by Toby Tate
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” he began, just as the water hit him like a freight train, knocking the breath from him as his world tumbled end over end.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 24
Every town between Philadelphia and Bridgeport was being pummeled by Alex’s howling, tree-flattening winds, while the thirty-foot storm surge washed away shorelines from Atlantic City to Long Island, even creeping up as far as Broadway in Manhattan, flooding businesses and floating cars down the street like toys in a bathtub. Every evacuation station in New York City, where the brunt of the storm was passing, was overflowing with destitute souls. Though city workers and volunteers did their best to maintain order, trying to care for the needs of nearly five million people was taxing their ability to deal with the crisis while the storm outside roared.
Virtually every business was closed, some permanently. Broken awnings, business signs and metal trash cans flew down the deserted streets like empty soda cans in a wind tunnel. Citizens locked themselves up in their brownstones and high-rises, most without electricity, since the first couple of hours had seen hundreds of power lines in the city toppled. Places with underground power lines managed to keep their lights on, at least for a while. Only radio and TV stations and places with generators and lots of gas were going to weather the storm and maintain any kind of electrical power.
Sleeping would be nearly impossible inside the shelters for the masses huddled there on cots, sleeping bags, blankets or cardboard. People from every walk of life, no matter the race, age or economic status, whether they were from Queens, the Bronx or Brooklyn—they were all equal at an evacuation center. Mothers tried to comfort terrified kids as fathers did their best to be the solid rock of courage, though they were as fearful as most of the children. No one in New York had seen anything like Alex and they prayed that they would never see anything like it again.
CHAPTER 25
Jessica blinked her eyes at the bright lights that greeted her as she awoke, trying to ascertain exactly where she was and what had happened. Was it some kind of nightmare? She slowly raised her head and looked around. A stainless-steel counter with a jar of cotton balls, some posters on the walls with cutaway drawings of the heart and lungs, some scales in the corner, a blood-pressure pump hanging on the wall—she was in sickbay, which meant it hadn’t been a nightmare, it had been real. Somebody had found her lying on the floor of the female head and brought her here.
The seaman lay her head back down and stared up at the fluorescent lights, thinking about the last thing she remembered. She was standing in the head looking at her reflection in the mirror, and had noticed something on her face…
“Oh shit!”
Seaman Blount jumped off the bed then stood and looked down at herself for the whitish liquid that had been exuding from every pore in her body. Her uniform was gone and someone had dressed her in a white hospital gown, the kind made of paper. She turned to a mirror and stared blankly at herself. Her dark hair was matted with sweat and her eyes were bloodshot, but otherwise fine.
The curtains on her room were suddenly yanked open by a wide-eyed female corpsman.
“Damn, girl, you scared the shit out of me!” she exclaimed, holding a hand on her heart. “You need to get your ass back in that rack until the doctor gives you the okay. Okay?”
The corpsman, a short, wiry black girl, walked briskly over to Jessica, put a hand on each arm and gently guided her back to the hospital bed.
“You just lie back down and take it easy. We’ll see that your work center super knows that you won’t be doing any work for a while.” She sat Jessica on the bed then pushed her firmly back onto the pillow.
Jessica felt as if she was still in the midst of a dream there was no waking up from. She had to know what had happened, who had found her and what the hell that white liquid was. The corpsman’s name badge read Hunt and the chevron on her uniform said she was a third-class petty officer.
“Who found me?” Jessica croaked.
Hunt put her hands on her hips. “Wasn’t me, that’s for sure. It was another girl, somebody from the deck department, I think. She went in to take a whiz and there you was, all spread out on the deck like a rug waitin’ to be stepped on.”
“Was there anything near me on the floor, some stuff that looked kind of like milk?”
Hunt raised one eyebrow. “Milk? You shittin’ me?”
Jessica slowly shook her head.
Hunt cocked her head and looked sideways at seaman Blount like she had just broken out of the nuthouse.
“Wasn’t nothin’ on the floor that I know of,” Hunt said. “Just you, and you was buck naked with your clothes flung all over the place like you was doin’ a striptease. That’s all I know. But if I find out more, you’ll be the first to know. The way you hit the deck, you’re lucky you didn’t get a concussion.” Hunt pointed a thin finger at Jessica. “Now you stay in that bed until the doctor comes back from wherever he is and takes a look at you, understand?”
Jessica nodded and Hunt spun on her heels and left the room, closing the curtains behind her.
The seaman could hear the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting their pallid light on the bleak surroundings and she wondered what the hell was happening to her. But throughout the rest of the day, things slowly began coming back, and what she remembered made her begin to doubt her own sanity.
CHAPTER 26
Hunter stood outside the ship on vulture’s row, a rail-lined, steel balcony mounted to the superstructure, and took in the panorama of the flight deck against the background of sky and ocean. He marveled at the advanced weaponry displayed there like a high-tech smorgasbord. Jet fighters with wings angled back like glistening, steel boomerangs carried enough firepower to destroy a city under those wings, while huge Sea Hawk helicopters sat like scorpions poised for the kill. Several pilots did continuous “touch and go” take-offs and landings and flight crews busied themselves on deck. The sky was a deep blue, though he could see the clouds of Hurricane Alex off in the distance. It looked docile way out there—almost peaceful, he thought.
The noise from the machinery was deafening. The blast from the jets raised the already hot temperature another ten degrees and the air reeked of jet fuel and burnt rubber. If he thought about it, being here was actually kind of fun. It wasn’t everyday you got a free ride on a carrier without being a crewmember and having to say “yes, sir” and “no, sir” all day. Sort of a liberating feeling.
He thought about what Lisa had told him—he was going to be a daddy. Lisa deserved some good news after all he had put her through and Hunter was ready to do a happy dance right there on vulture’s row. Hunter thought about his own parents and wondered how they would react when they heard the news. Probably do back flips. They loved babies and he could see them “ooing” and “aawing” and pinching its poor little cheeks red.
Adopted when he was just a baby, Hunter tried to imagine his Cherokee birth mother and white father and wondered if he would ever know them at all, or if they would ever try to find out what had become of their child. Did they know where he lived? Did they know he was married? Were they out there, somewhere, keeping tabs on him? Did they even care?
Hunter quickly banished those thoughts from his mind—this was no time for remorse and regret. Instead, he imagined holding a crying baby in his arms and feeling like a million dollars—their child. His eyes, her nose, his hair, her mouth. Boy or girl? Hunter decided it didn’t matter. What if it was twins? He’d probably have to get a second job.
Hunter suddenly felt a presence beside him and turned to see Julia Lambert standing there, leaning over the rail. He couldn’t help but be taken in by her beauty—small nose and high cheekbones, icy blue eyes and lips that reminded him of rose petals; long, platinum blonde hair like strands of silk. His eyes wandered down her body. Her ample breasts stretched tight the cotton of her T-shirt to outline areolas the size of two quarters. Her butt was small, firm and round in tight
, black jeans, her long legs curvy and well-muscled. Her white Nikes were small and he imagined toes painted blood red.
Hunter’s erection pushed against his jeans as sweat beaded across his brow. He found he couldn’t tear his eyes from this woman, and worse yet, didn’t want to.
“Like what you see?” she asked, her voice a raspy whisper, barely audible above the noise on deck.
Hunter dragged his gaze up to her face, feeling almost like he was drugged. “Huh?”
“I said, like what you see?” Julia cocked her head toward the flight deck, indicating the buzz of activity taking place there.
Hunter blinked his eyes. What the hell just happened?
“Yeah, it’s exciting. At least I think so.”
Hunter had to yell to be heard over an F/A-18 coming in for a landing. Its tail hook caught the steel arresting cable and it stopped in less than fifty feet.
Julia flashed a demure smile and winked, long lashes beckoning, body language filled with allure and innuendo.
“Oh, I think there are lots of things that are just as exciting—and much more fun.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow, but kept his attention on the flight deck, away from Julia and her devilish blue eyes.
Julia made a subtle move towards Hunter, as if she was about to whisper something in his ear, when a man appeared from the door behind them. Out of the corner of his vision Hunter saw that it was a commander wearing a khaki uniform, no hat on his balding head, a chest full of ribbons and warfare pins. He was a bit shorter than Hunter, about five-foot-six, but Hunter could tell he was all business. Julia seemed to know him, but not in a friendly way. Her eyes were narrowed like a cat that had just spotted the neighborhood Rottweiler.
Julia suddenly turned on her heels and without a word, made her way around the commander and disappeared through the door. The man pushed the door shut behind him and casually stepped up to the rail.
Hunter nodded a greeting then continued watching the flight deck, wondering who this guy was and why Julia split like the devil himself had just walked through the door.
CHAPTER 27
Manhattan Island, New York City
Don Jacobs walked down the middle of Broadway with Mayor Washington and his entourage. Words could not express his feeling of utter dismay at that moment. It was one thing to imagine it, to theorize about it and to quantify it, but to experience it in person was something else altogether. Jacobs once had a friend whose house had burned down and he had read about it and seen pictures in the paper. But when he had driven there to console his friend and view the smoldering ruins in person, it was devastating. To say Manhattan looked like a war zone was cliché, but it was the truth. It made him feel helpless and small.
They wore rubber boots over their shoes as they trekked through the mud and sand deposited by the swells of seawater that had washed down the street only hours before. The smell reminded Jacobs of a beach full of dead fish. Luckily the water had drained away quickly. The storm had come through like an express train, but now the wind had died down to a breeze, the rain had stopped and the clouds were almost completely gone. The blue skies seemed to mock the depressing scene like laughter in the face of tragedy.
Jacobs was in awe of the power that Mother Nature, or God, could unleash upon the earth.
An old Chrysler lay like a Matchbox car upside down in the middle of the street as the group filtered around it. A Yellow Cab stuck out of a storefront building as if the driver had suddenly lost control in a drunken stupor and the group stepped over dozens of dead, waterlogged pigeons littering the roadway. Glass from building windows far above lay like gravel beneath their feet and Jacobs saw menus from several of the restaurants as well as newspapers and magazines from magazine stands strewn about like debris from a sudden explosion. It was like walking through a landfill. The group remained silent as members of the local and national media hovered around them, snapping pictures of everything and asking inane questions that both he and the mayor were too shell-shocked to answer.
Jacobs knew the city was at a standstill. Thank God he had told his wife to leave before the storm hit. He had enough to worry about without having his family’s safety on his mind. He wondered how all the shelters were handling their situations. The evacuation centers in all the boroughs had reported being overfilled with people who had been stuck in traffic while fleeing the city, people whose apartments had broken windows and no electricity and of course there were the homeless. It was a mess of grand proportions and they had yet to visit Queens, the Bronx and everywhere else.
Jacobs was tempted to light up a cigarette right then and there, but he managed to keep his urges under control.
Someone from the media suddenly jammed a microphone in the mayor’s face, causing an officer to throw an arm between them and glare at the reporter. Washington stopped walking and held up a hand.
“It’s okay, Joe,” he told the officer. “I’m ready to talk.”
Suddenly, it was pandemonium as everyone began firing off questions at once.
“People, people, one at a time, please,” the mayor’s press secretary, Donna Walters, said. A diminutive woman with short blonde hair and hazel eyes, Jacobs knew that she could stare down a tank and not flinch. She usually dealt with the press like she would a room full of fourth graders. “Give the mayor a break and raise your hands. Yes, you,” she said, pointing to the dark-suited man who had been so quick with the microphone.
“Brian Smith, ABC News,” the man said with his best TV anchorman voice. “Mr. Mayor, what is your reaction to the aftermath of Hurricane Alex?”
“It’s appalling—it’s devastating,” the mayor said. “But I want the people of New York to know that we are working diligently to get the power restored and get the city cleaned up as soon as possible. It’s going to be a lot of work, but the people of this city have always pulled together when tragedy has struck and I believe they will do no less than that now.”
A sea of hands went up as Walters pointed to a woman in the back.
“Andrea James, WNYW,” the woman yelled. “Mr. Mayor, is help on the way?”
Washington nodded. “Yes. The USS Gerald R. Ford, the Navy’s newest supercarrier, will be pulling in to the piers in Manhattan tomorrow to assist in the aftermath. They’ll provide much needed medical assistance and a limited amount of electrical power to the city. They will also be providing temporary housing for the homeless. Emergency rescue teams and volunteers from across the country will be coming in to help, as well. A state of emergency has been declared by the president, which means federal funds will be available to us.”
The mayor looked around at the army of media members and directed his attention to a TV camera, focusing on the lens as though he was speaking directly to the viewers.
“All we need now are your prayers,” he said.
Jacobs silently agreed, thinking that a miracle would be welcome right about now.
CHAPTER 28
Lisa watched the coverage of Hurricane Alex play out on CNN as scene after scene of devastation flashed across the TV screen. The more she saw the more her heart sank. Cars upside down in the middle of mud-covered streets littered with junk; buildings full of shattered windows; beaches eroded beyond recognition; the trees in Central Park flattened like dead twigs—what’s more, several people had lost their lives. It was enough to make her even sicker than she already was.
She prayed that God would have mercy on the city and spare any more loss of life. Lisa had once lost a cousin during Hurricane Isabel, when a fifty-foot pine tree suddenly came crashing down through the roof of her Uncle’s house in North Carolina, trapping her cousin Jackie inside. Jackie was thirteen at the time and had been out of school that day when it happened. No one else had been home, luckily. On her way to the hospital, Jackie died from internal injuries. She had been her Aunt and Uncle’s only child. Lisa was a few years older than Jackie, but they had been close nonetheless and Lisa took it hard. She understood what it was like to lose some
one you loved.
Lisa sighed heavily and reached over to change the TV channel when she noticed Julia’s laptop computer. She began thinking about Julia and how utterly strange the woman was. Was she here just to get a story? Or was there something else going on? She spent an inordinate amount of time away from her stateroom. Where the hell did she go?
Lisa noticed that the computer was closed, but not all the way—and the green power light was on. There was also a flash drive plugged into the USB port. She suddenly had a devious idea. Lisa was never one to snoop in people’s private affairs, but…
She slid off the bed and stood before the desk, looking down at the laptop, wondering if what she was about to do was right. She turned and looked back at the door, thinking about how she would explain herself if she was caught by Julia’s sudden entrance into the stateroom. She figured she could simply say she had accidentally knocked the laptop off the desk while trying to move her suitcase and was checking to make sure she hadn’t broken it.
Satisfied with her alibi, Lisa opened up the PC laptop and looked at the wallpaper photo as it popped up—a picture of a ship with “Greenpeace” painted on the side, its bow slicing through the water of some unknown sea, filled the screen. No surprise there, she thought.
She perused the icons on the desktop and saw the usual assortment of word processing programs, security programs, web browsers, e-mail programs and files pertaining to an environmental organization.
But one particular icon caught her eye. It was simply a folder with a “G:” and a date on it—the same date that the media group had been flown aboard the Gerald R. Ford. It was on the flash drive. Her curiosity piqued, she leaned in closer and clicked the mouse over the icon.
