Jessica took a professional interest in the area south of New Madrid designated the New Madrid Floodway. The levee east of the floodway had been built with plugs atop the levee that could be removed in the event of dangerously high water, allowing the floodway to fill with water until the water reached a backup levee built five or so miles behind the river. This was to enable deliberate inundation so as to take pressure off other critical areas of the river.
Removing the plugs hadn’t been necessary, not with the earthquake tearing away chunks of the levee. To that extent the New Madrid Floodway functioned as intended.
Unfortunately this hadn’t helped populated areas, not with every levee in the district broken, including the backup levee behind the floodway. Everyplace that could flood had flooded. But because the flood was every place, it wasn’t as bad as it could get in any one place. Once the water had a chance to spread out, it achieved a kind of uniform depth over the whole region. It was a lake, but the lake was fairly shallow.
Jessica had hopes for the levees farther south. Before the Swampeast drained—and judging from the extent of the flooding, draining should take some time—it should be possible to reinforce and repair most of the levees south of the Arkansas River. She had hopes of keeping the major cities dry from Greenville south. This would entail pouring all these billions of gallons of water back into their proper channel south of the Arkansas. She thought this was possible.
“Refugees to starboard, General,” the pilot said.
There were about a dozen of them, at least two families. They were trapped, with their automobiles, on top of a flooded two-lane rural roadway. They had probably been there for two days. They were standing on top of their flooded vehicles, jumping up and down and waving their arms. Probably screaming their heads off, too.
Jessica’s Bell Kiowa light helicopter was far too small to carry the refugees away, even if they dangled from the skids.
“Circle them and let them know they’ve been seen,” Jessica said. “I’ll contact the jarheads and call for a dustoff.”
The helicopter rescue units operating in this part of the Mississippi Valley had been deployed by the Navy and Marines into a naval air station north of Memphis. Big Sikorsky Sea Stallions, able to carry over three dozen refugees and capable of floating on their amphibious hulls, were picking up people in isolated locales and delivering them to refugee centers well away from the earthquake zones, where they could be fed and housed without straining the capabilities of Airlift Command. While Jessica’s pilot banked into a turn over the stranded people, Jessica contacted the Navy, who informed her that there was a Sea Stallion flying on a search pattern over the Swampeast just a few minutes away. Jessica kept the Kiowa circling to mark the refugees’ position. When the big Marine Sikorsky arrowed in from the northwest, Jessica resumed her tour of the Mississippi, crossing the river to look at what remained of Memphis.
The Memphis Pyramid, she saw, was sitting in a lake. The old nineteenth-century Pinch District, surrounding the pyramid, was little but rubble, each building looking like a little crumbled brick pyramid paying homage to their huge silver neighbor. Mud Island was MIA. Beale Street, home of the blues, had been obliterated.
The random pattern of destruction that marked St. Louis, some parts destroyed and others standing, was not present here in Memphis. Here, the earthquake had spared nothing.
The Kiowa hovered at low altitude over the Harbor of Memphis while Jessica studied the wreckage, absorbing the company names on wrecked facilities, on ruptured storage tanks and half-submerged barges. Helm Fertilizer, she read. Ashland Chemical. Vulcan Chemicals. Chemtech Industries. Marathon Oil.
Even from the Kiowa, floating a hundred feet over the burned harbor, she could smell the chemical soup below.
She hovered for a sad moment over the wreckage of the Corps of Engineers’ Memphis District headquarters. Eight of her own people, she knew now, had died there when the harbor turned to a holocaust.
Below Memphis was a burning towboat and barge tow that had just caught fire. A chemical slick oozed downriver from the burning barges.
Everywhere there were wrecked barges, burned grain elevators, suspicious stains on the water. There were dozens of oil and gas pipelines, Jessica knew, that ran across the bottom of the river. Who knew how many had ruptured?
At Helena, Jessica buzzed the wrecked chemical plant. South of Helena was the Union 76 Oil Company facility at Delta Revetment, the Port of Rosedale, the storage tanks of the Bunge Corporation and the waste discharge of the Potlatch Corporation at De Soto Landing in Arkansas, the port terminal and tank storage at Arkansas City. The Port of Greenville, snug in a slackwater horseshoe bend created by the Corps of Engineers, was choked with the spilled residue of its commerce: Farmkist Fertilizer, Cooper-Gilder Chemical, Warren Petroleum, and more than a dozen barge and shipping firms. It was a miracle that the port hadn’t gone up in flames like the Harbor of Memphis. The town was evacuated until its port either blew up or was declared safe. Madison Parish, in Louisiana, featured a large complex of oil and chemical storage facilities.
And in Vicksburg, Jessica’s headquarters, the port was choked with marine commerce, from Phoenix Rice Oil at the northern end to Mississippi Power and Light at the south, by way of the Ergon Refinery, Citgo Petroleum, and Neill Butane.
By the time the Kiowa spiraled to its landing in Vicksburg, Jessica knew what she had to do.
“Heaven-o,” Frankland said, and Robitaille began to scream.
“He cries in pain when you speak the name of heaven,” Dr. Calhoun said, and frowned at the man writhing on the bed.
The stench in the room was appalling. Sweat, urine, vomit. Frankland steeled himself against it.
“Donne-moi un verrel Au nom de Dieu, un verre!”
The three pastors looked down at the priest, each holding a well-worn Bible. “He just keeps talking that Latin,” Frankland said. “I figure the Devil speaks Latin like the Pope.”
“That’s French,” Calhoun said. “He’s from Cajun country, remember.” Frankland looked at Calhoun dubiously, then decided the precise language didn’t matter anyway. “Well,” he said to Caihoun, “you’re the college boy.”
“Pour quo etes-vous la? Qu’est-ce que vousfaites? Des diables!”
“Did you hear that?” Garb said. “He said devil, I think.” Calhoun stepped closer to the bed, passing a hand nervously over his bald head, and then straightened and spoke in a loud, commanding voice. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What is your name? I demand this in the name of the Lord!”
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”
The English words sprayed between Robitaille’s broken teeth. He shrank from his three visitors, backing across the stained sheets to the far wall.
“Why don’t you want us to touch you?” Garb said. “Why do you try to hide from the name of the Lord?”
“Vows voulez que je meurs!”
Calhoun adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Why don’t you try touching him with the Bible?” Calhoun nodded. “Good idea, Brother Garb.” He stepped forward and tried to press his Bible to Robitaille’s head. Robitaille gave a cry and tried to bat the Bible away with his hands.
“C’est le singe! Le grand singe!”
Calhoun pulled Robitaille’s hands away and firmly pressed the Bible to Robitaille’s forehead. Robitaille shrieked, seized Calhoun’s wrists. For a moment there was a frantic struggle.
“Get away! C’est le singe!”