How could you trust these people for anything? They didn’t even know who they were. So Omar directed Merle to set up a roadblock on the far side of the Bayou Bridge and to turn people back there. It took an hour and a half for one of the patrol cars to get that far south, and the officer reported that the Bayou Bridge had lost some of its superstructure in the quake, that it trembled when they crossed, and that they were worried about getting back safely.
“I’ll get the bridge inspected when I can get someone from the parish down there,” Omar told them. “Just keep people off it, for God’s sake.”
“That’s going to be a tough job, Omar,” Merle said. “Some of these people abandoned their cars miles back and are coming in on foot. The rest say there’s nothing behind them but wreckage.”
“There’s nothing but wreckage here. You tell them to wait there, okay?”
“Ten-four. I’ll do what I can.”
Omar kept on working. In the pale twilit hour just before dawn, Omar felt the bang, then heard the onrushing-train sound of a quake, and as he stared for a horrified moment at the wall of his office, he remembered the cracks he’d seen in the thick courthouse walls, and then adrenaline slammed into his body and he dived under his desk.
The earth groaned for a long moment, shaking the court-house like shrimp in a pan, then fell silent. Omar stayed motionless for a moment, waiting for the roof to come down as he listened to the light fixture overhead creak as it swayed back and forth, and then he crawled from cover. His limbs shivered. He reached for the radio receiver behind his desk, turned up the volume to listen to the reports. The Bayou Bridge has fallen, Merle said, along its entire length, cutting Omar off from the southern quarter of the parish and the five hundred or so people who lived there.
The center part of Spottswood Parish was now an island, with hundreds of strangers trapped by the flood, and no way to get them off.
“Old River’s gone?” Jessica said. She stared blankly into the red dawn rising east of Vicksburg as she held her Iridium cellphone to her ear. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Low Sill, Morganza, Auxiliary Control came through okay,” her informant told her. “The Murray hydroelectric plant’s rode it out, too, but it’s offline because they lost too many transmission wires, and they’re losing water pressure through the turbines. The river went around the systems built to control it.”
“God damn,” Jessica said. Fury burned along her nerves. She took off her helmet, flung it on the ground. The ballistic material bounced well on the springy Mississippi turf.
Old River Control. The Corps of Engineers’ greatest project, its greatest fortress against the enemy that was the river.
But when the river attacked, it hadn’t attacked the fortress, it had gone around. Bypassed the frontier fortresses and struck directly into the heartland.
Jessica kicked her helmet toward the communications tent. She told her informant to call her as soon as he had any hard information, then put away her cellphone.
“I want all chopper wing commanders here ASAP,” she ordered. “We’ve got a lot of rescue missions to run.” She looked at one of the radio operators. “Get me the jarheads and the swabbies,” she said. “We’re going to need their copters, too.”
“Mr. Hallock reporting, General,” said another operator. “From Poinsett Landing. He wanted to speak to you.”
Jessica picked up the radio receiver and blinked. Stars shot through her left eye. Ever since Pat had elbowed her eye during the quake, she’d both been developing a magnificent black eye and seeing flashes.
It was probably all right, she thought. Stars were what you were supposed to see after being hit in the head. Right?
“Mr. Hallock?” she said. “This is General Frazetta.”
Larry’s New Mexico drawl hissed over the speakers. “I’ve inspected the auxiliary building,” he said. “We lost some of the scaffolding in there. Otherwise things are stable for the moment, ’cept that we’ve sprung another leak. Or maybe that ol’ leak we could never find got bigger, I can’t tell. Anyway, we’ve got the pumps going, and we’re keeping the water and boron levels high.”
“Roger, Mr. Hallock. Good work.”
“We’ll look for the leak and patch it if we can. But your port is a real mess, ma’am, and my people are afraid to go out on those quays.”
I don’t blame them, Jessica thought.
“And,” Larry went on, “we checked the containment building. It’s listing at another two degrees.” Jessica took a slow, careful breath. Two degrees… A two-million-ton reactor leaning like the Tower of Pisa.
“Roger that, Mr. Hallock,” she said, her mouth dry. Star shells flashed in her left eye. The last two problems—the fragility of the temporary harbor and the dangerous position of the reactor—could be fixed by accelerating Operation Island. Keep the big Sikorsky helicopters dropping tons of rubble twenty-four hours per day. Build a real harbor, make the reactor complex part of something solid.
But that meant the helicopters would not be free for other tasks, such as searching for refugees. People could die if she kept the heavy-lift machines moving rubble from one place to another instead of helping the victims of the quake.
But that’s what she had to do. A worst-case accident at Poinsett Landing could poison the Mississippi for the next five hundred years.
“Mr. Hallock,” she said, “I’m going to accelerate Operation Island. I want you to move your personnel out of the area, except for those you need to fix the leak and to keep the auxiliary building stable.” There was a pause. “Roger that, General.”
“I’ll see you later, Mr. Hallock.” There was another pause.
“Good luck, General Frazetta.” Jessica nodded.
“And to you,” she said.
He had to put them somewhere, all these refugees. There weren’t many choices. And so Omar found himself visiting the Reverend Dr. Morris.
Dr. Morris preached at the African Methodist Episcopal Church of Spottswood Parish, and was a white-haired black man of unimpeachable rectitude and gravel-voiced eloquence. It was fortunate for Omar that few people had listened to Morris at the last election.
Morris knew that Omar was coming—one did not do these things unannounced—and waited for him on the front lawn of the ruined brick California bungalow that had once been his parsonage. Next door, his church, of frame construction, had largely survived, though it had lost its steeple, most of its shingles, and all of its windows.
Dr. Morris was surrounded by his family and several of what Omar assumed were his parishioners, forming a half-circle behind him, like a bodyguard. Morris, or his friends, wanted witnesses to the meeting of their parson and the Kleagle.
Like Omar was going to go berserk and start throwing fire-bombs. These people, Omar thought, should know better.
Gravel crunched as Omar turned into Morris’ driveway. He stepped out of the car, adjusted his hat, tried to mask his unease. He was here in the role of a supplicant, and he didn’t like it. He walked toward Morris, and behind his sunglasses he scanned the silent, hostile black faces that surrounded the minister. “Dr. Morris,” he said, “Miz Morris,” and touched the brim of his hat to the reverend’s lady.