashed him a smile, and ignored the camera man. He accepted a small microphone and clipped it onto his collar. He jerked his chin to indicate the men standing nearby. “They’re flying reconnaissance drones into position. I’m just killing time with the binoculars. Or, well... It helps me understand the drone feeds. I get a better 3-D feel for their viewpoints. That one’s headed for the Staten Island Ferry Terminal.”

  The camera zoomed in on the ferry terminal across the rough water. A barely-visible miniature helicopter drone headed for it. It bobbed in the strong breeze, obscured by drizzle in the air.

  “What are you looking for?” Baz prompted.

  “Reception committee,” Emmett replied tensely. He gathered himself back into interview mode, and explained, “We’re about to launch the landing forces. So, taking a last look at what our marines are heading into.”

  A commotion caught his attention from out of mike range. Emmett pocketed his binoculars in a hurry and brought up his tablet. “Drone 7...” The camera dove in to catch a smile growing on his face. A real smile, not a feral one – Emmett was surprised and delighted. “White flag confirmed! Drone 8 yet?”

  Fast forward. Emmett and the gang were swapping high-fives. He pulled out a field phone. “Colonel Yazzie? MacLaren. We have white flags confirmed. I repeat, we have white flags. Surrounding the terminal, and all along Jersey Street and Victory Boulevard. There are small clumps of civilians on the streets, each with a white flag.... Yes, sir. Proceed with Plan White Flag, stage 1.”

  Emmett turned to Amiri Baz with a triumphant grin. “Now we land troops on Staten Island. We go in carefully. But we have initial communication with the civilians on the island. I believe that’s a welcome. Cameras off.”

  He looked alive, exultant, enthralled, in his element. Emmett was having a blast.

  “Wait, Colonel – does that mean you go in unarmed?”

  Emmett smiled crookedly. “It means cameras off, Amiri.”

  The camera panned across a large abandoned parking lot, and zoomed in on an approaching group. Two marines wore medical face masks and gloves. One carried crutches, while the other pushed a cadaverous man in a wheelchair. A small citizen group stood waiting behind them, white flag flapping from an upright pole held between them. The mid-day sun flashed through between fast-scudding clouds above.

  Amiri Baz’s voice-over: “At this point, the ferry terminal complex is secured. Units are pushing forward throughout the Staten Island landing zone. No resistance so far. This elderly gentleman was waiting for us in the parking plaza by the ferry terminal building, under a white flag. He had a large sign proclaiming that he was a Staten Island council member. He is about to meet with Lieutenant Colonel MacLaren, commanding the evacuation forces for Project Reunion.” Camera panned to Emmett, who stood waiting behind a folding table, also wearing medical gloves and mask.

  Emmett stepped around the table to greet the councilman. He bent down to tenderly affix a microphone on the man. He gently shook hands and introduced himself. “I can’t tell you how much it meant to us, to see your white flags, sir. Thank you, for arranging the warm welcome. You are?”

  “Staten Island council member Ty Jefferson,” he replied, in a reedy voice. “I’m the senior one left. From before. On behalf of Staten Island, welcome. Thank God for you. We’ve waited so long.”

  Emmett perched on the edge of the table, and handed Jefferson a tiny cup of cider. “The medics warned us not to feed you too fast,” he murmured apologetically. Jefferson’s skeletal hand shook so fiercely that Emmett took a knee before him, and held his hand steady. Jefferson closed his eyes and drank the cider in rapture. He paused, lips lingering to kiss the empty cup. Perhaps he would have called himself black. But his skin was pale compared to Emmett’s deep tan, his patchy hair white.

  Emmett’s nose twitched. He looked up at one of the marines in anguish. “Fetch a medic. His leg... Councilman Jefferson, were there any other council members waiting with you, over there?”

  “No. My family.” He rallied. “You’ll find other people, in the streets. They’re high priority for help. We couldn’t move them out of the landing zone you asked for. They’re too weak. Maybe two hundred. The other council members – we’re arranging priority...” He lost his thread.

  “Thank you, sir.” Emmett glanced at the remaining marine, who nodded and turned away to make a call, and convey that information.

  Haltingly, often confused, Jefferson briefed Emmett on the local status. There were some gangs he had concerns about, but they weren’t on this part of the island. He advised strong defenses along Jersey Street and Victory Boulevard, the border of the area the landing forces had requested be cleared. Jefferson warned of the pile of bodies, not burned for lack of fuel. He recommended buildings most suitable for quarantine housing. He asked how many evacuees Emmett could take, and how long they would have to wait. He begged for food for those left behind.

  The medic arrived, and briefly looked at the leg. He looked up at Emmett and nodded. “Gangrene. We should be ready to handle that in another hour or two, sir.” He turned to Ty Jefferson. “I’m very sorry, sir. But that leg needs to come off as soon as possible. We’ll take good care of you. You’ll be evac’d with the first wave –”

  “No, no I can’t leave –”

  The medic made to grasp his shoulder firmly, then winced back to a gentler touch as the elder man gasped. “There is no choice sir. The leg can’t be saved. You’ll die if we don’t amputate.”

  “Not that! Good riddance,” Jefferson spat out. “God, it hurts. But I can’t leave my people. Not now. They need me,” he entreated Emmett.

  “Ty – may I call you Ty?” Emmett replied earnestly. “The refugees will need a leader like you in the quarantine camps. Will you go with them, and lead them into their new lives? I need you too much to let you die here, Ty. They need you too much.”

  “My family...” Jefferson wailed softly.

  “They could go with you,” Emmett said doubtfully.

  “Of course they can’t!” denied Jefferson. “They are not priorities! But – can I come home again? Later?”

  Emmett nodded slowly. “When you’re well, sir. I promise you. But for now, please do me this favor. Go to Camp Yankee to heal, and lead your people there. And introduce me to someone I can negotiate with for Staten Island while you’re gone.”

  The marine wheeled Ty Jefferson back to his family, back to arrange another representative to the armed forces.

  Emmett turned to Amiri, tears standing in his eyes. “That man, Ty Jefferson, is a hero. These survivors – they’re all heroes.”

  “Sure,” replied Adam, wiping grease off his hands to affix the microphone. “Just for a minute. I’m Lieutenant Commander Adam Lacey, Coast Guard. What we’ve got here is a team of engineers from the Coast Guard and Merchant Marine. We’re getting these ferries back into service. We’ll use them to collect and transport evacuees.”

  Adam turned and waved to some of his guys. They grinned and waved back, then got back to work. That particular group seemed focused on a fueling mechanism. They were on some sort of sub-level dock. The burnt-orange side of the ferry loomed upward to levels where passengers might tread.

  “So you report to the Navy here?” Amiri Baz asked.

  “No. Our mission is part of the evacuation. Army Lieutenant Colonel MacLaren is in command of the evacuation. We’re using inter-service teams on Project Reunion. The command chain is task-based. My group does ferries.” Adam grinned self-effacingly. It looked stunning on him, as always.

  “And where will the ferries go?”

  “We will use them to ferry people, and supplies,” Adam replied wryly. “I’m sorry, but you’d have to ask Colonel MacLaren about plans. You’re w
elcome to film the ferry, though. We’re working down in the engines. They’re black. And grubby. And really loud.”

  Baz laughed. “But you’ll get them working?”

  “Absolutely,” Adam agreed. “They’re in good shape. Someone cared about these machines, and put them to bed in good order.” He spared a glance of appreciation at the grubby orange ferry. “Good people did their jobs well.” He gave a brilliant smile to the camera, then added, “Is that enough for now? I really ought to get back to it.”

  “One more,” Amiri Baz wheedled. “How do you feel about Project Reunion, Commander Lacey?”

  Adam looked straight at the camera, stern and gorgeous. “Enthusiastic. Ecstatic. We are thrilled to be here, doing this. This is what we’re supposed to do, in the Coast Guard and the Merchant Marine. Help people and materiel move safely through our waters. We do not enjoy enforcing the borders. We are completely behind Project Reunion. Speaking for myself, of course. And the people on my team who have shared their opinion.” He paused. “But, that would be all of them.” He laughed. “We’re 100% behind this.”

  “Of course,” agreed Baz. “Thank you, Commander Lacey.”

  My phone rang before I opened another video. It was nearly 11 p.m. by then. “Emmett! It’s so good to hear from you!”

  “Hey, darlin’. It’s good to hear you, too. Did I wake you?”

  “Nope. I was watching the raw videos of you and Adam, your first day at Staten Island.”

  “Oh, yeah? How did Adam come out?”

  “Firm, confident, pro-Reunion. He really is photogenic. You looked great, too! That meeting with Ty Jefferson... I was crying. Do you know if he came out of surgery OK?”

  “Yeah, that was a couple days ago. He’ll be fine.”

  “You’re my hero,” I whispered.

  Emmett laughed softly. “Thank you.”

  “Is it still going so well?”

  “Shots were fired today,” Emmett allowed. “Nothing too bad. Mostly more like Ty Jefferson. These people...” His voice caught. “I was expecting more like on Long Island, you know? The ones I met there had given up. Blank, resigned. Seemed to shuffle through life vacant.”

  “I met some like that, with Cam,” I said. “The strangest thing, though – he executed a rape gang that attacked us –”

  “What?”

  “I’m fine, Emmett,” I assured him. “Dwayne charged in before my camera woman and I could get hurt. But after the gang was shot, it was like the refugees there started waking up. Dwayne was floored that Cam was willing to shoot them. But Cam said, look – I have to create order. And my orders state that I am to shoot looters and rapists. And then people started to hope again, that it could get better.”

  Emmett thought for a bit before responding. “Thank you. That helps.”

  “If you had to kill people, who interfered with you taking refugees, maybe that helped the ones left behind, too,” I suggested. “Thinned their problems.”

  “Maybe so.” He sighed. “God, I miss you.”

  “Well, only when you’re going to bed,” I teased. “The rest of the day, you probably don’t think of me at all.”

  “Uh-huh. I am kinda busy.”

  “Kinda.” I was stroking the phone again. “I miss you, too. And I have a thousand questions, and things to tell you. But you need to sleep. Then go back out and wave the baton again, and redirect the lives of millions tomorrow.”

  “Only tens of thousands on any given day,” he allowed. “But yeah.”

  “I love you, Emmett.”

  Silence. Drinking it in? “Thank you, darlin’. I love you, too. I’m glad you’re home safe.”

  I was proud of myself for not asking when he’d come home. That would be needy. And he’d been gone less than a week. I could be with him, through my work.

  It wasn’t enough, alone at bedtime. But it would have to do.

  16

  Interesting fact: Project Reunion provided closed captioning and transcripts for its interview series in English, Spanish, and French, plus a ‘Translate This’ button for other languages. Volunteers rewrote the auto-translations and submitted some back to the site for other languages. It was soon noticed that Calumet – the censorship plugin mandated to test public comments on U.S. websites – allowed discussion of Project Reunion anywhere, though other political commentary was banned.

  ‘Swamped’ was an evocatively fitting word to describe our work that November. The dreary wet and dark of autumn after the leaf fall. Every step resisted by water, gnarly roots and undergrowth, and deep sucking mud. The occasional alligator. Problems dissolving only to appear again from a slightly different perspective, as though you’re walking in circles. The constant nagging suspicion, ‘I’m lost, aren’t I.’

  I regretted taking on PR lead for Project Reunion. The personnel issues reminded me of the years I’d spent in corporate project management, scaled up by orders of magnitude. Of all the things I missed about life before the borders, my old job at UNC wasn’t one of them. Leading a software project on a tight deadline is like herding cats with a squirt gun. Now I had far more unruly cats than I’d ever attempted to herd before. And not just the web producers. Our schedule kept getting tossed into the air by my star player – Emmett.

  “We need to rethink Thanksgiving,” he announced, with a pensive frown. No, he wasn’t there in person. He’d joined the sports-bar-sized monitor at the Amenac loft, next to Leland, who was presently God-knew-where physically. Emmett sat in a small conference room on a Navy destroyer, somewhere in New York Harbor. Which covered quite a lot of sea, really. His ship could be overnighting off the Rockaways, for all I knew.

  “We’ll have the first batch of evacuees ready,” Emmett explained. “That’s no problem. But that’s a small group, only 12,000. Kind of a random catch. I’d rather use them to iron out the transport logistics from Camp Yankee. Without cameras on them. The following week, same problem, next order of magnitude, with Camp Upstate and Camp Jersey shipping out their first graduates, too.”

  “You anticipate a cluster fuck,” concluded Carlos Mora. We had only the Project Reunion steering committee here tonight, but Mora took his role on Amenac more diligently than Emmett had. Or perhaps he had a higher tolerance for meetings.

  “And how,” Emmett agreed. He shrugged. “They’ll get it done, but it won’t be pretty.”

  “Emmett, we need to show the first refugees going home,” I objected. “Reunions with families...”

  “Yeah, yeah. But that could be a minor part of your show for the Sunday after Thanksgiving,” said Emmett. “Here’s the thing. When we planned this, we didn’t expect to find functional government or organization in the Apple. Just chaos.”

  With everyone talking about it, the accurate but unwieldy phrase ‘Greater New York City area epidemic borders’, and the grossly inaccurate ‘New York City borders’, or the completely ambiguous ‘New York’ – these terms were dysfunctional in practice. The terms ‘Apple Skin’ for the borders, ‘Apple’ for the whole Jersey-NYC-Long-Island-plus-NYC-suburbs metroplex innards, and ‘Apple Core’ for New York City itself, worked. Took far fewer words, and people understood what they meant. Granted, New York City didn’t produce apples. And it was surrounded by states that did. Its nickname never did make much sense. Regardless. It was the Big Apple.

  Emmett continued, “But starting with Ty Jefferson on the first day, and the Staten Island council, we’ve met organization. Those first responders who collected and delivered orphans to us in Brooklyn. Some of the better crime outfits and block associations.” He nodded in thought. “I’m changing my strategy. I want to work with them. Try to build them up, leave them stronger.”

  “You can’t send just the dregs out to the boonies, Emmett,” Mel argued. Our quisling anarchist Amenoid was on the PR steering committee, too. “Elderly and sick children. They have to be able to work once they get their strength back. Most of them, anyway.”

  “Agreed,” said Emmett. “Look, I’m not saying I
know where this’ll lead. There are millions of people in the Apple. And these little pockets of sanity and competence, fighting for survival. And they’re just as hungry as the rest. But we used to do a one-two. First day leaflets dictating who, where, and when. Second day, pick them up. Now we do a one-two-three. First day leaflets explaining our constraints and suggestions, and where to meet for discussion. Second day, dialogue. Then third day pickup, on their schedule. We’re empowering communities. It’s a little slower.”

  “Are you getting dregs?” Mora asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Emmett replied. “Or, no more so than we would have anyway. We take a lot more relatives of people outside the Apple Skin. More people who are desperate to get out of there. Families. Teams. The ones who choose to stay are pretty damned proud of themselves.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Mora agreed.

  “So, what does this have to do with Thanksgiving?” I cut in.

  “I wanna throw a party,” said Emmett.

  “At Camp Yankee?” I clarified.

  Camp Yankee was the Connecticut quarantine complex, actually located in Port Chester New York, adjacent to Greenwich Connecticut on the shoreline. Refugees ultimately bound for anywhere in New England, were processed through Camp Yankee. The quarantine camp names were intended to get the idea across without advertising quite where they were located – Camp Yankee, Camp Jersey, Camp Upstate (New York), and Camp Suffolk (Long Island).

  “No. In the Apple Core,” Emmett replied. “And northern Jersey, here around the harbor. Maybe Suffolk. Wouldn’t that be a good PR stunt, darlin’?”

  I blinked. “How do you...?” The mind boggled.

  “Donations,” Emmett suggested. “People could donate food at railroad stations, and we can cart it in from there. People could put a note on it. ‘Happy Thanksgiving and best wishes, from Little Bunnykill, New York.’”