“You knew all that but didn’t tell me?”
“A question of priorities.”
“I see.”
She smiled, and her eyes brightened with a lovely, warm intensity. “I just needed to stop thinking for a few minutes.”
Mallory watched her, frowning now, as she sat up under the covers.
“No,” she said, “I don’t mean it like that. Really. That was wonderful.”
Good, he thought. She reached for him and they held on to each other, and stopped thinking again, for another few minutes.
FIFTY
AS CATHERINE BLAINE ENTERED the Data Visualization Center in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, Dr. Jared Clayton was seated beside Dr. Wu, his elbows spread on the conference table, his eyes intently watching the monitors in front of him; at first glance, Wu appeared to be his young son.
Blaine nodded quickly to the others around the table as she took a seat: Vice President Bill Stanton, Intelligence Director Harold DeVries, Secretary of State Kathryn Milford, Chief of Staff Gabriel Herring, National Security Advisor Nan Sewell, FEMA Director Shauna Brewster, National Weather Service Administrator Kevin Green, and John Hasty, the Director of Emergency Management for the District of Columbia. Conspicuously absent was Clark Easton, the Secretary of Defense.
Normally, an emergency management meeting would involve the heads of FEMA and Homeland Security, not national defense officials or Cabinet members. Blaine wondered if the President was going to bring others into the circle this morning.
She sat between Milford and Herring, and quietly did what the others were doing: she glanced through the update summaries on Hurricane Alexander. The news was not good. Alexander was a still-well-organized Category 3 hurricane, the largest ever in the North Atlantic Ocean.
After several minutes, the door slid open and the President entered, alone, carrying a bottle of Evian in his right hand and a blue briefing folder in his left. Everyone stood until he took his seat at the end of the conference table.
“Good morning,” he said. He frowned at Blaine as he sat, and touched a forefinger to his right eye.
Blaine shrugged. “I tripped.”
The President’s frown deepened. “All right, then,” he said. His gaze roamed the faces around the table. “Let’s get right to it. I have been to FEMA headquarters and met with Director Brewster, and I think they’re doing a great job. I’ve met with Dr. Wu here and with the folks from the National Weather Service.” The President took a drink from his water. “We’re going to address several issues this morning, but we’ll start with the summary. Jim?”
Dr. Wu, wearing one of his short-sleeved light blue dress shirts and a conservative tie that ended several inches above his belt, stood and clicked the wireless presentation remote in his right hand. Two rows of numbers appeared on the large monitor screen behind him, each showing tracking data recorded over the past twelve hours, relayed from the National Hurricane Center. The smaller row of monitors displayed maps and charts of the system, including one with fifteen computer “spaghetti models” predicting the storm’s path; all of them now showed Alexander making landfall in the mid-Atlantic region in approximately thirty-six hours.
“We’ve seen a shift, a nudge to the left, over the past few hours,” he said. “As you can see, most of the projections now have the center of this storm coming into or near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Unfortunately, that would mean that we will probably see a pretty direct hit here in Washington.”
“Which would be unprecedented,” said Brewster, a sprightly, freckled blond-haired woman in her late fifties.
“Yes.” Dr. Wu nodded. As he stood beside Dr. Clayton’s chair for a moment, the two men appeared to be the same height, Blaine noticed, even though Clayton was seated. “Quite possibly the worst we’ve ever had,” he said.
“Uh, can you explain that?” said the Vice President, punctuating the question by clearing his throat. “I thought being inland here gives us a buffer that the coast doesn’t have.”
“No, actually not,” said Dr. Wu. “Not if the storm comes up the Chesapeake, and the bay and its tributaries overflow. Much of what is between us and the Bay is sea level or close to it. On this track, we’re going to be extremely vulnerable. Much of the eastern shores of Virginia and Maryland are going to be under water. That’s maybe less than twenty-four hours away.”
“Under water,” said the Vice President.
“Yes, unfortunately.” Dr. Wu took a breath and glanced at the President. “We all heard the criticisms about New Orleans allowing building below sea level. Well, the Eastern Shore isn’t much better. With the projected storm surge, much of the land surrounding the Bay is going to be flooded. I don’t think there’s any other possible scenario at this point.”
Blaine saw what had changed: there was no room for caution anymore; Dr. Wu, who had become a likeable resident expert in recent years, was clearly uncomfortable as the bearer of life-altering news. He looked physically ill to Blaine, as if he were about to vomit.
“So what are we looking at?” asked DeVries. “How deep under water?”
“In some areas, a few inches. In others, perhaps ten to twenty feet.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” said the Vice President.
“And what about Washington?” asked Secretary of State Kathryn Milford.
“Yes, I’m getting to that,” Wu said, an unfamiliar edge in his voice. He stepped to one of the workstations and typed a sequence on a keyboard, then stepped back and clicked his wireless remote. “This is the model that we created with the National Weather Service just in the past couple of hours. I’ll walk you through it.”
Dr. Wu narrated the progression of images that appeared on the large monitor: computer simulated models of the Potomac River flooding its banks, the water then spreading over land, dispersing throughout the city.
“This is the most likely scenario,” he began. “Tomorrow afternoon or early evening, the Potomac will begin to flood, first into the streets of Georgetown, Southeast and Alexandria, Virginia.”
The simulation focused in on Georgetown for a moment, showing water filling the lower streets and then rising all the way to M Street.
“We’ve got forty-five miles of riverfront in D.C.,” Dr. Wu continued on, “and all along those forty-five miles we’re going to see extensive flooding. There’s simply nowhere for all that water to go. Hains Point, East Potomac Park, and most of the Mall will be under water by tomorrow evening.”
“The Mall,” said the Vice President.
Blaine looked at the President, who was soberly watching the screen.
“So we’d be particularly vulnerable here, presumably,” said DeVries.
“Yes. As you can see.” Dr. Wu pressed a key to start a new simulation. “This is what we expect overnight tomorrow.”
On the screen, a tide of floodwaters rolled steadily east from the Potomac, covering the entire National Mall and the surrounding streets to the Capitol, drowning the South Lawn of the White House, reaching to the top of its first-floor windows.
“There’s a basin just south of where we’re sitting now,” Dr. Wu went on, “which is the lowest point in the city. The flood waters will most likely move north along Seventeenth Street, then down Constitution Avenue and settle into the Federal Triangle area. Everything within the boundaries of Fifteenth Street, Constitution Avenue, and Pennsylvania Avenue will be under water.”
“Inches? Feet?” the Vice President asked.
Wu blinked at the President, not looking at Stanton. “Again, that depends,” he said. “If you want to stay with worst-case scenario.” He paused, glancing at Brewster. “Then we’re talking ten feet, minimum.”
“Probably a lot more,” said the FEMA director.
“This may seem an inappropriate question to ask at this point,” said the Secretary of State, “but with this inherent vulnerability, has anyone ever thought of constructing levees to protect the Mall?”
“Actually, we do have levee
s,” Dr. Wu said, in his flat, measured tone. “But they’re old and they’re not adequate. There’s one right behind us, in fact.” He pointed out the window toward the Washington Monument. “You may have noticed when you’re on the Mall, there’s an odd little hill north of the Reflecting Pool, between the World War II Memorial and the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Yes?”
“That’s part of a levee system the Army Corps built decades ago. Unfortunately, it was never finished. There are two big gaps in it. One is near Constitution Avenue south of Twenty-third Street. The other is at Seventeenth Street. The Park Service is placing sand bags in the gaps right now. But it’s only going to be a Band-Aid at best. It’s not enough to hold back the water.”
“So what does that mean?” the Vice President said.
The FEMA director answered. “What that means,” she said, “is that water will surge through those gaps, and downtown will be flooded. There’s probably nothing we can do about that.”
The National Security Adviser cursed under her breath.
The FEMA director went on: “In fact, much of the National Mall is built on old sea walls that have been crumbling for years. The hit on the Mall is going to be severe, I’m afraid. I don’t think there’s any way around that.”
The President lifted his forefinger. “On a related point: I’ve been on the phone with the Parks director and the directors of the National Gallery and the Smithsonian, and those buildings are all being secured as we speak.”
“So you’re saying the Mall is going to be a minimum of ten feet under water and there’s nothing we can do about it?” the Vice President asked.
When no one answered, Dr. Wu said, “Yes, sir. The real question is going to be how long will the water stay in the city.” Everyone watched him, waiting. “The worst case is that, in some places, it stays indefinitely. The boundaries of the city change, in other words. The best case, it recedes, we drain it, and we eventually get back at least a semblance of what we had.”
The President nodded at him appreciatively. “Thank you, Jim.” He clasped his hands. “So, folks: bottom line, this thing is coming harder and faster than anyone expected. We need to aggressively accelerate our response. We’ve got mandatory evacuations up and down the coast, as you know. And we’re coordinating efforts with all of our coastal states. As Director Brewster tells me, we need to hammer home the message that people within a hundred miles of the coast need to leave immediately. End of story. Staying behind is foolish but it’s also illegal. Right now, though, for us, the biggest threat is right here in Washington.” The President nodded to the D.C. Emergency Management Director, John Hasty. “John?”
“Thank you, sir.” Hasty, a slight, ruddy man with thin, silver hair, clicked on his remote, without standing. “Just to quickly summarize. We have fourteen primary evacuation routes that we will use to direct motorists out of the city beginning at two P.M. this afternoon. Pennsylvania Avenue is the dividing line. Those north of Pennsylvania will be directed to the northeast and west on radial evacuation routes.”
He enlarged the map, showing the spokes of the routes out of D.C., none of which crossed.
“To the south of Pennsylvania Avenue, they’ll be directed south, east and west.”
“Once they leave, no one’s coming back in,” the President said.
“That’s correct. We’ll have four inbound routes for emergency vehicles only.”
The President’s eyes stopped on Blaine’s for a moment. He was sizing up her reaction. For a moment, she thought of how this had started: being in West Virginia just last Sunday, seeing the strange message from Kevin on her BlackBerry. How quickly everything changes. How quickly it’s all gone.
“For the time being, I am going to stay here,” the President said. “But we need to begin moving people to other locations. Speaker Davis is on his way to Mount Weather in Virginia as we speak. Bill, I’d like you to move to Bolling Air Force Base overnight.”
Silence followed. Blaine understood what he was saying. Succession. He was taking precautions, in case the worst happened. The President would go to one facility, the Vice President to another, the Speaker to a third.
“Is this really that bad, sir?” Blaine asked.
“Well. That is what our emergency management officials are telling me we should do. And that is how we’re responding. I just met with JOC an hour ago. That’s how they’ve laid it out.”
JOC. Joint Operations Center of the Secret Service.
Blaine looked at Dr. Clayton, whose dark eyes were watching attentively.
“This is the hard reality, folks. Okay? On a personal note, get your families and loved ones out of the area as soon as possible, if you haven’t already. We’re expecting dangerous winds and rains within the next few hours. This is our window to get out. Right now. I am asking everyone who isn’t absolutely essential to the emergency response to leave.”
He opened the briefing folder he had carried into the room. Let his eyes scan the page.
“Already, we’ve got, let’s see, uh, most of two counties in North Carolina half under water. Ten inches of rain in some parts of Virginia. Trees down, debris blocking roads. And we’re seeing some fierce lightning storms, I’m told, that even our top scientists can’t quite figure out. And it’s all heading this way.”
No one spoke. The President’s tone left no opening for discussion, although Blaine sensed that his demeanor was not quite in sync with what he was really thinking.
“Okay? That’s where we are. Now Director Brewster will convene an additional briefing for you down on C Street at FEMA headquarters. She’ll cover the specifics of our evacuation plans, the pre- and post-storm drills, etc. And now, if possible, I’d like Secretary Blaine, Director DeVries, and Vice President Stanton to stay behind for a few minutes. Thank you.”
Blaine remained seated, as did DeVries and Stanton.
But she was surprised to see that two of the other people in the room stayed in their seats as well.
FIFTY-ONE
“ALL RIGHT.” GRAVELY, THE President folded his hands. “What we just laid out, folks,” he said, “was Scenario A. The evacuations, the deployment of FEMA teams and the National Guard. It’s the prudent and appropriate response to the information we’re receiving on this storm.”
Blaine, watching her boss, felt stunned and helpless. She thought of Kevin. Where was he?
“Now.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at Blaine. “We are also looking at a Scenario B. A different strategy. Different outcome. Which, I’ll say right upfront, is probably not as likely as what you have just seen and heard. And which, I might add, is not for public consumption. But I want all of you to be aware of it. First, Dr. Wu, can you tell us where we are with Weathervane?”
Blaine watched the diminutive scientist as he stood again and nodded, his face expressionless. Did Weathervane even matter any more? she wondered.
“As you know,” Dr. Wu began, “the Weathervane Group yesterday provided us with a series of projections for how their mitigation project would unfold. I’ve tried to boil this all down into very simple terms.” He clicked open a screen full of figures on the large monitor. “The numbers on the top are the projections we were given yesterday by Weathervane.” The figures showed barometric pressure in inches, wind speed in miles per hour, wind field size, and thermal wind shear calculations. “The numbers at bottom are the actual real-time numbers. Obviously, there is a consistent discrepancy.”
Everyone stared at the numbers, with varying degrees of interest.
“So, it’s not working as advertised,” said the Vice President.
“No, that’s right.”
There was a long pause, as he seemed to be waiting for some cue from the President. Blaine studied Dr. Wu’s intelligent, unrevealing face, his short, black bangs, and wondered what he really thought. Years earlier, Wu had expressed a stubborn skepticism about hurricane mitigation, once telling a TV interviewer that any money spent studying it “might just
as well be dropped from an airplane into the eye of the hurricane.”
“Thank you, Jim,” the President said. “Now, I’d like to let Jared Clayton explain Scenario B. As you know, Dr. Clayton has been involved in storm mitigation research at the very highest levels for more than a decade. With Lawrence Livermore in California. With U.C. Berkeley. And independently. For the past eighteen months, he was a consultant for the people in this Weathervane Group. That relationship was severed this morning, and I am pleased to say that he is now working with us. He has some thoughts about what we can do—try to do—to mitigate this thing.”
“Thank you, sir.” Dr. Clayton said. “I want to first just say that I am humbled by what has happened since I last met with you.” His expression shifted uncomfortably, as he looked down at his notes. “But let me get right to the subject, as the President requested. At the crux of it is this: there is a chance, still, that we can utilize existing technologies to diminish the impact of this hurricane. And if that possibility exists, the feeling is that we must pursue it.”
“But, with all due respect, sir, what about your friends in the Weathervane Group?” asked the Vice President, smiling, a hint of disdain in his voice. “Isn’t this what you told us yesterday they were going to do?”
“No.” Clayton looked down, showing a contrite expression. “Actually, I think they were doing something quite different. Although I did not know that until last night. Which is why we’ve severed our relationship.” He glanced at Blaine. “Scenario B, as the President and I have discussed, is actually a completely different process—and an opportunity that will only exist for a few hours.”
“Please, explain,” said the Vice President.
“Yes, that’s my intention.” Dr. Clayton pursed his lips and swallowed. Blaine noticed his unruly gray eyebrows. “Yesterday,” he said, “we told you about four mitigation processes. The fourth process involved creating a kind of synthetic, ion-charged bacteria cloud, which could potentially disrupt the storm’s inner weather, so to speak, and ultimately cause the eye wall to destabilize. What I’m beginning to understand is that this process, and maybe the others as well, was in fact created in response to an offensive trigger.”
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