by Lopez, Rob
Jacques shrugged. “He was not serious,” he said.
“Really? Points a gun at you and he’s not serious?”
“Non.”
“I don’t understand you, Jacques. I really don’t.”
“He was an amateur. He did not really know what he was doing.”
“How can you tell that? How did you know he wouldn’t shoot?”
“You look in a man’s eyes, you can tell.”
“I don’t even want to ask how you know that, okay? I am done. Get yourself in that situation again and I am absolved of all responsibility.”
“You asked me to go down and speak with him.”
“That don’t count. I didn’t know he was going to pull a stunt like that, but after that you should have gotten clear. Look, as captain of this boat, I’m trying to keep everyone safe. The buck stops with me and I don’t want anybody taking any crazy risks. Including you.”
Jacques rolled his eyes and walked away.
At the nuclear plant Darla stopped to drop off supplies. One of the pumps had been dismantled and was being worked on again. Engineers carried buckets of water from the river, toiling up the muddy slope.
“The plant supervisor took off,” Aguilar told Darla, as Jacques and Zack carried the last of the MREs ashore. “The plant personnel are long gone. It’s just my guys now and they’re exhausted. Can you get the message to Carl that we need some guardsmen down here? Or anybody really.”
“I’ll pass it on,” said Darla, “but I don’t think anyone will come. We’re bleeding personnel at the camp, too.”
Aguilar wiped the rain from her face. “I don’t know how long we can keep this up,” she said.
Darla looked up at the reactor building. It was a ticking time bomb holding them all hostage.
“I’ll try and find someone to help,” she said. “Has to be someone available.”
Zack appeared suddenly at her side. “I’ll help,” he said.
“I meant someone else,” said Darla. “I need you on the boat.”
“No you don’t,” said Zack. “I don’t have any specialism here. You can manage without me and you’ll probably be glad to see the back of me anyway. You’ve said as much.”
Darla winced. “You don’t want to take what I say seriously, okay? That’s just stuff in the past now.”
“I can help,” persisted Zack. “These guys need it.”
“We could use the help,” pressed Aguilar.
Darla pursed her lips. “Fine,” she said finally. “Get your gear and go.”
Zack didn’t have any gear. Without a backward glance he grabbed a bucket and joined the trudging line, and Darla got back on board and ordered the lines cast.
She was a little hurt that he was so willing to leave the boat. Had she really been that hard on him? Jacques stood on deck, coiling the rope and looking up at her. He didn’t look happy.
She avoided his gaze, not liking the attention. It wasn’t her fault that Zack had volunteered to go, and she didn’t see why anyone should hold that against her.
The buck, though. It really did stop with her. With a scowl, she ordered the boat to reverse away from the dock.
New Orleans port turned out to be deserted. Nobody was expecting such a late pick up, and there were no personnel left at the port to coordinate anything anyway. Darla stood off in the river, wary of being rushed, and sounded the steam whistle. Eventually someone appeared, waving back at others. A couple of families, drenched to the bone and carrying children, hurried to the wharf. Darla docked and embarked them, but nobody else came. With the boat nearly empty, she cast off, pushed by a freshening wind. Under black clouds, the Mississippi Rose made its lonely way north.
17
Overnight, the wind picked up and developed into a storm. Darla woke in the dark to find the boat rocking up and down, the rain lashing in waves against the upper decks and the wind whistling through every gap. Heavy thuds sounded through the hull as the boat bumped against the dock. When Darla ventured out onto the deck, the sound of tortured metal rent the darkness, like a steel monster fighting to be free of its bonds.
Dawn’s gray light revealed the danger. A storm surge was raising the level of the Mississippi River, and the barges that Darla had grounded were lifting free and grinding against each other. At any moment, it looked like they were going to break loose. Darla, Hartfield, Ms. Roberts and Carl held a hasty conference on the dock in the pelting rain.
Carl shouted above the wind, “If the river’s surging this far upriver, there’s got to be at least a Category 1 storm down by New Orleans.”
Darla and Hartfield, knowing the river as they did, agreed.
“What do you suggest we do?” asked Ms. Roberts.
“We need to move the boats to the port at Baton Rouge,” said Carl. “They’re not safe here. There’s not enough shelter.”
“What about the barges? That’s the camp’s food.”
“We can’t do anything about them. It’s too dangerous to move them in these conditions.”
“Very well, then. We’ll suspend all operations until this is over. Begin moving the boats.”
“Wait a minute,” said Darla. “What about Aguilar and her team? They’re stranded and that reactor could blow at any moment.”
“If they keep the pumps running,” said Carl, “they should be fine.”
“This is more than a Category 1. It’s going to be worse down there than it is here. They’re not going to be able to keep them running. And one of my guys is down there.”
“They know what they’re doing.”
“What they’re doing is relying on us to pull them out when necessary.”
Carl leaned closer to Darla. “There’s a hurricane blowing on the coast. Take a boat down there and it’ll be blown onto the levee and left high and dry when the water recedes. You know that.”
Darla did, but she wasn’t prepared to let it drop. “If they’re forced to abandon the reactor and escape on foot, how far will they have to go to be safe when the reactor explodes?” she asked.
Carl pursed his lips. “Ten miles minimum,” he said. “But they might have enough time.”
“Or they might not.”
Ms Roberts interrupted them. “We don’t know what the situation is down there, but we won’t be in a position to rescue anybody if we lose these vessels.”
Hartfield eyed the rocking, jostling barges. “If they break loose,” he said, “they’re going to smash into us. We need to move our boats out of harm’s way. We can argue about what we’ll do later, but we’ve got to act now. River’s still surging.”
“Yep, we’ve got to move,” said Carl.
The meeting broke up but Darla pulled Carl to one side.
“I’m not leaving my guy down there,” she said.
Carl looked at her for a moment. “As a captain, I don’t like to leave anyone behind either, but we both have to consider the rest of our crew too. That’s command responsibility. It’s not always possible to save everyone. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. I don’t need to tell you that going downriver now will be a one way trip.”
Darla paced up and down, frustrated. “I don’t like it,” she said.
“There’s not a lot to like, but we’re saving lives and we’ve got to be able to continue to do so. For that, we need to keep the boats safe. I don’t know about your guy, but Aguilar’s team are professionals. They’ll do the right thing.”
“They’re not miracle workers.”
“Neither are you. I hate to pull rank but I’m going to have to order you to take your vessel to Baton Rouge. We’ll figure out the rest afterward.” Seeing as that did not mollify Darla, he added, “It’s for the best.”
Darla turned on her heel and strode angrily onto her boat. In the saloon, Jacques and Manny had been watching the conference through the glass.
“We need to shelter the boat at Baton Rouge,” she murmured.
“What about Zack?” asked Jacques.
Darla
didn’t want to meet his gaze. “There’s nothing we can do about him,” she snapped. “Make ready to sail.”
Stopping at her cabin to change into dry clothes, Darla made her way up to the pilothouse. The rain on the glass blurred the dismal gray riverscape. There were no wipers, and the circular clear-view screen was electrically operated, so not working. Darla was forced to slide open the center window. Putting on a slicker and rubber boots, she watched miserably as the rain stained the teak deck of the pilothouse.
The Pride of Orleans was the first to leave, her high sides catching the wind and leaning her over as she turned. Clearing the crashing barges, the tall vessel powered away. On the Coast Guard boat, the crew were having problems starting the motors. Yanking at the cords repeatedly they succeeded in getting one working. Casting off, the boat moved slowly away, bobbing lightly on the choppy waters as a crew member continued trying to get the second motor started. Grim faced, Darla signaled for Jacques to cast off, then called Half Ahead, trailing in the wake of the other two boats.
It’s for the best.
Darla pounded her fist on the helm, irked by that statement. All her life she’d been subjected to variations of that same comment, as if she wasn’t herself capable of any correct judgment. The way her life had worked out only seemed to confirm that fact, which burned all the more. Her rebellious attempts to prove people wrong only landed her in more trouble.
Still, every cell in her body wanted her to turn the boat around, trouble be damned. She rested her hand on the useless engine telegraph handles, scraping her nails on the brass. The Pride of Orleans sailed out of sight around the Point Clair bend with only the tips of its stacks visible as it crabbed along close to shore. The Coast Guard boat was close behind, both its engines now working. Once she could no longer be seen from either of the boats, she bent to the voice tube.
“Starboard Paddle, Half Astern.”
When it came down to it, she could only follow her nature. And she owed Zack.
Jacques came up to the pilothouse. “What are you doing?” he said.
“We’re turning around,” she replied. “We’ve got a crew member to pick up.”
“Good,” said Jacques. “I thought you had gone soft.”
“You think Manny feels the same way?”
“He has already told me that, if you leave Zack behind, he will resign.”
“Well, that’s nothing new. I take it you both know the risks?”
“Oui.”
“Then that’s all I need.”
The Mississippi Rose spun around and Darla called for Full Ahead, turning the bow into the wind. The rain was driven into her face and she squinted at the black clouds ahead, feeling the first twinge of doubt. She turned the helm, first one way, then the other. The boat responded well, and as long as she pointed into the wind, the boat stayed stable. Problem was, the serpentine river meandered and it wasn’t going to be possible to maintain the same compass heading. And Mississippi steamboats were shallow drafted, keel-less and top-heavy.
Darla couldn’t have found a less suitable boat to take into a hurricane if she tried.
She called Jacques to the pilothouse.
“Fill the bilges with coal,” she told him. “Leave us just enough to get to the reactor and back.”
Jacques narrowed his eyes at what seemed a ludicrous request.
“We need to ballast the hull,” she explained. “After that, get all the rope and life rafts off the deck and store them in the hold. And secure the tender.”
The closer they got to New Orleans, the stronger the wind became. Trees along the shore bent under the relentless assault, their bases already underwater, and snapped-off branches swirled in the eddies. The river got choppier and the spray coming up moved along the surface in swathes, writhing and twisting like shoals of white fish swimming through the air. Loose barges wallowed and drifted dangerously into the channel. Loose metal sheets flapped on grain conveyors. Debris flashed by in the wind, moving too fast to identify, and the gales howled through the pilothouse opening, so that Darla felt like she was sailing into the gaping maw of some titanic, roaring monster.
The boat got harder to keep on course. On one stretch of the river, the wind came in from starboard and the Mississippi Rose was slowly pushed toward the bank. Even with full rudder, Darla couldn’t correct the drift. The waving trees and the looming levee drew closer and closer. Desperately, she ordered the starboard paddle to half speed, giving all the power to the port side. The boat began to turn, fighting against the invisible force, spray flowing across the bow. Slowly it pulled away from the shallows, but it couldn’t quite make it to the center of the channel. For an hour, the boat stayed askew, moving down the river at an awkward angle, the gusts pummeling the superstructure. A window on the side of the pilothouse gave way under the beating and imploded, spraying glass around Darla’s feet. Kicking away the larger pieces, she gripped the helm hard to keep the rudder where it was, but it fought to straighten itself out. The Gramercy Bridge emerged through the slanting rain. Darla made some calculations of what she needed to do to avoid the pillars, then made a decision. As she got closer, she ordered Half Ahead on both paddles and watched as the boat crept back toward the shore. It was also creeping up to the lee-side of a pillar. Darla spun the helm, aiming the boat carefully. As the bridge passed overhead, Darla ordered Slow Astern. Grating against the pillar, and momentarily sheltered from the wind, the boat held itself against the surging current.
Darla took a breather. The boat crunched against the pillar as it bobbed and Darla wrung the water out of her hair.
“You guys okay down there?” she called down the voice tube.
“Yeah, that wasn’t so bad,” replied Manny. “Are we there yet?”
Darla looked at the next bend, seeing how the wind swept straight up the channel. “No,” she said.
A cluster of barges had been overturned and pushed into the bank. A small freighter that had been pulled from its moorings was also grounded on the bend, leaning over at a dangerous angle as its lifeboats danced on their davits. Jacques came up to the pilothouse and peered out.
“What do you think?” asked Darla.
For once in his life, Jacques looked uncertain.
“What do you think?” he said.
“Your vote of confidence has been duly noted,” she observed. “I think it’s crazy, but we’ve come this far.”
“How do you propose to make it?”
Like Darla, he knew that the moment they rounded the bend they would catch the worst of the wind and be pushed to the bank.
If they were lucky. If they were unlucky, the wind would catch the side of the superstructure and keel the boat over until they took on water over their low freeboard and capsized.
“I’ve got an idea, but make ready to throw the anchor if it doesn’t work.”
Halting the paddles, Darla let the boat drift out from under the bridge. Ordering one paddle forward and the other astern, she turned the boat until it was drifting sideways with the current, rolling and bobbing like a cork. Making brief adjustments with first one paddle then the other, she positioned the boat so that when it cleared the bend, it would have its bow pointing into the full force of the wind.
It almost worked.
Ordering both paddles to full speed, Darla leaned into the water that blew through the open window with the force of a fire hose. A curtain of white spray obscured the way ahead and she had to hang onto the helm to avoid being blown back and slipping on the wet deck and the broken glass. The Mississippi Rose struggled gamely against the full force of the wind, but even with a heavy current behind her she couldn’t prevent herself being slowly pushed astern toward the other derelicts.
“Jacques,” called out Darla.
Jacques was already moving, however. Stepping out onto the deck, he clung to the rail and pulled himself forward, hand over hand. At any moment he looked as if he were going to be plucked off and flung into the air. Fighting onward, he made it to the por
t capstan but then could go no farther. Every time he tried to reach the anchor, he was knocked off his feet and slid backward, grabbing whatever he could to avoid being swept overboard by the water that was swamping the boat. The Mississippi Rose retreated against her will until the hull of the stricken freighter loomed over them.
“Manny,” cried Darla. “Flank Speed! Give me more pressure.”
“You’ll blow the boiler,” came Manny’s reply.
“We’re about to run aground!”
The Mississippi Rose shook herself like an angry terrier, and a rumbling throbbed through the decks as the paddle cranks turned at their fastest revolutions, the wheels battering the water. For a moment their rearward momentum ceased, then slowly the boat inched forward. The freighter’s lifeboats swung wildly. If they detached themselves they would have smashed through the Mississippi Rose’s deck. Darla urged her boat onward. Jacques hung on for his life on the pitching deck, disappearing periodically under waves of spray. The boat pulled away from the shallows, getting a little extra momentum from the stronger current in the center of the river. Still the paddles thrashed, the pistons beating rhythmically. There was another bend ahead, but it took an achingly long time to get to it. Darla felt the deck beneath her feet, felt every yaw and roll as the competing forces of current and wind tried to dictate the boat’s attitude, and she fought with the rudder to keep the boat pointing where it should. For thirty agonizing minutes, the Mississippi Rose endured the worst of the hurricane. When it got closer to the bend, the wind slackened a little as it had to blow over the levee. Darla took the boat as close to the bank as she could, bringing the speed back down and turning. The boat rolled a little but it held and Jacques took the opportunity to make his way back inside. He came up to the pilothouse, drenched and dripping.
“Next time, you can do the anchor,” he said.
“Better not be a next time,” she said. “I don’t think the boat can take it. Go check on Manny. Boat feels low at the back.”
Darla suspected she’d taken on a lot of water, and with each roll she took on a little more. She was relying on the steam pump to keep up with the influx, but the chances were that the bilges were full of water, colored black by the coal, and the lower rear decks awash. For the next hour or so, she hugged the bank, dodging loose barges and holding her breath whenever a strong gust rolled the boat hard. Debris from houses on the other side of the levee came flying over and the river was littered with floating doors, sheets and sections of roof. When the tall reactor buildings finally came into view, she sounded the steam whistle repeatedly. On the slope down from the reactor, engineers were gathered around the generators, coats flapping. They were pulling the starter cords and using their bodies to shield the generators from getting wetter, but whether it was wet plugs or water in the fuel, it didn’t appear that they could get them started.
