“Miss Gray,” Lammockson said. He faced her squarely, his full, formidable attention fixed on her. “ Miss Gray. I hear what you say. And you know what? I fully accept it. You’re absolutely right, morally. My men took custody of the child, and we took our eyes off the ball, and we’re responsible. I’m responsible. I give you my word, solemnly, that I will find your baby and get him back to you.”
“Her,” Helen said bitterly.
“Her. I’m sorry. Look at this place. Do you doubt I have the resources to do it? No. Do you doubt I have the commitment to see it through? No. I got you out of Barcelona, didn’t I? Go public if you want, Miss Gray, that’s your right. All I’m asking is for a little time to deal with this, to resolve it.”
Lily saw Helen was confused, trying to resist the force of his personality. Lily took her hand. “Helen, that sounds like the best bet to me right now.”
Lammockson nodded, apparently satisfied. “Are we good? Yes?” He held Helen’s shoulders. “We’ll see this through, you and I. But for now, I’ve a room full of rich folk to comfort.” He turned and walked away, staff clustering around him like ducklings following their mother.
Piers hurried back to Lily. “It’s all kicking off. There’s an alert out all along the estuary. I’m in contact with Gold Command. They’re mobilizing everything they’ve got. AxysCorp are putting their choppers in the air too, to be assigned to rescue operations. There’s work we can do-will you come with me? Lammockson’s staff are organizing a chopper for us. We can beat the storm if we move fast.”
“It’s a long time since I flew.”
“You’re not expected to pilot anything. But you know your way around choppers. You could be a big help.”
Lily suddenly thought of her sister and the kids, who were supposed to be in the Dome this afternoon. Transport out of there was always a bottleneck. “Can you get me to Greenwich?”
“I’m sure we can.” Piers turned to Gary and Helen. “You two may be safest here.”
Gary said, “No thanks. Listen. Piers, could you arrange to get me to the Barrier? I’m in touch with some colleagues there. I want to try to find out what’s going on.”
Lily said, “Gary, you’re drunk. You’re in no fit state-”
“Not drunk for long.” Grinning, he held up a card of pills. “These days they have sober-up pills, Lil. You should check your mini-bar.”
Piers said, “The Barrier it is. But we need to move.”
Lammockson’s deep voice boomed over a PA. The party was being spiced up by a flood warning, he announced, but there was no need for alarm, the hydrometropole was fully flood resilient, and everybody wise enough to have booked up for a disaster vacation would be whisked right out of here and catered for.
And the floor tilted beneath Lily’s feet. The whole of the floating building was rising like a vast elevator car, carrying Lily with it. Some of Lammockson’s guests stumbled; there was excited laughter.
Gary said, “Holy cow.”
The room began to settle.
Lily said, “How high do you think that was?”
Piers shrugged. “Hard to say. A meter? Two?”
Lily knew nothing about the Thames Barrier, and London’s flood defenses in general.“Surely the Barrier will be able to handle a wave that size?”
“I don’t know,” Gary said honestly. “The estuary will funnel the storm-the riverbed will be shallow. The surge will be higher by the time it reaches the Barrier.”
“How much higher?”
He had no answer.
Piers snapped, “Come on, let’s get our stuff.”
They hurried after him, grabbed their coats, and ran out through the glass-walled pier to the helipad.
Lily checked her watch. It was just after three in the afternoon.
10
Fifteen minutes later an AxysCorp chopper was rushing west, heading back up the Thames, carrying Gary Boyle to the Barrier. The storm system was already funneling vigorously into the estuary, but it would take an hour to travel from Southend to the Barrier. The chopper easily outran it, though the winds and driving rain were ferocious. And, below, the river raged, turbid and frothing, pushing against the banks that contained it. Already the mud flats opposite Canvey and Tilbury were submerged, and floodwater glistened at South Benfleet, East Tilbury, Northfleet and on Rainham Marshes.
Gary was dropped off at the control tower for the Thames Barrier, on the south bank at a place called Woolwich Reach. The chopper lifted again immediately, reassigned to help out with evacuation operations.
Gary, left alone for a moment, walked to the riverbank. He had to lean into the wind, and the rain lashed his face. It was a July afternoon and the air wasn’t cold, but the low scudding clouds made it as dark as a fall day.
The Barrier piers strode across the river, steel sails each five stories high, glistening in the rain. The gates between the piers had already been raised, hollow slabs of plated steel each twenty meters tall, rotated up on tremendous wheels to turn the Barrier into a solid wall that rose seven meters above the regular water level. Bright red lights shone on the piers to warn any shipping that the river was closed. Gary had never seen the Barrier up close before, and the scale of it struck him. Each of the four central navigable channels was as wide as the central span of Tower Bridge, and each gate weighed four thousand tones. The Barrier was a monument to man’s attempts to control nature.
But the natural was testing the human today. The river on the downstream side, pushing in from the ocean, was already significantly higher than that upstream; spray leapt over the clean lines of the gates.
And through the howl of the wind, Gary could hear sirens wail all along the estuary.
Two figures approached him, both swathed in luminescent orange coats. “Gary! Is that you? You asshole, you’ll get yourself washed away. Have to put you on a lead, like those nutty Christians did in Barcelona.”
“Nice to see you too, Thandie.”
She wrapped him in her thickly sleeved arms. Thandie Jones was an oceanographer. When Gary had been captured she had been employed on weather-system modeling and climate-change studies for NOAA, America’s National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. A black, strong-featured Chicagoan, she was taller than Gary but wiry, always stronger.
The man beside Thandie had his hood closed up over his mouth, so only his nose and bespectacled eyes showed.
Thandie said,“Gary Boyle, meet Sanjay McDonald. Another climate modeler, poor sap.”
Sanjay exposed a bearded face and grabbed Gary’s hand. “I work at Hadley-that is, the Met Office’s Hadley Center for Climate Prediction. I heard all about you. Good to meet you, Gary. And I’m sure you’re glad you’ve come back to find some real weather going on.”
“Yeah,” Thandie said. “Speaking of which, let’s get out of it.”
She led them both into the control tower. She took Gary down to a kind of cloakroom, where she fitted him out with protective gear: a wetsuit, boots, a thermal jacket, a hard hat, even a life jacket. Gary had never been shy before Thandie. He stripped down and began to prize himself into a wetsuit that didn’t quite fit.
“You did me a favor phoning ahead to meet me here,” Thandie said. “You’ve got a teeny tiny grain of celebrity, Boyle.” She held her thumb and forefinger invisibly apart. “But it was enough to requisition me a chopper. We’re goin’ storm chasin’.”
He grinned back. “I knew it was a good idea calling you.”
Sanjay McDonald said, “I take it you two know each other well.”
Gary said,“We were at MIT together. I studied under Thandie, actually. I went off to work at Goddard, and Thandie drew the short straw and moved to NOAA.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she shot back.
“But we worked in the same area, climate modeling, with Thandie focusing on the interaction of the ocean and atmosphere-well, I guess you must know that. We worked together on some predictive modeling to aid the post-Katrina levee reconstruction project at New Orleans.”