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Roger Crump

Ó 2003 by Roger Crump

Chapter 1

Somewhere on the West African Coast

Sunday, August 17

11:48 PM

After nearly five hours of dancing to the deep rhythms the shaman dripped in sweat. His dark body glistened to reflect orange flashes from the bonfire burning in the center of the dancing party. Even the mask over his face had begun to shine from the full moon straight overhead. The mask was haunting—red, green, yellow with white dots and stripes all covered with the blue tinge of the African moonlight. A broad white stripe struck across the eyes making them seem to pop out from the demon-man. Long feathers fluttered up and down as the shaman jumped and shuffled to the drum beat. Around his neck and waist the shaman wore several crudely carved figurines that rattled into a steady and hypnotic rhythm. Flames from the bonfire licked quickly upward and glowing sparks shot up as high as the tops of the coconut palms whenever another piece of wood was thrown onto the fire.

Several other dancers followed the shaman around the fire in the center of the village. They followed the tempo that he set. Whenever he slowed, they slowed, when he sped, they sped. The drummers also changed their rhythm on the shaman’s cues. The other dancers had enjoyed a rotation, switching whenever one became tired or hungry. The shaman however was required to dance on throughout the ceremony to ensure a

The village women milled around the fringe of the dancers tending to small fires over which hung large kettles. The smell of potatoes and cassava hung in the dense, humid African air. Children arranged themselves in their own circles near the village huts on the edge of the jungle acting out the ugalla dance on their own.

Each summer, after the first eight days without rain, the ugalla dance began. The rains had been heavy this summer and some had taken it as a bad omen and had begun to worry about the ugalla. Then the rains suddenly stopped, the dry days were marked until eight had passed, and on the eighth night the dancing had begun at sundown.

The villagers knew that the ceremony would be drawing to an end soon—they all had been through the ceremony each year at the end of summer for every year of their life. It had been nearly four hours since the ceremony had begun and the moon was nearly straight overhead now. They knew what the shaman soon would do. When the proper time came he would stop dancing and signal the drummers to stop beating. Then he would approach the bonfire with the bolla—a type of wooden bucket carved into the shape of a demented man’s head that represented the god of the ugalla. He would fill the bolla with water then the shaman would dump it quickly onto the bonfire. Steam and smoke would swirl upward and the shaman would careen his head back to study the vapors as a gypsy looks into a crystal ball. All of the villagers would watch earnestly as the year’s ugalla would be foretold in the rising steam and smoke. Any extreme, either wet or dry, could mean shortages of food for the upcoming year and at times, starvation. After the water was dumped and the results observed, the shaman would announce his official interpretation and then the party would continue. Offerings and food sacrifices would be thrown onto the flames. The vats containing sini, a milky and extremely potent alcoholic drink made from the fermented cassava root, would be opened and shared. The men would be served first followed by the women. The teenage villagers were not to have the sini but they knew that after an hour or so of the thick drink none of the adults would be in any condition to enforce that rule so they would slip off with one of the vats to themselves.

None of the villagers could see but inside the shaman’s mask, behind the mask’s large and possessed eyes, his own eyes had begun to bulge outward. Rather, they had become wide open and fixated on something otherworldly. His pupils were dilated and sweat dripped into his eyes burning them—but he did not blink. His cheeks were beginning to quiver and blister from the heat and his heartbeat pounded hard as the figurines rattled against his chest. He ground his teeth so hard they chipped away and began to cut into his gums and tongue. Blood was dripping out of the left side of his mouth and draining down onto his neck and chest.

The bonfire licked up high and fast now drawing the air in from around the dancers’ feet. The entire village glowed with the yellow light of the fast burning fire. The heat fell onto the villagers’ faces so that many had to pull away a bit.

Suddenly the shaman froze and ripped off his mask. The drumming stopped and silence fell on the village as everyone looked at the shaman’s face. Blisters had swollen his face into a melon, blood ran down his cheeks, his mouth was only a dark blood-red emptiness, and his eyes still glowed as white circles surrounding the dilated pupils.

The shaman leaned back and looked upward to the full moon above. He reached down to pull two ceremonial daggers that swung from the belt holding the wooden figurines then raised the daggers to the moon and let out a long, loud unintelligible yell. Then, in a quick thrust, he gouged the daggers into his eyeballs until the blade tips bottomed out in back of the eye sockets. The villagers gasped in disbelief and jumped back as the shaman twisted the daggers inward grinding the blade edge into the skull. Blood spurted at first, dark red, then drained heavily down each side of his face in thick globs. He pulled the daggers out and dropped them to the ground and began miraculously to walk.

Instinctively almost, the shaman began stumbling between the coconut palms down toward the beach. He walked with his hands out in front of him as if hypnotized. His face was solid now with blood; black-red with a tint of blue shining on the blood from the moonlight. The villagers cleared away from his path too frightened to approach or touch him and offer help. The shaman continued down away from the fire. The dumbfounded villagers began to follow. Several times the shaman tripped over a root or stumbled in the sand and fell down only to again rise and walk toward the water. Once he fell flat onto his face without putting out his arms to brace himself, as a tree falls. When he lifted his head the blood on his face was covered with sand. The sand hung all over his face until it became soaked by the blood then it dripped off in heavy clumps out of his eye sockets and fell at the shaman’s feet before he began walking again.

When the shaman felt the beach sand under his toes, hard and wet, he began to run as best he could. He fell hard and face-first again. He arose slowly and stood to get his bearings. The shaman could hear the small breakers ahead of him so he walked quickly into the water and when he was waist-deep he yelled something about the ugalla and dove into the water.

The villagers, still stunned and terrified, waited for the shaman to come back up. He didn’t. They waited for over an hour but the shaman never came back. They stood on the beach in silence; everyone was afraid to speak lest the ugalla god strike them. The only sound was the lapping of

Above, the clouds had begun to come together in the moonlight. The clouds had taken on a distinct and unnatural shape. It was a circle with five spires flowing off of it giving it the appearance of motion as if it were rotating in a counter-clockwise direction, strong and steady and building in strength. The villagers took this as a bad omen and left the beach and headed back toward the glow of the fire.

When the villagers had returned up to the village they were horrified to find that the bolla was filled with blood up to the eye-holes of the mask-bowl and the raging bonfire was now completely out.

Chapter 2

Winter Haven, Florida

Sunday, August 24

2:20 PM

Lt. Colonel Jim Brackett lay back in his new leather recliner and toed the line between dozing off, reading the paper, sipping a cold beer, and watching the preseason NFL game. The game wasn’t much of an option with it being only the second quarter and the scrub players already in trying to scratch their way onto the team roster. The Sunday paper spilled out of his lap and onto the floor. His den, which had recently been completed as a retirement present to him from his wife Dottie, was dim, comfortable, and a man’s work-of-art. The colonel insisted that he wanted it sunken down three steps lower than the rest of the house, like a wolf’s den he explained. Beside the big-screen TV was a dartboard, an antique pinball machine, a couple of stuffed mallard ducks and the gun that had bagged them. Books lined three of the four walls, mostly histories and military manuals but also some fiction. A pool table was still in boxes at the back of the room waiting for the colonel to assemble it before the regular season began. Dottie even had a small fridge placed in the corner and kept it well-stocked. All around the room were framed photos of the colonel—the colonel in ’Nam (then a young Captain), the colonel and Schwartzkopf in Desert Storm, the colonel with Colin Powell in Washington, but mostly the pictures just showed the colonel with his troops or with his family. The biggest photo, above the colonel’s chair, showed his black lab "Maggie" sitting attentively in the snow beside a pond. Maggie was now curled up on her dog-bed behind his chair and on occasion he’d let his arm hang down and he’d hand her a snack and she’d lick his fingers.

Col. Brackett had pretty much decided upon the dozing off option when his nineteen year old daughter Jenni pranced in.

"Hi Dad, whatcha doing?" Jenni asked.

"I was about two seconds away from taking a nap," the colonel grunted.

"Cool. When are you going to put the pool table together? I bet I can beat you."

"I’ll get to it one of these days this week."

"You’re just afraid I’ll beat you."

"I am not."

"Are too."

"No I’m not."

"Yes you are too. It’s your S.I.S. taking over."

"My what?"

"Your Suppressed Inner Self. Your S.I.S."

"My suppressed what?"

"You’re just afraid that your teenage daughter just might in fact beat you in a game of pool. Mr. big Army-man and all losing to his daughter."

"That’s silly sweetheart."

"You see what I mean?"

"What?"

"You’re in phase two already."

"Phase two?"

"Denial. You’re in serious denial. You won’t admit that you’re scared of losing to me. See, you’ve got this fear but your Suppressed Inner Self, your S.I.S., won’t let it out, won’t let the real you out. And, you don’t even know you’ve got this problem! That’s why its called 'suppressed.’ Get it?"

"How do I know if I’ve got this suppressed fear disorder or if I just don’t fear losing to you at all?"

"Dad, everybody’s got S.I.S. unless you go through the seven S.I.S. liberation steps. I did it yesterday! It was very surreal."

"That’s great dear. Where did you hear about this S.I.S. stuff anyway? Is this what their teaching you in school these days?"

"Dad, you are so out of it! S.I.S. is all the rage."

"Well once you get over thirty you just get out of it."

"Not always. Mr. Levens, my Environmental Science professor, who just happens to be a total hottie I might add, is extremely cool, in an anti-mainstream sort of way, and he’s thirty-five."

"Since when did liking the outdoors become a science?"

"Dad, that’s just it! You are so out of things. Enviro-Sci is all about saving the planet. You know, the rainforest and dolphins and bright orange lizards and stuff. Some of it’s kind of hokey, but I like it."

"I see." Col. Brackett loved his daughter beyond belief but sometimes he swore she was from another planet. Suddenly he became aware of what she was wearing. "Is that all you’re going to wear today?"

"This. Yeah. Isn’t it great? I just got the shirt yesterday."

Jenni was pointing at a red tank top that stopped well above her belly button. Printed on the chest was an alien hitchhiking.

"Didn’t you wear those shorts back when you were six years old?" the colonel asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Look how short they are. And tight too. In the military we call that a tourniquet."

"Oh my word, you are so old Dad! Besides, I turn twenty October the seventh. Then I can wear whatever I want!" Jenni beamed a huge smile.

"Oh no, you’re not allowed to turn twenty until your forty-two," the colonel barked.

"Okie dokie Colonel, we’ll see. And we’ll see who beats who in pool if you ever get over your S.I.S." Jenni bounced over and flopped onto her father’s lap and hugged him hard. "I love you Daddy," she said, then hopped up and bounded out of the den.

"Just stay around the house and don’t go anywhere like that," the colonel hollered after her but his voice was drowned out by the stereo that Jenni blared.

"S.I.S." the colonel chuckled to himself and picked up the newspaper. He thumbed through the front section and paused on a headline that read, "Experts (and Others) Expect Extremely Heavy Hurricane Season." The colonel skimmed over the article able to take in facts and details quickly and accurately. "Huh, if that don’t beat all," he said to himself when he’d finished.

The game had come to halftime and the halftime show had begun. The colonel cleared the paper away and snuggled in to watch all the scores and highlights. Retirement is good, he thought to himself.

"Jim. Jim." Dottie called.

"What?" the colonel barked.

"Jim," Dottie stepped down into the den, "here’s your list of stuff to do today. Miss Lillian just called and said her grass is getting tall so you’d better get over and cut it."

"My list?"

"Yes. You need to cut Miss Lillian’s grass, then pick up the yard, I can still hear that mouse in the wall, you’ve got to change the oil in the cars and rotate the tires, and..."

"List?"

"You’ve been putting this stuff off for weeks. Cut Miss Lillian’s grass, pick up the yard, mouse in the..."

"Okay, okay. I can read. You don’t have to announce everything. Where did this list come from anyway? I don’t ever make lists for you."

"Listen partner. Did you plan to just lay around here all day watching football and doing whatever?"

"Actually, yes."

"You see, there you go. Get out of that chair and get going. Miss Lillian is eighty-eight years old and you’re going to make her mow her own lawn."

"She’s not eighty-eight until next week, she’s got more spunk than a twenty-year old, and her grass is only a quarter inch longer than the last time I mowed it."

"You know how grass grows this time of year."

"Miss Lillian’s always on my case. When I mow the grass she sits out there in her chair a watches me the whole time. If I miss one blade of grass she lets me have it. She even whipped me with a switch that one time."

"That’s because you said something sassy to her. You deserved it."

"My question is this: Will the world end if Lillian Armstrong’s grass is cut tomorrow as opposed to today?"

"That’s it, I’m calling Miss Lillie and telling her that my no-good husband said he won’t mow your grass today because he wants to sit around and watch football." Dottie turned and marched up the steps out of the den.

The colonel bolted out his chair, Maggie jumped to attention too, and they both chased after Dottie.

"Hold on! Hold it right there" the colonel said. "I’m going, I’m going. I’ll mow Miss Lillian’s grass. Maggie, you go on back and finish the game."

"Okay here’s the list." Dottie handed the list to the colonel. "I’ll call Miss Lillian and tell her you’ll be over in five minutes. I love you sweetie," Dottie chirped and gave the colonel a peck on the cheek.

"Dottie," the colonel asked slowly, "do I seem suppressed or anything?"

"What?" she looked at him suspiciously.

"Nevermind, I’ve got to go," he said pulling a red ball cap low on his head and marched out back to the shed mumbling to himself. Dottie watched him all the way with a smile cracking the side of her face.

The colonel rummaged through some things cluttering his shed. He fueled up the John Deere rider, hopped on, fired it off on the second try, then started rumbling down the sidewalk toward Miss Lillian Armstrong’s house. Dottie watched him through the picket fence as he passed in front of their old house. He was a funny sight—a barrel chested hulk of a man crouched up on the riding mower, creeping along with the ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Despite all the awards, wounds, and accomplishments, she’d never stopped thinking of him as a sort of boy-scout who made well. He’s just a big little-boy, she thought

Chapter 3

University of Colorado, Boulder

Wednesday, August 27

11:16 AM

Several grad students had circled around Professor Stillman, and all had serious expressions on their faces. They huddled around a large table with maps, charts, satellite images, and endless tables of data strewn upon it. Several computers showed maps of the United States or the western hemisphere. Arrows on the maps depicted upper level wind patterns, global temperatures, and ocean currents.

"So that’s it," a man in his sixties wearing a brown tweed suit finally announced. "We knew it was going to be busy this year, but we didn’t know this busy."

"What are we going to announce at the press conference? Are we going to go all out with it Professor Stillman?" one grad student asked.

"Absolutely. The people need to know. It’s like if your child has cancer or something. You don’t want to hear that, but you’ve got to know everything, warts and all. So, let’s go down there and tell them. Get your charts and information. We’ll do it right now and get it over with. Afterwards, I’m treating everyone to lunch to thank you for all of your hard work. Let’s go."

With that the professor marched out of the conference room and the grad students scrambled to gather the maps and charts and to download information onto laptops.

Downstairs, in the lobby of Anderson Hall, an army of local news teams had descended and set up a make-shift set. Even one of those nightly national news magazines had come to hear the latest prediction from the most renowned hurricane predictor alive. So large had the professor’s aura become he’d come to be called "Dr. Hurricane" by the media, a name that he publicly downplayed but privately relished. The “serious” scientists thought of Stillman as a farce but the media loved his annual predictions and used his press conferences as kick-offs to their annual “Hurricane Season” reporting. This was the second conference he held this season, unusually, and the news teams were curious as to what news he might bring.

"Good morning everyone, thank you for coming," the Professor announced as he entered the room, charts and rolled maps clutched under his arm. The news crews sprang to attention. "If everyone could get set up, we’ll begin the press conference momentarily when my assistants arrive with the information and get set up."

Professor Stillman stepped back with a courteous swagger. He stood in at-ease fashion to give his subordinates the right-of-way. His "Hurricane Team" swarmed to organize countless overhead acetates, erected huge flip-chart maps, and began connecting their laptops to overhead projectors with wires running helter-skelter in large tangles.

The news crews also jumped to action by running through sound checks, taping mics to the podium, adjusting cameras to the ideal height, primping anchors’ clothes and hair. Professor Stillman’s grad students began to arrange the presentation: overheads, notes, the professor’s opening remarks, maps, double-checking computer systems. Finally, they all nodded to the professor and he asked, "All hands ready?" The grad students nodded yes and the TV crews began rolling.

"Then let’s began, shall we?” The room hushed. “First of all," the professor began, "welcome and thank you for coming. I know it’s unusual to call a press conference at this time in the hurricane season but I think you’ll see why we did in a minute. I need to thank my crack hurricane staff right off the bat for all of their hard work and sleepless nights. We believe that the hard work has paid off and that we have some hard evidence of some very real phenomena. This information doesn’t just appear on these maps and we don’t just make it up. It’s the result of lots of elbow grease by these young people and my hat’s off to them." Professor Stillman did a mini-bow then paused to take a deep breath.

"In short folks, the hurricane season, we predict, will pick up dramatically within the next two to four weeks. We believe the storms will be much stronger and occur much more frequently than we already had predicted. The temperature of the ocean near equatorial Africa is the highest that we’ve ever seen. Thunderstorm activity in that region has been relentless, another indication of a warm tropical pattern. Additionally, recent global volcanic activity has spewed tons of dust particles into the atmosphere. These dust particles serve to give the clouds’ microscopic droplets a place to form. Needless to say, the more dust particles, the more clouds, the more clouds, the more rain, the warmer the tropics, the more storms. All in all, every factor that we measure has shown that the climate is right for hurricanes to form. It may not be as bad as we think or it may be worse. All we’re saying is that the recipe is right for hurricanes right now. In fact, in the entire time of recorded weather history, conditions have never been better for forming hurricanes. It’s almost like an entire room has been filled up with dominoes, all lined up. They may not fall, but then again, they may just as well all go. But, they’re definitely set up."

"How many hurricanes are we talking here?" a reporter blurted from the rear of the room.

"Several," Professor Stillman said with a devilish grin. "We’re predicting this to be a very busy period until the hurricane season ends in about two months and we’re also predicting several severe hurricanes during that time period." The professor paused a moment, drew in another deep, long breath, then continued. "The hurricane team here and the University of Colorado is predicting more hurricanes in this two month period than we’ve ever predicted for an entire year. We’ve simply never seen conditions so right for the propagation, organization, and sustenance of hurricanes. If you could create a hurricane in a laboratory, you couldn’t make better conditions."

"How many professor?" a voice repeated.

"Our team is predicting...twelve. Twelve hurricanes in sixty days. One every five days if you want to average it out."

The reporters jotted quickly onto their notepads or tap-tapped furiously onto laptops. This would be front page tomorrow undoubtedly.

"There’s more. We’ve been charting ocean currents and are concerned about an increase in oceanic currents. In layman terms, the North Atlantic currents have increased dramatically over the summer and are moving at record paces. Since man has charted these currents using scientific instruments we have never seen currents move so strongly and with such sustained high temperatures at the equatorial regions. Those strong currents and high temperatures mean strong circulating winds on an immense scale. You may remember from 11th grade U.S. History class the "prevailing westerlies." Christopher Columbus rode them over here to the Bahamian Islands in about 30-some days. Then he rode the "easterlies" back to Europe. Well, if Chris were sailing now, he’d be on the express liner."

"So, what are you saying about these ocean currents? What does this mean, Professor?"

The professor seemed uncomfortable behind the podium. The reporters had come to know him fairly well in a professional sense over the years and noticed a difference in his mannerisms at this press conference. He usually would be quick with a joke and enjoying the limelight. He appeared to embody neither now. Professor Stillman looked down at his papers searching for his words. With a quick start he thrust up his head and announced, "We’ve got good news and bad news. First the good. These strong oceanic winds and currents may help keep many of these storms out to sea. The hurricanes may simply get caught in the stream of things, the Gulf Stream, circle around into the cooler North Atlantic waters and then dissipate. This is probably what will happen." The professor stopped again before the bad news.

"What’s the bad news?" a young reporter asked the obvious question.

"We’ve come up with a new theory." At the cue, a grad student slapped an overhead on the projector with the letters "M.I.D.S." in large black letters on the screen. Reporters all scribbled. We’re calling it ’Multiple, Interacting, Dynamic Storms. MIDS for short. It sounds a bit crazy at first but we’ve tested it in our computer models and it held up 83% of the time. To us that is substantial.

"MIDS are multiple in that there are several storms involved. Probably two to four but maybe more. They’re interactive simply because they play upon each other. We’ve always thought of hurricanes as separate entities: Hurricane Andrew, Hurricane Carmen, etc. There is one, then another, then another. With MIDS, multiple storms unite and interact in a way that effectively burns them into one mega-storm. And dynamic. MIDS are dynamic because of the way the hurricanes interact. Besides the high winds and rain that customarily come along with hurricanes, we’ll see a huge increase in tornadoes. These tornadoes will spawn in lines, perhaps 100 to 150 miles long wherever the hurricanes come into contact with one another. Further, as well as the normal hurricane rotation, with MIDS the separate hurricanes may rotate around one another in kind of a dancing fashion—kind of linked up one with the other. What may happen then anyone knows."

The reporters jotted feverishly. This was going to be the kind of story that puts them onto the front page for a while. They all intended to milk it for all it was worth. The tabloid TV show exec already was thinking of headlines: America vs. Mother Nature, The Mother of All Storms, MIDS: The Armageddon Storm, Who Says Size Doesn’t Matter?

The professor fleshed out a few more details then stayed until nearly 1:00 PM answering questions and showing data and maps. At the reporters’ requests, he agreed to another press conference in one week—same time, same place. As he wrapped up the conference he closed by humbly saying, "Thank you again for coming and I hope that I’m wrong."

Chapter 4

Florida State Penitentiary

Stark, Florida

Thursday, August 28

3:20 PM

Each afternoon the inmates were released to the outdoor quad to exercise. Most played basketball, lifted weights, or stood around in small groups smoking. Normally the August sun would be beating down on the black asphalt, but the rains had been heavy and the cloud cover shielded the men in the quad each day. They normally would be caught on the basketball courts when the rains began each day around three o’clock. To the east the blue-gray clouds were moving in hard with the afternoon thunderstorms. They came in rolling and convoluting, brewing to dump the large drops with hard vengeance on the prisoners below. Oftentimes the prisoners would keep right on playing throughout the rainstorm cooled by the oversized droplets. Bolts of lightning would crash all around and above them yet they played on without fear as though they were tempting God and not worrying if He took their lives or not.

In one corner of the quad a small mass of prisoners had convened. They were pressed together, packed closer than they should have been for grown men. Under normal circumstances, two guards would cruise over to check on a group such as this and make sure they weren’t up to something like gambling or "raking over" a weaker inmate behind the concealment of the crowd. But, the guards knew what was going on though. It happened every day and the guards, though puzzled at first, had grown bored with the events and paid them no mind. They knew what was going on—Victor Slidell, the man the other prisoners called "The Judge," was preaching.

"The time is coming soon!" Victor exclaimed in a voice that started deep in his chest. Looking at his face, his eyes looked dilated and one could not tell their color beyond one big, black pupil. "Be sure that you are ready. Soon the heavens will be unleashed and all of those who have been wronged will reap their retribution!" Victor would pause after each statement and the crowd that had gathered would show their agreement with loud a "Yeah!"

"Do not be fooled. We will know when the time is right. We will also know if it is not time; for in due course those of us who have been wronged will be given justice!"

"Yeah!"

"We must be patient and prepare. Every day we must remind ourselves that the time of our redemption is coming. Coming in like the chariots of the Roman Empire that brought fear and destruction to the heathens who were not citizens of Rome. You are all citizens of Rome! You have been given the mark. Your time will come when we, the Roman legions, will again unleash our wrath. If you are weak, you will be made strong. If you have been cheated, you will reap justice. If you have been lied to, you will extract the truth. If you have been wronged, you will be righted!"

"Yeah!"

"And make no mistake about it. Every one of us has been wronged!"

"Yeah!"

"We were brought here against our own will. Against the will of our father, and against his almighty plan. It is now our duty to stand up as stewards to him when the time comes and administer justice!"

"Yeah!"

"How do we do it? That’s a fair question. That’s a question that every Roman must ask and be able to answer. For those that don’t know the answer will be swept away when the time comes. We do it through allegiance. Allegiance and service. Allegiance to me!"

"Yeah! Yeah!" The men whooped with extra enthusiasm.

"I had a vision in a dream. The Roman god of war, Mars, spoke with me. I was to be a leader of men. You men. Roman Legionnaires, brave and strong who fought for what was right and who sought to administer justice to those who wrongly imprisoned us. In my dream I saw that the time will come soon. When that time comes we will break the chains that bind our feet."

"Yeah!"

"We will throw off the nooses that are around our necks!"

"Yeah!"

"We’ll band together and smote our oppressors quickly and ruthlessly as the almighty hand of justice!"

"Yeah!"

Slidell had worked himself into a feverish state at this point. The veins on his balding head popped out and throbbed and his cold, black eyes glimmered. Sweat poured from his face and he pumped his fist passionately.

"Who is with me?!" he yelled.

"We are!"

"Who will die with me?!"

"We are!"

"To whom is your allegiance?!"

"To you!"

"Who are the Romans?!"

"We are!" At this the men all thrust their right arms into the air with fists clenched.

"Now show me the mark then leave in silence" Slidell announced. One by one the men filed passed him. In turn they each pulled up their right shirt sleeve, if it was not already torn off, revealing a crude homemade tattoo. On a bench nearby two men were currently getting their own tattoo, apparently newcomers to the group. The tattoo “artist” used only a sewing needle and a common ink pen. The result was barbaric, unartistic, faded quickly, but effective. Blood ran down the men’s arms and sweat entered into the wounds and burnt their flesh. The smaller of the two had tears welling up in his eyes and his arm twitched as the man applying the tattoo worked. Others around him disapproved at each flinch and someone standing over him would slap him across the face and say, "There’s no place for weakness in The Legion!"

Slidell said the tattoo had come to him in his dream and that it was the mark of the war god, Mars and his warriors. The mark was a circle with five spires flowing off of it giving it the appearance of motion as if it were rotating in a counter-clockwise motion, strong and steady and building in strength.

Chapter 5

Winter Haven, Florida

Saturday, August 30

9:42 AM

"Jim, do you have the car out yet? We don’t want to be late to the party." Dottie Brackett’s voice called through the house toward the den. The colonel sat in his chair with his arm hanging rubbing Maggie softly behind the ears. He was watching a ball game and pretending not to hear her.

"Jim, get out the car!"

“Dang it,” the colonel thought to himself. How many birthday parties can Lillian Armstrong have? He rumbled around in his chair and picked up a few chip and cracker wrappers, watched one more pitch to the batter, high and away to make the count 2 and 1, turned off the TV, and left the den.

"Why do you want to drive Dot? Miss Lillian only lives two blocks down."

"I guess you want me to always look bad."

"What?"

"You know what the heat will do to my hair this time of year. It’ll go as flat as a pancake."

"It’s only two blocks. Besides, it’s an outside party so once you get there you’re going to be outside anyway. And, there’s no place to park with all those people." The colonel shook his head the way a dog does to clear its head.

"Get out the car Jim. You know I told you that Miss Lillian said we can park behind her house. Why can’t you listen when I tell you these things?"

The colonel began wondering if indeed Dottie had told her about parking behind Lillian’s house. Surely he’d have remembered that. He was about to say he didn’t think she had actually told him that, but rather she’d just thought about it and then assumed he knew. This he was certain was more often than not the case.

"Yeah, get out the car Jim," Jenni repeated as she came down the stairs, interrupting her father’s thoughts. "Chop, chop."

"Since when do you call me Jim?"

Jenni straightened her father’s collar and said, “Sorry Daddy. Don’t worry, you just go to the party, don’t talk too much, and try to look pretty. Mom and I will do all the work."

"What are you talking about Jenni? There’s no work to do. It’s a party."

"No work? Come on Daddy. It’s a party." Jenni had done her hair into long, fine curls all over and began twisting it and scrunching it here and there then pulled it back into a ponytail. She wore a little red and white shorts outfit, just a tad flaunty but in a cutesy sort of way, and thick soled white tennis shoes with red laces to match her outfit. The colonel looked her over, thought about a comment on wearing something to cover her shoulders, but figured he was outnumbered this morning so he let it die. Jenni tied a red and white ribbon into a bow in her hair around her ponytail, fluffed the ponytail twice, then put on a pair of red tinted sunglasses and examined the finished product with a careful, scrutinizing eye in her compact mirror, rolled her eyes around, puckered her lips into kissing-shape, then snapped the compact quickly shut in approval. She looked up at her father and flashed a wide, bright-eyed smile.

"That’s right," the colonel went on, "it’s a party. You go there to eat burgers, drink punch, bullcrap each other, and sit around and talk to someone you don’t really know and probably don’t really like. But it’s not work."

"Daddy, you are so sublime. You gotta work the party. You’ve got to mix and mingle, chit and chat, this is how you move up in society. It’s very hard work." Jenni chewed a stick of gum and popped it loud and quick by sucking in just for the fun of it. Pop! pop! pop!

"I always thought you moved up through actual hard work. Not acting like something."

"I swear Daddy, I don’t know how you ever made it be a colonel. You don’t know how to work it." Pop! pop!

"Number one, you don’t work it, you just work. Day in and day out; hard and steady. That’s how you get places. People take note of that and they respect that. And number two, I didn’t make it to colonel, but lieutenant colonel."

"See what I mean? If you’d have worked it, you might have made it to full bird." Pop! pop! "That’s why I say, you just keep quiet and let Mom and I do all the heavy lifting. Just try not to say anything dumb." Jenni realized this sounded a little too forward then added, "I love you Daddy,” flashed him a girlish smile and gave him a firm bear hug, her arms not able to close fully around her strong father. She had him wrapped around her little finger and she knew it. The colonel knew it too but he loved Jenni so much he didn’t care. He also knew that whenever she needed help, whenever she had a problem, she’d come to him first for advice. They’d sit down and he’d give it to her honestly, straightforwardly, and with love and she’d listen carefully and accept what he had to say. Then, she’d move on and she’d be fine. It had happened before.

"I love you too, Jenni. Now let’s party!" The colonel tried to do a little jig dance move but it came out with the motion like somebody kicked a barrel that was tied to an overhanging tree limb.

"Ahhh!" Jenni yelled, turned and rolled her eyes, "Come on Mom!" Pop! pop! pop!

Miss Lillian Armstrong lived in a two story colonial that would have made Beaver Cleaver proud. It was white with green shudders and a red door. Roses lined the gate and climbed the picket fence that bordered the sidewalk and looked across the street to the town park. It was the first home in the neighborhood with a barn still standing in the back that had served as the pump-house and provided water for the entire neighborhood up until the ’60s.

Miss Lillian lived alone since her husband Harold passed away in 1992 and she still served on nearly every board and advisory committee in town. Her birthday party had become a town event that quite literally rivaled the Labor Day celebration of the following week. On Labor Day everyone separated into small family and friends groups and went to the lakes or backyards. But for Miss Armstrong’s party, the town square became the center of an entire community gathering in honor of Miss Lillian Armstrong who’d taught over half the town at some point in her teaching career.

Huge circus tents had been erected in the town park and vendors had assembled their smaller canopies in a semi-circle. The smells of sausage and onions and elephant ears floated through the humid August air. The park was filling quickly with people who darted to and fro from eating places to craft vendors to magicians. Children carried helium balloons and balloons shaped liked animals or swords. Some had their faces painted like clowns. As the colonel drove up to Miss Lillian’s home a band struck up Stars and Stripes Forever and children and adults alike began marching in place to the beat.

"Right here, turn in here," Dottie said with excitement.

"I know where Miss Lillian lives. Dad-gum, I have to mow this yard every two days remember."

"Jim. I’ll get out right here and go home. Don’t spoil it for everybody."

"What?" The colonel pulled in and around behind Miss Lillian’s home. She had one car, a Chrysler Imperial that sat neatly in the garage and came out only on Thursdays when Dottie drove Miss Lillian to the grocery. Sometimes Jenni would drive her and Dottie would always give her a sucker or pack of gum.

Jenni leaned forward in her seat behind her father and hugged him again around his car seat. "Be good Daddy," she said.

"Okay. I’ll be good."

Dottie carried a basket filled with little sweets—chocolates, powdered cookies, fudge bars, and the like. She made the colonel carry a huge tray stacked with three separate Jell-O’s in red, clear, and blue. Those closest to Miss Lillian and all the important folks in town were actually invited in to her home to celebrate her party. All the other townsfolk just partied across the street from her home in the town park using her birthday as an excuse for another day of revelry.

Dottie quickly began making her rounds. Ladies commended her on her sweets and she sat them on a table with other such treats. Jenni saw a girlfriend of hers and darted through the crowded living room to join her friend and talk. Colonel Brackett stood behind Dottie standing quietly and self-consciously holding the tray and not knowing what to do with it.

"Nice jiggle you got there, Colonel."

The colonel turned around. It was Sheriff Parks in street clothes. He was a small man and the colonel thought he looked even smaller out of uniform. He had a little mustache, like the ones all the sergeants wear in the Army.

"Yeah. I’ve got the Jell-O covered," the colonel said.

"I like what you did with the pineapples, how they’re arranged in the shapes of stars."

The colonel looked down and noticed the stars for the first time. "Oh yeah," he added.

Sheriff Parks took a swig of his drink, looked at the colonel with a devilish grin, then laughed hard and slapped the colonel on the back.

"How the dernfire are you Jim?"

"Doing fine, doing fine. But if I could get rid of this tray of Jell-O I’d be doing a lot better."

"Traci! Come here." The sheriff barked. A deputy in uniform came over. Kind of a bigger girl with dark hair pulled back tightly. "Traci, this is Colonel Brackett, war hero and all. Take this tray of Jell-O and do something with it will you? Thanks."

The deputy gave a nod and took the tray from the colonel without speaking and he could see she didn’t appreciate being spoken down to. Colonel Brackett tried to make eye contact with her but couldn’t so he just said, "Thanks." As she walked into the kitchen he suddenly felt very sorry for her and he found himself looking over to check on his daughter. Jenni had another friend with her now and the three girls stood by the window talking feverishly about something with great arm movements as if it were a race to get the words out, ponytails bouncing.

"Excuse me Sheriff, I’m going to get a little punch."

"Sure thing, Colonel. Just don’t drink the punch then drive!" He laughed hard at his joke. The colonel chuckled and turned away. He’d never liked the sheriff much and the more he bumped into him at social events the less and less he liked. The sheriff felt like he owed the colonel something in a way or like he had something to prove. Prior to his election, several movers and shakers had approached the colonel about running for the office. The colonel politely declined saying he’d served his time and country and wanted to spend his time now with his family, an old excuse but in his case very true. Harry Parks, despite having put in a career in the field of law enforcement, had no chance of beating Colonel James Brackett and he knew it. He owed his job to the fact that Jim Brackett didn’t want it.

Colonel Brackett got a glass of punch then sat on the loveseat in the family room away from the more crowded area in the formal living room or dining room. He sat quietly and sipped slowly at the punch and he didn’t feel comfortable. He never did at these sorts of things even though he’d been to thousands. Officers’ Clubs in all the bases at which he’d been stationed had long ago blended into one. Country Clubs had done the same away from the military. The people were all the same anyway the colonel thought. They just wore different uniforms. The men always tried to one-up each other with tales or jokes or machismo. The women always worked some angle or two and gossiped. He never could figure out how Dottie could be so at ease, so in-her-element at these sorts of things and yet he felt so much like a fish out of water. Gladly, Jenni had been given her mother’s social charm. Jenni was speaking easily with the principal of the local high school. She said something that made them both laugh and Jenni reached around and patted the principal on the back. She led the conversation with a grown and respected adult until the principal dismissed himself from the girls and left. The girls went right back into their own conversation as if there had been no interruption. ‘I’m glad Jenni got her mother’s trait with this stuff,’ the colonel thought. ‘There she is working the principal. Maybe she’s right about working the party.’

After perhaps twenty minutes of sitting, the colonel began to grow restless and self-conscious as he was the only person sitting idly around and he worried others would notice. He moved into the library room adjoining the living room and began looking over the books. Miss Lillian had wonderful books from floor to ceiling on neat white bookshelves. It was the one thing the colonel had to admit about Miss Lillian: she had good books. He tilted his head sideways to the right onto his broad shoulders so he could read the titles on the spines. Occasionally he’d pull one out, read the synopsis inside the book jacket if it had one, give it a little flip through, then slide it back into its spot.

"Hello, Colonel Brackett," a voice called. The colonel spun around to see who it was. Standing in the doorway was a handsome, well-dressed young man gingerly holding a red party cup.

"Brandon, hello." The colonel fumbled with the book in his hand.

"It’s good to see you sir. What are you reading?"

"Oh this? Just browsing around. Miss Lillian’s got wonderful books. How are things at the University of Florida? Your Dad tells me you got awfully good grades for your first year."

"My grades were okay. I joined a fraternity, Pikes. That’s really been a plus, made lots of connections. Florida is a blast. But you shouldn’t believe everything my Dad tells you, he is a lawyer you know!" They both laughed. Brandon’s father Danny Gamble was one of the premier old-boy lawyers in town, known by everyone since childhood. The colonel and Dottie used to socialize with the Gambles somewhat regularly as a part of a church group. Although he didn’t care much for Danny, the colonel always thought Brandon would make a good boyfriend for Jenni. He hated even thinking about the “boyfriend” word but figured it was going to happen eventually so he may as well find the best boy. The colonel had followed him through high school, reading about his good grades and achievements in sports. The colonel even arranged for Jenni and Brandon to pseudo-date on occasion during church youth group events even though Jenni was two years younger and really didn’t have any interest.

"I haven’t seen you around this summer. Haven’t seen you in church," the colonel commented.

"I went to summer session. To get ahead, not because I had to!" They both laughed. "I’m here for another week then it’s back to school."

"Well you look good son, beefed up a little, but aren’t you hot in that sweater?" He wore a navy blue vest-sweater over a short sleeve, white dress shirt for a neat, preppy look.

"No sir, not at all. Besides, we’re inside where it’s cool."

"But this afternoon the party moves outside to the park. Won’t you be hot then?"

"I don’t think so. Have you seen the weather? It’s supposed to cloud over and rain hard."

"I guess you might be right."

"Yes. Listen, how is Jenni? I’d love to speak with her if she’s here."

"Jenni? Yes, of course." The colonel even still hadn’t warmed to the notion that boys would be interested in Jenni; he figured he never would. No matter how good the boy was, he would never be good enough for Jenni in the colonel’s eyes. He had strained hard to give the "okay" for Brandon and figured this kid was about as good as they get—a good family, makes good grades, polite, athletic, good looking. "Sure, you wait here, I’ll go find her."

"Fine." Brandon said and took a big swig from the red cup.

The colonel exited the library, somewhat formally. He found Jenni on the front porch with her girlfriends sitting on the white wicker furniture as if they were having morning tea.

"Jenni. Can I interrupt you a minute?" The colonel was very self-conscious and unnatural about this type of thing. Jenni stopped her conversation abruptly.

"Sure Daddy. What’s up?" She paused from her seat. Another girl had joined them and the three other girls with her now all stopped talking as well and looked up at the colonel as his cue.

The colonel started fumbling his head back and forth and looked straight at Jenni.

"What Daddy?"

He didn’t want to say it in front of the other girls.

“What! Daddy?”

"Brandon Gamble is here. He wants to speak with you. Why don’t you come say ’Hi’ to him." The other girls broke off eye contact when the colonel said Brandon’s name and tried not to smirk. Jenni rolled her eyes hard and took a deep breath.

"Are you serious Dad? He’s here now? What did you tell him?"

"He’s in the library. I told him you’d love to talk with him."

The girls snickered again. Jenni was very embarrassed and the colonel knew it was a mistake to mention it in front of her friends.

"I swear I don’t know why you do these things Dad." Jenni jumped up and marched around the wicker table. "I’ll talk to him," she said in an exasperated voice, “but you don’t have to try to set me up like this. I hate it!" She marched past her friends and headed through the screen door.

"Don’t worry Jenni. Ryan will still be there when you get back!" Jenni’s friend Kelli called out. The girls snickered hard again.

"Who’s Ryan?" the colonel asked.

"Just this boy at school," Kelli answered.

"Just some boy that sits next to Jenni in her Spanish class," another girl added. Snickers.

"What’s his last name?"

"We don’t know," Kelli lied. The girls looked at each other with buggy eyes to say that they needed to shut up.

The colonel wanted more information but he could tell the girls were done talking. He went back inside. He paused and looked through the window back out at the girls and they were all laughing hard, throwing their heads back and stomping their feet. The colonel felt badly for talking to Jenni in front of her friends and he wondered who Ryan was.

Jenni was in the library talking with Brandon. Colonel Brackett waited outside in the living room and could see them both through the glass paned doors. Jenni had her back to the colonel and Brandon faced them both. He spoke easily and calmly like the frat boy that he was. It appeared that he was doing most of the talking and Jenni mostly listened. Frequently she’d nod her head quickly and her curly ponytail would bounce enthusiastically.

When the conversation seemed to be dying down, the colonel fetched two cups of punch and walked into the library. Jenni was telling Brandon about helping out with Vacation Bible School recently. The colonel noticed that she spoke in a definite business tone, flat and without emotion. It was a tone he only heard from her if she had to do something like give a speech at school. The colonel could tell things weren’t clicking very well.

"How are you kids doing?" he asked and handed Jenni one of the punches. She took a big, relieved swig.

"Just fine," Brandon answered. "Jenni was telling me about her work with VBS. And with the day care kids. That’s wonderful."

"Yes. Jenni’s real good with kids. She’s a natural with it. She leads them in singing a lot."

"That’s great," Brandon said with a big smile.

Jenni was silent. She had her arms crossed in front of her with the cup perched for the next sip. The colonel figured enough was enough.

"Jenni, we’d better go find your mother?"

"Sure Dad. It was nice talking with you." Jenni put out her hand to Brandon stiffly and formally and shook his.

"Maybe we can do something before I go back to school," Brandon said.

"Sure," Jenni said slowly. "Just...give me a call."

"All right then."

Jenni turned and put her arm under her father’s so he could escort her out. The colonel felt her arm stiff and she pulled him along. They walked through the people in the living room and into the family room. The colonel stopped and turned Jenni toward him to apologize.

"I’m sorry Jenni."

Jenni didn’t look at him but rather looked sideways and held her line of sight at some far off point.

"I’m sorry," the colonel repeated.

Jenni cut away and got her purse from the wicker table on the porch without acknowledging her friends who just watched her. She came back in through the house and walked past her father then left the house out the back door. Colonel Brackett followed her through the house and out the door. Jenni walked quickly, her ponytail bouncing, heading the two blocks back to her home. The colonel stopped trailing her and let her go. A knot came up in his stomach hard and heavy, and it felt as though he’d swallowed an anvil.

Chapter 6

Somewhere on the West African Coast

Monday, September 1

10:40 PM

It had rained for three days straight now. Collecting firewood was still easy in the rainforest but the wood had to be dried in one of the huts before it would burn. The soft jungle wood saturated with water and the air was heavy with humidity so that it took two days for the firewood to dry enough so that it would burn. The villagers had begun a rotation of wood in the drying hut so that they would always have firewood and would be able to cook their meals each night.

Ever since the ugalla ceremony two weeks before the elders of the tribe had been worried. They met each night to discuss matters—what had happened to the shaman, who should replace him, what did the events mean for this year’s rains, should there be sacrifices? Nothing had been determined and nothing had been decided. Each man feared bringing up the events of that evening lest they be stricken with a hex for speaking of the ugalla god unfavorably.

Seven men sat in Rabula’s hut around a small fire burning palm fronds and small sticks that each would toss on whenever necessary. All of them wore beads that signified that they were warriors and none of them wore shirts. Their dark skin made their bodies glimmer magically in the flickering firelight. Some of the men smoked an herb they called richla that was a mild stimulant and others ate sweet potatoes and roasted fish.

Inside the hut it was comfortable and dry. Rabula had his wife prepare oysters, fish, and fried sweet potatoes for the men to nibble. The smell of roasted boar from somewhere in the village lingered along in the heavy air and bathed the hut. The men knew that a roasted boar would become a community event, even with the rain. People would follow their noses out of their own huts and find whoever was doing the cooking. The cooker would gladly share his food with anyone who wished to eat and there would always be a large crowd.

None of the elders in the hut spoke. Occasionally one would look into the fire and give a little grunt and quickly jerk up his shoulders in a little bouncy motion. Usually the man sitting next to him would do the same in a type of response. Beyond the grunts, the only sounds were the crackling of the palm fronds when someone tossed on a fresh one, jingling beads and charms, the heavy breathing in on the richla pipes, and the gentle sound of jungle-rain on the palm thatched roof and drips of water in the puddles outside.

After some time there was a crack! from the direction of the jungle and what sounded like a human voice. The elders perked up to listen, looking into each others’ eyes to see if they too had heard the sound, and they all had. The voice called out again, this time more clearly, then another voice called back. There was the distinct sound of dried palm fronds breaking under one’s foot and the men could tell that whoever was in the bush was moving at a quick pace, slashing and tromping through the thick under-foliage of the rainforest.

As the person neared he yelled more often. Slowly, over the raindrops and the cracking of sticks and fronds, his words became increasingly intelligible. It became clear that the man tromping through the woods was breathing hard from a fast-paced journey. When he yelled, his words were stifled by his breathe; his lungs sucking hard to get more oxygen. The men in the tent began to poke their heads out of the hut to see who was causing the commotion and what it was all about. "He’s back!" were the first intelligible words they heard. Each looked at another for an interpretation of what that meant. "He’s back!" the voice repeated, almost to the edge of the village and out of the jungle.

The elders filed out of the hut into the rain. Each step the man in the jungle took could be traced by sound now and the elders walked over to the jungle’s edge where he would emerge.

"Who are you?" one of elders said in the dialect. There was no answer. The man was at the edge of the jungle where it opened to the village. The undergrowth was doubly thick there where the sunlight from the village was able to penetrate down to the ground. The man worked hard to barrel his way through the vines and bushes though he was only a few feet from the elders. Finally the covering of vines that the elders stared at shook hard and a hand poked through the leaves. Another hand poked through and then they both retracted quickly, pulling leaves and vines with them. In a quick burst, the man stuck one leg through the opening he’d made and lunged out of the vines sideways. His other leg caught and he stumbled and fell to the wet earth at the feet of the elders.

He lay face-down on the ground on his elbows breathing hard in gasps; he hung his head wearily and his shoulders poked upward. Two of the elders helped him to his feet. His legs and body were scratched badly and blood drained down his flanks in rainwater. One of the elders recognized him as a member of the neighboring tribe and called him by name, "Kagi. What is it?"

Kagi took a deep breath preparing to speak, "He’s back."

"Who is back?"

"I am afraid to say his name."

"Why are you afraid?"

"My elders sent me to you, to tell you that he is back. You must come to my village tonight."

"Kagi, you must speak plainly. Who is back? What is wrong?"

"Your prophet is back and I fear his name."

"Mokeela is back?" The elders were stunned.

"Yes. He appeared at sunset in my village. He is a nabuti," which when literally translated means that he walks with the spirits of dead people.

"Why did you come through the jungle and not along the coast-trail?"

"I am afraid of the ground that he walks on. The trail is now haunted with spirits."

"What did Togali say? Where has he been?"

"He is not in his head. He speaks jibberish, the language of the dead and he is making magic. Please come, we must leave now."

"We must make preparations. We must give you food and you must rest first."

"No, come now. I fear something bad is happening."

Rabula told the elders to get their knives and they would leave immediately. The men ran to their huts and returned quickly. Rabula said a prayer hastily but sincerely asking that the gods favor them on the trip and that the evil spirits would do no harm.

"Let us go," Rabula announced and motioned toward the coast-trail.

Kagi paused and said, "I will not walk on the trail."

"Then you will have to travel alone. We do not fear our own shaman." Rabula headed through the group and the other elders followed him. Kagi waited then trailed along behind the group.

It was a four hour hike northward by the coast-trail to the neighboring village. The rain had let up a bit but it was storming harder ahead toward the village. The men walked silently with their goal in mind. Each wondered about Kagi’s words and what they meant. The image of him gouging his eyes with the daggers was still clear in their minds. They wondered how a blind man could survive flinging himself into the ocean then making the trek from one village to the next several miles away. Some of the elders wondered about Kagi’s credibility. All of the elders hoped that Kagi was wrong.

When they began to grow near their neighbor’s village the rains started in hard. The men drew in to themselves trying to shield their eyes. The wind whipped the foliage around them and occasionally branches would whip up into the trail and into their faces. There were two types of drops: the large round drops that fell hard and fast and punishing and the small sharp drops that flew in sideways with the wind and would sting the men on their cheeks and flanks.

"Just a little further," Rabula said. In this village there was a large hut with no sides forming a pavilion in the center of what could be called the "village common." It would be dry under the pavilion and Rabula hoped that the villagers would have a fire burning to welcome their visitors. As the men pushed through the last leg of the bush Rabula could see that there was no glow of a fire up ahead. The village was arranged in a semi-circle with the opening facing toward the paths down to the beach. In the center was the pavilion. Then men entered the center of the semi-circle and assessed the situation. There were no people to be seen; everyone was inside due to the heavy rain. Every other time Rabula had visited the village, rain or shine, there had been groups of men sitting in the pavilion smoking, talking, or playing games. No one was there now.

"Where are the people?" Rabula asked.

"They are afraid of your shaman," Kagi answered. "They do not want him to see their faces or they will have bad luck."

"But he’s blind now."

"He is blind physically. But he is not blind. He walks with the dead now and sees other things—things that we cannot see and do not want to see."

"Where is he?"

"He was out on the point when I left to go to your village. We will speak with the chief first. Here. It is this hut."

Kagi led the others over to a slightly larger hut in the center of the arc of the semi-circle.

"It is Kagi. They are here. May we come in?"

"Yes. Come in out of the rain,” a voice answered.

The men entered. The chief was sitting at the far end on a small stool made from a log. A small fire smoldered in the middle of the hut with a large pot filled with potato soup. Two candles sat against the back wall on either side of the chief. The hut was dry and glowed softly from the candles and fire.

"Sit down and eat first, then we will discuss matters." The men were hungry from the trip and the soup’s smell was strong and appealing. They sat around the fire. The chief’s wife ladled up soup into bowls and passed them around in turn. When she had finished, the chief gave her a backhand wave of his forearm toward the door and she exited into the rain without speaking. The men ate eagerly.

“We have a situation,” the chief began when they’d finished eating.

"Honorable chief and friend, why have you called upon us on such a bad night?" Rabula asked formally, eager to get on with things.

The chief threw a stick on the fire and answered, "Your shaman. He has come to our village."

"Yes. Kagi said that he had. We have not seen him for two weeks, since the ugalla ceremony. I am amazed that he made it here because he is now blind. Someone must have led him."

"He is nabuti now. He is no longer of this world."

"But he is blind. He became possessed by evil spirits and he gouged out his eyes with daggers."

"He is nabuti now," the chief repeated. "He sees, only differently now. He sees things through the spirit world. I believe it is a very bad omen."

"Where is he now?"

"Out on the point off of the beach. He won’t respond to anyone. We want you to take him back with you."

"Yes." Rabula was uneasy. "Let us go to him now."

The men stood upright. The chief called out for his helpers and they appeared from a small back room. They brought two large torches filled with animal grease and lit them in the fire. "Let us go," the chief said. Outside the rain had increased while the men were eating. Water stood up to their ankles in spots and drained feverishly down the walkways that led to the beach. The torches fluttered sideways in the wind and sizzled when raindrops hit the flame but they were well-made and did not go out. One of the men led the way with the torch and one of the men trailed the group.

On the beach the ocean pounded hard at the land. The waves were perhaps eight feet high from trough to crest and they came in relentlessly, one after the other, crashing. There was a roar from the waves and the wind that made it necessary for the men to shout when they spoke.

"He is out there!" the chief shouted and pointed out to a rocky point. The beach curved around to the north and at the north end the sand gave way to rocks that curled out into the ocean. At the end of the rocks was a very large rock, large enough that some bushes and shrubbery grew on top of it in a snaggly, stunted fashion the way that a cedar grows in the desert. Along the rocks the waves crashed violently, spraying foam and whitewater high into the air, sometimes over thirty feet straight upward.

Rabula had been on the point twice before for religious ceremonies. Both times they had gone to it by boat. The boats now were all pulled high up on the beach, so high they were actually between the coconut palms. Using the boats was not an option now anyway in the storm.

"Can we climb out to the point on the rocks?" Rabula asked.

"It is very unsafe, even in good weather," the chief answered. "It is likely that someone would be swept off by a wave then pounded against the rocks."

Rabula grunted. He asked, "How did the shaman get out there?" still shouting.

"We do not know. He came to our village, we could see he was a mad man, then he left. When we saw him again, he was waving his arms at the sky from out on the point."

Rabula grunted again. He turned to the men, "We need to go out there. There is no need for us all to do it. Three men would be good. I will go. Are there two other volunteers."

Quickly a young, heavy man said, "I will," and then another man with a large tattoo on his chest said, "I will go too."

"Then let’s go. May we take one of the torches?" Rabula asked and the chief nodded.

"We’ll wait underneath this boat," the chief said and pointed to the largest of the boats that was flipped upside down forming a lean-to. They walked up and hunkered underneath it out of the rain and in the lee of the wind. Their torch stood up straighter out of the wind and it shined brightly illuminating the entire inside of the boat.

Rabula and the two others headed up the beach toward the rocks. At the base of the rocks the men paused to look out toward the point and at their task ahead. The wind was in their faces now and the rain blew in straight and in sheets. They had to squint hard to keep the raindrops from stinging their eyes. The rocks formed a sort of causeway out to the point over one hundred yards in length. Near the middle of the causeway the rocks became scarce and smaller. A large wave occasionally would crash over these small rocks sending white foam into the air. The wind would catch the foam, break it apart into small pieces, then send it to the beach.

"Let us go" Rabula said. "You go first and carry the torch" he motioned to the man with the tattoo. "We’ll be right with you."

The tattoo man climbed onto the first rock and began navigating the others. Rabula, then the heavy man, did the same. The rocks were large here and stacked tightly. Movement was slow because the rocks had many crags and blowholes but the men made steady progress. They used all fours to navigate the rocks, except for the man with the tattoo who used only one arm, the other holding the torch high as a beacon. They continued on until the tattoo man stopped at the point where the rocks thinned.

"What do you think?" he called back to Rabula.

Rabula looked down at the situation. When the waves were not breaking the path was fine, only lower in altitude to the sea. When a large breaker came in, it swept up into and through the rocks with only the tips of the rocks still showing. Rabula thought that if such a wave hit they would still be able to hold on and let the waters pass around their legs.

"Lets continue on," Rabula said. "I’ll go first here." He passed the tattooed man and dropped down to the gap. The tattooed and heavy men followed. The three worked quickly and efficiently now, wishing to get across the gap as soon as possible. They were very close to the ocean now and could taste the salt water on their lips as the wind misted their faces with the seawater. Looking over their left shoulder they could see the flicker of the others’ torch under the boat.

Suddenly the waters drew out quickly from the rocks and left them high and bare. Rabula knew how the waves worked and knew that a big wave must be coming and that it was sucking up the waters in front of it and preparing to dump them all back again in one large push. He looked up from the rocks and saw a massive wave rising and moving in hard. Its peak was almost at his eye level, "Hold on, here comes one!" he shouted. Then men dug in as best they could. The tattoo man had no place to put the torch so he fumbled with it and held on as best he could with only one hand.

The wave rose and curled just before the rocks then rolled over and broke so that the initial waters fell onto the rocks themselves. At its crest the waves’ peak was as high as the men’s heads. The men drove their shoulders into the wave as it rushed in and sent water gushing around them. After the initial break the waters were knee deep. They rushed around and between the men’s legs across the rocks.

The man with the tattoo lost his footing and stumbled. He fell sideways and into the gushing water. He was laying on his back trying to keep the torch high so that it would not submerge. The heavy man lunged out for him and extended his arm but the waters pushed hard and the tattoo man began sliding away. Rabula jumped forward toward him but could not find solid footing and fumbled until he did. By then the tattoo man had been swept into the open water. He floated and bobbed and still held the torch high as he treaded water. The current and wind swept him along quickly and soon all that could be made out was the torch flickering. The men on the beach noticed something was wrong. Their torch was now out from underneath the boat and moving down to the water’s edge.

Rabula and the heavy man called out to the others but they could not hear. They watched the tattoo man drift along helplessly holding onto the torch as if it were a lifesaver.

"The current is taking him along the beach!" the heavy man shouted.

"Yes, but the wind and waves are blowing in hard. They will push him to shore!" Rabula answered.

"What can we do?"

"Nothing. The others will follow him. The current is taking him parallel to the beach. If he doesn’t panic, eventually he’ll be blown to shore. The others will catch him then."

"What if he is injured."

"I cannot say. Meanwhile, we must get out of here. Let’s go on."

They climbed over the rocks quicker and with less care now keeping an eye on the waters to their right. They came to the end of the gap and climbed upward to higher and safer rocks then paused breathing hard. They looked to their left at the tattoo man. They were surprised at how far he’d been swept already, the torch still flickering. The others’ torch followed slightly behind on the beach, both moving steadily. The tattoo man’s torch would go in and out of visibility as he moved up and down in the waves. Then, it went down and out of sight and did not return. Rabula and the heavy man waited but did not see the torch again. The others’ torch stopped moving and remained stationary at the point opposite where the tattooed man’s had gone out.

Rabula motioned to continue, "We’re almost there." They worked on, more easily now with the rocks being high and sloping up to the point. When they arrived at the point they had to finally climb a rock face of about ten feet. The climbing was not difficult as a large crack ripped up the rock and there were many crags that gave good holding for the feet. Rabula went first then helped the heavy man to the top.

Rabula looked across the point toward the craggy tree on the opposite end. Waves crashed hard and bluntly against the point’s steep walls and each time the spray would be ejected vertically high above their heads. The point must be a good twenty-five feet above the sea level, Rabula thought, and the water is being thrown another twenty-five feet above that. The shaman sat beneath the tree motionless, facing out toward the open ocean. The ocean heaved violently in the night silhouetting the shaman. Whitecaps broke on the top of each wave and sent sea-spray whipping horizontally. The wind drove through the snaggy limbs of the point’s snarled tree and made an eerie whistling sound.

Rabula motioned for the heavy man to come along toward the shaman. On top of the point was some soil and small ferns had made a thick, soft carpet. Rabula came up to the shaman and held onto a limb above his head as he peered around to the shaman’s face. His eye sockets had become infected and oozed puss but his face was expressionless.

"Mokeela!" Rabula had grown up with him and called the shaman by name. "It is Rabula." The prophet did not respond. "Mokeela," he repeated, "you must come with us. We’ve come to take you home." Again the shaman gave no response. "Mokeela." Rabula put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. "Mokeela, it is Rabula, your friend."

The shaman gave a faint and slow smile then raised his hand and put it on Rabula’s hand on his shoulder.

"We’ve come to take you home." Rabula was relieved by the smile and he took the shaman’s hand into his own and held it.

"There is a storm," the shaman announced.

"Yes, I know. That is why we must go. It is dangerous here. We will spend the night in this village then leave for home in the morning."

"No, there is a storm."

"Yes, it is storming now." The heavy man looked at Rabula puzzled. He was afraid to get too close to the shaman for fear of evil spirits.

"No, there is another storm. A bigger storm."

"Where?"

The shaman turned toward Rabula’s voice as if he were looking at him, "Here," he answered.

"Then we must leave now."

"It is coming. It is coming." The shaman’s voice grew more intense. He began to stand up and raising his voice, called out, "The storm is coming. It is coming! It is a storm like no one has seen before! It is growing." He stood upright not six inches from the drop-off edge of the point. Rabula held onto the limb above his head and reached out with his free hand.

"Mokeela, you are on the edge of the cliff!" he shouted.

"It is coming! It is coming soon!" his voice still rising.

Rabula reached for him but the shaman pushed his hand away and startled his feet so that his toes hung over the edge. Rabula jostled himself closer to the shaman and to the edge, ready to grab at him.

"Mokeela, come back. Come back away from the edge."

"It is building now! The storm is coming!" The shaman threw back his head and gave a loud shrill yell like a battle cry. The heavy man jumped at the shriek and his eyes filled with fear. Mokeela raised both arms into a Y shape and began shouting in the old dialect which only holy men were aloud to speak. "Tobula ta godagi! Tobula icha ta rodgo! Godagi icha! Godagi icha! Swagwa pu wago! Tobula ta godagi!"

At these words the heavy man kneeled down and looked down toward the ferns at his feet. No one could look at the shaman when he used the old dialect, which was rare, lest evil spirits invade their lives. Rabula too glance downward, still trying to maintain his guard of the shaman.

The shaman leaned back with his arms still upward, gave another shriek, louder than the first. Then he crouched a bit, bent his legs at the knees, and sprung up and outward from the cliff’s edge. Rabula lunged toward him but missed. The shaman flew into the wind with his arms and legs sprawled out still in the shape of a “Y.” Rabula and the heavy man watched him sail downward toward the waves and rocks below. Just as he was to impact the water a wave rushed in and covered the rocks. The shaman landed squarely on his front side belly-flop style on top of the waves, submerged for a moment, then his body floated to the surface and rolled over so that he was face up.

“Mokeela!” Rabula called and started descending the ledge through a large crack in the rocks. The waves and wind already began to push the prophet along to Rabula’s left and he tried to position himself to intercept the floating shaman. The wind drove the rain hard into Rabula’s eyes so that he had to squint heavily. The only light came from the flashes of lightning which flicked steadily creating an otherworldly strobe effect on the motion of the waves. Rabula could see Mokeela during some of the flashes if the waves weren’t breaking over him. He was still face up and with a large, eerie smile. Rabula stepped down onto the rocks at the base of the ledge; water burst into his footing and surrounded him up to his thighs in a pounding rhythm. Mokeela began to float up alongside Rabula who again reached out for his friend. As he reached, the water level dropped and a large wave began to suck the water and Mokeela outward away from the outcropping. Rabula pulled his arm in, reset his feet a bit to the left, and got ready for the large wave to hit. He knew it would drive the shaman’s body in and he would have only one chance to grab him before the water again receded and his body passed alongside and would be swept away as did the man with the torch.

The wave grew and rolled Mokeela over and over as it drew in more water. It neared its crest and Rabula could see that it would roll over and break before it reached the outcropping so he crouched and got ready for the impact. Just as Mokeela reached the top of the wave, the wave peaked and rolled his body over quickly before dropping him nearly four feet to the water in front of the wave. Rabula saw the prophet hurled forward then disappeared into the waves. The water gushed up and hit Rabula squarely. Rabula timed the wave and thrust his own weight into the chest-deep wave with his shoulder to offset the impact and hopefully retain his foothold. He withstood the initial thrust and began to stabilize his footing when something hit him hard in the gut. It jarred Rabula off balance and he fell sideways into the water, his legs scrapping the rocks below for another foothold. Water rushed in and around him and pushed him alongside the outcropping; rocks came and went underneath his feet but he could catch hold of none. Then he saw what had hit him, it was Mokeela. The shaman popped up with his head out of the water, the same eerie grin right in front of Rabula. Rabula grabbed Mokeela and gave up on the rocks and let the current carry them both alongside then past the outcropping into the open water.

Mokeela showed no signs of breathing yet Rabula rolled him over onto his back and held him with his right arm around his neck and underneath his chin. Rabula treaded water, at first desperately, then more casually as the fright of seeing Mokeela jump the ledge and the huge wave crashing began to wear off. He assessed the situation now. Despite the hard rain, wind, and waves, Rabula was able to keep his head up easily with Mokeela floating along behind him. He looked toward shore and occasionally, at the top of the swells, he’d see a flicker from the torches of the men on shore. He began to call for help out as loudly as he could to the men, “Bali! Bali!” Then, he realized they would not hear him so far away and that he would have to ride the currents along the shore while slowly working his way in toward the beach. It would be slow with the winds running laterally along the beach, but eventually they would be washed up ashore somewhere.

Either that or they would simply sink into the water and the sea would claim two more men in its never-filling belly.

Chapter 7

Winter Haven, FL

Monday, September 1

11:35 AM

When the tears stopped welling up in her eyes, Jenni sat up from her bed where she’d huddled up alongside Maggie. She walked over and plopped down at her desk, Maggie following alongside, then gazed reminiscently out over the park across Mulberry Street. From her second story view she could see that the townsfolk were everywhere now, bustling around like ants between the large oaks and red-striped tents. They formed little pods around the snack stands, buying hot dogs and polish sausages and elephant ears. Near the middle of the park, under the gazebo, a small band was setting up. Perhaps a hundred people waited in rows of folding chairs they’d set up around the gazebo-turned-stage, mostly adults, while their children ran to and fro. Jenni watched the band members plugging cords into amps, tapping mics, and tuning their instruments. They’d tied up a sign around the gazebo roof that read, "Railroad Jones and the Cotton Picking Band" in big red letters. Ten minutes later Jenni saw her father walking up the sidewalk from Miss Lillian’s. She heard him clog his boots and Maggie bolted downstairs to greet him. She hoped he wouldn’t come up to talk to her but wondered if he would. The colonel rubbed up Maggie real good and firm then fumbled around in the fridge.

"Upstairs, Maggie," he said and the lab turned and bolted for the stairway. Maggie led the way up the stairs. The old steps creaked loudly under foot so there would be no surprise. Maggie went right for Jenni’s room and Maggie dove onto the bed and laid down beside the girl. Jenni’s arm wrapped around her pup in a bear hug.

"Jenni?" the colonel asked sheepishly at her door. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," she said blandly. Her father walked in and sat at the chair she’d just vacated. "Can we talk?"

"Okay."

"Listen, I’m sorry about that."

"About what?" Jenni spoke without looking up from Maggie.

"About embarrassing you in front of your friends."

"That was no big deal."

"And for putting you in an awkward situation with Brandon. I didn’t know you didn’t like him so much."

"I don’t dislike him. He’s a nice guy and all. I just don’t like him that way. I’m not interested in him, he’s just Brandon Gamble. That‘s all."

"You seemed pretty upset when you left."

"I’m okay."

"Okay." The colonel looked out the window at the scene Jenni had just watched. "Looks like everybody is having fun out there."

"Yes."

"Seems to be more people every year."

"Yes it does."

"Jenni, you know I worry about you and do those things just because I love you so much. I wouldn’t put you in a funny situation on purpose for anything."

"I know Daddy."

"I just want you to find someone nice, a good boy. After what happened a few years ago, I just worry about you a lot. You’re my girl."

"Oh Daddy, stop talking or you’ll make me cry." Jenni sat up and looked at her father.

"I’m serious Jenni. I pray for you every single day, that things will work out for you."

"Daddy I’m fine. I’m not worried about finding a boyfriend. I’m perfectly happy."

"Well, you’re nineteen years old, pretty as a picture, a real sweetheart. A girl like you should have a boyfriend."

"If I wanted a boyfriend I could have one today, Daddy, trust me." Jenni rolled her eyes making the colonel worry more that this was probably true.

"I mean a good boyfriend. Who is Ryan anyway?"

"Ryan?"

"Your friends said something about Ryan in Spanish."

"Oh brother," she rolled her eyes again. "He’s just some boy in Spanish class. I’d never go out with him, he’s too Mr. Cool. But, he is cute."

"You see, that’s why I worry, saying things like that."

"Daddy! Really, do I just go out with anyone and everyone? Have I ever been irresponsible about that kind of stuff? You should trust me and trust my judgment."

"I do trust you and your judgment. I really do. You’re level-headed and you know right from wrong. But, you have made mistakes."

"What happened my sophomore year is over. I was in love with Chad then, but that’s over. I learned from that."

"I almost lost you over that boy, Jenni."

"It wasn’t his fault."

"What Chad Hamilton did was Chad Hamilton’s fault, his responsibility. I’ll never forgive him for that."

"Yes, but it wasn’t all his fault and he’s paid a price."

"What price? His lawyers got him off the hook."

"It cost him an appointment to Annapolis."

"Yes, that’s if he could have made it; if his Daddy could have gotten him in."

"He could have made it. You even said that yourself. He had all the credentials and Representative Saunders loved him. You know that, you loved him too." Jenni paused, "Anyway Daddy, like I was saying, I learned from that and I’ve never been interested in a boy since."

"Yes," the colonel said with his worried voice. Jenni looked at the colonel and saw the genuine concern in his eyes.

"Except for you Daddy!" She hopped up and gave her father a strong hug. "Don’t look so glum, sugarplum! Will you be my boyfriend Daddy?"

"Sure will!" The colonel smiled and hugged her back. "Listen, your mom sent me to fetch some deviled-eggs. I can’t find them. Will you give me a hand and help me take them back to the party?"

"Sure Dad. Nice excuse for coming back here!” Jenni teased. The colonel smiled. They picked up the platter of eggs.

Jenni held her father by the arm and they headed back along Mulberry Street toward Miss Lillian’s house holding hands. As they stepped up onto her porch, a fishing buddy of the colonel’s saw him and started over through the crowd.

"I love you, Daddy," Jenni said, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek and turned inside with the eggs.

"I love you too," the colonel said as she left and before his buddy was upon him. Jenni’s friends saw her come in and intercepted her in the formal living room on her way to the kitchen.

"Jenni, are you okay?" Kelli asked.

"Sure, I’m fine. I just had to go get some deviled eggs."

"Listen, there’s something you should know." Kelli spoke and looked serious.

"Okay, just let me put these eggs down in the kitchen."

"Jenni," Kelli said urgently.

“What? Tell me Brandon Gamble isn’t going to ask me out. Help me think of a good excuse quick."

"No, he left right after you did."

"What then?"

"Chad’s here," she said flatly.

“Here? Oh my word." Jenni sat the eggs down on a cabinet in the living room. "Where?"

"Not here, here. He’s in town. He just got back from some navy trip. He’s in town and he’s looking for you."

"Oh my."

"He’s coming to the Evening Ball tomorrow night."

"Really? How do you know all this?"

"His Dad’s here and he told us."

"Where’s his Dad?"

"He was right here a few minutes ago."

"Is he gone?"

"I don’t know. All he said is that Chad’s in town for a couple of days and he’d like to talk to you."

Jenni took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I haven’t seen him since the accident; over three years. What’s he want?"

"He wants to talk to you."

"I know but why? We haven’t spoken in three years."

"So? You’d better talk to him." Then she chided, "You know you’re still in love with him."

"No I’m not! I’m mad at him!"

"You still love him, it’s plain as day."

"No, I am not! But I would like to talk to him actually, just to tell him that he’s a real...mmm!" she cut herself off.

"Well,...tomorrow night’s your chance."

"We’ll see. I probably won’t even go to the ball now. I can’t believe he’s here."

"Yes you will. You’d better."

“No I won’t.”

“You’d better go.”

"We’ll see."

"Jenni, it’s Chad. It’s Chad Hamilton. He’s looking for you, you’ve got to go."

"We’ll see."

Chapter 8

National Hurricane Center

Miami, FL

Monday, September 1

10:35 AM

The first tropical depression had started two weeks ago and was a tropical storm now. It started, as most do, over the warm waters off the West African coast then began to slide eastward pushed by the prevailing winds and currents and with the Earth gliding along underneath it in the Coriolis Effect. It sucked up warm water vapor day and night along its path with no mountains or trees to obstruct it. Only warm water, hurricane fuel, lay in its path and it drew the water upward forming more clouds, denser and taller, until the barometric pressure fell enough and the winds rose enough until it was a tropical storm threatening to be a hurricane. The fourth of the season, it was given the name Daniel. With Daniel passed to the west, the tropics again became calm and balmy. The seas had dropped so that freighters out of Europe could pass along on their way to South Africa without trouble.

Then, as though on some ancient, primordial cycle, the warm waters sprouted clouds that became thunderstorms over the tropical sea. The clouds roiled around until, by happenstance, they stumbled upon a counter-clockwise motion. The motion was crude at first, but the cycle began to grow and organize upon itself, tightening and solidifying, until there was a definite pattern to the motion and a second tropical storm was born, Tropical Storm Eileen. Daniel and Eileen moved steadily westward one behind the other, staying well south and only nudging northward in minutes as they were tracked. The techies at the National Hurricane Center in Miami were looking for signs that would turn the storms northward, allowing them to skirt harmlessly along the East Coast pushed by the Gulf Stream, then dissipate over the cold waters of the North Atlantic. The techs looked for traces of a northward turn in each set of coordinates they received, or low pressure system in the North Atlantic, or a high pressure over the Lesser Antilles or Gulf Coast that would repel the storms like a meteorological shield. As of yet, they saw none of these signs. Still much too far away for any predicted trek, the pattern of unobstructed, near due-westward moving storms usually predicated a landfall somewhere. Yet, the Hurricane Center remained calm. They’d been through many storms and had learned that it was still too early for alarm. Too many things could and would happen between now and any landfall. Although they’d dealt with multiple storms at once several times before, the meteorologists and techies had plenty to monitor with two finely-formed tropical storms, "TS’s" they called them. They simply watched and bided time.

While the techs were looking for any signs that the storms might begin their turn northward, the flight team was getting ready for another run. TS Daniel was getting close enough that the Hurricane Center could send out its flight team on one of their customized C-130’s into the eye of the storm. Gathering a myriad of measurements in its flight, when the plane returned the techies would crunch all of the data, enter it into the computer models, then turn it all over to the meteorologists. At about the same time that the analysis of the data would be completed, Eileen would be almost close enough for a run upon her. The flight team could barrel through Daniel a second time comparing any changes, then continue on to Eileen for a first look at her. On the path home, the flight team could even return through Daniel a third time if they desired more or corroborating data. Upon their return and analysis of the new data, the hurricane center would then have a much better idea of what to expect.

The folks at the Hurricane Center worked by a certain motto that was even printed on a plain-looking sign and mounted in the "Storm Room." The sign read, "Expect Nothing, Just Read the Data." This motto attempted to keep the techies and meteorologists grounded in objectivity, leaving nothing to interpretation. At this, the folks at the Hurricane Center were the best in the world. If interviewed about a threatening storm, their answer would be, "The data we’ve received shows the storm traveling in a west-northwesterly direction at between five and seven miles per hour." Everything would refer to the past; what the storm had done with no conclusions drawn, only observations made. Of course what the media wanted, and the politicians and the public wanted, was a prediction. The meteorologists at the Hurricane Center understood this and they understood their existence was based on these predictions. After all, it was for the purpose of predictions that the politicians funded the Center in Congress. And, to a degree, the Center had something of a moral obligation to the people. If a prediction was going to be made that might preserve life and property, and predictions would be made by all kinds of people, the Center was best qualified to make it. So, reluctantly, the National Hurricane Center would hedge on its ’Just Read the Data’ motto and extrapolate the data into a prediction. Severe storm predictions were serious business. A balance beam was going to have to be danced upon. Of course, the fear was that the prediction would turn out to be wrong and on this matter there were two schools of thought. First, the Center could err on the side of predicting a storm that was too strong, "Overcall" they’d named it. In this error, the Center issued warnings and advisories for too many areas affecting too many people. When warned that a hurricane was imminent, people flocked to grocery stores to stock up on food. They raided home improvement stores buying plywood that they screwed into the siding on their homes over the windows and doors. They got sandbags and loaded them with sand and hauled them to their homes and plopped them in the troughs of their yard around their houses. They emptied local gas stations filling their vehicles to make a run if necessary. They filled their tubs with fresh water and bought candles, batteries, blankets, and things they didn’t need with or without a storm. Local officials got nervous and declared evacuations and people flocked away from the coastal regions in traffic jams hundreds of miles long or they boarded up in the hallways of local schools. If the prediction turned out to be an Overcall and wasn’t serious or it turned and swept northward harmlessly offshore altogether, the people and politicians would return to their daily lives with a grumble at the mistake. The next time the Center issued a warning, it would be taken with much less sincerity as the people remembered the hassle and false-alarm of the previous call. In simplest terms, the Center would cry wolf in the loudest of ways.

The second school of thought was the "Undercall" where the storm’s severity is downplayed or minimized. Though appearing irresponsible by not declaring the possible severity of the storm, proponents of the Undercall argued just the opposite. The Undercall was in actuality more responsible they said. Mainly it prevented a widespread panic that an Overcall could create. More importantly, it retained the Center’s credibility, the fact that they’d missed the call, by not crying wolf. And in that sense, when the Center called for a serious storm in the future it would in deed be taken seriously and life and property would be saved to an even greater degree. What’s more, on a practical basis with the Undercall, the prediction can always be upgraded as the situation deteriorates to make the prediction more accurate. Downgrading from an Overcall is not always possible and the damage of panic and crying wolf would have already been done. Gradually, the directors of the Hurricane Center had moved toward a policy of Undercall. If they were going to be forced to make a prediction, they liked the credibility retention and flexibility the Undercall gave. Besides, no matter what the Center said, the local news broadcasts would sensationalize the prediction yellow-journalism style so that an Overcall would often be achieved anyway. The best thing that the Center could do was to collect data, analyze it, report it, make an Undercall, and all the while convey a reassuring calm. That is what they would do with these two storms.

As the directors had been reaffirming their philosophy and game plan for these two storms, the C-130 took off out of Mobile, Alabama heading for TS Daniel. In a few hours they would know that Daniel had strengthened considerably and was already a category 2 hurricane bypassing category 1 almost altogether. The techies had been watching the satelite images on their monitors. They scrutinized every movement that the storms made. Too far away to gain radar data of rain patterns, the techs surveyed the clouds’ motions squinting in attempt to read any patterns. They could tell Daniel was now a hurricane. It’s eye was clear on occasion and cloud bands spiraled off from its center. Eileen lacked the organized shape but her clouds were noticeably whiter on the screen than only hours before. They waited for more data from the plane. Almost forgotten in their scrutiny of the two storms were the waters to the east. Out of habit one techie panned his computer image eastward toward the west coast of Africa: the birthplace of hurricanes. Several clouds dotted the waters from where Daniel then Eileen had originated. He put the monitor in motion over the past twelve hours. The clouds popped up across the screen, petered around, then fizzled out, then others popped up to replace them. The tech squinted his eyes curiously at what he thought he saw. He sped the sequence so that the frames ticked by more rapidly. The clouds no longer formed then fizzled, they only flashed on and off. He increased the sequence speed even more. The clouds popped quickly with the twelve hour sequence compressed down to only five seconds. The techie tweaked the program to create a sense of fluidity among the clouds and decrease the "snow" effect of the flashing clouds.

"Oh no," he said aloud and his partner next to him perked up from his monitor.

"What?"

"Look at this. West African tropics." He ran the scan.

"Oh crap."

"Do you see what I see?"

"Absolutely. These are satellites?"

"Yes, twelve hour shots, every 15 minutes, condensed to five secs. Liquified. Do you see what I see?"

"Yes. That’s a very clear pattern, circulation around a set point right about there." He put his finger on the screen.

"No doubt about it. It won’t take long like that."

"We’ve got ourselves a third storm."

Chapter 9

Somewhere on the West African Coast

Monday, September 1

11:30 PM

Rabula turned Mokeela so that the waves would break over his head, trying to keep his face above the water. They had floated quite a distance along the shore now, far enough that the others’ lantern had long since passed away and gone out of sight in the distance. The current swept them parallel to the shore but the wind and waves edged them slowly toward the beach. Rabula tried to use the ebb and flow of the waves to gain a few inches on each push of the waves before being sucked out for the next wave, trying to move in a touch more than being sucked out on each cycle. He’d been working that way ever since he’d grabbed Mokeela and they were nearing shore now. The beach lay only 20 yards away. The current strengthened as they got closer to shore. Now Rabula could see coconut palms up on the beach in the darkness and he could measure his speed as they swept along. They were moving along at a steady, swift pace, faster than he’d expected. He kept working the waves, a little at a time, still clutching Mokeela around the neck as he paddled with one arm, both legs kicking. While in the trough of two waves, Mokeela stuck his foot as far down as he could while keeping his head above the water. He felt the sandy bottom. The bottom scraped by against his feet rapidly. He’d have to swim in much further before trying to stand in the current, but feeling the earth was encouraging. He continued to work his way in until he could hop on both toes, bouncing along the beach in the current and bouncing in a fraction closer on each hop. Soon he was up to his chest, then to his waist and now dragging Mokeela backwards using both arms. A wave hit him broadside and knocked him down and jarred Mokeela away from him. Rabula stumbled in the foam and up the beach until the water was past his knees. He worked along the beach looking for Mokeela. The waves pounded the shore and churned the sand and seashells in a raw, sandblasting motion against one’s skin. Rabula saw a black object rolling around in the foam along the shore. He ran to it, rolled it over, and picked up Mokeela by the arms and drug him up onto the beach.

The two had finally made it out of the jaws of the sea. Rabula rolled Mokeela over onto his belly and emptied the water from his lungs. The prophet lay on the beach lifelessly still. Rabula took a deep, gasping breath, put his lips to his friend’s, and blew in slowly but firmly. Mokeela’s chest rose steadily. When Rabula sat up and breathed air into his own lungs, the prophet spit up water in a choking, coughing fashion. The water lurched up from his throat, thick and syrupy, spewing across his face and into his empty eye sockets. He coughed violently causing the throat-water in his eye sockets to swish around and out of the sockets then drain down the sides of his face. Soon he was breathing heavily, though normally, and the coughing gradually subsided. Rabula sat cross-legged with his friend, the shaman, on the beach in the darkness in the hard rain, beside the pounding waves.

Mokeela’s head lay resting on Rabula’s lap. Rabula was afraid to try to move his friend fearing his body would not be able to withstand the jostling of being carried or dragged along. He thought of running along the beachhead back to the others. With help, the shaman could be carried more easily and more steadily. They could return him to the village, give him food and water to strengthen him, and put him in a dry bed to rest. When the storm subsided and the waves died down, Rabula could send a boat along the coast to their neighbor’s village. They could lie Mokeela in the canoe and paddle him home to the village where he was born. But, even having thought this through, Rabula could not go back and search for the others and leave his friend alone. So, he simply sat with his friend and held his head in his hands.

After a long while, Mokeela began to move. Rabula felt the movement in his lap before he saw it.

"Mokeela, Mokeela," Rabula called out. "Can you hear me?"

The prophet squirmed from side to side and acted as though he wanted to sit up. "Easy friend. Just lay there."

"Rabula," Mokeela said too softly for Rabula to hear. Rabula put his ear close to Mokeela’s mouth. "Rabula, is that you?"

"Yes, it is me, Rabula. You are okay."

"Where are we?"

"We’re on the beach. We fell into the ocean and drifted along until we washed up here. But we are okay."

"There is danger."

"No. We are okay. You are okay. It is raining hard, but we are fine. I’ll get you to a warm bed soon."

"Listen to me. I’ve had a vision. I need to tell you what I saw."

"You need to rest. I’m going to get you back to the village. You do not need to talk now."

"No. There is danger. I have seen it. You must listen."

"We are not in danger anymore. We will be fine."

"The danger is at sea, not here. I want to tell you. Listen. In my vision, there was a bird of prey. It circled high over the land looking across the land for food to devour. Then a second bird joined it and they soared together. Then, a third bird joined the other two. They soared higher than I have ever seen birds fly. They flew together, each gaining height from the uplift of the others. They flew in circles together higher and higher up to the stars." Mokeela coughed heavily, jerking his head in Rabula’s lap.

"You must not talk. You are not healthy," Rabula beckoned.

Mokeela took and deep breath and continued, "Then the birds of prey careened their great wings and went into a dive. They swept down toward the earth, circling one another as they descended, until they reached the land. Then they spread out in different directions, hundreds of miles apart and flew in a large circle. They flew faster and faster until they flew so fast that the trees bent underneath their wings. Then the trees broke off at the stumps and joined the birds in theirs flight. They knocked over everything in their paths until the land was barren. Even the waters that flowed in the land blew away in the wake. Only a great circle of wasteland was left behind. In the middle of the circle, a tree sprouted. The tree grew straight, and taller and taller. Soon, the branches of the trees had reached the height that the birds had flown. And, the roots of the great tree grew underneath the wasteland and sprouted up in the fertile soil beyond the barren circle. Then, the birds stopped flying and came to rest on the branches of the great tree. That is all."

"What does it mean?" Rabula asked.

"It is a vision. It is a sign."

"Yes, but what does it mean?"

"There is danger. Not here, but far away, where the birds of prey fly."

"Where? What kind of danger?" Mokeela, lunged upward in a violent cough. His body clenched hard in jerking, contorted motions. He opened his mouth widely, his teeth showing in the darkness.

Mokeela yelled, "This storm! This storm! This storm is the bird of prey! This storm is the third bird! It has already started!"

Suddenly Mokeela sat bolt upright, his muscles rigid underneath Rabula’s hands. Rabula jumped to his feet frightened. Mokeela sat rigidly, his body shimmied quickly for a moment, then he fell back flat to the beach sand and lay still. Rabula checked his friend. He was breathing, his heart beat, yet he was lifeless. With no choice, and frightened, Rabula left the shaman and ran up the beach into the wind to find help.

Chapter 10

Winter Haven, FL

Tuesday, September 2

6:22 PM

Jenni decided to go to the ball. Her black sequined dress glimmered underneath the Christmas-style lights in the trees overhead as she, the colonel, and her mother stepped up to the Garden Hall’s front porch. Jenni clung to her father’s arm, her hair up in the back with curled strands falling down at each temple past her cheeks. The colonel felt Jenni’s grip tighten as they stepped onto the porch where the Mayor and his wife stood as greeters and hosts for the annual ball. A few other couples were ahead of them chatting with the Mayor and his wife so the Bracketts waited in the line.

“You okay Jen?” the colonel asked. “You’ve got a pretty good grip on my arm.”

“Yes, fine. Sorry Daddy.” Jenni loosened her grip then stretched and careened her head around peering into the Garden Hall’s main room where all of the town’s movers and shakers stood mixing and mingling. They all wore formal gowns, tuxedos, or dark suits. She strained to see beyond her line of sight, looking for Chad. Soft classical music from the local high school orchestra flowed out of the double-doors onto the porch and spilled into the front gardens where it slowly got lost in the flora.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. How do I look?”

“Beautiful sweetheart. You’re so pretty. Every boy in the place will have his eyes on you with all your war-paint on.” She really is beautiful the colonel thought, stunning tonight actually. “I don’t know when you got so grown up, wearing a strapless gown and all.”

“It’s okay, Daddy. Mom gave her approval.”

“She did? Well it certainly is striking." Jenni still looked intently for Chad.

“What are you looking for?” Jenni didn’t want to answer. She surely didn’t want to be so obvious that even her Dad could notice. She shook herself to and looked at her Dad.

“Sorry, Daddy," she smiled. "I guess I’m a little nervous.”

The colonel looked at her puzzled. Jenni was never nervous in social situations. Perhaps a bit shy or quiet with new acquaintances, but that was only because she didn’t know the people. She was never nervous. The colonel moved into his worried mode.

“Why are you nervous? And what were you looking for?”

“Jim! How are you?” the Mayor grabbed and pumped the colonel’s hand vigorously.

“Good, good, Mayor.”

“Have you given any more thought on that ball park we talked about?”

“Yes, actually. I spoke with an engineer about it. The first thing we need to do is level the ground and put in some drainage pipes.”

“Listen, I want you to call Kitty, my secretary, and set up a time that we can talk about it, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Actually, don’t bother. She’s here tonight. I’ll send her over to get it straight with you.”

He looked at Jenni still holding onto her Dad’s arm.

“My Lord, Jim, who is your date tonight?! Dottie you must be very jealous with your husband showing up with such a stunning young lady.”

“I’ll keep my eye on them both,” Dottie said, pausing from the Mayor’s wife.

“My, my, you sure have grown up,” the Mayor said. Jenni gave a broad smile with lots of white teeth behind bright red lips, “Hello Mayor. How’s Elizabeth?”

“She’s real good Jenni. She graduated from Emory this past Fall you know?”

“That’s wonderful.”

“She’s been offered a job in Winston-Salem studying diseases and what-not. We’re very proud of her.”

“That’s great. Tell her I said, ’Hello’ for me, won’t you?”

“I sure will. That’ll mean a lot to her. I still remember her birthday party where you girls decided the boys should wrestle in the cake rather than eat it.”

“Yes, that was funny. That was six or seven years ago now.”

“Has it been that long?” The Mayor looked upward and did the math. “That was her Sweet 16 party, she’s twenty-three now. Gosh you’re right, seven years. Man that was funny. Those kids had cake and icing all over them!” The Mayor threw back his head and laughed a deep belly laugh. Jenni flashed the million dollar smile at him again. “Boy she’s sure grown up Jim!”

“Yes. They tend to do that, don’t they?”

“Yep, they sure do. They sure do. Listen, ya’ll go on inside and get yourself a drink or two. Dinner starts at 7:30 around back, okay?”

“Okay, Mayor,” Jenni answered and gave him another smile and a friendly wink. The mayor shook his head back and forth.

“Remind me to bring you along if I ever need a favor from the Mayor,” the colonel whispered as they stepped inside the Garden Hall. Jenni giggled and rolled her eyes. Her mother was already inside working the crowd. Dottie had been there most of the day setting up the Hall as a director on the Garden Hall board. Now she mingled and chatted and made sure things were going smoothly all at the same time.

“Want some punch, I’m as thirsty as can be?” the colonel asked.

“No thanks, but you go get some.” Jenni patted her Dad on the hand and let him go. By herself now, she scanned the crowd carefully. She knew all of the faces and most of the names. Many had been to socials at her home. Chad was not inside. She skirted along to the back of the Hall onto the back porch, larger than the front, where several couples stood chatting or sipping wine in the wicker furniture. A group of men stood to the right yucking it up. Down below, on the Garden Hall lawn, tables were set up surrounded by white chairs and placed with silver-rimmed china and glassware. Servers hustled around through the maze of tables lighting a candle for each place setting or pouring ice-water into pewter goblets. Jenni stepped down among the tables and began reading over the name cards above each setting. She scanned quickly, looking only at the first few letters before moving on. She found her own, her mother’s and father’s alongside. Soon she’d found the ones she’d been looking for: the Hamilton’s. "John Hamilton" and beside it "Marie Hamilton," Chad’s parents. Beside John Hamilton was Phyllis Garner and beside Chad’s mother was Bob Carver. Jenni scanned the scene again and made her conclusion, Chad would not be at the dinner and Chad was not here. She felt a relief that she would not have to face him tonight. Since yesterday, she’d run through her mind a thousand times what she’d like to say to him. After all, even though she was only a sophomore when they’d dated, they had talked seriously about marriage. But, now she would not have to face him.

Then, she felt an anger build toward him. ‘He’s here in town,’ she thought, ‘and he doesn’t even say ’hello.’ That’s great. Three and a half years and he doesn’t even say ’hello’’. She went back inside and got a glass of punch and joined her father again coolly now. At 7:30 the Bracketts were sitting at their table, name cards in front, and the Mayor asked for Pastor Willoughby to say grace. Jenni could see Chad’s parents from where she sat and he was still not here. Dinner was too fancy for the colonel though Dottie loved it. Roast duck and roast beef and ham cooked in pineapples. Slightly-cooked string beans almondine and curried chicken and twice baked potatoes with scallions. Baked apples and steamed vegetables. Garden salad and fresh rolls. Flan and fresh pie a la mode or mousse for dessert. The orchestra had moved onto the back porch and serenaded the diners on the Garden Hall lawn. Everyone agreed, it was a beautiful dinner.

As dessert was being past around there were the customary talks by the mayor and others. Bad jokes were told at which everyone laughed. Then the mayor announced that the dance would start as soon as everyone moved back into the main hall. The chairs scooted smoothly on the grass lawn that was collecting dew now as people pushed them in. Cloth napkins were tossed onto the tables, and people stole last sips of wine or water before making their way back onto the porch and into the main hall.

Jenni lagged behind, telling her mother that she’ll catch up. She walked past the tables and into the back garden that centered around a gazebo in the middle. Rose vines climbed the gazebo’s lattice-work and onto its roof. She sat on a bench facing the gazebo, her back to the tables and Garden Hall. She could hear the servers collecting dishware and glasses and flatware and the low murmur of people in a large group through the Hall’s open back doors. Slow-dance music started and wandered its way down the steps, through the tables and servers, and filled the gazebo and garden. Jenni thought about Chad. They really had been a beautiful couple. Though only sixteen and dating a graduating senior, Jenni was mature, even then, and level-headed. She had loved Chad terribly, they discussed marriage often. But, she knew to wait until she was older and much wiser for such a step as marriage. Still, it was nice to talk about it, she thought, and they could simply enjoy being two young people in love.

Chad was about as good as they get, even her father thought so. Smart, funny, athletic, good looking, really sweet, motivated. Though not valedictorian, everyone knew he was the top boy in his class. It had been flatly near perfect, Jenni thought, until the night of the accident.

Jenni ran that night through her mind again, as she’d done a million times before. She and Chad had gone on a group date with three friends: Trevor Peterson and his girlfriend Celia Williams, and Evan Billings. They’d gone to a movie, then to McDonald’s where they screwed around for a good hour. Trevor and Chad took turns doing silly things like ordering a Whopper at McDonald’s then pretending to not understand why they couldn’t get one. Chad’s favorite was to go to everyone else’s table, people they didn’t know, and ask if everything was okay and could he get them anything? Then he’d ask to take their trays and trash and throw it away for them. All the people played along and giggled. Chad really poured it on when he saw they’d go along. One couple gave him a 35 cent tip which he presented to the group with the biggest smile Jenni had seen on him. The manager kept looking at them around the corner, wishing they’d leave and finally they did. The five of them piled into Trevor’s big car and drove out to Lake Lawton and parked on the lakeside just up from the boat ramp. They sat on the car’s big trunk facing the lake or wandered down to the water and threw things in. They talked silly and entertained themselves.

Soon, still feeling the energy from goofing around at McDonald’s, Trevor and Chad were bored.

"Let’s go down to the boat ramp and see who’s there," Trevor had said to Chad.

"Okay, anybody want to come?" Chad asked the others sitting on the trunk.

"No thanks," Jenni answered. "What are you going to do? Just go up to random people and start bothering them?"

"I don’t know," Chad said, "just go say, ’hello.’ Maybe offer to clean their car." He was being goofy now.

"Chad, you be careful."

"We will."

"And you’re just going to leave us here?"

"Well, we’ll just be right there."

"I know, but it’s dark out here."

"It’s okay," Trevor interrupted, "you’ve got big, bad Evan to protect you." Evan was a likable but quiet boy who often tagged along and whom Trevor found an easy target to make fun of.

"Shut up Trevor!" Jenni barked. "You can be such a jackass!"

"Ooh! Mean-Jenni! Watch your mouth young lady. I don’t know what your Daddy would do if he heard you talking like that."

"Shut up Trevor!" Trevor laughed at the rise he’d gotten from Jenni. “You’re such a jackass!" She repeated and Trevor laughed even harder.

Chad had had enough and said, "Come on. Are we going or not?"

"Yeah, let’s go."

"We’ll be right back, Jenni,” Chad called. “Ya’ll will be okay."

"Bye Mean-Jenni," Trevor called back over his shoulder as they left.

"Loser!" Jenni yelled into the darkness, Trevor and Chad were visible only as black splotches now.

"I swear Celia, he can be such a jerk. I don’t know why you stay with him."

"He’s cool," Celia said.

"He can be such a jerk though."

Jenni, Celia, and Evan sat quietly now. The moon had come up, a half moon, and it gave enough light to see the rim of the lake. Occasionally, when a fluff of wind rippled the water, the moonlight was captured in pale blue through the trees. Gradually, Jenni’s irritation with Trevor subsided and her anger gave way to worry. She listened intently in the direction of the boat ramp. Latin music could be heard faintly down the lake, past the boatramp, but otherwise only crickets chirping broke the silence. Twenty minutes passed since they’d left. Then thirty, then forty-five.

"Should we drive down and look for them in the car?" Jenni asked the others.

"We can’t, Trevor has the keys," Celia answered.

"Well where did they go? We’re not walking down there. There’s no telling who’s there. I can’t believe they just left us here."

They decided it would be safer waiting in the car so they got in, rolled up the windows and locked the doors and waited in silence. In minutes the windows began to steam and the air in the car became hot and stuffy. Jenni told them to roll down their windows a few inches to let some cooler air in and the hot air out. Then, they waited again. Suddenly, something heavy crashed loudly onto the trunk and ran up onto the car roof. Jenni and Celia screamed and Evan froze up. They held their breath listening and looking up at the car roof. Whatever it was moved around and jostled its feet, the sheet metal buckling under its weight. All at once an arm thrust in through Jenni’s window and grabbed her by the throat and a voice yelled in, "Ahhh!" Celia and Evan jumped in their seats then began rolling their windows up quickly. Jenni heaved at the arm and smashed it into the car roof then swept at it with both hands slashing into the skin with her fingernails. The person shrieked on the roof then rolled off onto the ground on Jenni’s side. It was Trevor. He held the arm that Jenni had scratched and began laughing hard.

"Holy crap, Jenni," Trevor said between laughs, "you’re vicious. Mean-Jenni!"

Jenni burst out of the car. “You butthole! You scared us to death!” she screamed. Trevor laughed harder. Jenni ran up and smacked him across the back of the head. He shielded the swat, backed up and laughed even harder yet. Jenni followed him and smacked twice more. “Jackass!”

"Mean-Jenni! Stop it, Mean-Jenni! Oh the language! My virginal ears can’t take it!" he said through laughs. Jenni turned quickly and stomped back to the car steaming mad. Trevor just laughed then went over and picked up something by a tree. When he came back, the three saw it was a plastic grocery bag with something heavy inside. Trevor reached in deeply and pulled out a beer. He opened it with a "ksssik" and took a swig.

"What are you doing?!" Jenni barked. "Is that beer?"

"Maybe."

"Where did you get that? Where’s Chad?"

"Easy Mean-Jenni. Anybody want a beer?" Trevor pulled out another beer from the bag and dangled it around.

"Celia? Now’s your chance."

"I don’t know, Trevor," Celia said.

"Come on. Now’s your chance. Come on, it’s just beer for crying out loud."

"Okay, I’ll have one." Celia took the beer, opened it, and drank from it.

"Evan, you up to it?" Trevor asked.

"No thanks."

"I didn’t think so. Jenni, you want a beer?"

"Go to hell Trevor."

"What? My you have a loose tongue young lady. I know you’re miss goodie-goodie and all, but now that you’re cussing like a sailor, I figured why not have a beer too?"

"Leave me alone; and where’s Chad?"

"He’ll be along, Mean-Jenni."

"Why isn’t he with you?"

"I had to sneak off and leave him because he wasn’t going to let me scare you. He’ll figure it out."

Trevor drank hard on the beer, emptied it, threw the can in the lake, then opened another. The plastic bag still held several more.

"You just left him all alone?"

"He’s a big boy, he’ll figure it out. Just calm down."

"Where did you get the beer?" Jenni asked.

"Some Mexican guys. They sold us fifteen beers for twenty bucks. Are you sure you don’t want one?"

"I’m sure." Jenni leaned against the front bumper, arms crossed, mad.

"You can join your boyfriend, he drank one." Trevor said slyly.

"He did not, you’re a liar."

"Oh, I’m a liar. Actually, you’re right, Mean-Jenni, I am a liar now that I think about it—he drank two."

"No he didn’t you idiot."

"Okay, you ask him. Ha! This is going to be good!"

Jenni turned her head and looked down along the lakeside toward the boat ramp. She squinted to try and see a shape coming toward them but saw nothing. "Chad would never drink,” she said almost to herself. She hoped it was true. Celia finished the beer quickly then asked for another and started on it. Trevor finished his, opened another, and got Celia to race him to see who could drink theirs faster. She kept laughing and the beer dribbled down her neckline. Trevor licked it up just before it emptied down into her blouse. She laughed even more. Jenni waited, disgusted, both worried and mad at Chad. When Trevor and Celia finished, they opened two more and started the game again, Celia laughing and acting stupid now. Jenni heard a branch crack and looked up. A figure was coming towards them in the darkness.

"Chad?" she called.

"Yeah, it’s me."

"Are you okay?"

"I’m fine. Why did you leave me Trevor?"

"I had to. I had to surprise them."

"You’re a jerk you know that. A real jerk." Slowly Chad came close enough so that Jenni could see him. She looked down. In his hand he carried an opened beer can. Her heart sank.

"Jenni, what are you doing cussing like crazy? You never talk like that," Chad asked.

"Trevor’s being a jerk," she said plainly.

"I could hear you all the way down the lake yelling and cussing."

"Too bad, he’s being a jerk."

"That’s true, but still. I don’t you talking like that."

Jenni shrugged in a "hmmph" and turned her head away from Chad. She was quiet now. Chad looked at Trevor and Celia drinking and took a swallow himself. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Jenni could tell the beer was mostly gone. Chad looked at Jenni’s face and read disappointment. He took another drink.

"What are you doing Chad?" Jenni asked quickly.

"Drinking a beer," he answered dumbly.

"Why?" Chad didn’t answer immediately. "Why are you drinking, Chad?"

"I’m eighteen years old, about to graduate, probably going to Annapolis as soon as Representative Saunders signs the paper, and I’ve never drinken a beer. Well, tonight I did."

"Well congratulations," Jenni said sarcastically. "You’re a big boy now."

"All right Chaddy-boy," Trevor said, "that’s beer number three! Finish it off and have another." Chad looked at the beer as if he was reading the label then he looked at Jenni. He crushed the can in his hand then turned and threw the it far into the lake. The remaining beer streamed out of the can until it splashed into the water.

"Let’s go home. This night isn’t turning out too well and that beer tastes like crap. I don’t know how people drink that stuff."

"Okay, let’s go." Trevor said finishing his beer then opening another. He slurped it quickly in big gulps then burped out loudly, cupping his hands to magnify the sound across the lake. He pulled out the keys from his pocket and headed for the drivers seat.

"You‘re not driving," Jenni said.

"What? I’m okay, Mean-Jenni."

"I’m not riding with you. You just drank four beers right now. Give me the keys."

"No. This is my car and I’m driving. If you don’t want to ride then you can walk."

"Give them to me!"

"No. Get in."

"Chad," Jenni called, "get the keys from him."

Chad paused, looked at Trevor and said calmly, "Give me the keys Trevor. You’ve had five beers in about twenty minutes. It’ll sneak up on you."

"What are you beer expert now? I’m fine, and I’m driving."

Chad kept at Trevor over the keys. He didn’t want to ride with Trevor either. They argued more and more intently. Celia sat in the passenger’s seat. Her eyes were closing like she was falling asleep and her head began to roll around. Then she heaved up and spit up across the dashboard and onto her lap then lay back in the seat with her head awkwardly to the side.

"You see," Chad yelled pointing to Celia, "now give me the keys!"

Chad lunged for Trevor and grabbed him. They wrestled a bit back and forth then Trevor fell to the ground taking Chad with him. Jenni watched them roll over in the lakeside mud. Finally, Chad stood up with the keys in his hand. He had sweat on is forehead and the veins of his neck popped out.

"Get in the car, jackass," he told Trevor. Trevor laughed and said, "Now all of the goodie-goodies are cussing. This is a great night! Woohh!" He yelled as loudly as he could. He got up, opened the last beer, and took a sip. "This is a great night," he said and plopped into the backseat smiling.

"Let’s go," Chad announced and headed for the driver’s seat. Jenni intercepted him.

"I don’t think you should drive either," she told Chad.

"I’m okay, Jenni."

"You’ve been drinking too. Give me the keys."

"I told you, I’m all right. I only had a couple and that was over an hour’s time."

"You had three. Why do you guys have to be so macho?"

"I’m fine I said!" Chad was still angry from his tussel with Trevor and he yelled at Jenni. "Get in! Let’s go!"

Jenni looked at him without speaking

He cooled under her stare and said, "Trust me. I’m okay, Jenni. I’m okay."

Without speaking Jenni went to get into the passenger’s seat. She saw Celia’s puke on her lap then went around to the backseat.

"I’m not sitting beside Trevor," she said to Evan who got in the middle in the backseat. She slid in beside him, Chad got into the driver’s seat in front of Jenni. No one spoke on the ride. Chad and Jenni were both mad, Celia was sick, Trevor drank his last beer and the alcohol was having an affect on him now. His eyes were sleepy and his head bobbed around heavily. Evan just sat there. Jenni measured Chad’s driving as he went along. He seemed to stay in between the lines fine and drove at a normal pace, no more than 60 on the county road. She relaxed a bit but kept her eyes on the road over Chad’s shoulder.

At once, everyone began to get sleepy. It was almost midnight and had turned out to be a long night. Jenni had to be home by then, or else. She didn’t want to even think what her father would do. It was all she could do to get him to allow her to go out with a senior in the first place. And then to get him to allow a midnight curfew, that was an ordeal beyond description. They moved along the dark road at a good pace and without any traffic in town at this time, she’d make it home just in time. Celia, Evan, and Trevor were all asleep now. Jenny sat back in her seat and looked out the passenger window. Chad’s beer drinking surprised and disappointed her. They’d always expected they’d drink something sometime. But Jenni always imagined it would be much later, when they’re much older, and when they were together. Certainly not with Trevor and certainly not some warm beer they’d bought from Mexicans at Lake Lawton. She was upset but would discuss this at another time, alone with Chad.

Out the window, she could make out trees passing by amid the farm fields in the moonlight. She looked up at the moon that was high overhead now. It made a perfect half circle and she tried to decide if it was more or less than exactly half and couldn’t decide which. Suddenly, Chad jerked the car to the left. Everyone in the car jumped up alarmed. In an instant, Jenni saw a truck crossing an intersection directly in front and to the right of them, no lights on. Chad swerved to the left screeching the tires. The truck didn’t slow but buried into the right side of Trevor’s car. The car jolted up off the asphalt throwing the passengers around like popcorn; glass shattered loudly all around them. With its nose in the side of the car, the truck drove the car down along the opposite street as if Chad had made a 55 mile-per-hour left turn. The car skidded sideways off the pavement, flipped twice, and slid down into a ditch where it stopped in another jolt. The car rested at a 45 degree angle, its left side against the bottom of the ditch, its right side pinned by the truck. Everyone stunned, the truck sat on top of the car, its right front bumper jammed deeply into the front passenger side of Trevor’s car where Celia had sat. Celia was not there. Evan and Trevor were piled onto Jenni’s lap. Jenni could feel ditch water creeping into the car and soaking into her blouse and shorts. The truck revved its engines and spun its tires trying to back up. Trevor’s car lurched along with the truck, the two knotted in twisted metal. The truck kept lurching until finally it broke free with a "bang!" then screech of metal. Then, it spun its tires on the asphalt and sped away seemingly undamaged.

"Is everyone okay?" Chad’s voice called.

"I’m okay," Jenni answered. Evan tried to untangle himself from Trevor and they both tried to push up off of Jenni.

"Evan?"

"I’m all right."

"Trevor?"

"What the hell happened?"

"We got T-boned."

"Did you fall asleep?"

"No."

"Did you fall asleep?" Trevor repeated.

"No."

"What happened?" Trevor wasn’t making sense.

"We got T-boned," Chad said again.

"Where’s Celia?" Jenni asked?

"I don’t know," Chad answered.

"She’s not back there?"

"No." They noticed the windshield was entirely gone.

"Get out!" Jenni yelled at Trevor and Evan. "Get off me and get out!"

The left side doors rested against the bottom of the ditch. The front passenger’s door was bent in where Celia had been sitting. Trevor tried to open his door but it was jammed. The door unlatched but would not open. He pushed with his shoulder and it opened a few inches then stopped. He fumbled around some more then announced that it couldn’t be opened.

"What do you mean it won’t open? Push it!" Chad yelled. Trevor tried again, fumbling more than pushing. "Push it open!" Trevor was useless.

Evan tried to push but couldn’t move it. Jenni was stuck beneath the two. Chad was getting mad at Trevor and announced he was coming back. He climbed up around the indented portion of the car into the backseat. The four of them stumbled over each other awkwardly until Chad was up by the door. He pushed with his arms, then shoulder but it would not open any more than what Trevor had opened it. Then he turned around with his back to the door and placed one foot on the driver’s headrest and one on the center brakelight. He pushed with his legs and shoulders, his eyes closed and teeth gritting. The door pried open until Chad had straightened his legs. The door had opened about a foot—enough to crawl out. Chad climbed out then helped the others up and through the opening. Chad had blood stains on his shirt as did Trevor but no one appeared severely hurt.

On the street, they called and looked around for Celia. They walked back along the road looking in the weeds.

Then a fear hit Jenni, "What if she’s in the ditch? She could drown if she’s face down." Chad and Trevor ran down to the ditch and looked along it.

"Get in and walk it," Chad called.

“Get in the ditch?” Trevor asked.

“Yes. Get in a walk it.”

“In the water?”

“Yes. Get in the freaking water Trevor!”

They walked into the knee deep water and waded, Chad toward the car, Trevor away. They moved slowly so as not to step on her if she was in the water yet quickly enough to find her. Chad went all the way to the car, got out, then moved in front of it and waded further. He didn’t want to even think that she might be pinned underneath the car. It was quiet now along the highway except for the two boys wading and tromping through mud and weeds.

"There she is," Evan’s voice called calmly. He pointed back across the highway, across the other ditch, up on the bank. She lay motionless.

"Oh God," Jenni said, "how did she get all the way over there?"

Chad rushed over and got to her first. The others followed, stumbled down, then across, then up the ditch and huddled around Celia.

"Is she okay?!" Trevor asked wildly, flailing his arms up and down like a bird. "Is she okay?!"

"She’s hurt badly. We need to get an ambulance," Chad announced. Trevor burst out into a deep cry and fell to his knees.

Chad looked up at Jenni, "Get your cell phone, call 911, hurry!" Before going back to the car to look for the phone, Jenni peaked at Celia. A large gash swept down the right side of her neck starting behind her ear and down over the back of her shoulder. It was black inside the wound. Chad took off his shirt and held it over the cut.

"Hurry!" he’d yelled.

Sitting there in the Garden Hall, looking at the gazebo, listening to the soft music, Jenni didn’t want to think about the accident anymore. She didn’t want to think about climbing into the car, practically standing on her head and fumbling through the ditch water with her hands to find the phone that had ejected from her purse. She didn’t want to think about trying to dry the water from the buttons and praying it still worked. She didn’t want to think about waiting for the ambulance or about the paramedics lifting Celia into the back as her arm flapped on the side of the stretcher. She didn’t want to think about her parents driving out to the site at 1:00 AM or waiting in the hospital as her Dad held her crying. She didn’t want to think about the doctor telling them that Celia had lost too much blood and that she didn’t make it. Jenni didn’t want to think about how Chad had been charged the next day with DUI manslaughter and drinking underage. Or how Trevor had pretty much lost it and basically became a drunk. Or how Chad’s lawyer cut a deal so that he had four years probation and had to serve 200 hours community service and attend a boot camp for two weeks for juveniles even though he’d just turned 18. Or how he lost his appointment to Annapolis that he’d wanted so badly. She’d thought of those things too much since the accident and didn’t want to think of them tonight.

So, Jenni just sat and listened to the music playing. She began to cry. After a time, she wiped her tears, took a deep breath to buck up, and let it out quickly. "I’m okay," she told herself aloud, stood and headed back toward the Garden Hall. The servers had finished cleaning up and had taken away all of the chairs and tables from the lawn. Jenni held the front of her dress at the thighs as she stepped up the stairway to the Hall. As she stepped onto the back porch, she heard someone say, "Hey." She looked to her right. Someone was standing on the porch in front of a wicker chair and stepping forward into the light Jenni could see that it was Chad.

Chapter 11

Winter Haven, FL

Tuesday, September 2

8:55 PM

"Chad," Jenni gasped. He stood at the end of the porch wearing US Navy dress-whites, his cap tucked under his left arm.

"Hello, Jenni."

"I...I can’t believe...You surprised me."

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to."

"How long have you been there?"

"A little while. I saw you sitting on the bench in the garden."

She walked over to Chad.

"It’s nice to see you. It’s been a long time," she said somewhat formally and gave him a friendly hug. His shoulders were wider than they had been in high school. Chad placed his face close to Jenni, his cheek aside the top of her head. He breathed in deeply during the hug. Her hair smelled fresh and clean; a smell he had not sensed in over three years.

"I know, it’s been too long. I’m sorry," he said as they separated. "I’ve had some things to work out."

Jenni didn’t know what to say to that, so she added, "You look great. You’ve beefed up a bit."

"Yes, I’ve put some pounds on," Chad smacked his belly.

"No, I mean you’ve put some muscle on. You look good, strong."

"Thanks. Lifting weights and running do that to you. You look fantastic, as always. You’re as pretty as ever. I’ve forgotten how beautiful your hair is." Chad reached out and held the whisps of Jenni’s hair by her left temple softly in his fingerstips. He twirled the curls around his index finger then swept the lock back out of her face. "I’ve missed you, Jenni."

Again, Jenni wasn’t sure what to say but she was getting over the surprise and was getting her wits about herself.

"It has been a while." Then she added, "Too long, Chad."

Chad looked at her without speaking. They were the only two people on the porch. They stood face to face, Chad looking downward and Jenni with her head to the side, chin up, her eyes angling up to Chad’s. Music and laughter fell out of the open double doors onto the porch. Light from inside the Garden Hall streamed out onto the porch as well, illuminating the steps down onto the lawn.

"Can we talk?" Chad asked.

"Sure."

"Come on," Chad said and pointed to the lit stairway with a quick jab of his head. They walked down the steps and into the garden. Chad with his hands casually in his pockets, Jenni holding her small purse with both hands in front of her. They passed the bench she’d sat on and started along the path leading into and through the garden. Jenni looked him over as they walked. Even through the navy whites she could tell he’d gotten more muscular. He walked with good, straight posture and a strong gait, but looked downward at the grass with something on his mind. His face too, was older, with stronger, angled jaws. His neatly trimmed hair was the same, sandy and whispy; his eyes were also the same as they had been in high school, serious but with a glint of playful mischief in them. It really is Chad only more mature, Jenni thought to herself, and he really does look good.

"Look at you in that uniform. So handsome," Jenni said. Chad chuckled and shook his head once.

"The Navy has been good to me so far. Sometimes I think going to a regular college and ROTC program is even better for me than Annapolis would have been. It’s given me the chance to be in the regular world, at school, and I’ve been able to be in the military. I’ve done a lot of growing up, Jenni."

"I see."

"I’m not trying to brag, but I’ve done really well in the ROTC program. Last summer I got to spend four weeks on a destroyer in the Mediterranean. I did well enough that this year I spent the entire summer on a nuclear submarine. I just got off it last Wednesday. It was unbelievable. They flew me to Hawaii on a military jet, that’s a story in itself, I had twenty-four hours to goof around in Hawaii. Another ROTC fellow and I rented mopeds. We went all over that island on those scooters! Then we got on the sub, we headed out to sea, and we patrolled all through the Pacific. I really don’t know where we went, they keep that information pretty secret, but we were all over. I earned this award, too." He pointed to a small ribbon above his chest pocket. "It doesn’t look like much but it goes to the top ROTC person. I got it out of about ten others."

"It sounds like things are really working out for you."

"They are. This time next year I’ll get commissioned as an officer. Then, they’ll send me off to who knows where. It’s kind of exciting."

"Wow. I’m impressed Chad. But not surprised. All that makes me look pretty bad! I’ve just been living at home and going to the community college! I’ll transfer to a university after this year, probably Gainesville."

"There’s nothing wrong with that." They walked slowly along the garden pathways in no particular direction or order. "Jenni, there are some things I’d like to tell you," Chad began.

"Okay." Jenni worried.

"I want to talk about what happened, about the accident."

"I’d really rather not. I don’t like to think about it. It’s still hard."

"Not about the accident itself so much, but what happened later. What happened between us."

"Okay." Jenni was curious now and frightened at what she might hear.

"Well, basically, I didn’t get to see you anymore."

"Yes, I know that. It’s been quite a while, Chad."

"Right after the accident your Dad kind of put you on lockdown until the school year ended."

"It was longer than that!" Jenni chuckled.

"And I had to go to court, then I had to go to that boot camp. After that they sent me to a prep school to take crammed classes the rest of the summer just so I could graduate. I was really lucky to get into UConn that Fall." Chad paused.

"I’m listening," was all Jenni said. She knew all about what Chad had been doing by way of the grapevine but she wanted to hear his version of the story anyway so she acted dumb. She could feel anger rising and she wanted to blurt, ’Why didn’t you just call? Or write? Or something?’ but she stayed quiet for now.

"Well, I went to the University of Connecticutt, it’s a beautiful school. My freshmen year was good. My grades could have been a little better, but I did okay. That summer I went to an ROTC camp for a couple of weeks then went back to Connecticutt to work for the local Rec. Department. I worked full time with no pay just to clear my community service hours but I got them done. It was fun too. I got to coach little kids in baseball. Then, I went back to school, then on the destroyer, back to school this past year, then on the sub. I’ve been really busy."

Jenni still hadn’t heard what she was listening for so she blurted, "Chad, why didn’t you call? Or write? Just something?"

Chad stopped walking and breathed in. "I don’t know Jenni. I guess for a bunch of reasons. I didn’t think you’d want me to after I screwed up. I knew your Dad didn’t want me to. I was kind of down on myself; I let myself down that night and did some things I know I shouldn’t have done.”

“Oh Chad, I was so in love with you. You just left. You left and never looked back.”

“I let myself down that night Jenni. I let you down too. Even if I hadn’t been drinking I don’t think I could have missed that truck. But, if we hadn’t wandered off, then we wouldn’t have gotten the beer, and we would have left earlier and we never would have seen that truck."

"You can’t ’what if’ everything like that."

"Yes, but it’s true. Basically, I didn’t think I deserved to be with you. That’s the bottom line, Jenni, you deserved somebody better than me.”

“Stop it Chad.”

“I needed to grow up Jenni. I needed to be away from you to do that."

Jenni took in a deep breath, tilted her head back, and looked up at the stars through the oak trees overhead. “Have you grown up?"

“Yes, I have. That’s why I’m here. I knew you’d be here tonight, that’s why I came. I leave early tomorrow morning to get back to school. I’m already a week late because of the sub duty. I’ve missed you so much, Jenni, I think about you every day."

Jenni was getting more nervous now. She started walking again. Chad followed her. “Chad, I know you’ve had other girlfriends,” she said without looking at him.

Chad wished there hadn’t been other girls, but he wouldn’t lie to Jenni. "There have been other girls," he said reluctantly, "but they weren’t really girlfriends. They were just somebody to do stuff with. To go to movies with. They’re really more friends than anything."

"Did you kiss them?"

"A couple I guess."

"How many girls were there?"

"I don’t know. Some were friends, some were a little more than friends. None were serious. We kissed a couple of times."

Jenni decided, ’What the heck?’ and asked, "Did you do anything else besides kiss?"

"Of course not, Jenni," Chad said sincerely. "You know how I feel about that. Besides, like I said, they were really just friends."

"You mean those girls weren’t after you?"

"I’m not saying I didn’t have the chance to do something," he said if a half-bragging, joking way, "but I didn’t."

Jenni smiled with the side of her mouth away from him so he couldn’t see. She was terribly jealous but still kind of flattered that other girls were after Chad.

"Besides Jenni, you’re the only one for me, always have been—you know that. You’ve got to believe that. That’s why I’m here." He stopped and took her by both hands. "I miss you, Jenni. I really do. I want you back."

Jenni’s heart was racing now.

"I brought you a present."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little white box, a ring box. ‘Oh God!’ Jenni thought, he’s not going to propose or anything is he? ‘Oh God!’

Chad opened it and held it out for Jenni to see. It was a petit, oval sapphire, her birthstone, set in an elegant, curving gold ring.

"It’s nothing expensive. I hope it fits; I just guessed at the size."

Jenni was relieved—it wasn’t a diamond. "It’s beautiful, Chad. I don’t know what to say."

"It’s an honor ring, not a promise ring because promises are too easy to break, but an honor ring. I’m telling you right now, on my honor, that I’ll come back for you. Really come back for you one day. Will you accept this ring Jenni Brackett?"

Jenni didn’t say anything, her heart racing. She just looked at the ring. It really was pretty, a deep blue in the night; the gold gleamed from the lights above in the garden’s trees. Jenni breathed in deeply.

"I wish I had something to give you." Chad took Jenni’s left hand and held her fingers out. Immediately, he noticed the ring on her pinky. "You still have that ring!" They looked at a cheap, fake silver ring with a pink heart in it.

"Yes, I wear it all the time."

"I’d forgotten all about it. Wow."

"You told me to hold it for you, so that’s what I did."

"I remember. I found it in the beach sand and put it on my pinkie, as far as it would go, then showed it to you. You said the pink heart was just right for me!"

"Then you gave it to me to wear, just to ’hold onto it’ for you."

"Yes." Chad smiled reminiscingly. “That was during Spring Break, just a few weeks before the accident. That’s wonderful that you still wear it. Very sweet."

Chad smiled warmly knowing that Jenni still wore the ring. “So, will you accept this honor ring?”

Jenni took her eyes of the ring and looked up at Chad. He had a sincere, serious expression on his face. She blinked her eyes and answered, “I’ll wear it.”

Chad took the sapphire ring out of the box and slid it slowly onto Jenni’s ring finger, beside the little pink hearted ring. She hadn’t exactly answered ‘Yes’, but she did say that she’d wear it.

"It fits perfectly," Jenni said.

"It’s not too tight?"

"No. It’s perfect. Thank you." She raised up on her heels and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Here."

Jenni pulled the little heart ring off her pinky and gave it to Chad. "I held this ring for you for three years," she said jokingly, "now you can hold onto it." Chad wanted her to keep it. It made him feel terrific that she had worn it all this time. But, she had a new ring now, an honor ring, and she was giving the little ring back to him. He took the ring then fiddled with the back of his collar. He dug around inside the tight collar until he pulled out a silver chain he was wearing. He unclasped the chain, slid the tiny ring onto it, then clasp it again. He pulled the ring to his lips, gave it a little kiss, then tucked the chain and ring away inside his collar again.

"I’ll wear it all the time."

"Won’t your college and Navy buddies laugh at you for wearing a little ring with a pink heart?"

"I don’t care. Besides, I won’t let them see it." He smiled and held her hands again. Jenni stood face to face with Chad in the garden, him holding her hands in his, and he was asking to have her back. Jenni looked into his eyes; he was serious. Her heart still pounded beneath the black sequined strapless gown but she kept herself poised on the outside. She wanted to throw her arms around him and say, ’Yes, I’ll have you back, I still love you as much as before, Chad’ but, despite what her heart told her to do, she kept a level head. What if he wasn’t sincere? What if those other girls weren’t just friends? What if Mr. Big College Boy, Mr. White Navy Suit was just looking for a play? He’s in town tonight and leaves tomorrow so why not? Mr. Smooth Operator. Mr. Mediterranean and Hawaii. Besides, Chad had hurt Jenni deeply. That would be too easy to just show up, say the right words, give her a ring, and everything is okay. It would take more than that. It would take time and Jenni still wasn’t sure if she could ever let Chad back into her heart again the way it had been. Too much had happened and things were too different now.

Suddenly, a sadness came over Jenni and she thought she might begin to cry in front of Chad. Jenni broke off eye contact and turned and walked quickly up the path toward the gazebo. Chad followed. Jenni stepped up onto the gazebo and stood aside one of the pillars. Chad joined her without speaking. They stood silently, listening to the soft music and crickets. Jenni looked out toward the garden; Chad, behind her, looked over her shoulder at her cheek. A tear streamed down it slowly. Chad turned her softly by the shoulder and wiped the tear away gently with the back of his fingers.

"It’s not that easy, Chad. You broke my heart."

"I’m sorry, Jenni. Let me make it up to you."

"It’s not that easy. It takes time. I loved you so much, Chad. So much. I trusted you. I would have done anything for you. I don’t know if I can trust you anymore."

Chad didn’t speak. What Jenni said was all true.

"I’m sorry for what happened, but, I can’t change it. I just want you to give me a chance to make it up to you. I love you, Jenni. I always have, you know that."

Jenni choked up even more and started to cry. She put her hands over her eyes and wiped, her mascara starting to blur.

"I just can’t do it right now. Goodbye, Chad," she said and hurried up the pathway and into the Garden Hall. Chad stood alone, in the gazebo, in the dark.

Chapter 12

Winter Haven, FL

Wednesday, September 3

10:10 AM

Jenni slept late the next morning then lay in bed even longer until she knew Chad was long gone and headed back to the University of Connecticut. She lay on the bed with her eyes open, staring out the window at the leaves of the sycamore tree on the front lawn. The pointy leaves bristled gently in a light breeze, waving back at Jenni. She ran through her mind over and over what had happened the night before. She arrived at no conclusion, so, she simply laid in her bed and looked out the window.

There was a knock at her door.

"Jenni," her father’s voice called. "You getting up this morning?"

"Yes, Daddy, I’m coming."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I’m fine." The colonel knew the ’something’s bothering me’ voice and he cracked the bedroom door open slightly then slowly poked his eyes in.

"Good morning, Sugar."

"Good morning, Dad. Come on in." Jenni scooted up and slid over on her bed in invitation for her Dad to sit beside her. The colonel came in and walked over to the bedside. The best talks Jim Brackett ever had as a father occurred sitting on that bed as his daughter sat up or laid down and looked out the window as they spoke. When Jenni was a child, it was there that he’d read countless stories, often more than once, and they’d made up their own stories together. When she was older, they’d discussed drugs and alcohol, their faith, boys and sex, falling in love, big dreams in life, failure and success, and the importance of family. He spoke straightforwardly, without sugar on top, but always with care in his voice. He wanted to teach Jenni all that he’d learned, every part of life, good and bad, warts and all, reasoning, ’She’s going to learn about it somewhere, so, she can learn it from me. Aware of the bad, she’ll make her own decisions and they will be the right ones.’ Although Jenni was the talker and the colonel was the quiet one, at these times the roles reversed. The colonel didn’t mind talking on and on, sometimes in a rambling fashion, and Jenni didn’t mind mostly listening. After he’d kissed her good night and left she’d lie in bed and think about the things he’d said until she fell asleep. Then, when she awoke in the morning, she’d get up and go on about her business.

Over the past two years the talks had become less frequent and had practically subsided. The colonel knew Jenni really had things sorted out clearly. He missed the talks but had to remind himself, ’She’s almost 20 years old now, a young woman and adult, not a little girl.’ Besides, they almost always agreed on matters and she knew what her Dad would say in almost any situation. She often told him what he was thinking before he could even say it so that he would just nod his head and say, ’That’s right.’ It drove Dottie Brackett crazy. ’Those two can talk without even talking,’ she’d tell others, ’some kind of secret language they have. Then, I have to beg them to tell me what’s going on.’

There really wasn’t a reason for the colonel to worry about his daughter. Compared to her friends, she had her ducks in a much straighter row, was much more mature and level-headed. Simply, she had things together. Still, Lt. Colonel James Brackett, as Daddy, was a professional worry-wort. More importantly, he prayed for his daughter daily. So, with concern, the colonel sat down on the bed.

"Nice day, huh?" He said lamely.

"I guess."

"What’s going on?"

"Just being lazy this morning."

"That’s okay. Everybody deserves to be lazy every now and then, as long as it’s not a habit."

"Yeah. Next week when classes start back I sure won’t be able to do this."

"Yep." The colonel paused and looked out the window for a moment. "You walked home last night from the ball."

"Yes."

"Any reason?"

"Not really." The colonel could tell there was. He continued, "I wanted to dance with my daughter but when I looked around for her, no, she was gone. The girl I brought to the dance just up and leaves me. Stands me up."

"Sorry Daddy. You danced with Mom didn’t you?"

"Of course. She didn’t want to get off the dance floor. It’s a good thing it was all slow music, that’s pretty easy to move to."

"You didn’t ask them to play any fast, dance music so you could bust it out and throw it down on the dance floor?" Jenni smiled and did a little shaking, jig move in bed.

"No. I try not to bust out or throw down anything anymore or I wind up in the emergency room. I sure missed you though."

"Yeah." Jenni relaxed her smile and looked out the window again.

"I know you don’t care but I promised to pass this message along, Brandon Gamble asked me to tell you ’Hello’ and that he missed you last night too."

"Oh God." Jenni rolled her eyes.

"I’m just passing it along for what it’s worth. He asked me to and I said I would. That’s all."

"Thanks Dad." The colonel was sure something was on her mind. He’d wait without pressing until she was ready to tell him. He’d leave the door open and when she’s ready, she would tell him. That’s how it had always worked. It didn’t take long.

"Chad Hamilton was at the ball last night, Daddy” Jenni blurted.

"He was?"

’Well that was sooner than I expected,’ the colonel thought.

"Yes. We spoke for a bit, in the garden."

"I didn’t see him. What did he have to say?" Concern grew in the colonel and he began to go into full-scale worry-mode.

"He was catching me up on where he’d been and what he’s been up to. He seems to really be doing well."

"That’s good for him. What was he doing back here after all these years? I thought he ran away for good."

"He just got off some ship. Or submarine. He’s been at UConn and is in the Navy ROTC program. He spent the summer on a sub in the Pacific doing something."

"Why was he here?" The colonel wanted to know his motives.

"He’s visiting. His parents do live in town you know."

"I’m just surprised that he’d show his face around here. He’s hid like a coward for three years."

"Dad, he’s been at school and doing ROTC stuff every summer. He’s doing really well. He just won an award for best ROTC guy."

"He’s also been in jail. And, the military gives away awards if you can successfully tie your shoes. Those awards don’t mean anything."

"So if I threw away your purple heart it would be okay."

"I’d live."

"Stop being mean, Daddy. Chad’s doing really well, be happy for him. He’s grown up a lot since the accident. He’s really got it together." Jenni wasn’t sure why she was defending Chad.

"I’m not trying to be mean, Jenni. All I know is that I trusted Chad Hamilton and he broke that trust. He came to me as a high school senior and asked me if I’d allow him to take my daughter, a sophomore, out on a date. I thought that was a pretty grown up thing for a high school boy to do and that really impressed me; I liked him a lot and started to think of him almost as a son. Up until he blew it." The colonel paused and gritted his teeth. Lines became visible across his forehead like ripples in the sand."

"Then, that night," he continued, "he decided to drink beer then to drive a car with four other people in it and a girl got killed because of it. It just as easily could have been you. I can‘t accept that as being okay. I simply can’t."

"Dad, we’ve been over this before. He was driving fine. I watched him to be sure. That truck just zoomed out through the stop sign, right in front of him, no lights on at all. They were probably really drunk. There’s no way he could have missed it; you would have hit it too. Besides, Chad had to fight the keys away from Trevor, I mean literally fight him. Trevor was the one who had been drinking a lot, not Chad."

"Still, he put himself in a situation where you questioned his driving ability. He shouldn’t have driven. He should have gotten the keys away from Trevor then given them to you when you asked for them. He made stupid, school-boy decisions and the consequences were tragic." Jenni wasn’t going to win this discussion. They’d had it before and the results were always the same: her father would not forgive Chad for that night.

"I know you won’t let it go Dad, but Chad really seems to be more grown up and doing well."

"Good for him. Is that all he wanted to talk about; how well he’s doing?" Jenni hesitated and wondered if now was the time to mention it or if she should even mention that Chad wants her back again. ’Why not?’ she wondered and said quickly, "He said he wants me back. He wants things to be like they were before."

That’s exactly not what the colonel wanted to hear, but what he expected.

"He’s been gone for three years then bam!, he’s back and it’s like nothing changed?" The colonel shook his head. "I thought you were over him."

"I was. I am. I’m just telling you what he said."

"What did you tell him?”

"I told him exactly what you just said, that it wasn’t that simple. After three years you can’t just turn it back on again like a faucet."

"What did he say to that?"

"I don’t know. That’s when I left. It was kind of hard talking to him; kind of weird."

"He has to go back to school soon doesn’t he? And then fulfill his obligation in the Navy after graduation. How does he plan to get back with you like that?"

"I don’t know and yes, he left this morning for Connecticutt. He’s already gone."

"Good." The colonel was glad Chad was gone but wished he hadn’t ruffled Jenni’s feathers before leaving. "Are you sure you’re okay?"

"I’m fine Daddy. It was just strange talking to him again. I was a little choked up last night, but I’m okay now."

"Good."

Jenni puckered her cheeks and reflected for a moment.

"It’s just that even though I was young, I really thought Chad would be the one. We both really believed that. Then everything changed the night of the accident."

"Well, there’s a lot of boys out there Jenni. You’ll find the right one. When you go away to the university there’ll be more boys than you want. You’ll wish they’d leave you alone."

"Yeah, right."

"That is right, as pretty as you are they’ll be banging on the door. Now that I think of it, I don’t know if I want you to go away to school!" The colonel smiled.

"You’re such a bad liar Dad. There’s nothing special about me."

"Oh stop being modest. You are what the boys I grew up with would call ’Pure Gold’ because you’ve got it all. Don’t you forget that. You’ll be just fine without Chad Hamilton."

"Yeah, and you’re not biased or anything being my Dad." Jenni smiled coyly at her father then looked out the window again. A row of clouds had rolled in and the daylight was dimming. "I know I’ll be fine without him. It was just strange talking to him last night," she told the window.

"Yes."

"I know I’ll find the right guy some day. Why can’t I find someone like you, Daddy?" Jenni looked back at her father and smiled a broad smile with lots of teeth showing. "I’m in no hurry though. I thought Chad was the person but I was wrong."

The colonel felt more reassured now. Jenni lay in bed still smiling easily, looking up at her father who held her hand, then she added, "But, you know, he has really grown up and really is doing well." Jenni cut her eyes away from her Dad and looked far out the window again fiddling with the new sapphire on her left index finger under the blanket. The colonel sat quietly and felt the worry began to rise up inside of him again.

Chapter 13

National Hurricane Center

Miami, FL

Wednesday, September 3

6:44 PM

The WC-130 was still flying through the storm and the data they’d collected was even now into the computers and was telling enough information already even before they’d broken it down for analysis. The techs and meteorologists now knew what they were dealing with. Bill Douglass, the National Hurricane Center director, strode into the Storm Room carrying a large cup of coffee in his hand and a scowl on his face. He marched up to the center of the room and stood behind a large desk with several computer monitors on it.

"Okay people, what have we got? Pendleton, talk to me."

"It doesn’t look too good, Bill. We’ve got a mess."

"What kind of a mess? I want specifics." Bill Douglass stood stiffly squared up towards the front of the room, a large barrel chest out, crew-cut waxed, and was accustomed to barking orders. Game for a dirty joke now and then, the techs saw he was in one of his moods and there would be no jokes tonight.

"We’ve got three storms, Bill, two hurricanes and one TS. They’re lined up like a conga line, one right after the other."

"Conditions? Haskins?" Douglass barked.

"Let’s start with Hurricane Daniel," a feeble man with large black glasses began.

"Can we get it up on the screen?" Douglass hollered at anyone.

A projected satellite image of the Atlantic Ocean lit up a wall-sized grey screen in front of the Storm Room. Whereas other clouds streaked or spotted here or there on the map, the three storms dominated the picture. Three perfectly round and distinct balls of white floated amid the sea of blue. One of the techs tapped on his keyboard and the view zoomed in on the first storm, Daniel, and blew it up so that it covered the entire wall, then it started into motion. It circulated counter-clockwise, slowly and eerily, its eye tightening almost imperceivably.

"Right now, he’s a category 3," Haskins continued as Hurricane Daniel swirled on the screen, "winds at 115 miles per hour, sustained gusts to 135."

"Category 3, already?" Douglass asked rhetorically.

"Will probably be a cat 4 for tomorrow morning," Haskins answered. "He’s got perfect fundamentals." He swayed his head up to look at Douglass for any response. Douglass only stood statuesque with arms crossed and grunted an "ummph".

Haskins looked back to some papers he held a few inches in front of his face. "Width approximately 45 miles at hurricane winds, 90 at TS winds. Barometric pressure 957 millibars. Coordinates put him 400 miles west of San Juan, Puerto Rico. Moving east northeast at nine knots. At that pace, landfall on US soil would be no sooner than five days—around Monday, I guess. The good news is that our models have him staying south, maybe sliding into Mexico. We can thank a strong high pressure system over Arkansas for that. We expect him to hit somewhere around Monday or Tuesday."

Haskins flipped some papers on his desk and pulled others up. Let’s talk about Eileen. Again the three storms popped onto the screen and the view zoomed in again, this time on the second storm in the line of three, Eileen. "She was only category 1 when the plane flew threw but she was pushing cat 2. To be realistic, she’s probably already cat 2 as we speak. The data has winds at 85 MPH sustained. Width 30 miles at hurricane winds, 60 at TS winds. Pressure at 982 millibars, dropping insanely fast--36 millibars in the last twelve hours. Eye centered 575 miles due west of San Juan at 21 degrees 20 minutes north latitude, 39 degrees 22 minutes west longitude. That’s only about 200 miles behind Daniel. She’s right on his tail. And what’s more. Eileen is a dang good looking storm as well—picture perfect shape and dynamics. Textbook.”

“What are the water temperatures down there right now, Haskins?” Douglass asked.

“Pushing 80 degrees.”

“Perfect hurricane fuel,” Douglass said under his breath. “And the TS?”

Again, the huge screen zoomed out to view all three storms then back in again, this time on the third storm.

“Winds at 55 MPH already. Very good configuration; shows organization. I wouldn’t be surprised if its Hurricane Felix by tomorrow morning. The conditions are just that good right now.”

“I think you’re right,” Bill Douglass said then paused and thought. He ran his hand over his crew-cut head and down the back of his neck. The monitor zoomed out again to show all three storms. They slowly percolated around in a fermenting taunt. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve got to plan for three hurricanes. One after the other.”

Douglass walked over and poured himself a large cup of coffee then sat down in his chair. It was a big Lay-Z-Boy that he’d brought in because he couldn’t stand the clinical business style chairs that everyone else had to sit in. The Lay-Z-Boy was mocha brown corduroy and ugly as sin; yet, Bill Douglass had it broken in just right, the way he liked it. He’d carried the chair in one day all by himself and plopped it down smack in the middle of the Storm Room. No one questioned him or ever tried to move it, they just walked around it. From the chair, Bill could drink his coffee black, view the Storm Room screens, and bark out instructions which were to be carried out immediately.

"I want an action plan for three hurricanes heading for a major metropolitan area and I want it in one hour," he said. "Start." He sipped a long drag of his coffee hard.

Chapter 14

Stark, FL

Saturday, September 6

3:59 PM

A prison guard’s life revolves around worry. And now, with the storms in the Atlantic, the guards had even more things to worry about than their normal worry routine and they’d begun to worry hard about each problem individually. First there was the storms. Not only one massive storm but a second. And then there’s a third. In all the huzza of media blitz over the approaching of David, a powerful cat 4 storm, then the rebound press time for Eileen as she bore down on an even more direct route, some of the guards had noticed small talk of a third storm, Felix. The guards had to get their personal homes ready as did everyone else in Florida. Where plywood could be gotten, a couple of the men had screwed the wood up over large windows to their family rooms. Otherwise, duct tape was to be stretched across the glass in hopes of arresting shattered panes. Of course, no one wanted to really put the tape up unless absolutely necessary and at the last moment because the sticky glue never truly did come off short of careful chiseling with a new razor. For this reason, some folks stupidly stretched masking tape across windows as if the paper tape would halt a glass blade in flight without cutting. Most would be surprised when they removed the tape and found that it too left the gluey residue anyway. Still, the tape had to be purchased and ready which meant fighting long lines of frenzied people at the store in a night-before-Christmas atmosphere. Then the same had to be done with food and water. Canned goods were essential, the local TV stations told, and bottled water and candles and matches and a radio with fresh batteries and propane for the gas grill and fill up the bath tub just to be sure and clean up the yard from any loose items that the children might have laying about and which might go airborne and turn into missiles and projectiles that penetrate straight through palm trees and hurry up to do it all tonight because the storms are coming! The local news stations longed for and relished any approaching storm because they could slam into yellow journalism mode concealed as hard-hitting, for-the-people reporting. "Updates" would come every fifteen minutes complete with ominous, swirling satellite imagery. The anchor’s voices all reached a high, fast sing-song cadence underscored with the tone of urgency. After the storm had passed, the stations would say that they were the first to report the storm or that they’d shown the best overall coverage and the production guys would make slick thirty second back-patting commercials for themselves in congratulations which would prove their station really was the one true Storm Center. The end result of the TV Storm Hype was a frenetic populace and prison guards, away from prison, were part of that populace.

On top of the TV hype and getting things ready at home, the guards had real concerns at the prison. If a storm actually did hit, many precautionary measures had to be taken. Mostly, they involved the moving around of inmates which is no matter to be taken lightly. Of course, the prison was probably the safest place a person could be in during a storm, but a do-good legislature had passed statutes to ensure that prisoner lives would not be jeopardized by lethargic guards. The statutes mentioned, in ripe legalese, that prisoners in cells with a window of a certain square inchage that opened directly to the exterior of the building had to be relocated to an acceptable room, preferably interior. They’d even developed a formula as a ratio involving the plane area of any exterior windows to the quantity of prisoners in that room and had dubbed a certain level to be the cut-off to being satisfactory. Moving one or two men was nothing—they’d be cuffed at the hands and feet and then those cuffs would be linked with a chain and then the prisoners themselves would be chained together. Five guards would be assigned to move the men and two others would stand one gate away with rifles in hand watching. The guards didn’t sweat those moves.

Moving masses of troops was another issue altogether. There were two options, each providing undesirable possibilities. Option one was to move the men in the cuffs, perhaps up to four at a time. This method was safe because the guards never relinquish the fundamental tenet of always outnumbering prisoners, but the process would have to be repeated over and over revealing its weakness. There were nearly two hundred men who would need to be relocated. Moving four at a time meant doing the same drill fifty times. Theory held that doing the same thing fifty times in succession increased the chance for error. This was especially believed to be true in the tedious manner necessary to move the men where certain prescribed orders had to be spoken and certain prescribed answers had to be offered. Repetition, in its nature, drives the actions into the subconscious where men do things not because they thought to do them but simply because they’ve done them before. And, repetition offers the inmate a sense of control in that the inmate knows what will occur next almost to the point to which direction the guards will step next. Subconscious guards moving in pre-planned and known movements was dangerous and the guards knew it.

The second option was as equally unnerving to the guards as the first. Whereas the first option involved moving small numbers of prisoners, option two involved the guards’ most dreaded scenario, a mass moving. In this, the guards would be present only from "hawk’s nests" overhead. They’d hold rifles and carry bullhorns to direct traffic. Every door and every cell in the building could be opened by computer—a fact that caused many guards to have nightmares frequently of a glitch suddenly opening every door and releasing every prisoner to exact his own justice on any hated guard. In this plan for moving the prisoners, the appropriate cells would be opened once the guards were in place. The prisoners would file into the hallway. Then, door by door, the prisoners would move along in a herd, prodded by the yells from the bullhorns toward their storm quarters. The guards were safely perched in the hawks’ nests as long as things went smoothly. However, a mass of prisoners was unpredictable. A fight might erupt creating chaos. Fights were supposed to be broken up immediately but rarely were. Fights were usually left to be worked out in their own way. No guard or group of guards would step into a common area of two hundred prisoners in fight mode. The fundamental premise the guards had of always outnumbering and overpowering the prisoners would be lost. Still, if the fight persisted and one prisoner’s life began to be jeopardized, the guards would begin to feel the pressure to intervene rising up the backs of their necks. Letting a prisoner get pummeled to death would require much explanation to superiors and probably to lawyers and then politicians and jobs would likely be lost or worse in the search for a scapegoat and when scapegoats are searched for they are always found. Eventually, the guards would have to rush in with hopes of startling the group into backing off and apprehending the culprits to halt the riot. But, there was never any guarantee in such a situation.

The warden wanted to move the prisoners even less than the guards and had balked the whole while that Hurricane Daniel had slid just south of Key West and into the Gulf of Mexico. Just as the Hurricane Center had predicted, a huge high pressure system had popped up from Texas across to South Carolina. It threw up a huge block against even the massive category 4 hurricane. The cat 4 had wanted to turn north and follow its natural path. It felt the pull of the rounded earth northward and for six hours it had feinted northward, curling a track dead for Miami if the curl had continued. Miamians freaked out, buying everything in sight regardless of its value and utility. Many fled across Alligator Alley to Naples and shacked up in hotels on the Gulf coast to make a holiday of the ordeal. Most people just bought canned goods and water and panicked at the thought of a cat 4 hitting metro Miami. But, the high pressure system over the southeast counteracted the northward pull with its push and the net result was that the hurricane just drifted westward casually after its brief curl. A few islands had been strafed clean—bungalows blown away like tumbleweeds and fishing boats wrapped around trees. Mud slides had ridden down Caribbean dirt roadways. But, all in all, the storm had proven harmless as yet. It sat in the lower-middle third of the Gulf of Mexico, edging slowly west-northwest, and it steeped like tea just below boiling point. By all accounts, the high pressure system was to prevent it from turning northward and Daniel would eventually cruise across toward the Yucatan. The computer models were mostly in agreement of this theory with only one giving a 25% chance of it sliding up into south Texas. All the while, the warden had been watching the satellite imagery and the high pressure and the projections and hoping everything would hold and that he wouldn’t have to move the prisoners and the guards were relieved that that was exactly what had occurred.

The prison guards were aware of a third worry brewing inside them as they watched over the playground yard. Victor Slidell, the one the prisoners called "The Judge" was gaining followers. As he’d done each afternoon for months, he met in the corner of the playground quad to preach to his followers. Only, instead of having a dozen followers and another dozen listening because they happened to be standing in that area, The Judge drew upwards of one hundred men each afternoon. It was becoming clear to the guards that the men were buying into The Judge’s dogma. As he worked himself into a feverish pitch during his speeches, the men would respond in beckon-and-call fashion. The words and cadence they used had been hammered out due only to trial and error and circumstance. But, by now, a clear pattern of behavior and expectations had emerged. Newcomers were welcomed to the group initially. Then, as they became accustomed to the chants and message, the followers would begin to tighten the pressure on the newcomers to either join or be banned. Alarmingly, the newcomers usually opted to join The Judges group. They were given tattoos and then they were "Disciples" as Victor Slidell named them. The group mentioned a secret initiation beyond the tattoo but the guards could never unearth what it was. Apparently, it took place at night in the cells and there was no doubting that the men came through the initiation were changed men. Two men who were newcomers to The Judge’s "Roman Legion" had been given their tattoos and seemed happy to be joining. However, they both were found to be stiff and cold and very dead the next morning due to no apparent cause.

Additionally, the frenzied atmosphere that the hurricanes were causing outside the prison had filtered into the prison through TV and the more nervous than usual eyes of guards. The Judge sensed this change in the nervous fabric of society and he fed off of it, as if it were some type of quantifiable energy, elevating himself to a supercharged status.

He spoke with such energy that the veins of his neck thumped out to the point where observers thought he might hemorrhage. His disciples would occasionally faint. The others would simply let a fainting man fall to the concrete, often busting open the skin over his skull. Then he’d bleed openly on the cement until the blood clotted dark red and then he’d awaken.

"Listen to me," The Judge began as the prison guards looked on and listened without trying to let the other guards know it, "the time is very near."

The men, the disciples, grunted.

"There was a time when no one here was anything. When you were nothing more than dogs. You ate dog meat and lived in dog houses and were ordered around by masters."

Grunts.

"That day is about to end. The prophecy that has been told is about to be revealed. It will come from the heavens and sweep down over the plains and liberate the men who have been oppressed."

Grunts.

"The day is coming when I will be your leader to a new promised land. A land of equality where real men answer to no man. You are those real men, soldiers."

Grunts.

"You are Roman Legionairres. No one can oppress you once the time has come. Mark my word, it is soon. I’m not talking years away or even months. The time is near that the great event will occur. What it is I do not know. When it is I do not know. What I do know is that when it happens you’ll know it. When it happens you’ll feel it. You’ll live it. Some of us will not make it. And that is only the beginning of our adventure. Yes. When it happens it will embark us on an adventure beyond any you’ve ever imagined. Beyond any you could ever dream. All I know is that it’s coming soon."

Grunts.

"Is there anybody out there who believes the time is near?"

"Yes," the disciples said in unison.

"Is the time near?

"Yes."

"Are you with me?"

"Yes."

"Will you follow me?"

"Yes."

"Will you answer to me?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Are you really ready?"

"Yes." Some of the men were shaking large, quick shakes through the arms. The Judge’s face was tomato red.

"Then prove it," he said and backed off a step. He paused. "Prove it. Talk is hollow and you know it. I don’t want hollow talk. I want to be shown that you are ready and that you’re with me and that you are followers to me and me alone."

The disciples stood quietly; a few men had the expression of fear in their eyes. The early followers were excited, apparently privy to some inside information which frightened the others.

"Who will volunteer?" The Judge asked. "Step forward." No one wanted to move. The early followers felt they didn’t have to prove anything so it was not their place to step up. They were annoyed that none of the newer disciples didn’t immediately step forward. All of the men were scared of The Judge and terrified to volunteer for something they knew not. "I said who will volunteer?" The Judge repeated. He paused and the pressure of silence weighed in tons on the newcomers’ shoulders.

Finally, a very small man with a large birthmark on the left side of his neck took one step forward. He was called “Roach” because the birthmark resembled a palmetto bug trying to crawl into his ear. Immediately after Roach volunteered, his buddy who was always with him, a dopey looking fellow named Joe, did also. Almost without exception, prisoners went by aliases or handles, usually appointed by other prisoners early in their incarceration. The handles would allude to a personality quirk such as Blabbermouth—a man who had not spoken one word since being imprisoned as far as anyone knew or men were named after some physical anomaly as was Roach or Shaky who had an occasional twitch in his right arm. Joe, however, had somehow escaped a labeling, perhaps because his persona was so dominatingly bland and unnoticeable that no nickname ever came into anyone’s mind or perhaps because Joe was just regarded by everyone as something that happened to be there, like a lamppost or a park bench. There is no need to rename such things. Most likely, he was never given any handle simply because no moniker could better sum up everything average about the man better than just, “Joe.”

"I’ll volunteer," Roach said.

"Me too," said Joe.

“I knew it would be you,” The Judge said and smiled at Roach but not addressing Joe. “Come on up here.” He motioned kindly for them to take front and center with him. Roach and Joe worked their way through the crowd toward the front. “You boys are special. You are fortunate. More fortunate than most. You will be anointed today in a special way.” The men parted ways as the two volunteers worked forward. When they reached the front and had turned around to face the group, Roach began to feel important. He shook a bit from nerves because no one other than Blacksnake really ever was bold enough to speak to The Judge. Blacksnake was The Judge’s first lieutenant, his right hand man. Anything too undignified for The Judge to do, like assembling a crowd for a special lecture was issued to Blacksnake who handled such situations by issuing decrees meant to be followed without question—and were.

More than any other man, except maybe The Judge himself, Blacksnake was feared. He was large with forearms like lighter stumps, yet he wasn’t hulking like some of the inmates. However, his eyes were ice grey and bore of cruelty without remorse. Legend supported his eyes’ appearance. Blacksnake had been in the prison longer than anyone and his reputation was passed around the prison lot in whispers. Everyone normally suspected what they’d heard around the grounds was untrue or certainly exaggerated, but the stories were never questioned outside a man’s own thoughts. The one point on which there was agreement was how Blacksnake had gotten his name.

One afternoon, in his early days of imprisonment, he’d been standing alone near the fence looking out across an open field toward freedom. About thirty yards up the fence line, a large indigo snake suddenly slithered through the grass and into the prison yard. The black-blue snake was over six feet long and moved quickly. Men jumped and ran when they saw it and a small commotion was created. The basketball game stopped mid-dribble to look at the intruder sliding along the court edge. The snake made a bee-line straight toward Blacksnake who stood still. As it drew near him, Blacksnake dipped down at the knees and with a cat-quick sweep he drew his hand across the snake’s back, where it might have had shoulders, and snatched it up. He grabbed the snake’s head and let it writhe about. Then, he walked quickly straight toward the nearest man who happened to be standing and holding the dormant basketball and who simply happened to be watching the odd occurrence nearby. In short quick swipes, Blacksnake began to flog the man with the snake. He drew the snake up high like a bullwhip then let it slap down on the man. At first the man was startled and was hit cleanly across the face. Then he tried to back away and raised his hand to protect his face to divert the whipping. He tried to run but Blacksnake slung the snake at his feet like a lasso and wrapped up his feet, tripping the man. The basketball flung out of his hands and bounced away. The man lay on his back looking up at Blacksnake for any pity but saw only wrath through steel grey eyes. Blacksnake began to whip the man with hard overhand swipes. After several hits, the indigo snake became limp and the tip of its tail began to sling streaks of snake blood with each swipe. The man held all fours up, curled fetally, and covered his head with his arms. A crowd drew around the fight and Blacksnake continued his punishment. He breathed hard now and scowled, his lips tightly drawn. Welts began to form on the man’s face, red and raw. Blacksnake continued to whip. The snake made a wooshing sound as it flew toward the victim. Eventually, the man gave up and stopped trying to deflect the whipping and simply lay motionless in the tightest ball possible to take it. The men watching began to feel uncomfortable. Some wanted to step in but were afraid. If several of them stormed Blacksnake they’d certainly overtake him. No one wanted to move forward first for fear that the others would delay too long and Blacksnake would turn on him alone. So, they watched lamely. Blacksnake showed no signs of letting up and even hit harder now. He grunted with each thrust. The man’s light blue shirt was ribboned across his back with snake blood streaks and his own blood stained his face and hands. Finally, at the height of one of the swings, the snake broke off cleanly just below the head. The snake body flew across the quad and landed on the opposite end of the basketball court, with a slap and skid. Blacksnake stood up over the victim, drew a deep breath, looked at the snake head in his hand, and threw it at the man on the ground. Then, without speaking, he walked through the crowd, which gave him wide berth, toward the quad gate back into the prison. He became the “Blacksnake Man” then just “Blacksnake.”

Whereas Blacksnake was feared because of violence, The Judge was feared because of his preaching. He carried the mystery about him of a witch-doctor, claimed to see prophecy, and no one questioned that he was supremely insane. His insanity mixed with his prophecy to instill in men a fearsome fascination. To be sure, his wild sermons were novel release from the planned monotony of prison life. And, if for no other reason, The Judge was to be feared because he always had Blacksnake at his side and, shockingly, Blacksnake would do anything The Judge commanded.

Roach and Joe stood dumbly in front of the crowd awaiting instructions. The Judge was behind them, Blacksnake to their right.

“The time has come for faith to be proven,” The Judge began. “Here we have two strong followers. They are brave soldiers. Disciples and Roman Legionairres. Citizens of Rome. They will soon be disciples and citizens of New Rome.”

Roach felt a smile grow on one side of his mouth at the praise and tried to hold it back.

“Today, we will test their faith.” The Judge motioned for Blacksnake to come over to him. The Judge leaned to Blacksnake’s ear and whispered a moment, then stood up straight again and leaned back a bit to watch the proceedings.

Blacksnake announced, “Roach, come with me.” He led Roach over to a set of bleachers that lay at each end on the east side of the basketball court. “Climb up to the top row,” he commanded. Roach balked a moment, then realized he had four hundred eyes on him alone and that Blacksnake had given him an order. He stepped onto the first bench then walked up to the top, eight rows of benches in all. “Now turn and face to the back.” Roach did as he was told. He looked down the back side of the bleachers, he stood at a height of perhaps twelve feet.

“Very good, soldier,” The Judge said. “As a Legionairre, you are required to take action without question. Without regard in the slightest to yourself. What is good for the legion is good for you. I ask you, are you a Legionnairre?”

Roach had begun to fear what he was being told to do so he thought before answering. Yes, meant doing whatever was next. No, meant shame and perhaps punishment by Blacksnake.

“Yes,” he said in an unsteady voice.

“Are you a disciple?”

“Yes,” lamely.

“And who is your commander?”

“You are,” again, lamely.

“Correct. I command you—jump! Jump and you will become full. Jump!”

Roach looked down at the concrete below. It looked very high to him. ‘Twelve feet,’ he told himself to garner courage, ‘not too bad, that’s doable. I used to jump out of scalybark trees twice this high as a kid.’ Still, he hesitated, instincts getting the better of half-hearted thoughts that he knew were exaggerations. Two hundred men, followers of The Judge and the curious, watched him silently. Backing out meant disobedience, shame, ostracism, possible punishment, and now embarrassment. He flexed his knees, drew back his arms, and got ready in a 1-2-3-jump! fashion.

“Not like that!” Blacksnake yelled. “Like this.” Blacksnake held his right hand up vertically with the palm open. He stood it on his left hand which he held out flat to the ground to represent Roach on the bleachers. Then he swooped his right hand upward as if springing off a diving board toward a pool. His hand arced up then slowly turned downward. The tips of his fingers pointing forward then straight down toward the concrete. He drove his right hand perpendicularly into the palm of his left to illustrate the impact expected—a swan dive onto the concrete.

Roach was in disbelief. He had been commanded to dive head first off a twelve foot set of bleachers onto concrete.

“Dive down?” Roach said amazed. “Headfirst and dive?” Surely he’d mistaken. Blacksnake said nothing but repeated the hand motions again, slower.

‘That would break a man’s neck,’ Roach thought. He looked at The Judge in hopes that he would correct the instructions—certainly Blacksnake had misinterpreted The Judge’s whisperings. The Judge looked up at Roach, smiling faintly, arms crossed, and simply nodded slowly.

“Go ahead, son,” The Judge instructed, and then in a hypnotic whisper, “jump.”

Roach looked back down at the concrete below. The ground looked even further than before. He twiddled his fingers as if for balance and dexterity thinking how the best way to land on a cement ground while inverted and perpendicular. ‘Maybe I can catch most of my weight with my hands. Should I roll to the side then?’ he thought. ‘Or should I flop forward onto my back and kind of crunch down?’ Roach looked again at The Judge who waited expectantly, still smiling a wry, devious half-smile. Blacksnake merely glared up at the small man atop the bleachers with an expression of loath presumably because he’d issued an order and it was being carried out with delay. Peering over his left shoulder, Roach saw two hundred men standing like wooden statues and holding their breaths.

Finally, he looked down one last time at the ground and closed his eyes. The crowd craned their necks upward and forward. Then, in a quick and nimble sally, Roach spun an about-face and scampered back down the bench steps and stood in front of the first step on the concrete on which he was supposed to have dived.

A collective sigh of relief was issued as the crowd breathed again at once. The sigh was a mixture of relief and twisted disappointment that nothing more had happened. Many of the men, the one’s toward the front of the crowd, had bought into The Judge’s prophesying and were maddened by Roach’s disobedience. The others were finding the afternoon to be more than usually entertaining, albeit in a sordid manner, and didn’t want the climax to end with nothing more than a man walking down eight rows of aluminum benches.

Blacksnake was quick to allay their disappointment. Almost as soon as Roach’s feet had landed back onto concrete, Blacksnake rushed him. Still gushing ahead, Blacksnake reached back and hit Roach straight and squarely across the right jaw. Blacksnake was able to throw his surging weight behind the punch and lock out his elbow at the exact moment of impact. The first couple of rows could hear the mandible crack then grind bone-to-bone as it slid out of shape. Roach’s head spun ninety degrees leftward on the blow then recoiled back even beyond its starting position. His eyes were solid white when they rebounded back into view, the corneas and pupils having rolled up to look into his skull.

Amazingly, Roach was not unconscious, but still half-conscious on his feet. He stumbled back against the first row on the bleachers and began to drop slowly. Clearly incoherent, he still had enough innate, reflexive instincts to put his arms out to catch himself from toppling over into the bleachers. He hunkered over and hung his head, his back to Blacksnake. Blood began to pool rapidly in his mouth, filled it instantly, then drained burnt red onto the bright aluminum. The blood flowed freely from his mouth at the same rate that a man might wash his hands after pissing.

Roach’s head swaggered a bit, then, to everyone’s surprise, he began to stand up. He turned and rose slowly, showing his face to the crowd. The men closest to him let out small gasps when he faced them. Roach’s lower jaw was set clean off its hinges to the left. Aside from the flowing blood, his jaw was otherwise fine in appearance, but rather than lining up with his nose, the chin’s cleft lined up not with the septum of his nose but with his left earlobe. Roach raised his right hand outward as if to say, “I’m okay,” then tried to say something but no sound came out other than a gurgle. Blood curdled out with each syllable he attempted and drooled down the side of his throat to his neck. There was no chin from which the blood could drip. When he finished his attempt to speak, Roach tried to close his mouth, but his teeth overbit hard and mal-aligned and he broke a top incisor in half against the lower molars. The teeth grated so hard they made a squealing sound like fingernails on a chaldboard and the hair on men’s forearms raised.

Just then, Roach dropped his arm to his side and looked at Blacksnake who was beside him again. Some of the men thought they saw the faintness of a smile on Roach’s misshapen, grotesque face as he looked up at Blacksnake. His eye’s had rolled back forward and held the look of forgiveness, as though Blacksnake and he were old buddies and engaged in some fun-natured joshing. Again, as quickly as before, Blacksnake recoiled and struck. This time he hit at Roach straight forward rather than across the jaw. Blacksnake’s fist smashed Roach’s nose and blood splattered out both nostrils in a hollow, gushing pop! sound. Again, his head flew back and recoiled , this time as a forward-backward rocker. When the head bobbed back, Blacksnake was ready and drove his fist into Roach’s mouth. The two front teeth jolted loose and were sent into the back of his throat. The other top teeth cut the back of Blacksnake’s hand deeply as his fist drove into Roach’s head. Blacksnake pulled his fist from Roach’s throat and shook it in disgust at the misshapen man for having marred him.

At once, Roach’s legs crumbled. He didn’t fall over, as a tree being timbered, but fell straight down like an imploded building. First his ankles curled outward then his knees buckled down to the concrete. His upper legs and lower body sank like a rope that had been dangled then suddenly dropped. His upper body, neck, and head simply lay where they may on the pile of feet, calves, thighs, and abdomen in the same way that soft ice cream from a machine piles upon itself. When he was down, there really wasn’t a body but simply a pile of flesh laying on concrete, with blood pooling around it.

The men stood in fear and just looked. Blacksnake glared with disgust at the sorry man who’d cut his hand. The Judge looked on, his eyebrows raised, tssking to himself.

“Justice,” he said finally breaking the silence. “Justice is a hard thing. But, it is fair. This man was not a disciple as he said he was. He was not a Legionairre as he said. He was a deceiver!” The Judge said the word with zeal. “He walked amongst us and acted as though he were with us. He was not one of us as you can clearly see. Be cautious Legion! There are many in the Legion. There are also many deceivers. But one thing is clear. In the end, justice will reign!”

The Judge turned to Joe. Joe had not moved his eyes from Roach on the ground. Joe breathed heavily and through his mouth—so heavily that his chest heaved up and down unnaturally. The Judge noticed then that Joe had begun to cry. Quickly, tears poured down out of his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. They got three quarters down to his jawline then fell to his shoulders then were quickly replaced. Snot ran out of his nose and into the corners of his mouth.

“Joe!” The Judge called loudly. Joe snapped out of his trance and looked up at The Judge, his face gleaming in the sun. The Judge waved both hands toward the bleachers in a “you’re next” fashion and mouthed without speaking, “Jump.”

Joe drew breaths even harder, each one clearly audible. Veins along his temples popped out as his blood pressure had doubled in two minutes. He looked down at Roach, back at The Judge, then down at Roach again.

Then, as quickly as Blacksnake had lit upon Roach, Joe raced toward the bleachers. He passed Blacksnake at a sprint and bounded up the first row of bleachers. He flew up the bleachers, skipping a row with each step and going two at a time. When he reached the top he never broke stride and leapt off the top seat into the air. He soared, his inertia wielding him a moment toward the white puffy clouds beyond the high fence. Joe’s body began to arc softly and then his feet were as high as his head and he lay prone some five feet higher than the top of the bleachers. Then, having reached the arc’s apex, his nose began to wane downward and he began to gain speed. In a perfect swan dive, Joe drilled down toward the concrete. He held his arms out straight as a flying cross. Even when he hit the ground, inverted and vertical, he did not straighten his arms to break the fall but kept them stiff-out from the shoulders in an upside down flying cross.

He landed square on top of his head, crushing his sacral vertebrae and snapping his spinal cord. He was dead immediately. Aside from the crunching sound of bone driving on itself, there was no other apparent trauma. Whereas Roach’s punishment had been gory and grueling to watch, Joe simply dove onto his head and killed himself and now lay on the ground not too different as though he were asleep.

Again, the crowd of men stood dumbly.

“There,” The Judge said. “There is a good man. A true disciple, a true Legionairre. Joe is a hero to us all.” He looked up at the crowd and said, “Do not speak of brother Joe, ever. He is a hero and you are not worthy to speak of him. And the deceiver never existed.” With that, he walked away as far as the outside quad would allow him. Blacksnake followed.

Chapter 15

Lake Wales, FL

Monday, September 8

9:12 AM

Gallons of bottled water were already being sold faster than a usual Monday evening. A large dent was clearly obvious in the water section at the local Winn Dixie. The colonel was growing restless waiting in the car with Dottie. Maggie was in the back seat and began panting heavily. She watched out the window for Jenni to return and occasionally would look up at the colonel to see if everything was okay. She’d lick her nose and slobber onto the car seat.

"Where is she?" the colonel asked irritably. "How long can it take to get a bag of ice? I’ll bet she’s looking at those fashion magazines. We’re out here burning up in the car and she’s in there looking at magazines."

"Jim, be patient," his wife said while thumbing through the latest issue of Southern Living herself.

"I am patient. But how long can it take? You run in, you grab a bag of ice, you give the girl a buck, you walk out."

"There’s probably a line."

The colonel rustled around in his seat and shook his head sideways. "Grrr" he growled. His wife ignored him.

Inside, Jenni stood in the express lane holding a bag of ice, still five people from the checkout counter. She stood on her right leg with her hip out and head leaning to that side in an "anytime now" attitude. Her shorts showed much more leg than the colonel would have liked but Dottie had given the okay with her being an in-shape and fashionable young woman. The young man behind her liked the way her left leg was long and bent at the knee. His eyes followed Jenni’s leg all the way down to her sandals.

Jenni finally got to the counter, threw a pack of chewing gum down with the ice, paid, and was gone.

"Here she comes," the colonel announced. Dottie did not look up. Maggie jumped up and started wagging her tail and stomping her feet, looking right at Jenni.

"Whew! The line was terrible," Jenni announced as she hopped into the Ford Expedition. Maggie licked her on the cheek as she sat down.

"What took you so long?"

"The line Daddy. There were so many people in there.”

"Because of the hurricane," Dottie said without looking up from the magazine.

"Were you looking at magazines in there?"

"No, the line was terrible. There is a hurricane coming you know, Daddy?"

Jenni reached back to the cooler, dumped the ice over all of its contents, gave a small chunk to Maggie to chomp on, then plopped down in the back seat and her father zoomed out of the parking lot. Dottie kept thumbing through her magazine.

It was supposed to be the first day of classes but the professor of Jenni’s only Monday class had given them all the day off because she had to attend a conference in Houston. With that, Dottie announced to the family their plans. The colonel had grumbled something under his breath about fishing but knew he was out-ranked in this matter. Dottie had been wanting to have a family picnic for quite some time and Bok Tower Gardens is a wonderful place for one, she’d said.

Bok consists of a wondrous botanical gardens nestled within a large oak hammock with monstrous live oaks with arms that reach further sideways than upward. The huge limbs span out radially from a trunk as wide as a car. Ferns grow along the tops of the limbs as do airplants and shrouds of Spanish moss that drape down the undersides. Under this glorious canopy the Bok staff planted oodles of flowers that line walkways through the gardens. Azaelias, mostly, fire the undergrowth in the spring and line the maze of brick paths the rest of the year. In the center of the gardens is a pinnacle of a stone tower made from marble and coral colored coquina quarried from the exact site. The tower rises over twenty stories high and houses a massive carillon. The tower sweeps heavenward, tapering as it nears the sky, and bursts through the top of the huge oaks’ canopy. Somewhat gothic architecturally, the tower resembles Duke Chapel at Duke University yet possesses its own Florida flavor with the pastel color. The entire garden is set atop a very large turtleback hill just north of Lake Wales. So large and noticeably unique to the rest of the local landscape that it’s called a mountain, Iron Mountain, and is the highest point in peninsular Florida. Geologists explain that the mountain is little more than solid coral-colored limestone rock. The sandy dirt that washes over the stone on the mountain is equally pastel, rather than the natural greys and white of normal Florida sand. Legend tells that Indians used to camp atop the small mountain to hold spiritual ceremonies and to scout the lower areas from the vista for any game they could hunt down for meat. Either way, while driving toward the area, the hill suddenly becomes distinct in the distance—a large hill with an immense stone spike driving upward through the foliage and piercing the horizon. Even though they’d seen the same scene hundreds of times before, again, as the colonel neared the gardens, Dottie said, "Wow."

The colonel found a nice parking spot beneath a huge oak that would have plenty of shade all day. It was on the eastern edge of the high hill and would catch a nice breeze sweeping up the hill slopes as well. Maggie would stay cool in the S.U.V. with the windows down and would curl up on the drivers seat so she could smell the colonel’s scent. She’d worry for a few minutes about her family then go to sleep while they toured the tower and gardens and ate their picnic.

The family strolled around the gardens first. They spiraled around the hill keeping the tower in sight through the leaves of the canopy overhead. There were very few people at the gardens so they found the walking very pleasant as if they had the entire place to themselves. When they did meet another couple in the walkway it was rare and therefore enjoyable and could exchange pleasantries then move on and be alone again. They stopped at a small lily pool at the base of the tower and sat on two large stones by the poolside. Suckerfish placed in the pool to eat algae cruised along the bottom slowly.

“Let’s eat our picnic here,” Dottie said. “It looks like rain back east.” From the top of Iron Mountain, through the canopy of oak leaves, a line of slate blue clouds was visible over the horizon. “Will you get the cooler Jim?”

The colonel headed back to the S.U.V. and took a shortcut—a couple hundred yards through the woodsy area back down the hillside. He didn’t mind fetching the food, but hated to roust Maggie then leave her again. The colonel had noticed a sign that read “No dogs permitted in gardens” but wondered if he could sneak Maggie in anyway because there was hardly anyone there today. The folks who were there were generally packing up to leave to get ahead of the rain. He decided he’d better leave Maggie because he distrusted deeply and honestly anyone who would disallow dogs anywhere. A good dog, he’d often thought, is a better measure of character and has a much stronger moral core than any homo sapien. Lately, with the exception of Dottie and Jenni, the colonel had come to the realization that he says many more words to Maggie than to any human. The thought did not bother him.

Maggie was thrilled to see the colonel. She jostled excitedly and licked his face as he drew out the cooler. He retrieved a large piece of ice from the cooler and held it out in a flat hand saying, “Here girl.” Maggie chomped it, bent to hold it in her forepaws, and began to chaw on the ice, tail-wagging. “Good puppy,” the colonel said, closed the back tailgate, and lugged the cooler back to the picnic spot.

It was a nice picnic. The three of them were lounging sleepily after eating. The colonel lied down on a patch of grass and half-dozed. The sun was still bright behind a blue sky overhead creating a kind of mosaic to the colonel’s eyes. Dottie and Jenni were looking through a fashion magazine Jenni had brought along. It featured evening gowns. The two analyzed the merits and faults of each dress, and the model who wore the dress, with blazingly keen, critical eyes and acid tongues, not meant to be mean, just honesty in its purest, most brutal form. ‘Women were licensed to do so,’ the colonel told himself.

The three were unaware that the grey line of storms had moved surprisingly close and was closing even faster.

Only half conscious, the colonel watched the mosaic above his head curiously. It looked like an elephant, then morphed into a hippo with an armadillo body. Then a curtain slid sideways across the hippo from right to left. The colonel watched the curtain slide across to cover the hippo head like a caul until it was all obscured and he could only see the dark curtain now. With nothing much to look upon, he slipped further into a state of quasi-sleep.

At once, Dottie and Jenni noticed a darkness fall over the garden dimming the magazine. They both looked up. At the same moment, a blast of cold air hit them across their right cheeks, uprooted their magazine, and awakened the colonel with a start.

“What is it?” the colonel said abruptly.

“The storm is coming,” Dottie said quickly. The sky overhead was coal grey, having skipped any intermediary shades and gone simply from blue to darkness in one swipe. “Let’s pack up quickly.”

Jenni had already started gathering picnic items. ‘How could there be this much stuff?’ she thought to herself. Dottie grabbed anything within reach and stuffed it into the picnic basket or canvas boating bag they’d brought along. The colonel was shaking cobwebs from his head.

Just then an elderly man wearing a name tag raced up to them yelling, “There’s a tornado coming! You have to come inside.”

“What?” the colonel said.

“There’s a tornado, we’re in the path. Come inside quickly.”

“Where is it?”

“Over there somewhere,” he pointed toward the blackness to the east. “They just showed the radar. It’s coming our way. We’ll take shelter inside the tower.”

Apparently the man worked at the gardens because he pulled out a key and unlocked a door into the base of the stone tower. “Hurry,” he said. “Come inside. I’m going to look for anyone else then I’ll join you.” He hustled off around the other side of the tower.

The colonel thought for a moment and was upset at himself for letting a storm such as this sneak up on them. He walked over toward a semi-clearing where he could get a better vista of the approaching storm across the lower plain. When his line of sight was cleared of a massive oak, what he saw stunned him. The storm was a very dark black-green and the clouds roiled violently. Even more alarmingly, the man had been right—there was a tornado coming. Against the backdrop of black-green, a dark funnel cloud stood out plainly. It was wide down where it touched the ground, nearly half as broad as its shoulders that blended with the dark clouds high overhead. The colonel could see stripes across the tornado, roughly horizontal, obviously made by a mixture of rain, dirt, trees and limbs and any other debris the tornado might want to inhale. The stripes rose the entire height of the tornado and into the cloud cover above them. In the few moments he’d looked at the storm, the colonel noticed a farm that stood at the base of the storm initially, dwarfed, was swallowed suddenly. The storm indeed was coming their way.

“Inside,” he ordered his family, “let’s go, inside!”

Without speaking, Dottie and Jenni grabbed up their gear and quickly stepped into the tower. The colonel followed walking determinedly. He left the door open to gauge the storm. The cold wind rushed in like water in gushes.

“Did you see it, Daddy?” Jenni asked.

“Yes. It’s a big one, very strong. It’s coming toward us.” He looked at his new surroundings as though to check its structure and learn the lay of the building. They stood in an empty room, really more of a storage area and stairwell up into the tower. The stairs also led downward, “If it gets bad, we’ll go down there,” he pointed at the stairs.

Quickly, it began to hail. Round balls the size of dimes began bouncing everywhere like popcorn until the ground was nearly covered white and then the rain began. It came down in huge drops at first, drops the size of nickels. The wind drove them in at sharp angles until they impacted hard in mini-explosions. The hail had stopped and the rainwater was quickly melting the ice away.

Suddenly, the elderly man with the name tag reappeared, four others were with him. They all hunkered over to shield against the huge drops of rain bombarding them. Ice crunched beneath their feet. They hustled inside.

“Whew!” the man whose name tag said “Will” let out. He was a slight man, perhaps seventy, rather petite, and walked bent over a bit at waist, but was nimble. The colonel saw in his eyes an alertness of a man much younger. “She’s a coming. We’ll be safe in here. Let’s go down into the basement.” Will led the way. The others followed immediately. Two grey-haired, plump old ladies and a simple looking fellow, presumably one of the women’s husband, went on in, trying to move quickly but moving at a snail’s pace nonetheless. They were followed by a man who had four identical pens in his shirt pocket the colonel noticed as he walked past.

“Let’s go,” the colonel said to Dottie and Jenni and motioned to follow. The women started down the steps. The colonel walked to the door, opened it and peeked out. He scanned the sky which was even darker now, trying to measure how long until the tornado either hit or passed by. Jenni stopped and looked back at her father. Dottie stopped descending and looked across at floor level.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Nothing. Just trying to figure how long until it hits.”

“We’ll be safe. This thing is solid stone.”

“Yes, I know.” He still bore the look of worry on his face and continued to look at the sky. Jenni knew her father too well. She knew the look of worry too—she’d seen it before every date she’d ever been on. ‘Everything is fine, really,’ he’d say, yet he’d have that look.

“Daddy, what is it?”

“It’s a big storm is all. I saw it. It’s powerful.”

“We’ll be fine Dad. This is probably the safest place in Florida—down in this rock hole and all. Our house is miles away. I just pray for everyone else.”

“That’s a good girl, Jenni.” He still peered outside the cracked doorway and held that same look of worry.

At once, it struck her, “Maggie!” she yelled. Immediately, she bolted up the steps. “We’ve got to get Maggie, Dad.”

“We can’t honey, the storm is coming too fast. It’s a pretty good ways back down to the parking lot.”

“We can’t leave her.”

“We’ll have to. Now let’s go on down.” He closed the door and headed toward the stairs mad at himself for letting on.

“But Dad. It’s Maggie.”

“She’ll be okay,” the colonel said unconvincingly.

“We can’t leave her out there.” The rain pelted hard against the steel door in sheets now. Jenni drew a scowl on her forehead between her eyes. Suddenly, she burst at a door, opened it in a quick motion, and bounded out into the driving rain. The door blew wide open and rain flew inside.

“Jenni!” the colonel called, “come back here!” but she was gone.

“Go get her!” Dottie exclaimed. “She doesn’t have the keys to the car.”

“The windows are down,” the colonel said emotionlessly, then burst through the open doorway himself into the rain. He knew he’d never catch her. She was young, nimble and athletic, and a fast runner. But, she’d likely take the walking path through the garden that they’d walked up. If he took the shortcut, he may intercept her.

Jenni ran quickly but with short steps to avoiding losing her footing. The hail had mostly melted away but twice she did slip, the first time she regained her balance, the second she fell hard on her rear. Her white shorts were stained reddish orange on each cheek when she stood up. She was soaking wet. She began to cry as she ran thinking about Maggie, tears washed away by rain.

The slope began to level then she was at the entrance to the garden and then the parking lot and quickly to the S.U.V. Maggie stood watching and waiting for their return. Jenni reached into the window and unlocked the S.U.V. while Maggie licked her wet arm and wagged her tail happy to see her girl again.

“Outside, Maggie,” Jenni said and waved for the dog to come out. Jenni tried to put the windows up but the power windows wouldn’t budge and she had no key. ‘Oh well,’ she thought. “Let’s go, Maggie.” Jenni started to run back up Iron Mountain. Maggie was ecstatic to be with Jenni. Being wet made it even more fun. The dog loped along and ahead of Jenni, then loped back to the girl, then ahead again, back and forth with no worry about wind or rain. For all Maggie could tell, this was the same as when she and Jenni had played with the slip ‘n slide and sprinklers in the back yard when she was a puppy and Jenni a small girl.

The colonel burst through the wooded area to the side and yelled, “Jenni!” Jenni stopped, and looked in the wrong direction. “Jenni! Over here!” Maggie saw him immediately and began to run to him, even more fun. Jenni turned and saw her father. “This way, it’s shorter!” Jenni followed her dog toward her father.

She’d taken only one step when the first bolt of lightning hit. A blue-white flash blinded both people and dog. The boom! cracked at the same instant as the flash of lightning. The colonel jumped around to the side, Maggie ran away twenty yards hunch with her tail between her legs and ears laid back then bolted toward the colonel, Jenni froze, petrified. Out of the corner of his eye, the colonel saw wood chunks fly up about fifty feet up the shortcut trail when the bolt hit. Indeed, as they walked up the pathway, a large yellow pine had been struck. The lightning had spiraled down the tree peeling bark away in a four inch stripe the length of the tall tree. The bare stripe went all the way to the ground and into the peat at the base of the stump. The lightning bolt had exploded away a hole in the dirt and peat where it grounded itself so that an opening had been hurled back large enough for a washing machine. As they ran along right passed the tree, Jenni felt nervous about tempting lightning to strike twice in the same spot. The colonel could smell the burnt pine wood and then saw the peat was burning down in the hole. Despite the heavy rain, tongues of fire licked up healthily. In the moments that they passed by, Jenni and the colonel noticed the fire had ignited and begun to grow in magnitude and heat. It grew as briskly as though it were burning dry fatwood. The colonel had seen similar lightning fires before and knew it would not go out due to rain. If later the flames did flicker out, the fire may even smolder down underground in the peat, harboring its heat and recharging its desire, and then pop up in flames again nearby when it felt inclined to burn again. The colonel had once fought a pesky such fire for three weeks and had to extinguish it three separate times.

The three worked uphill quickly without talking. Maggie was frightened badly and shook uncontrollably. She’d gone from elation to terror in the instant of a lightning bolt. The wind still ripped hard at them, and from the side, and the raindrops, which were normal size now, drove in sideways so that they could not open their eyes above a sharp squint.

Lightning was now the fear. It was as if the storm had forgotten it was supposed to be throwing bolts then suddenly remembered. Flashes and booms came again and again now, with increasing frequency. ‘That kind of bolt would blow your head right off,’ the colonel thought as he hustled uphill. ‘Either that or knock your legs off below the knees. It’d cook you too like a roast.’ Despite the danger, the colonel had a brain fueled by boyish curiosity and found himself wondering the details of being hit by a lightning bolt.

Together, Jenni and her father heard a different sound than wind and rain and thunder. This sound had the beginnings of a low kettle drum when its beaten softly and rapidly creating the building-up-power sound. Then it sounded like the ocean, a loud ocean, and then like a freight train on a track with loose cross ties, and then like all of the sounds together.

“The tornado is here!” Jenni yelled as loudly as she could.

“What?”

“The tornado is here!”

“Yes, it’s the tornado!” They had to yell yet still miscommunicated. “Hurry, we’re almost there.”

They came to the clearing from which the colonel had looked at the tornado minutes before. He glanced over his shoulder as he ran. The tornado stood at the foot of Iron Mountain as though resting a moment before lighting out on an uphill hike. Its base was almost as broad as the mountain. It appeared to the colonel to be tightening though, as not to waste energy being spread over too large of an area, but concentrating its strength into a tighter, narrower focus not unlike an angry magnifying glass drawing its beam together to fry a fireant. ‘That must be a sight to see from down the road,’ the colonel’s curious mind wondered even now, ‘to see that huge storm right next to this mountain with the tower on top.’ He tried to picture the scene in his mind from afar. In the picture he formed, the storm looked like a parent stooping over toward a defiant toddler, with the parent about to snatch the toddler by the arm and issue a firm spanking. What had appeared to be the storm’s stripes earlier the colonel now could see was made of debris, like Saturn’s rings—mostly leaves and bushes and limbs, but also plywood and pieces of vinyl siding or tin from a barn or lawn chairs or yard-crap. The colonel swore he saw a travel trailer for a moment but it was hard to see squinting through the rain and it was only a brief glimpse. He knew that he did see a billboard whirl by, so clearly he even made out the McDonald’s “M” painted on it.

“Okay, inside,” he said as they ran to the door. It was hard opening the door because of the suction-seal created by the fast-moving wind. They drew it, Maggie ran inside, then Jenni, then the colonel, and they shut the door with a slam as the tower resealed itself.

“Whew!” the colonel said. They all dripped water heavily. The colonel smiled at his daughter, she smiled back warmly. “Don’t do that again, Sweetie.”

“I won’t Daddy. Trust me.” She smiled even broader. It was good to be in shelter, out of the wind, rain, and horrendous sound. “I just couldn’t leave Maggie, Dad.”

“I know.” The colonel didn’t blame his daughter. She loved the dog as much as he. If he’d had any courage he would’ve gotten Maggie on his own he told himself. His daughter always had a strong streak of independence and spunk about her—a quality the colonel both deeply respected and also feared. A child like that could do things which get them into trouble and would have with Jenni except that she was always too respectful to her parents to do them.

They stood for a moment until the water had mostly dripped off of them, then headed downstairs to join the others. The stairway down was longer than expected, perhaps twice the normal stairway length, taking them deep into Iron Mountain, leading to a heavy steel door at the bottom. It got darker and darker as they descended until they could barely see anything at the bottom. The entire scene had the impression of descending into a vault or dungeon the colonel surmised.

“I guess we’re gonna get the behind-the-scenes tour,” he said.

Dottie stood at the bottom of the stairs worrying. When wet Maggie scurried down to greet her, soaking her legs, she knew they were all right.

“You’re soaked,” she said to her daughter. It was cool down in the stone basement and Jenni wrapped herself in her arms and had begun to shiver. The tank top she wore clung to her and offered little insulation.

“I’m cold.”

Dottie wrapped her arms around her daughter to warm her. Sharp chill bumps rose on Jenni’s arms and shoulders. She shivered. Dottie thought to have the colonel offer his shirt to Jenni but he was soaked even worse wearing two shirts, trousers, and chukka boots. At least Jenni had on less clothing to sop up water, only a tank top, shorts, and flip flops.

“Come in here, maybe we can find something dry to put on,” Dottie said. They all went into the basement.

Inside, it did seem a little warmer if only due to atmosphere. The colonel immediately liked the place. It had the feeling of home to it with couches surrounding a TV, a little kitchenette area, a few magazines and books lay on a coffee table to the side surrounded by sitting chairs. A couple of board games lay haphazardly about. Clearly, this was the hang-out for the garden’s workers whenever they had a little down time.

The others were watching the TV which had the Doppler radar image of the storm on but turned around to view the newcomers. They looked at Jenni and the colonel as though they were from Mars.

“Hi folks,” the colonel said to break the ice.

“Is there anything dry my daughter could put on?”

“I’ll check,” Will said quickly and hustled to a closet. He was an alert and eager fellow. He quickly pulled out a work jacket and offered it to Dottie saying, “this will keep her warm, and its clean,” he added.

“Come on,” Dottie said to Jenni and led her back out the door and closed it behind them. They stood at the bottom of the stairs in the dark landing area. “Take off your shirt and bra and put this on.”

“That’s okay Mom, I’ll just put it on.” Jenni shook violently.

“No. Take off your shirt. You’ll get warm faster and it’ll dry faster too.”

Jenni did as her mother instructed, peeling off her shirt like a layer of skin. Dottie unhooked her bra; Jenni had it off in an instant then dove into the jacket and quickly zipped it up to the neck. It was a heavy coat for Florida and was lined with faux fur inside. Jenni’s skin was drawn up in goose-bumps from the chill so that they poked into the fur lining. The jacket was warm immediately and the fur caressed her breasts as she moved. Dottie wrung out Jenni’s top then hung the shirt and bra on the banister rail to dry. Jenni felt dry and warm almost at once, at least from the waist up. The jacket came well down past her rump and she thought for a moment of taking off her shorts and panties and hanging them up as well but decided she’d better not. Jenni took her flip flops in her hand. When they walked back into the basement room, Jenni discovered that even her legs were nearly dry already. Her legs were smooth so that the water shed off of them easily as on a car window.

“That’s much better,” Jenni said to her Dad, then, “Thank you for the jacket, sir,” to Will.

“My pleasure, miss,” Will said in a friendly voice.

The group was again curled around the TV. The screen showed the radar image of the area in generally concentric circles. At the outside was light green, then dark green, then blue, then yellow and orange, and then red. In the center was a splotch of white, as though it were snowing.

“That’s where we are,” Will put his index finger on the screen in the red section. The map was in motion so that the white splotch was moving directly toward Will’s finger. “The worst part is coming right for us. The tornado is too.”

“We’ll be safe here, right?” Dottie asked.

“Oh yes, ma’am. This is the safest place you can be. We’re down in solid rock. They quarried this mountain to build the tower.”

Maggie positioned herself in between the colonel and Jenni and let her ears fall at the sides of her head making her head look round like a small puppy.

“You’re okay, girl,” Jenni consoled and stroked Maggie gently.

“This is the safest place in Florida,” Will repeated and gave a little giggle of pride.

The colonel knew that Will was right. This was the place to be. Still, he had just seen the tornado and guessed its strength. Despite its glory, the tower was midget sized. Though built of stone, he wondered at its proportions, his boyish curiosity again, and worried that its height might be ill-suited for its breadth. ‘It may be good for sweeping up to the sky’ he thought, ‘I hope it’s just as good for withstanding tornadoes.’

The tornado hit the tower five minutes later. After gearing up at the bottom of Iron Mountain for a short time, it began to rip up the hillside. The pine tree that had been traumatized by lightning only minutes earlier and was now burning was one of the first to go. The tornado snapped it off about half way up its straight trunk and swallowed its canopy into its grey belly. The storm cut up through the gardens. The live oaks bayed their massive limbs and gave up their smaller branches and leaves like sacrifices to appease the storm-god. But, the storm-god was hungry, and angry, and wanted more than an oak salad. It wanted hard wood and dirt and stone. Azalea bushes were sucked up cleanly as were flowers and botanicals. Even the grass was stripped loose of the topsoil and ripped up into the tornado’s cone in ribbons of sod.

The sky boiled in blackness and hovered over Iron Mountain. The storm-gods wanted to punish mankind for putting mother nature to the test. The tornado reached down from the heavens as the hand of the storm-god to reap justice. Iron Mountain, with Bok Tower stood defiantly, challenging the storm-god.

When the tornado approached the top of Iron Mountain, the reflection pool at the base of the tower was sucked bone dry—its water and goldfish and suckerfish going airborne as if flushed in a huge, upside-down toilet. The massive live oaks around the pool were barren, having broken their limbs down to the size of a man’s thigh. The limbs quivered under the draw of the tornado. Winds approaching three hundred miles per hour beat relentlessly at the trees. The live oaks were made of supremely dense and heavy wood, wet from plenty of rain, and clung stubbornly to their limbs.

As the oaks stood stalwartly at the tornado’s little toe, other forces began working at them. Driving rain moved with the wind around the storm until finally hitting the ground. Rather than soaking into the stripped-bare soil, the water was driven into it—injected into the ground by the pressure built by the wind. Hail the size of quarters began to fall and crushed against anything solid in its path and chaffed the bark off the oaks. Lightning bolts cracked continually, radiating outward from the storm rather than down from the sky. The clouds and storm were so thick that the landscape was as dark as the night with a half-moon showing. Yet, every few seconds the tempestuous scene would be brilliantly lit in blue-white by the lightning giving the earth an otherworldly, strobe light effect.

When the base of the tornado was not twenty yards from the tower, a bolt of lightning struck the largest live oak. Electricity cut into the wood charring it and ripped down and around each branch then down the car-thick trunk and into the ground. Earth burst out from the point of impact with the ground leaving a hole big enough to put a casket in. The immense oak, weakened by wind and lightning and saturated soil began to slip at the roots and lean. The earth around the trunk began to raise up at first, fifteen feet in diameter. Then the roots began to slide through the ground, like snakes, then moved quicker and quicker. Eventually, the huge tree toppled over. Before it hit the ground, though, the tornado had it in its grip. The tree swooped upward, cumbersomely at first, then with a jaunt until it was swallowed by the storm completely and no longer visible.

Having cleared its path of any protesters, the storm-god began to inch forward toward the tower. Suddenly, as though the massive oak did not sit well in the tornado’s stomach, the storm hurled the oak out. The tree lunged forward trunk-over-treetop toward the tower. The oak trunk drilled into the northeast corner of the tower about a quarter of the way up. Several stone blocks the size of televisions were jarred out of place. Three fell to the ground completely. Ripples of stress shot upward through the rigid tower, cracking it miserably along its length, and forcing the top pinnacles to sway more than two feet then relax again from the blow.

As though it were happy with its weakening strike to the tower, the tornado moved forward directly buffeting the tower itself. They met as though it were an all-of-nothing battle between nature’s force and man’s structure. Either the tower would fall or it would hold and in doing so, would disrupt the physiology of the tornado such that it would die itself.

The tower did not stand long. The first wall of the tornado was all that was necessary to destroy the stone structure. Weakened by the blow from the tree, off-balance, and hopelessly lacking the flexible sway necessary to ride out such a storm, the tower was doomed. It creaked under the wind’s blow until something in its spine cracked. The weakened corner dropped a few feet in an instant, straight down, then cracked open a four inch crevice in the opposite corner. Then, as slowly as the live oak had begun to move, the tower began to fade sideways. At the damaged region, stone grated one another and jarred others and kicked others out of their way. Still intact in the top three quarters, it merely began to timber over. As it hit, a shock was sent through the limestone crust so powerful that it was read as a 1.9 earthquake on the Richter scale on the University of Florida’s seismograph eighty miles away in Gainesville. The first blocks of limestone to hit were driven into the soaked soil nearly twenty feet by force of the others pounding them down.

Happy with its kill, the storm-god sent its tornado quickly down the opposite side of Iron Mountain and then fast westward across the Florida plain.

Inside the tower’s basement and beneath the fantastic destruction, eight lives and one dog had been held hostage to the whims and fancies of the storm-god. One of the eight lives had been taken.

Chapter 16

National Hurricane Center

Miami, FL

Monday, September 8

3:56 PM

Bill Douglass was worried. In his near forty years with the National Weather Service, he’d never seen anything like this. Sitting on his crap-brown La-Z-Boy chair, he looked up at the Storm Room screen on the wall in front of him. A mug of coffee sat on a little table beside him so that looking at him alone, he appeared to be an armchair quarterback upset with his team’s performance. People scurried about doing their various jobs or at least acting busy lest Bill lash out at them.

On the screen that occupied the entire front wall of the Storm Room, the three storms were clearly visible. Daniel sat smack in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico like a fat kid in a kiddie-pool. The other two hurricanes were drawing up toward land at breakneck speed, Eileen leading Felix as if by the hand.

“Somebody talk to me!” Bill Douglass barked.

Haskins laid out the situation, again, as he’d been doing the past five days every couple of hours. “Daniel is still sitting still. His coordinates have him no different from a few hours ago. He’s actually backed up a few miles, but for all practical purposes, he’s still sitting there.”

“I wish that son-uva-buck would decide what he wants to do and then do it,” Douglass retorted. “He’s just sitting there like he’s waiting for a bus or something. He needs to go hit whoever he wants to hit and then be done. I’ve got two other storms to worry about.”

“Right now, our models are still showing him heading west to Mexico, maybe Texas. The high pressure should keep him down.” Indeed, a massive red colored area dominated the southeastern U.S. on the screen with the word “HIGH” written across it.

“He’s just sitting out there like a boar hog wallowing in the water.”

“Yes sir.” Haskins continued, “Eileen and Felix are both cat 3’s. Eileen is almost a cat 4. They’re still one after another. Felix is right behind Eileen—even keeping with her when she changes speed or any slight directional changes. It’s uncanny. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Hmmph,” Bill Douglass grunted. “I have. I once saw two storms linked up like Siamese twins. They followed each other right into Hatteras, bam! bam! They do that sometimes. Where do you think those two are going?” For being the National Hurricane Center director, Douglass was very unscientific. He paid relatively little attention to instruments and gauges, numbers, or computer models. Objective information that was provided by these sources was deemed to him somehow clinically separated from clouds and storms and warm water and thick air and the blow of wind. He’d often acidly announced that some of the young pups fresh out of meteorology schools could look at a thermometer and read 100 degrees, sweat pouring from their brow, but not know it was hotter than hell unless somebody pointed out a chart reading, “Temp. > 95 degrees Fahrenheit = Hotter than hell.” He distrusted instruments and went more on gut instinct and what he called “smell”.

“Our computer models don’t know how to account for two hurricanes moving together. They have Eileen going across Cuba and Felix into mid-Florida. But that’s still a long way off.”

“Your computer models don’t know jack. Hurricanes can link up. They can run together like two good horses on the back stretch. They both go faster that way with one running in the wake of the other. Don’t you boys watch NASCAR Haskins?”

“I’ve seen highlights of it,” Haskins said defensively, not knowing what the man in the La-Z-Boy was getting at exactly. “It’s just that there’s no precedent, in terms of real data, of two hurricanes moving together. Everything we have shows that hurricanes are independent entities that respond to real, physical factors—water temperature, air pressure, air temperature, and the like, but not holding hands.”

“Don’t give me a dern lecture, Haskins. Anything that’s in your head right now was already in my head thirty years ago when you were playing tee ball.”

“Are you suggesting we just issue one single warning? We could hyphenate the storms to make them one, Eileen-Felix.” Haskins was a little touchy, slave to data that he was, but had a certain amount of pride in his job, and was annoyed at Douglass’s condescension toward him.

“Heh, heh,” Bill Douglass liked the spunk in Haskins’ sarcasm. It showed a little emotion actually did exist inside what Douglass normally considered to be little more than a flesh calculator. “I like that Haskins. You get right on it.” Douglass chuckled again, Haskins steamed. “But I’ll ask you this. Right now you’ve got a huge storm sitting stationary in the middle of the Gulf. You’ve got a second one that your computer models show skimming over Cuba. How do your computer models account for two hurricanes colliding?”

“Colliding?” Haskins said as if he didn’t understand the word.

“Yes, Daniel just sitting there and Eileen just smashing into him.”

Haskins thought a moment, clicked a few strokes on his laptop, then answered, “Well, first off, we don’t anticipate Daniel sitting still forever. Like I said, we’ve got him turning west into Mexico. Eileen likely will get up into Texas a bit, and Felix into Florida. Secondly, hurricanes don’t ‘collide’. They’re acted on by physical forces, which I’ve already been over. If they got close enough to one another, they’d be acted on by the same forces and would therefore react accordingly—but not collide. Like two race cars.” Haskins smiled at his analogy convinced he’d taken Douglass’s own analogy and boomeranged it back to him.

“If two storms are side by side and they react to external, physical forces, wouldn’t the same forces render the same result?”

“Theoretically, yes.”

“Isn’t that what’s going on right now with Eileen and Felix?”

Haskins thought but didn’t answer.

“Oh, I forgot,” Douglass went on, “hurricanes act independently and don’t run together,” he said with unhidden sarcasm. Douglass laughed hard and drank a sip of coffee. Haskins didn’t know it, but Douglass actually took a liking to the young man; if nothing else, Douglass loved chastising Haskins and found it supremely entertaining if he ever got even the slightest rise out of him like he did today, however weak it might be.

Haskins stood up and left the room muttering something about a brown La-Z-Boy under his breath. Douglass smiled hard and chuckled. He sat back in the recliner. Despite the teasing which had raised his spirits a bit, Douglass was worried. The National Weather Service folks, with whom he worked closely, were frantic with tornadoes ripping Florida apart. A rash of powerful tornadoes, more Kansan than Floridian, streaked across the state in a treachorous and odd criss-cross pattern of double destruction. Other than normal summer thunderstorms, they were finding difficulty in explaining a cause. Bill Douglass had his own thoughts. In his mind, ‘If you put two strong hurricanes side by side, the spot where they meet has the winds blowing in each opposite directions. It only seems natural for tornadoes to spawn. It’s just like two canoe paddles swiping in opposite directions at one another—it makes those swirly vortices in the water. Same thing.’

Douglass had other things to consider. He’d let the Weather Service guys deal with the tornadoes, he dealt with hurricanes and right now he had plenty to deal with.

He leaned back in the recliner and kicked up his feet, scratched his chin, and looked up at the screen lazily not thinking of any particulars but letting the entire situation soak in. He thought to himself, ‘I’ve got south Texas being evacuated right now and the whole Gulf Coast on high alert. I’m gonna have two other hurricanes in a couple of days, at least one’ll probably hit the U.S. And the dern things seem to have it in for us. Like they’re ganging up on us.”

Then to no one in particular, he announced, “Well, we’ll know what’s gonna happen in two days.”

He nodded his head convinced in his statement.

“Somebody get me a telephone.” An intern walked over with a phone on a long cord, obviously Bill Douglass’s phone. “There’s a guy out in Colorado, a quack of a professor named Stillman. Get him on the line.”

Chapter 17

University of Colorado, Boulder

Monday, September 8

4:14 PM

When the phone rang in Professor Stillman’s office he was annoyed and wasn’t going to answer it, figuring it was just another reporter. “We already have a press conference set up at 8:00 o’clock tonight, what more do they want?” he asked no one in particular. Several graduate students were cramped into his office and were all peering over shoulders at one of three laptops spread through the small office. There were papers, charts, maps, books, files, cups of coffee, and various other debris strewn everywhere in no particular order. Organization of papers and data had never been his strength. The office had only four chairs so most of the dozen or so people had to stand or lean against messy desks.

Two energetic undergrads had slipped in as well and one boy, feeling important, picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?” “Yes.” “Uh huh.” “Um. Who did you say this was? From where?”

The boy put his hand over the mic and asked the other undergrad, “Have you ever heard of a guy named Bill Douglass? From the hurricane center?”

Three of the grad students who’d overheard turned their heads and looked at the undergrad on the phone.

“Is that Bill Douglass on the phone?” one grad student asked in a commanding voice.

“Yes.”

“From the National Hurricane Center in Miami.”

“I guess so. He said some hurricane center.”

The grad student took the phone, and double-checked the identity of the caller. Then said, “Professor Stillman,” the professor didn’t look up from his computer but hollered a “Yeah”. “Professor, the director of the National Hurricane Center is on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”

“Bill Douglass?” the professor asked questioningly.

“That’s what he says.”

“Well well.” He pulled away from the data on the screen and leaned back in his chair with a smile. “That’s an interesting turn of events. They’ve never given us the time of day before.” He thought to himself for a moment, then said, “Okay, we’ve always been a team, put the phone over here and put the speaker phone on.” The grad student jerked the cord out from underneath piles of desk-crap, set it close to the professor on top of a pile of printed data, pushed the speakerphone button, and replaced the headset.

“Hello, this is Professor Stillman.”

“Stillman, you’re harder than the president to get hold of.”

“That’s flattering. And with whom am I speaking?”

“Bill Douglass, National Hurricane Center Director.”

“Nice to speak with you Mr. Douglass.” Professor Stillman was at ease and smiled broadly. He nodded in satisfaction to his students who smiled back, excited that they would be privy to the conversation. “How’s the weather down there in sunny Florida?” Everyone in the office smiled.

“Well, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but we’ve got a couple of thunderstorms down here.”

“I hadn’t noticed, Mr. Douglass.” Stillman smiled coyly, enjoying immensely the fact that for years the NHC had disregarded him as a crackpot, until suddenly, when a crisis had developed, the very top man calls.

“Yeah, we’re being triple-teamed down here like we’re in the Bermuda Triangle. I wanted to see if you had any thoughts on the matter. And call me Bill by the way. The only person that calls me Mr. Douglass is my son-in-law.”

“Okay, Bill.” The professor and his team giggled silently. In one minute only, Stillman had gone from loony professor to first-name-basis with the NHC director. “Actually, we’ve been keeping track of what’s going on. We’re on it right now; going to have a press conference in a few hours.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. Well, what’s the bottom line if you don’t mind spilling the beans to me.” Douglass wondered why the NHC didn’t have a press conference lined up. He made a mental note to chastise Haskins about that.

“Bill,” the professor’s voice suddenly serious, “I think you’ve got a problem.”

“We’ve got three problems.”

“Yes, but a different problem. A bigger problem.”

“Talk to me.”

“I’ve developed a theory that involves multiple storms.”

“Yes, I read your article in Science Quarterly a few months ago. You called it M.I.D.S. right?”

“That’s right.” Stillman was shocked and flattered that the NHC Director, something of a legend himself in the weather world, was aware of his theory he called “Multiple, Interacting, Dynamic Storms.”

“Yes, that’s it.”

While the hook was baited, Stillman decided to test the waters. “What did you think about the article?”

“Well, to be honest, at the time I thought it was dern quacky—but interesting as all get out at the same time. Now, I’m starting to think it’s not as quacky as I might have thought.”

“Bill,” the professor dead serious again, “I think M.I.D.S. is becoming a reality right now in your backyard. We’ve got data, so much that we can’t handle it all, and it fits into our theory like a the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Every number, I mean every number we’re getting fits. I don’t mind saying, but its got us scared as hell.”

“What do you think is going down?”

“You’ve got a cat 4 sitting in the Gulf doing nothing other than waiting for the others to catch up. You’ve got two cat 3’s playing chase and running up to Florida so fast the people will never get out of there. In a couple of days, those three storms are going to meet. And, you can be sure that when they do, something is going to happen.”

“Stillman, I think you’re right. My pinheads down here keep telling me those storms are going for a Cancun vacation but I just don’t think so.”

There was a pause on both ends of the phone line.

“Well Bill, what can I do for you?” the professor asked.

“Do you think those three storms are going to link up and do something we’ve never seen before, Stillman?”

Stillman drew a deep breath. This was the bottom line question that he was going to have to answer if his theory was going to go anywhere. Before, as only a theory, it was easy to lay out expectations and ideas and numbers. But now, the Director of the National Hurricane Center was asking him to put a theory into action—to lay it down officially in a real world situation with no bull-crapping behind Power Point presentations.

“Bill, it’s hard to say. Every number, every bit of data we have fits our model. Each time we get new data, we’re not surprised by what we see. It’s almost as though we can predict what the numbers will show down to the decimal. The problem is that this sort of thing has never happened before. There’s no precedent. This is uncharted waters so there’s got to be a wide margin for error.”

“Are they going to interact together?”

“I can’t just give you a yes or no answer. I’d have to show you everything we have. We’ve got predictions and statistical probability analyses for each possibility. There are so many variables we have to create possibilities for every situation that might occur. Each variable creates hundreds of other possibilities. It’s overwhelming.”

To Douglass, Stillman was starting to talk like the NHC meteorologists.

“Are they going to act together?” Douglass repeated. He was a bottom line man.

Stillman drew another breath and answered, “Yes, Bill, I believe they are.”

“What do you think they’ll do?”

“Again it’s hard to say.” Realizing Bill Douglass liked concise answers rather than explanations, Stillman got down to the nitty gritty. “If you follow the projection of M.I.D.S., we see three possibilities. First, the three storms could interact by promenading around one another like in a square dance then disrupting each other’s dynamics until at least two, maybe all three, fizzle out. There’d be tons of tornadoes where the storms bump into one another, but it would likely be the best-case scenario. Secondly, the storms might dance around one another, maybe rotate around each around like kids holding hands in the middle then swinging in a circle. Then they’d split off when they got to going too fast, just like the kids would eventually do. You’d have three powerful storms going three directions. The third possibility is the worst. The three storms would swing around each other like in option two, they’d kill each other like in option one. But, they wouldn’t just fizzle out like option one, rather they’d spawn a new storm. The energies of the three would be united to create one mega-hurricane. It would be bigger than anything we’ve ever seen; or imagined.”

“How big?”

“Size wise were talking five hundred miles across, I’d guess.”

“Wind speeds?”

“Who knows? Three, four hundred miles per hour. But, who knows? Like I said, this is uncharted waters.”

“Hmmph.” Bill Douglass grunted. “Can you show me what you’ve got on this?”

“I would, Bill, but I’ve got so much info I wouldn’t know how to send it to you. If you like, I’ll have an assistant write up a brief for you as best she can.”

“No, don’t go to the trouble. But, if I was out there, could you show me?”

“Of course, if you were here in Colorado I could show you everything we’ve got.”

“Stillman, I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

When he informed the assistant directors at the NHC that he was going to Colorado to conference with Professor Stillman, several assistant directors were angry. How dare he leave the Center when they sat in the middle of three strong hurricanes. Two were two days away and the first could hit at any moment and the NHC director was taking off for a Rocky Mountain jaunt. And, he was going to meet with a pop-scientist; a fellow whose vocation could be more considered sci-fi than research science. They complained to him to no avail, Bill Douglass didn’t care what they thought. Besides, they usually complained about him ruling the NHC like a dictator. Wasn’t this what they wanted—for him to leave? Give a little freedom? The more they thought, the more they liked the idea of Douglass being away during the crunch. Several of the assistant directors had long considered Douglass too old-school for the job and becoming loony as men in their sixties do. They acquiesced to his absence, although their opinions didn’t matter anyway, and Bill Douglass had an intern get on the phone and requisition a NOAA jet. Two hours later, Bill Douglass sat looking out a jet window at 26,000 feet sipping a scotch and soda, heading for Denver, and unaware that he would never see Miami again.

Chapter 18

Lake Wales, FL

Tuesday, September 9

12:20 PM

The two elderly women had not stopped crying for twenty hours since the old man had died. His body lay across one of the couches, the two ladies had drug chairs up to him and sat bawling then sobbing then finally sniffling. They held his hand and stroked his head and spoke to him creating an eerie scene in the dim candlelight. The colonel didn’t know which was his wife because they both acted like they were.

Everything had gone pitch-black when the tower tumbled as the basement was too deep to have any high up wall windows. Dottie had pulled out her cell phone and used its night-light, holding it out like a lantern, to rummage up a few candles from the kitchenette drawers. Finding the candles had been their first stroke of luck. They lit the candle and set it on the coffee table and let it light the entire room with its tiny flame.

The colonel stood with Dottie, Jenni, and Will in one corner of the basement over by the kitchenette. The dorky fellow with the four pens in his pocket, whose name they’d learned was Baxter, stood near the dead man but was afraid to get too close. While Dottie was milling around looking for candles by cell phone light, Baxter had also drawn out his phone, but spent all of his time trying to get a signal to call 911. He’d announced frantically several times that he had no signal.

“We’ve got to do something with the body,” the colonel said too quietly for the ladies or Baxter to hear.

“Yep. He’ll be smelling soon,” Will agreed. “At least the old fellow went fast. That must have been one doozy of a heart attack.”

The man had been stricken by a massive corollary immediately after the live oak had been driven into the tower. The noise from the tornado had been almost unbearable, even harbored in the stone basement, when the tree hit the side a crack tore down through the tower so loud the Colonel ducked as if shot at back in Vietnam. They’d felt the stones grating against one another and knew immediately the tower had been weakened. That’s when the heart attack struck. The old man, who had been standing calmly observing what he could of the storm like a boy scout, suddenly curdled his left arm around his torso, grimaced, and fell over without putting an arm out to break the fall. Fortunately, the basement floor was carpeted because his head hit before his body, landing face down, and creating a huge lump instantaneously above his left eyebrow. The colonel and Will moved him over to the couch where he’d lain unconscious ever since. The colonel didn’t think the man had even lived to the point where the tower had collapsed a couple of minutes later, stricken hard by the heart attack then finished off with the blow to the head.

“We’ve got to get the body out of here then figure out a plan. We’ve been laying around here all morning. Time to get going.” Since retiring a year earlier, James Brackett had done little except mow grass, tinker around the house, fish, and read avidly. Now, in the emergency, he’d begun to feel like Colonel Brackett again. Jobs were to be done and he would assess the situation, assess the abilities of his men, issue orders, and accomplish each task praising those who got jobs done, admonishing slackers.

After the tornado had passed and while they were still in shock from the old man’s death, the colonel had made a quick assessment of the situation. The door that led to the stairway, the only exit, had been blocked when the tower tumbled. Large stone building blocks littered the corridor about half way up the stairs and the walls had been crunched inward, sealing the seven survivors in the stone basement. The only good news he could find was a crack between two of the stones, the second stroke of luck, about the width of a man’s fist and as long as his arm. Through the crack, the colonel saw daylight which gave a glimmer of hope.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.” The colonel took the lead. “Dottie, you and Jenni look over this kitchen and see what we’ve got to work with. Inventory all the supplies. Take note of anything you think might be useful. If you can, try to drum up some kind of a lunch. These people are going to need to eat.” For a moment, the colonel stepped out of colonel role and back into Daddy role. He looked at Jenni in the dim candlelight. Her face was tilted downward and her expression was of forlorn. “You okay, Jen?” he said softly.

Jenni perked up quickly. “Yes,” she said smiling at her father. “I’m fine, Daddy. I’m just a little sad about the man, but I’m okay. I’m ready to help.” She was eager and alert and smiling now, though artificially.

“That’s my girl.” He hugged his daughter with one arm. “Will, you and I will have to get that fellow out of here. We’ll have to put the body in the stairwell. We’ll lay him at the bottom landing area. Is there a blanket or something we can wrap him in?”

“There’s an old afghan over there,” Will pointed to the other couch.

“That’ll work.” The colonel thought for a job for Baxter. “Baxter, you try to console the lady-folks. They’ll likely stir up a commotion when we take the man out. Once we take him out, just don’t let them follow no matter what. Okay?”

Baxter had heard but stood mechanically.

“Okay, Baxter?”

“Okay.”

The colonel wondered about that boy.

“After we take care of the body, Will and I will survey the situation a little more closely and see what we can do about getting out of here. Questions anybody?” The colonel, Will, Dottie, and Jenni stood in a circle. “Okay, let’s do it,” the colonel said and like a quarterback breaking huddle, the four turned and set into action.

“Pardon me ladies,” the colonel spoke softly and slowly, “ladies, I’m sorry but we need to do something with the body.” The word “body” sent the women to sobbing again. “His body is going to start…um, changing. We can’t have him in here.” More hard sobs. “You’ll need to say your goodbyes now, then we’ll take the body away.”

The women began to cry uncontrollably again at the words. They wailed loudly as though they were trying to out-mourn each other. No goodbyes were spoken, ‘Maybe the wails were the goodbyes,’ the colonel thought. Either way, the colonel tried hard to feel their pain with empathy. But, it was difficult for the colonel because all their moping was in the way of getting a job done. Still, he tried his best not to be harsh and to be patient. He let them moan and wail for a few minutes, waiting as patiently as he could, then said, “Okay, ladies, it’s time.” The colonel expected the ladies to pat the man on the hands then draw away from him. They just sat and wailed some more. “Ladies, we have to take him now,” the colonel repeated but still with no response. The colonel was not used to being ignored. He looked over at Will with a “did I not just tell them to move or not?” look. Will shrugged. The colonel answered his own look thinking, ‘Well, actually I didn’t tell them to move out of the way, I just told them it’s time.’ So, he added, “Ladies, please move aside so we can take the body out.” After he’d said it, the colonel realized that sounded badly, ‘take the body out’ just like ‘take the trash out.’ Still the ladies didn’t budge but even seemed to lean over the body to protect it from a body thief.

‘Oh hell,’ the colonel said under his breath and waded between the ladies who protested by pushing and hitting at his flanks with open hands. In a quick motion, he scooped his arms underneath the man, the women flailing at both sides of him, and lifted the stiff body. The colonel bucked up before lifting but was surprised out how light the man really was. Carrying the stiff, frail body was no more difficult than carrying in large load of firewood.

“Get the afghan and lay it out on the stairway landing area, over in the corner. Grab a candle, we’ll need light in there,” he ordered Will and turned to haul the dead man out the door. The ladies stood and beat the colonel harder using both hands. They hit him in the ribs mostly, but also on the shoulders and back. Occasionally they’d sting his neck. They didn’t sob at all now—they’re emotion having turned from mourning to wrath which was focused on the colonel.

Halfway to the door, the colonel said, “Baxter, get these ladies off of me.”

Baxter tried lamely to stand in one of the women’s way but she brushed him aside and he gave up. They struck the colonel harder.

“Dang it, get ‘em off of me!” He glared at the young man contemptuously. ‘What kind of a man can’t move a little old lady,’ he thought.

Baxter stood helplessly. Finally, Jenni, sensing her father’s troubles, hustled over and gently but forcibly curled both ladies in her arms. They tried to struggle free but Jenni flexed her young muscles hard and drew the ladies together then kind of hugged them both at once. Immediately, the old ladies returned back into mourning mode. They both huddled with their faces to Jenni’s chest, the big overcoat she wore soft to the ladies’ cheeks. Jenni held them tightly herself, stroked their backs gently to console them, and looked over to her father as if to say, ‘Okay, Dad, I’ve got them now.’ After a moment, she led them back to the other couch on which the body had not lain and set the ladies down to cry and rest.

Will and the colonel worked quickly. They wrapped the body up tightly then stowed it in the furthest corner of the landing area so that it was obscured behind the door when the door was open. Then, the grisly task done, the body lay in the dark corner and was nothing more than a lump of cloth. Now, they could focus on life matters rather than death matters.

The men didn’t need the candle after all so it was never lit and saved for later. Light streamed through the crack and down the stairwell. It was a faint, grey light, but their eyes were adjusted to the darkness so that even the dim light was enough to see by. Only after looking up at the crack for a moment then looking back to the dark did they have to let their eyes adjust back to darkness before they could see again. As best they could tell, there was only one, maybe two stones, blocking the pathway. But, they were large stones, as big as wheel barrels, and they might be wedged in by other stones. Each one weighed a good ton, maybe two or more they concluded. If they could find something to pry with, perhaps they could budge them aside. Even a few inches and Jenni might be able to wriggle through and go for help.

Dottie had found some canned goods, boxed dinners, and microwave food in the kitchen. She’d opened two cans of green beans and one of kernel corn, mixed them into a kind of cold salad, and portioned them onto saucer plates. Jenni served them to the old ladies, who surprisingly ate them with gusto. Dottie doled out portions for Jenni and Baxter, then the colonel and Will. She ate only three beans herself that had fallen onto the counter. Baxter kept trying to turn on the television hoping to get a news update. He’d push the remote, smack it, go up to the set and push buttons on it. He “tssked” with exasperation at the TV. It annoyed Dottie so that she finally told him to knock it off because the TV wasn’t going to work and sit down and be still. He did as he was told.

Will couldn’t find anything to pry with. The colonel noticed the plumbing was old—not PVC like they use now, but iron piping. That pipe would be a good pry bar if it wasn’t in use already. At once, a fear struck him. He called out, “Dottie, do we have water?”

Dottie turned on the cold water, a few trickles came out. The hot offered nothing. “No. No water.”

“That’s bad.” ‘People can live without food for quite a while, they can’t live without water,’ the colonel thought. “Anything in the fridge?”

Dottie looked quickly, “There’s half a can of grape juice. That’s it.”

“Okay. Nobody touches it without you doling it out, Dottie. That’ll have to last us a while. Just give each person a couple of ounces.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Dottie said mockingly and gave the colonel a glowering look over her shoulder cutting enough that he got the message even in the dim candlelight. He could order others; he was not to order his wife.

The colonel stuck his head underneath the sink and grabbed the iron pipe that led the drain away. “Might as well put this pipe to use if its not moving any water,” he said to no one in particular. He stuck his feet in against the back wall and leg-pressed hard, pulling the pipe outward. It budged but did not free. He regripped, bucked up and straightened his back, and pulled again. He grunted hard, veins on his head swelled. Suddenly, the pipe broke at the joint. The colonel flew out of the cupboard and fell onto his back looking up at Dottie for ‘You’re okay’ pity.

“That’s what you get, ordering me around,” she said and turned away satisfied. The colonel crawled up and saw that if he could break off the other end of the pipe, he’d have a good four to five feet to pry with. He started bending the pipe back and forth in the same spot. Each bend became easier than the last. Finally, the metal gave almost no resistance, the colonel felt it was hot where it was being bent, and it broke free.

“Okay,” the colonel said to Will who’d been watching, “let’s go see what we can do.”

They crawled up the stairs to the point where the stone blocks were piled on one another blocking the exit. The colonel placed the pipe in behind the right side of the stone that formed the bottom of the crack to the outside and the stone wall. The pipe just wriggled back and forth. “We need something to pry against. See if you can find a stone we can put in there as a fulcrum.”

Will peered into the stones, leaned up over one large stone, then sure enough, pulled out a rock about the size of a toaster that had broken away from a larger stone.

“Perfect,” the colonel said, “set it right there so I can push against it.” Will put the stone into its place as fulcrum for the lever. “Okay, let’s see.” The two men, pushed softly at first, prying and testing the strength of the pipe, the weight of the large stone they were trying to move, and placement of the fulcrum. “We only need to budge it a few inches. Then we can try the other stone. Let’s push.” They heaved forward, the colonel on the end, Will close to the stone. The pipe tightened and resisted. They pushed harder, bearing their feet into the stairs for traction and then placing their feet up against the opposite wall to military-press the pipe. They pushed forcefully until, in a quick thrust, the lever lurched forward and skinned the colonel’s knuckles on the stone wall and making both men belly flop onto the stairs awkwardly. They looked up at the stone block—it hadn’t budged. Rather, the pipe had bent cleanly, flat at the crease in the bend so that when they pulled in out it was shaped like a hockey stick.

Discouraged, they stuck the pipe in further, pushed again, and had the same result so that when they pulled the pipe out again. This time it was shaped like a lazy “S” or a jog in the road.

The colonel prodded and poked at the other stone blocks with the pipe, but due to their positioning, they were obviously more stationary than the stone which they’d been prying on.

“Looks like we’ll be here for a while,” the colonel said dejectedly, “unless there’s some other way out.”

“Everything else is solid rock,” Will answered. “They cut this stairway right out of the limestone.” The colonel could see the rock face that showed behind the plaster that had been kicked away when the tower fell. The men sat there for several more minutes, not talking, as though their situation had to sink in and they had to come to grips with it. The colonel was immensely saddened. Simply put, they would not crawl out of their basement-grave by moving rock. He was not a man who could easily take not being in charge and hated nothing more than to fail at a task which he’d set out to accomplish. He’d set the goal of moving that stone, tried, and failed with nothing to show but a bent pipe and raw knuckles. And, he was at a loss for what to do next.

Back inside the basement, the colonel called everyone over to where the old ladies sat. They were still weeping, but raised their heads for an update.

“Well,” the colonel began, “we’re stuck here. We can’t get out. We’re going to have to make a go of it for a while until they dig us out.”

“How do you know somebody’ll come?” Baxter said, suddenly frantic.

“Somebody’ll come. I don’t suppose the highest point in Florida could topple over without somebody noticing. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s somebody up there right now. They’ll dig us out.”

“But nobody knows we’re down here,” Baxter continued. “They don’t know.” He was about to cry.

The colonel wanted to smack the young man, because he deserved it, or at least give him a tongue lashing for being such a wussy. But, in his older age he’d grown more mild, and instead said, “We’ll be okay Baxter. I’ll get you out of here.” Baxter settled a bit, turned slightly, and sat down on a nearby chair.

“Okay, we’ve got to ration the juice. Dottie here will give each person a few ounces every three hours. If you have to use the restroom, you’ll have to go in the stairway. Go in the corner to the right. You can use one of those magazines on the coffee table for toilet paper if you have to.” Dottie thought the comment about using the restroom in the corner was a bit crude considering there were paper towels available and that four of the seven people were women. She let it go without comment because it was indeed going to be an issue soon and something did have to be planned. She just wished the colonel had employed a bit more tact in his instructions.

“What’s next?” one of the old ladies asked. The colonel was glad to see she was now looking forward in time rather than back to the death.

“Right now, we’re going to wait. That’s our job now, to stay calm, and wait, and we’ll be fine. Okay?” The colonel looked around at their faces. They all nodded. “I’m going to go over here and figure out our next move.” He walked away from the group to the remote corner, found a five gallon bucket with some birdseed in it, and sat on the bucket. None of the others moved. Finally, Jenni walked over to her father and sat down on the floor beside her father, saying nothing. “Here’s our toilet,” the colonel said, “I’ll just set it in the corner on the landing. The birdseed inside will even act kind of like kittie-litter.”

Jenni said nothing, just sat in the dimness. The colonel didn’t speak either. Fifteen minutes passed silently.

“Dad, are we going to get out of here?”

“Sweetie, I didn’t raise you to get stuck in some rock hole. We’re getting out of here, somehow.” Jenni relaxed and just sat on the floor with her father. She had her knees buckled up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her chin resting on her knees.

The colonel had been thinking and suddenly sat upright. “Jenni, lets go take another look at that crack.”

The colonel examined the stone again, from close up this time and holding a candle up to it. It was large and square, the size of a refrigerator, and about a foot thick. But, he noticed a stress fracture running through the stone he’d not seen, or cared to notice before. A new idea entered his mind—to chisel his way out. Will joined them and they decided it was a terrible longshot to think they could chisel through a stone that size but ‘What else are we doing?’ The colonel asked.

“It’ll give us something to do if nothing else,” he added. “Somebody might hear us banging around like on the U.S.S. Arizona back at Pearl and get some help. You never know. I just can’t sit here and wait.”

The colonel bent the pipe over and over at the flattened crease until it broke. It broke cleanly and sharp—good for chiseling. He straightened the pipe as best he could, held the cutting edge against the stone, and had Will hit the end with the toaster-size stone. They worked for a minute, striking the block in the same place several times like two Fifty-Niners boring through the hills of Colorado of old. When he pulled the pipe away and dusted off the stone block, a small niche, about the size of a match stick had been cut. Although small, it raised the colonel’s spirits.

“We’re getting out of here,” he announced and Jenni and Will smiled.

Chapter 19

University of Colorado, Boulder;

Southeastern United States

Wednesday, September 10

2:13 PM

The three storms began uniting much sooner than Professor Stillman had anticipated. By the time Bill Douglass had arrived at the University of Colorado, the situation had changed dramatically already from when they’d spoken on the phone. There was no question then—the storms had linked together and had begun to unify.

It took four full days for the storms to go through their metamorphosis. The first day, the Wednesday that Bill Douglass had arrived, the storms had begun to rotate around an invisible axis. Eileen and Felix had sped into high gear. Eileen escalated into a cat 4 then rode up into place. With Daniel still waiting in the wings in the Gulf of Mexico, Eileen sallied up the east coast of Florida, Felix on her tail, then slowed to a crawl when its northern fringes felt the push of the high pressure system over the southeast. The assistant directors back at the NHC in Miami were caught off-guard. They’d predicted the storms to skirt underneath Florida and had issued warnings only to the keys. Only at the eleventh hour did they switch their warning, thereby admitting their mistake, to the east coast. This time, to avoid another miss, the warning stretched all the way up through Hatteras.

Eileen cruised slowly up the Florida coast just offshore until she was ready. Then, abruptly, she cut due westward nailing the Georgia coast. The tidewater plains were rushed over by a fifteen foot storm surge. Debris and boats which had been on the coast the day prior were whisked inland nearly a hundred miles in some cases. Eileen bore across the southern plain of Georgia, barely weakening. The high pressure that had been over the Southeastern U.S. stretched itself across North Carolina then followed down the folds of the Appalachian Mountains into Alabama. Eileen skirted the HIGH, even turned southward until her eye slid across the northern rim of Tallahassee then dumped back into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico to draw new strength and heal any cuts sustained over land.

Felix, true to form since his birth, followed Eileen. As soon as the residents of southern Georgia and north Florida had begun to dig themselves out from toppled trees, fallen electrical wires, and flooding, Felix struck. He followed the smoothen corridor that Eileen had laid out—a wide swath of cat 4 destruction 120 miles wide, 30 miles wide at its worst. Felix lost little strength as though his mother had blazed a trail ahead through a thicket and he merely came trotting behind.

Simultaneous to Eileen’s fury across Georgia, Daniel had finally begun to move. The very same evening that Bill Douglass had flown to Colorado to meet with Professor Stillman, the NHC officials were shocked to see Daniel unmistakenly fading toward south Florida. Wavering had come to be normal; this, however, was clear movement. He moved slowly then steadily then rapidly. No sooner had the warning been issued for the southern Gulf Coast of Florida was Naples hit directly. Two hours later, the cat 4 was punishing Miami and the NHC. By Thursday, the assistant directors were stunned to be sure. Eileen then sat in the Gulf and showed signs of a southward turn, Felix was over Georgia and moving westward, and Daniel was moving eastward and would soon be in the Atlantic with hints toward a northward turn.

Professor Stillman, who sat analyzing the same data with Bill Douglass, had not been surprised.

“This is it,” Stillman had said when a new batch of data came in that Thursday. “They’re circling, just like we thought they’d do.” He put the three storms into motion on his computer.

“Yep,” Douglass agreed. “They’re circling the wagons, all right.”

The three storms undeniably were interacting together, circling around some imaginary focus in central Florida. Just as the satellite imagery shows the movements of a single tropical storm as moving in a faint but certain circular motion hinting at the birth of a hurricane, the three storms exhibited the same visual certainty. Only this time, certainty was of three storms playing chase in a circle with central Florida in the middle.

“Look at the feeder bands,” Stillman pointed with a pencil, “they’re starting to unite into long bands across both storms. You see that?”

“Yes.”

“They’re sharing the same feeder bands. Eileen and Felix for sure are sharing this one. Eileen and Daniel share this one.”

“You’re right. And the tail end of this one from Felix seems to be linking up with Daniel right here,” Douglass added. “They’re chasing one another and turning into one huge storm.”

All day on Thursday the three storms followed the others’ paths in a counter-clockwise merri-go-round. Southern Georgia across to panhandle Florida, down through the Gulf for strength, back across southern Florida, then rounding up through the Atlantic gaining more strength to cut back into the mainland again. Continually, they lost their own identities, morphing into one mega-storm.

By Friday afternoon, there were no longer any distinguishable hurricanes. What had been Felix became one massive feeder band for the mega-storm; the same occurred with Eileen and Daniel. At some time during the day, Stillman and Douglass had stopped calling the storms by their appointed names. Stillman called the new monster storm a “Cat X” with the “X” standing as the variable for the unknown strength of this new mega-storm. The Sapphir-Simpson scale of hurricanes was rated for categories 1 up to 5. Technically, a cat 5 hurricane included any with winds greater than 155 MPH. But, somehow it seemed silly to label this new storm, with winds in the low hundred MPH’s, as anything except by its own unique category.

The Cat X annihilated the southeastern United States on Friday and Saturday. The poor older towns scattered throughout the South with their dilapidated buildings and the cities with their unnaturally tall, glass buildings were the first to go. In Miami, the NHC measured wind speeds of up to 235 miles per hour before the instruments were ripped away. Ironically, when the NHC building was blown away, Haskins, slave to data, sat at his station almost convinced that the “0 MPH” reading he saw was true rather than the near 340 MPH gusts that were to kill him. The hurricane center, along with most of the other buildings in Miami, was blown away starting at the top then working down. First the roofs flew off, then the walls thrashed away, then even the foundations were eventually uprooted, and then the soil on which the buildings had been built was erased. The buildings which had been built to the tougher codes after Hurricane Andrew in ’93 were destroyed intact. Rather than disintegrate, the Cat X simply pried underneath their concrete slabs, hoisted them into the air and hurled them into oblivion. People rattled around inside like a boy riding a bike on a bumpy road carrying mice in a shoebox.

Despite the greatest killing event in mankind’s history, thankfully, there was no mass terror amongst the victims. Since communications had been cut completely by Thursday evening everywhere south of Atlanta and east of Mobile, terror existed within the walls of homes and businesses and amongst the two or four or seven people who’d happened to be holed-up together inside. Telephones, cellular or hardwired, of course did not work to relay hysteria between people. TV or radio stations had seen their transmitter towers toppled early and were useless; as were ham radio enthusiasts, a quirky, techy lot who live for killer storms so that they can relay messages when others can’t and thereby live out their fifteen minutes. Person to person contact was also ruled out by Thursday. The few fools who tried to walk down the streets to talk to their neighbors about the storm, as though a discussion would qualm the tempest’s fury, were either turned back quickly by rain stinging their faces and driving into their eye sockets behind the eyeballs, smacked broadside by debris, impaled by anything straight that had become a projectile, or simply blown away like dust. Most of the victims stayed in their homes, sensibly. They huddled in closets or bathtubs and corridors, clutching one another. Some families naively played board games by candlelight. Many Floridians along the coastal areas, considered themselves salty and set their minds to “ride out” the hurricane. They donned Hawaiian or Jimmy Buffet shirts and drank a lot of liquor before being driven out into the ocean or pounded across the land like a drunken tumbleweed.

By Saturday evening, most of the damage had been done. Nothing man-made was left to destroy. The Cat X sat over the south with a clear eye formed now, centered somewhere over what had been the Orlando area. Even this center of the storm, which had received winds at the relative mere rate of 325 miles per hour, had been washed clean before the eye congealed.

The only thing left for the Cat X to wipe away was soil. The winds pounded seventy foot high waves across the south Georgian plains west-southwesterly to the Gulf of Mexico. Ocean water was driven straight across the South, slowed at first, then unimpeded so that the water continually eroded the soil away. A river of rainwater mixed with blown seawater emerged then widened to nearly 200 miles across. When enough water formed, the waves also formed. The waves picked up the earth, swept it away as sediment, then deposited it in the Gulf of Mexico basin or into whatever crevice that it desired. Or, the storm kept the soil in its bracken salt and fresh water, circulating to sand-blast anything that might try to obstruct its advance.

By late Saturday night, Professor Stillman was looking at a satellite image of an altered North American continent. The southeastern United States, from about South Carolina diagonally to New Orleans had been severed, washed away into nowhere. Florida from what had been Ft. Myers southward was gone, as were most of the Greater Antilles save a few stalwart rock pinnacles that the wind and waves now buffeted hard. Only the eastern remnants of the Appalachian Mountains through Georgia and Alabama remained. Their soil had been stripped away so that they stood as granite bluffs being rounded in the waves by the wind, water, and driving sand. Florida, at least the part of Florida that had emerged within the Cat X’s eye, remained, although greatly altered in form and shape. The wind had worked steadily at the north Florida coast around Jacksonville. It ripped into the St. Johns River and across the flat pine woods grinding and eroding its course. Eventually, the erosive power corroded away the peninsula and cut down to the Gulf of Mexico so that water then ran freely from the Atantic to the Gulf. Now an island, Florida was re-shaped nearly perfectly round. The Florida Ridge, a spine of limestone rock that splines down the peninsula before bottoming out just above Lake Okochobee, served again as the new island-state’s heart. Although washed clean down to bedrock, the ridge lay intact roughly in a sixty mile radius centered on former Orlando. The soil to the east and west of the ridge had eroded away, then was replaced by beach sand, forty miles worth at its widest, on both sides of the ridge. The Florida Ridge had been famous for its crystalline springs: Silver Springs, Blue Spring, Wekiva, DeLeon, Green Cove, Silver Glen, Alexander, Juniper, and others. In all of the springs, the water was clearer than the humid Florida air boiled up through the limestone from the Florida aquifer creating rivers of liquid glass. Now, after the Cat X reconfigured the Earth’s face, the waters continued to boil up to the surface, yet now spilled out onto stone. The water’s spread out where the limestone was flat and ran white through gorges, finding their own paths and creating new rivers down the two hundred some feet of elevation to sea level.

Bill Douglass brought Professor Stillman a fresh cup of coffee. They split time watching the computer screen with the constantly updating data on the television. Whereas mass hysteria had not stricken the victims in the southeastern U.S., it was striking nearly everywhere else. Most people east of the Mississippi couldn’t get outside, the Cat X had its arms spread over half the continent, dumping rain by the inches each hour, so again, the collective terror didn’t result there in large measure. Rivers had swollen and floods resulted, but, all in all and compared to other consequences, the results were passable. Out west, where the weather was still good and people could get outside to cause a ruckus, was another story. There were riots in all of the major cities. Religious zealots were convinced the Second Coming was imminent. Pilgrims congregated at geologic landmarks like Shiprock in New Mexico figuring they ought to focus on something large and God-made. Two sects spawned into cults and resulted in mass suicides even before the Cat X was finished with its adolescence. Crime was rampant as was violence as people horded perceived supplies in a “me-first” attitude. Looting ran rampant and people ran the streets with televisions over their shoulders. The nation teetered on anarchy.

Just as Professor Stillman was about to say something to Bill Douglass about the news being depressing, an intern who’d been assigned to the telephones tapped him on the shoulder. She handed him a piece of paper, folded up like a school girl’s note in class.

It read: President Collins called. Wants a video teleconference tomorrow, 10:00 AM. Will be him, Security Adv., some cabinet members, Prof. Still.

“This is President Collins as in Jonathan Collins, President of the United States?” Stillman was shocked.

“That’s him.” She smiled broadly

“Did he actually call himself?”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “But Karen Gilding did—the White House Press Secretary.”

“Unbelievable,” Stillman shook his head and half-smiled. “After all this time of just being some fruitcake science-fiction weather guy, first the Director of the NHC calls me, then he flies out for a chat, and now the President of the United States wants to talk with me.”

“You’re in the big leagues now, my boy,” Bill Douglass said. “He used to call me. This is way out of my league now. I’m supposed to retire in a year anyway.”

The professor took a deep breath and a moment to himself to soak everything in. Then, announced to his students, “Okay gang, let’s get ready. Breakfast with the president, 10:00 A.M. tomorrow!” He slapped his leg and smiled hard.

At precisely that time the next day, the TV screen in front of Professor Stillman and Bill Douglass flickered twice, showed snow, then showed the President of the United States sitting on a maroon leather couch slightly out of frame for a moment before being centered. True to the scribbled note, the National Security Advisor, a tall handsome fellow named John Allen was there sitting beside the president. No cabinet members seemed to have made it but three presidential advisors sat directly behind the president’s couch.

The president was obviously speaking but no sound came from the monitor. The president looked off-stage as he spoke directing people. Aides came to and fro casually offering or taking papers from him. Technicians laid and traced wires. Suddenly, sound came mid sentence, too loudly, and the president said, “…day to do this I’ve got people dying out there right now. You’d think we’d have this down by now but we’re taking all day hooking this thing up. Okay, we’re on? Can he hear me? Stillman can you hear me?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Can you hear me?”

“Ahh, yes. Professor, thanks for joining me. Who’s that with you?” He peered at the screen not believing his eyes. “Is that Bill Douglass?”

“Yes it is. Nice to speak with you again Mr. President,” Douglass answered.

“I figured you were dead Douglass. What are you doing in Colorado?”

“Thought I’d try to get a little early skiing in, sir.”

“Very good Douglass.”

“Sir, I’m here probably for the same reason that you called here. This is the only fellow in the country who has any clue as to what’s going on.”

“That’s indeed what I want to talk about. Professor Stillman, I need to know what’s going on. I need to know what is going to happen next. I don’t have time to beat around the bush, please excuse my frankness, but I need straight answers with no bull. Can you offer me that?”

“Absolutely, President Collins.”

“Good show. First, what the hell is going on?”

“Well, sir, data is still coming in and we’re still learning each time so…”

“I didn’t ask about the data,” the president cut him abruptly, “answer: what is going on?”

Learning to answer in soundbites, Stillman said, “The three hurricanes swirled and combined into one huge, mega-hurricane, Cat X.”

“Cat X?”

“Category X. We have category 1,2,3,4, and 5 hurricanes. This one is so strong we don’t even know how strong it is—Cat X. We’re talking nearly twice the size of Texas with winds upwards to 500 miles per hour is our best guess.”

“How can all of a sudden a storm like that can just appear when it’s never happened in history ever?”

“Well, it actually has happened. Just not here. I’m sure you’ve heard of The Great Red Spot on Jupiter.”

“Yes, but refresh my memory.”

“It’s roughly an eight thousand by twenty-five thousand mile oval of a storm. It has winds up to 300 miles per hour—slower than our Cat X because it’s spread out over such a much larger area. Kind of the same thing is happening here as on Jupiter—storms are colliding then interacting. The Great Red Spot collided with a white oval, another storm about the size of the earth. That’s essentially what the three hurricanes did—they made a Great Red Spot here on Earth.”

“What’s going to happen next?”

“You’re not going to want to hear this, but the correct answer is, ‘I don’t know’, but I will offer you my best guess. Mr. President, I believe the storm will remain intact for some time. Unlike regular hurricanes that fizzle out eventually, I foresee no end to this storm. It will reach an equilibrium, probably right where it is now, then sit there like a top spinning. The difference between the Red Spot and white oval and the Cat X, is that the Jupiter storms move around. Jupiter is made up of a series of layers of atmosphere, all circling the planet at different rates like hoola hoops. The Red Spot and the white oval are stuck into between two of these rings and they slide around the planet in between the rings. Here on Earth, we don’t have rings of atmosphere, of course, so the Cat X is much more stationary in terms of system movement.”

“You don’t think it will move anywhere?”

“I don’t believe so. My expectations are that it will have a gyroscope effect in that its winds will spin so fast it will create an axis that will in essence anchor it.”

“So that’s good news?”

“That is, yes.”

“What if you’re wrong and it does move?”

“Then millions of people die,” Stillman answered bluntly.

“That’s unacceptable. I already have some fourteen million people dead in a matter of days. That’s more than died in the Holocaust. I don’t plan to have more die while I’m president. That number is simply intolerable.”

Stillman wasn’t sure how to respond but felt he should just go ahead and answer as straight-forwardly as possible. He said, “Mr. President, with all due respect, the numbers show otherwise. There are roughly six billion people on the earth—fourteen million were killed, that’s only point two percent. One fifth of one percent, sir. I don’t wish to sound hard-hearted. I realize that each of those fourteen million was a human soul, but, scientifically speaking, those numbers are not uncommon. Species suffer much worse catastrophes than that numerically, much worse. In terms of survival, those losses are more than sustainable.”

“I don’t give a flip about acceptable millions of deaths or sustaining human life Professor, I just don’t want my people to die. I don’t care what your statistics tell you about what’s okay, fourteen million is not okay.”

“Mr. President,” Douglass stepped in, “what I think Professor Stillman is saying is that as bad as things are, they could have been much worse.”

“Will they get any worse?”

“Stillman,” Douglass had to pass the buck back.

Stillman balked at an answer, hemming and hawing.

“What say you, Stillman?”

“Mr. President, I’m working on that right now. All I can say is that I believe the Cat X will stay where it is, its damage is mostly already done. However, there’s a possibility of a much greater danger ahead.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know yet, exactly, it’s too early to tell. But, my fear centers on the notion of balance and the fact that for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Have you ever sat in the bathtub as a kid and let the water get dead calm. Then, down by your right hip, gently started to swirl the water around with your index finger around in a tight circle?”

“Actually, I’d have to say that I haven’t.”

“Well, take a guess, what do you think happens over by your left hip?”

“I really don’t know Professor. Fill me in.”

“The water starts to swirl over there too. An equal and opposite reaction maintaining balance in the tub. Right now, I believe, God is swirling that Cat X.”

President Collins didn’t say anything but began to catch onto what Professor Stillman was alluding to. The President raised one eyebrow and leaned back into his leather chair.

Chapter 20

Bok Tower Florida

Sunday, September 14

3:08 PM

“We’ve almost got it!” the colonel shouted with growing excited as he chiseled at a faster pace, Will and Jenni sitting on the stairs nearby. His hands were blistered raw so that he’d taken off his socks and wore them on his hands as mittens. He’d even cut holes for his thumbs to stick out. Still, inside the sock-mittens, his hands had been worn skinless, scabbed over with crusty blood, then the scabs had been worn off. What was left was a mixture of raw skin, blood, and cotton sock fiber. He and Will had pounded on the pipe for five days, nearly continually. They’d bent the pipe in half until it broke so that one man could do the job himself. In one hand he steadied the pipe-chisel, in the other he struck it with a stone. They’d had to find and use several stones because each would eventually break apart from the continual stress of the pounding. When one of the men grew too fatigued to chisel anymore, the other took over. Several times, when they both were too tired to work, Jenni stepped in to cut the limestone. She did it willingly, although when she handed the tools back, she could never tell if she’d made any progress. The colonel made Baxter try to chisel but he was so awkward that he struck himself in the left wrist once and made no progress at all. He said he thought the wrist was broken, at least sprained. He took a dish rag and wrapped up the wrist and held it close to his body, ninety degrees at the elbow, and nursed it gingerly for days.

The situation had become desperate with multiple concerns. Visually, the candles were quickly running out. By the second day, the colonel had announced that the candles were to be used only on an as-needed basis. That meant lighting them only to dole out juice or water to drink, or for working on the tools, or finding one’s way to the restroom. Even then, tasks were planned ahead of time so that they could be done simultaneously thereby conserving candles. The result was that most of the time was spent in the pitch black. Morale sank with the candlelight, as if a person’s spirits were somehow linked causally to luminescence. The colonel wondered why that might be the case and tried to convince the others that there was little to separate light or darkness, day or night, saying that there’s nothing different to fear—you just can’t see anything. ‘Everything else is the same,’ he’d told them, ‘items lay around the room, life goes on just the same, people breathe like any other time, there’s just no light rays bouncing off of them. Really, vision is just a perception anyway. It’s nerves in your eyes sending impulses to your brain. That’s all seeing is.’ His analysis had little positive effect. Jenni thought about it and thought that her Dad was absolutely right, but like the others, her spirits sank when the candle was extinguished and she was happy whenever it was re-lit.

And then, there was the issue of smell. The old man’s body had begun to reek the second day. By the third day, the stench in the stairway where the colonel and Will were working was becoming unbearable. They’d get used to the smell after working a while, then step into the basement for a moment, then return to the stairway and gag. The smell became so bad that it began to impede their work on the stones. They decided to move the body. The only other option to place it was back into the basement. Dottie cleaned out two cabinets underneath a long counter top. The colonel and Will, while holding their breath as best they could then turning away from the body to gasp for air, picked up the dead man and lugged him inside the basement. They stuffed him into the cabinet hastily and slammed the cupboards. Dottie had rummaged up a roll of duct tape. The colonel stripped it off and sealed the edges of each cupboard door so that the body was entombed, as airtight as wood can be, in a kitchen cupboard. The old ladies began to bawl again, they even cursed at the colonel for disturbing the dead. Still, the stench somehow began to dissipate and the working conditions for the men chiseling was bearable again.

The bathroom smell remained, although a make-shift outhouse smell is more bearable than the smell of rotting human flesh. Dottie changed the bathroom location to the dark corner inside the basement, rather than in the stairway landing where the men were working where her husband had appointed it to be. Whenever necessary, which was seldom since they ate and drank nearly nothing, a person sat on the birdseed bucket and did what he or she had to do. Dottie had the entire bucket sitting in a plastic trash bag which was to be resealed after use. The old ladies had to urinate every fifteen minutes it seemed to the colonel, but all in all, the restroom was used sparingly and was tolerable.

The colonel worried about fresh air. For six days the seven people had breathed the same air. ‘Would the oxygen hold out?’ his curiosity wondered. ‘And what happens to oxygen anyway after it’s breathed? Why is it used up? Oxygen is still oxygen. It’s not like the element’s atomic structure is somehow disrupted so less oxygen exists. You’d think it would still be around, somewhere. Maybe it combines with another element or two and makes some molecule that’s of no use. Oh yes, carbon dioxide! One carbon atom with four bonding units and two oxygens with two apiece. If there was just a machine to break them apart as in photosynthesis and why are you thinking about this anyway, Jim?’ Since a youth, the colonel had always been a curious boy and spoken to himself in his mind in the third person. Either way, despite the candle burning, people breathing normally, and Will or the colonel breathing heavily from their work, the oxygen was somehow replenished. The only fresh air they could receive was, like the only light they could receive, through the crack in the tumbled building stones. The winds, in their fury, must have circulated air in and out through the crack. For most of the six days, the winds had whipped fiercely—the sound of the wind was a piercing, high wail. Through a portion of the crack, the sky could be seen. It had never been blue, up until Saturday, but deep grey, almost black, both day and night. It didn’t even seem to change its brightness much between the day or night time. Still, dark as it was outside, the crack gave light yet. Enough even that the men didn’t need a candle to work by—they’re pupils had dilated to black disks the size of dimes in the dark.

As he worked, a couple of peculiarities had struck the colonel, although he didn’t mention them to anyone. Occasionally, looking up through the crack to the sky, the colonel would see a black splot seemingly streak past. Unbeknownst to him, the splots were of debris flying by, trees and cars and houses and people. At first he thought the streaks only a false glimmer—his eyes playing a trick on him in the darkness or sleepiness. But, after several instances, he was convinced that something was flying across the opening between the crack and the sky. And, he wondered why no crews had started digging. Not even a single person had emerged. He expected suddenly to see a face through the crack. Certainly a person would amble up Iron Mountain to check out what had been Bok Tower and which now lay in pieces across the ground. Certainly they’d approach the stairwell entrance and peer down into it, maybe even call out, ‘Anybody down there?’ No one came and that fact puzzled the colonel.

The most pressing concern was that all liquids had been consumed. The grape juice had lasted until Thursday morning. Dottie measured each person’s portion carefully with a teaspoon and watched over it fearing Baxter or one of the old ladies might try to sneak a swallow. When the juice was gone, she began to strain away the water from the few canned vegetables that were in the pantry cupboard. In all, she found six cans. Several times she scolded herself for emptying the water down the drain from the first cans of green beans and corn that she’d given the group the first day. Doing nothing else on Saturday, and to ease her self-appointed guilt, she took a steak knife, crawled under the sink, and began to cut at the underside of the sump in the drain pipe. Jenni came after an hour or so to relieve her mother and cut as well. She eventually knicked her way through the sump until liquid started seeping out. She placed an empty can underneath the sump and let it drain, catching a can and a half of the vegetable/dish water combination.

By Saturday evening the group ran out of fluids except for those reclaimed from the sink. When Dottie mentioned it to the colonel he told her that if they needed to, he’d strain the urine from the birdseed bucket and they could drink that. The notion appalled Dottie and she looked at her husband in disgust and shock.

“That’s only if we have to,” the colonel had said. “It’s just mostly water; it’ll keep you alive. We wouldn’t be the first people to drink piss in an emergency.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. It really doesn’t have much taste. It’s just the notion of drinking piss that gets to people.”

“Tell me you’ve never done it.”

“No, I’ve never done it,” he said almost ashamedly, “but back in Operation Desert Storm some of the Iraqi soldiers did. They got caught in the desert when their tank was disabled. They were 60 kilometers from anywhere and had to walk out of there. They cut the bladders out of the men that fell dead and drank the urine out of them.”

“That’s enough,” Dottie said and walked back toward the kitchenette.”

“It’s better than dying of thirst,” he called out.

Dottie still protested, although she knew her husband was right, if not too frank as usual.

“Maybe I can figure a way to distill it, I’ll think about it,” the colonel mentioned although he doubted it was possible in their circumstances.

He went back and chiseled for two hours straight.

“Do you want a break, Daddy?” Jenni called up to her father.

“No thanks sweetie, I’m getting it. A few more licks and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

Will had the other pipe and was grinding the makeshift chisel head on a stone to sharpen it. That had become their routine—one man cuts, the other sharpens the inactive chisel, then trade. Working that way, they’d cut a swipe through the limestone block an inch wide and nearly eighteen inches deep. When he stepped back to assess the work on occasion, the colonel was amazed at what they’d accomplished. He’d always been a big believer in the notion that persistence pays off, and had tried to live by that axiom whenever appropriate. Still, cutting a boulder with a pipe and a rock was impressive to him.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got,” he announced setting down his pipe and hammer rock. The colonel reached into the crack with a broom handle measuring the chisel’s progress. They’d cut through all but a good foot of the stone. “Let’s give it a try.”

Will handed the colonel a stone the size of a man’s shoe. Formerly, it had been one of their hammering stones, but, upon one of the strikes, it sheared off a third of its mass. What was left, was now shaped like a sharp wedge. The colonel placed the wedge into the cut and tapped it with his hammer rock until the wedge held on its own.

“Take it easy, nice and slow,” Will advised. “You don’t want the wedge to bust apart.”

“Right.” The colonel began tapping softly then firmly. The wedge didn’t seem to move at all. Dust formed chalky white at the corners where the wedge met the cut-line on the building stone. The colonel kept pounding the wedge, harder yet.

“I don’t think its ready, the wedge is going to shatter,” Will said.

“A little more,” the colonel spoke with tight lips as he struck. Their situation had become desperate. The time had come to do something. If it meant destroying a wedge, then so be it. He began to strike the wedge’s blunt base with the full force of his swing, reaching back as though he were throwing a baseball. Each time the stone hammer struck rock to rock, vibrations shot through the colonel’s makeshift mitten to his raw hand. They seemed to shake every nerve ending in his hand sending pure pain up his arm and making his hand feel as though he held it in a roaring fire and let the skin burn off then roast.

“You’re going to break it!” Will called out over the smashing sound.

“I don’t care. There’s plenty more rocks to make wedges from.” The smell of crushed rock hung in the air now, like burnt sulfur.

Then, just before the colonel was about to give up out of breath and out of patience, the stone block broke. A clean crack as thin as a fingernail drove up from the chisel cut edge straight through the block. The wedge fell straight down at the colonel’s feet and he had to halt his next strike mid-swing. At once, the building stone lurched free and jostled to the right about three inches. The colonel jumped down the stairs, not looking for a place to land, just to get away for fear that the stone might tumble down at him. It did not. But, it was free to move now, no longer jammed in with other stones and stones on top of stones and locked into place by their grip and weight. Plus, the portion that had moved was only about one third the size of the original and therefore only one third the weight.

Jenni and Will shouted in joy. Jenni scurried down to her father, who’d half stumbled and half fallen all the way down to the bottom of the stairs and lay on the landing face-up. She threw herself down on her knees and hugged her father, still a bit confused by the stone break and stumbled fall. “You did it! You did it!” Jenni called hugging her father and kissing him on the cheek. Hearing the commotion, Dottie, the two old ladies, and Baxter came over to assess the commotion. Instantly, they saw that the crack’s shape had been altered. No longer was it a mostly horizontal stripe but it was a now an inverted “L”, the vertical swipe resulting from the chisel cut and the stone’s movement to the right.

“Come on, let’s see if we can move it,” Will was already tugging at the smaller, broken away block of stone. The colonel joined him. They pushed at the stone with their hands randomly. Although only one third the size, the stone was still very heavy. Then, the colonel counted “1-2-3-push!” to synchronize their effort. When they did, the block budged, perhaps only and eighth of an inch. But, it had budged—they could move the stone. Will, the colonel, and Jenni who was close enough to see the slight motion, all smiled at one another.

It took another fifteen minutes of jostling back and forth, prying with the pipes-turned-chisels-turned-crowbars to wrench the stone loose. Finally, it hung out over the stairs awkwardly, seeming to have more of its mass hanging over the colonel’s toes than holding it into place.

“She’s about to go,” the colonel announced. “Will, you and Jenni go on down into the basement. Take the others. We don’t need this rock rolling down onto somebody.” Will huddled the spectators back into the doorway like a crowd control security person at a rock concert. Jenni wanted to stay with her father but the colonel explained that when the rock started to go, he might need all the space available to jump around and avoid it. Reluctantly, she turned and walked down the stairs to join the others.

The colonel stepped to the left so that he was no longer beneath the stone. He placed his feet against the wall, both hands on the side of the stone, then drove his chest toward it in the same move he’d done thousands of times in high school football practice as an offensive guard driving the coach on the blocking sled. The stone rode over diagonally several inches, hit the stone wall and stopped. The colonel wrapped his hands around the back side of the stone, one foot against the opposite wall, bucked up and pulled. The stone shifted back, only half as far as it had before. He pulled hard again and the stone moved back to its original position. Upon examination, the colonel figured he’d gained an inch. He set up to drive-block the stone again away from his body. He geared up for the push, both feet against the back wall, hands on the stone so that his body was arced up in the air, then lunged. Immediately, without even sliding, the stone fell free. The colonel also fell—the capstone in his human arc suddenly jolted loose. In mid air, he pushed the stone below his body, or rather, his body above the stone. So that when the stone hit the stairs, the colonel did a belly flop onto the block. He bounced up like on a crab ball. The stone kicked up on end and rolled down the stairs. Jenni saw the stone coming, pushed back the old ladies who were peering over her shoulders, and quickly pulled the steel door to the basement shut. The block hit the last step of the stairs, kicked up a bit, and leapt across the landing. It drilled into the steel door with a horrendous BLAM! It imprinted an outline of its shape into the door and pushed the door through the door frame so that the steel door now opened the wrong way, inward rather than outward. Then, the stone block, spun a quarter turn and fell as though dead, flat like a one half doorstop.

The colonel, after being jounced into the air, had landed on his belly again and had slid the length of the stairwell headfirst on his stomach as though he were sledding. He struck the landing with a thud then scrunched up with his face against the door jam. Light streamed in through the opening now, brighter than ever in a streak visible by the rock dust, and everyone could see that the colonel was smiling. Together, they all cheered.

Five minutes later, all seven of them were standing outside in the daylight, the first time in six days. They had to squint hard and heard a low humming off in the distance. The direct sunlight nearly blinded them completely. It was painful to open one’s eyes more than for an instant, although the temptation to do so was immense. To see, they had to flicker their eyes to capture still frame images in monochrome, then piece together the still frames to perceive their surroundings.

Jenni, with the youngest and most responsive eyes, saw the scene most clearly. There were no gardens. They stood on hard, barren rock that rose jaggedly above the rest of the landscape—obviously Iron Mountain, naked. Large cracks and stone crevasses scarred the mountain so that it was no longer the smooth sloping knoll that it had been six days prior. Now, it more resembled a western canyon cut cleanly by thousands of years of wind, sun, and water. Jenni remembered the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona, where they’d vacationed when she was twelve. The coral shade of Iron Mountain and its cuts, gorges, cliffs, and overhangs seemed the same as the Sedona rocks at dusk.

Out over the plain, in all directions, the scene was surreal. There were no trees, or grass, or even soil. The houses and farms that had been present a week earlier were gone. So were telephone and power poles and lines, and roads. There was nothing, actually, except bedrock stone, pastel pink colored near Iron Mountain then a kind of pinkish yellow everywhere else. The ground was mostly flat, interrupted occasionally by gorges or outcroppings of solid stone. Behind the outcroppings, on the eastern side always, smaller stones, really boulders, had been deposited by some massive, corrosive force. The cutting effect of the erosion was obvious.

“There’s nothing left,” Jenni said dumbly. Her statement reinforced what the others thought they were beginning to see too. “There’s nothing left,” she repeated. Maggie had come out first and seemed to agree. She sniffed the barren rocks, foofed her nose out to clear it, then sniffed again confusedly. Even the dog knew something was terribly awry.

It took thirty minutes for their eyes to fully adjust. By the time they did, the entire scene was before them and they stood in awe. Aside from the barren, Martian-like landscape, they stood surrounded by a storm wall of the darkest clouds any of them had ever seen. Atop Iron Mountain, they could spin around and see nothing but a line of blue-black clouds from the horizon in all directions high up into the sky. A perfect circle was rimmed out by the dark clouds overhead and inside the circle was clear, pure blue sky. The sun bore down on them at an angle and would soon be behind the wall of clouds in a matter of minutes.

The cloud wall was clearly nearer to them to the south, further to the north, and equal in distance to the east and west. All up along the clouds, in all directions, lightning burst continually. Not continually as in every several seconds, but continually—at every instant at least three bolts could be seen. Occasionally, a massive bolt would flash. It would be four times as thick as the others, would draw the others to it by sucking their power, then shoot across the horizon. The large bolt would run around the wall of clouds from its originating point, sideways. The group saw one such bolt start in the south, then run eastward then around to the north so that they had to do an about-face northward to see its terminus. Still, the bolt ran around to the west before it frayed out to nothing.

“That humming sound is from the lightning, I guess,” Will said.

“That and the winds,” the colonel added. “Looks like we’re right smack in the middle of the storm.”

“Think this is the eye of the hurricane?” Baxter asked, feeling smart suddenly.

“I don’t think so,” the colonel answered. “This is the eye of something, but its too big for a hurricane. This eye is a hundred miles across I’d guess. And besides, what kind of hurricane blows everything away? Everything.”

Whereas the colonel thought they’d be preparing for a good meal in a local restaurant right now, telling their tale of survival, it was clear that their ordeal was only beginning. He began to assess the situation. He had almost no food and no water, two elderly women who could not travel, two women, two men and one of them was worthless. Most importantly, they needed to find food and water. Shelter they had, they could always just crawl back into the basement. Food and water would be a problem though if he couldn’t find help anywhere and it appeared that there would be no help. There was nothing but for rock, clouds, and lightning. He quickly came to the only conclusion possible—they’d have to move. Not the entire group, the old ladies would never get far, but a party to explore their situation and forage for food and water.

“Okay, gang,” after several minutes of gawking at the scene, the colonel called their attention to order. “Here’s the deal. We’re going to have to go look for food and water. Dottie, you stay here with the ladies. Baxter, you stay too. I’ll take Will and Jenni with me. We’ll check out the situation exactly. We’ll take the cans with us and try to find some water. We’ll be back before it gets dark.” Baxter and the women were hesitant about splitting the group, having become dependent on them for survival.

“You’ve waited six days,” the colonel said, “waiting a little longer won’t hurt. If it gets too stormy or whatever, go back inside the basement.” No one liked that idea but it had to be said.

“We’ll wait out here,” Baxter said, “I’m not going back in that hole.”

“You will if it starts storming again like it was, I’ll bet,” Will barked. Baxter was apparently getting on his nerves too. Baxter cradled his “hurt” hand.

The colonel sent Jenni back into the basement to gather up the tin cans. She carried them in a plastic garbage bag and brought the chisel-pipes as well, just in case. Minutes later, they struck out. They hiked down Iron Mountain, having to look for a path that was passable then headed southward across the barren rock plain. Jenni turned when it was flat going, stopped, and waved up at her mother who stood on the top of Iron Mountain with both hands on her hips. She waved back earnestly wishing them luck.

Chapter 21

Florida State Penitentiary

Stark, Florida

Sunday, September 14

4:11 PM

Moving the prisoners into the lower level of the prison hadn’t been the problem that the guards had feared. Since the warden had waited until the last possible moment and had moved only after two calls from Tallahassee, the guards had opted for moving the inmates together in bulk, all at once. When the guards were in place and the cell doors opened, the prisoners simply walked down the corridors and two flights of stairs into what was called the “dungeon.”

The dungeon really was a large room and had little to resemble as a true dungeon. It was essentially another cafeteria, the size of a double gymnasium. It had been the main cafeteria years ago before the prison population had outgrown it and was used occasionally now whenever the new one was being cleaned. Normally, it had tables with built in benches laid in rows but they’d been folded and stowed away. They were replaced by bunks in rows, four beds high that hung by chains from steel frames. The bunks were arranged in rows throughout the room. Along the edges, nearly twenty feet high, were cupolas where the guards could watch over the crowd in safety. Each cupola had a doorway through the wall so the guards could come and go without ever really contacting the prisoners. When the entire group, nearly five hundred strong, was herded into the dungeon, the gates had been locked down and the guards had settled into their perches.

The Judge had assembled his constituency in one corner of the dungeon, Blacksnake issuing the orders and seeing that they were carried out. There was a sense of excitement amongst the prisoners. Their lives were usually dictated by monotony. The close confines and change of routine proved enlightening. The Judge used the situation to issue sermons to tighten his following and gain new converts, prisoners receptive to different ideas simply because they were in a new place and in new surroundings, as all people are prone to be.

Late the second day of being in the dungeon, the storm had struck. At first the prison was simply buffeted by the wind. There were no shutters to fly off or debris to go airborne. Just cement walls standing against the wind. The next day, when the three hurricanes had united into the Cat X, the prison had been destroyed.

In the same way that the cities had been blown away, and the soil, and mountains, and Florida cut off into an island, the prison walls eventually gave way and were pushed aside, eventually tumbling across the flat fields.

There was pandemonium amongst the inmates and guards alike when the top level ripped off of the dungeon. It was set in the foundation of a four story cement prison building. Most of the other buildings in the Stark, Florida area had already been destroyed and hustled away—mostly little frame houses or cinder block with cheap mortar as chink. The top two levels of the prison building broke away in chunks. A portion of the building would suddenly break off and be whisked away by the wind. Then, the wind would begin to work at a new section until it gave up its hold and splintered off itself. The building had been whittled down to a single story in this manner. The lower level proved stubborn for the Cat X to destroy. The cement walls had been poured extra thick, with more than enough reinforcing steel than was necessary, by a construction company eager to maximize their costs and thereby pass them along to the state. The more concrete they poured, the higher the bill they would charge the state for the prison’s construction. They’d figured it so they made money not only on the construction but also by inching up the prices of building materials as well; the more concrete they poured, the more profits they made.

The first level held stalwartly until the Cat X had built up nearly to its maximum winds. At 400 miles per hour, the prison had been the only noticeable thing left on the landscape aside from rock, rain, and wind. It appeared as a blemish to the surroundings, a huge pimple on a fair skin whose owner was eager to see it pop. At those wind speeds, the wind began to drive the rain into the cement, weakening the building slowly. Finally, in one mighty slice, the wind sheared off the first level as though a growth was whittled off a large baking potato.

Inside the dungeon, the men saw half of their ceiling, really the floor of the first story, peel away completely. It made a high screeching sound so loud that many men would have plugged their ears had it not happened so quickly. The other half of the ceiling that sat in the leeward side of the dungeon remained intact, severed by a diagonal slice across the ceiling with steel beams thrusting out aimlessly. About a dozen men who were standing by the far, now exposed wall, had been sucked up into the winds and disappeared. The winds created a vacuum of upward pressure as they zoomed over the dungeon, not unlike the effect of an airplane wing, so that the men simply took off like missiles, were caught in the sideways current of wind and rain, then were gone. Those who were left ran to the leeward side of the dungeon where a ceiling still remained.

They’d ridden out the storm right there, huddled like puppies for warmth. Only three of the six guards who’d been on duty survived. The other three, who’d been stationed in the cupolas near the ceiling when it had ripped away, were gone. Two had simply been sucked away, one had been smooshed by a concrete slab against the wall like a roach under shoe, then disappeared as well. The surviving guards, who’d seen what had happened to their buddies, withdrew into the underground corridor that connected them. They huddled up in a corner together, sitting on the floor with knees up, and had prayed until the storm finally let up.

The prisoners had a good view of the storm through the empty ceiling. What had been nothing but howling, black winds began to subside noticeably. At first, little water came into the dungeon. The winds moved so rapidly that rain and sea water that was gunning across the plain simply ramped over the opening and continued on. As the winds began to fade, rain began to leak in, then dump into the dungeon floor. Eventually, little streams as big as mountain brooks flowed in through two of the corners of the room and began to flood the dungeon. The fear then struck that they now might drown or maybe be forced out of the dungeon and into the killer winds.

The Judge, since the time the ceiling had ripped away, had been in a state of semi-consciousness. He would hold his arms out at this sides, straight out, smile, and sway back and forth as if drawing more rain to come. Although packed into a small space, the prisoners all gave The Judge wide berth, almost afraid to touch him.

“The time has come! It is now!” he kept saying over and over. “We are about to be set free! The order of New Rome is being established. The time has come and it is now!” The men who made up his group of followers surrounded him excitedly. Now, more than ever, they believed him to be a prophet of some sort and accepted him as their leader to their redemption from prison. Whereas many had agreed to be followers not because they so much believed what he was saying but largely out of curiosity or as a way to fight prison boredom, now, they shed their doubts and became loyal followers. Others, who’d never paid much mind to The Judge thinking him only a prison lunatic, paid heed and joined the “Legion” as well.

As the waters rose knee deep, Blacksnake had conferenced with The Judge about what to do. After the discussion, Blacksnake ordered the men to begin stacking the mattresses and the bed frames onto one another to create a sort of frame-and-mattress scaffolding.

“We may have to climb out of here,” he’d said.

“But where we gonna go,” one prisoner named Crabs because he always itched in the genitals asked. “We can’t go outside, we’ll blow away.” Indeed, the wind still howled, though not as loudly or as violently, and the rain pounded yet.

“We’ll cut into those halls behind the lookouts,” he pointed to the cupolas where the guards had been stationed.

“Won’t we get into trouble? We’re not supposed to be there,” another inmate, a simpleton called Stubby asked. After years of following instructions and rules, many of the men had lost the ability to make decisions for themselves or to think on their own. They were told everything and had only to react to instructions, like a voice-operated robot toy.

“You won’t get into trouble, my son,” The Judge answered. “You are in New Rome now. I rule now. You have been set free from your oppressors.”

Stubby looked at The Judge trying to figure out what he was saying. All Stubby knew was that the water level was rising steadily and that he was one of the shortest men so he’d drown first if they didn’t get to higher ground.

The men had stacked the metal bed frames so that they’d built a misshapen monkey-bar structure. A couple of fools floated on mattresses and splashed one another making light of the situation. The Judge began to laugh at the men happily and said, “You are free! Welcome to New Rome my Legion.” When the men saw that The Judge approved, several others flopped onto mattresses themselves and sloshed about like school children, whooping it up. Those who didn’t join in the swimming watched, joined the laughing and cheering, and enjoyed belly-laughs when the fools tried to stand up on the floating mattresses, wobbled awkwardly, then fell into their dirty pool. Many swimming came to the sudden realization that it had been years since they’d swam or felt the enveloping wrap of water entirely around their body. Hard-driving showers were things to get into and out of quickly, a swim, however, was to be slowly relished.

For hours, the water level had risen although the sky had begun to lighten considerably and the rain had begun to wane. Seeing that the water level would soon be over their heads, The Judge ordered the men to start climbing out of the dungeon. They stacked up the bed frames higher still so that the top of the structure reached one of the guard’s cupolas. Blacksnake went first. He climbed up the structure, over the guard rail and onto the cupola landing. He looked down at the nearly 400 men watching. For the first time ever, an inmate stood on forbidden ground without punishment. Blacksnake stood in a place that if he’d been caught a week earlier, he would have been beaten senseless with steel clubs by men in black SWAT uniforms and kevlar vests and helmets. Then, he would have been thrown into isolation to rot away. Now, he stood there perched above them all freely, without fear of retribution. He held up both arms and yelled, “It has begun! New Rome is now!” The crowd of men cheered. The Judge smiled at his star pupil like a proud father.

Blacksnake tried the door, found it locked, then began to kick at the handle. Other men scrambled up the structure, too many at first so that it swayed and sank. The Judge issued the order of only two men at a time and the men followed instructions although who was next evoked a nasty pecking order. When the men joined Blacksnake, they too kicked at the door. The door wiggled, then swayed then bust through. They expected to see the guards with guns drawn when the door swung open. They saw only an empty hallway. They walked further into forbidden ground.

In that manner, climbing up the homemade scaffolding, all of the men climbed out of the dungeon. A small bookish man was appointed by The Judge to count the inmates as they filed through the doorway. He counted 370 men, announcing it proudly to The Judge who placed his hand on the man’s shoulder as though to knight or to bless him. The men were cramped into the hallway to ride out the remnants of the storm. Blacksnake and a few others set out to explore the corridors. There was little to be found. Apparently, the only purpose of that level was to gain access to the cupolas. A single circular stairway at the end of the hallway spiraled up to nothing but sky and storm, its terminus having been sheared clean by the storm. Blacksnake did find the three prison guards huddled in a storage closet amongst mops, toilet paper, towels, and the like. The guards wore pistols but didn’t even try to draw them. They simply sat quietly, shaking in fear knowing their situation. And, they had families at home with small children for whom they worried greatly. A storm that could rip apart a state prison could do anything to a three bedroom house. They didn’t care about the men and only wanted to leave and go home and find their families okay. The inmates wanted to kill the guards immediately. Blacksnake wouldn’t let them but wanted to take them back to The Judge. The guards had hardly moved when Blacksnake disarmed them. First he took their weapons, then their utility belts. Blacksnake put one of the belts on himself, holstered the pistol, and carried the other two belts over his shoulders, pistols in his hand.

“Look what we found,” the man called Dinky exclaimed to the crowd of men as they entered the main hallway. “We got us some prison guards!” Men were crammed into the hallway, mostly sitting with their backs against the walls resting. Blacksnake led the group of four other inmates and three hostage guards down the center of the hall. He cut his eyes back and forth warning everyone not to try anything with the guards. Men drew up their outstretched legs as Blacksnake walked. The prison guards kept their eyes down, without looking at anyone in particular lest they catch the eye of an inmate whom they’d bossed or beaten and who may lunge at them to exact their personal justice. Blacksnake’s helpers, who walked behind the three prison guards, smiled and held their chins high, proud of their capture and relishing their victory parade.

Blacksnake walked to The Judge, who stood at the entrance way back into the dungeon waiting for their arrival as a king holding court.

“We’ve captured three prisoners, Judge,” Blacksnake announced referring to the guards.

“We’ve captured prisoners!” The Judge bellowed, repeating Blacksnake’s words loudly to announce them to his Legion.

“What do you want me to do with them?”

“There is only one thing to do with prisoners—hold a trial. New Rome will be a nation built on justice. Just as Rome of old was a leader in the law, New Rome will be a leader in justice. There will be a trial tomorrow. Everyone here will serve as witnesses. I will judge. For now, these men are not to be harmed.” He spoke to the group, issuing a stern warning. “No man is to touch these prisoners. Anyone who harms one of these men will be brought to justice himself.” Then to Blacksnake, “Can you put them somewhere where they’ll be safe?”

“I can stick them back in the closet where we found them. I’ll set some guards up to keep anyone out.”

“Very good. First, we must talk.” The Judge motioned for Blacksnake to step back onto the cupola with him. He shut the door behind them for privacy.

“We need to organize,” The Judge began, speaking in a hushed tone now, alone with his best follower and right arm. The tone might even have been construed as somewhat normal, had the lunacy of his words been ignored. “We need a close loyal group who’ll obey without question. Men who will carry out orders without thinking twice—true believers.”

“Yes. I need some lieutenants to help me control the men.”

“Yes. Exactly. We need lieutenants in the Legion. We’ll need officers to run New Rome. You will serve as general, I as emperor. Can you pick your lieutenants now?”

“Yes. I know who I want.”

“Let’s do it right now, then.” They stepped back through the door and into the corridor again.

“Okay, everyone listen up!” Blacksnake yelled down the corridor. The men stopped talking in a wave down the hallway, each sensing the men closest to them had just gone silent. “Listen up!” he yelled and the men at the end of the corridor heard then and hushed. “The Judge wants to talk. You will listen.”

“Gentlemen, members of the legion. Soon we will leave our imprisonment. We’ll emerge from our grave to start New Rome, like the phoenix rising from its own ashes. We have three prisoners taken, enemies of the New Rome. But, we are a civilized nation, and they will be given fair trials. Tomorrow, their trials will be held. You all are invited!” There was a general murmur of approval.

“Now,” The Judge continued, “we will name the leadership of New Rome.” He paused. The men were silent. The winds could be heard faintly outside, dying. “I am your emperor. I have been appointed by the gods to rule over you. What I say is law. What I judge is judged. What I say is to be, shall be. My followers will be rewarded. My enemies will be destroyed. You are to follow faithfully, without question, or you are against me and will be punished. There is no other course.” The Judge stopped and waited for any reaction. There was none.

“Blacksnake will be my general. His word will be an extension of my own. His orders are to be obeyed and carried out without delay. Failure to carry out even the smallest of his orders will be punished harshly. Allegiance will be rewarded, of course, as will bravery.” Blacksnake glared over the men as though he had been insulted in some way, daring any man to flinch the wrong way. “Now,” The Judge continued, “the general will name his lieutenants.”

Blacksnake stepped forward to the center of the hallway and sneered. “Corbin,” he called out first, loudly. “Come up here wherever you are.” A bulky country boy with a jovial face about him stood up at the end of the hallway. “Come up here,” Blacksnake repeated. Corbin startled to amble up the corridor, stepping over legs sprayed out from the walls three men deep.

“It’s thicker than swamp moss in here,” he said smiling.

“Never thought you’d get to be a lieutenant, did you Corbin,” one of the men said as he passed. When he got to Blacksnake, the general stared at Corbin.

“Will you be subservient to my orders without question?”

Corbin looked either way, then down, then up and said, “Sure. I’ll do as I’m told.”

“This is our first lieutenant, Lt. Corbin,” Blacksnake raised Corbin’ right arm and spun him around. The men all cheered because they felt that that was what Blacksnake expected. Blacksnake called out three more men by name: Dinky, Macho, and Scorpion. He asked them the same question, got “yes” answers from them all, raised their right arms, and introduced them as lieutenants. The men cheered in turn although the cheers faded a bit each time in enthusiasm and sincerity so that Scorpion got little more than a show of hands. Those three had been in the five who’d accompanied Blacksnake in exploring the prison corridors and had brought in the prison guards. The other two of Blacksnake’s original five figured they’d be called next but Blacksnake announced tersely, “That is all. You will answer to them as to myself.” The two who’d been slighted still stood near Blacksnake and looked at him with their mouths open. Blacksnake paid no mind to the men. The men turned to Dinky and Macho as if they could offer explanations. Without warning, Blacksnake turned and grabbed the nearest man by the back of the head. In one quick and clean motion, he rammed his own forehead into the man’s forehead while pulling the man’s head toward him in a stiff head-butt. Blacksnake hit the man with his own head, an inch off-center and over his right brow in what would be the front corner of his own head. The man was unconscious before he even knew he’d been hit, struck dead center of his forehead. His body crumpled straight down. The other man bayed his eyes down, turned away, and sat down. “Nobody questions me,” Blacksnake said to the group. He gathered his lieutenants and with The Judge, retired back onto the cupola and closed the door on the men.

The next day, when The Judge saw that the sun had emerged and that the sky was blue, he announced that they would crawl out of the prison.

“Today is redemption day!” he called to the men. Blacksnake stood behind him, the lieutenants, two on each side, feeling very important. “Today we step into New Rome. We have been imprisoned unjustly for too long. Today, we step into New Rome and we hold trial for our prisoners.”

The men were excited. Most had been in the prison for several years, dreaming daily of life outside, now they were about to see the fruition of their anticipation. Some were scared and thought they’d better not step outside the prison. They figured that other guards would surely come and catch them, beat them, then throw them into solitary. Or perhaps guards with high powered rifles stood in towers waiting for the prisoners to emerge as a rancher waiting for a prairie dog to pop its head out of its burrow so he can sharpen his shot. Or worse, they’d go before a judge and he’d just add ten years to their sentence. Maybe they’d just better stay put and see how things went, they wondered. But on the other hand, if Blacksnake told them to go, most would have gone partially due to The Judge’s preaching, partly due to fear, and largely due to the curiosity of simply seeing what’s on the outside. By all accounts, the energy amongst the prisoners was electric.

Blacksnake took the lead, followed by The Judge and then the lieutenants. They marched down the corridor between the men and instructed them to fall in behind. Blacksnake led them around the corner to the spiraled stairway then climbed up. The lieutenants made it clear that only he and The Judge were to go ahead. The others would have to wait a few moments.

Blacksnake spiraled upward until only his legs then shoes were visible to the men. As he neared the ripped open exit to the outside world, Blacksnake felt a small breeze blowing against his cheek. A free wind which he’d not felt for over a decade. The sun was bright through a clear, Carolina blue sky overhead. Blacksnake poked his head up above ground level cautiously, like a varmint wary of coyotes. The alien site that fell before his eyes awed him so that for a moment he thought that maybe he’d been killed in the storm after all and now lived in some other-world, which, in a figurative sense, was true. The storm had killed his old way of life and opened him to a world he’d never seen or experienced yet was doing both now.

The Judge rose beside Blacksnake and was even more bewildered as he was more easily shaken by things than Blacksnake.

“Where are we?” The Judge asked dumbly.

“I don’t know. All I know is that we’re not in prison anymore.” And with that, Blacksnake stepped out of his purgatorial dungeon as a butterfly from a cocoon. He turned a full 360 degrees to survey the new world.

In all directions, he was surrounded by the steel grey storm clouds and saw the same hyper-active lightning which the colonel’s group had seen forty miles to the south. The lightning wrapped around him so that he had to careen his neck to see it reach its full conclusion. In his mind, Blacksnake likened it to an immense spider, as large as a constellation, working its angry web around to catch unwary humans. The pine and palmetto flatwoods that had surrounded the penitentiary in a twenty mile radius and which had been there a week earlier were simply gone. The landscape was now only dry desert. In all directions the only color was of pale yellowish-grey limestone broken only by gorges as wide as school buses and occasional outcroppings. The outcroppings were dramatic in that they were buttes without the eroded debris around the base but were only columns of rock jutting up from the bedrock. They were not tall and all came flat at the same apparent elevation, yet were dramatic. The sun angled to score stark shadows in the gorges and flanks of the buttes to the north and south. Most importantly, there was no one to be seen in any direction as far as the horizon would allow which was a long way. For now, at least, they were indeed free.

“It is New Rome,” The Judge said, surprised himself.

Thirty minutes later, all 370 men had climbed the spiral staircase and experienced the same shock at the world outside in succession. Some were overcome in that they were indeed outside and didn’t seem to notice and some fell at The Judge’s feet groveling at his wisdom and magnificence and the like hoping for some sort of blessing. All of the men were mesmerized at their new surroundings, the lightning especially, and stood or sat for nearly two hours watching the bolts wrap them.

Meanwhile, The Judge met with Blacksnake alone. They talked calmly to the side for several minutes. Neither showed any emotion. Finally, they broke and The Judge started walking southward toward the highest butte visible. Blacksnake spoke briefly to his lieutenants, then announced loudly, “Okay Legion, listen to me. The trials for the three prisoners have been postponed by The Judge. Their day of judgment will come later. As you can see, New Rome is very different from anything we’ve ever seen. We will have to build it from the ground up. We will start in the morning. There is much to do and much to prepare. For now, we need to set up a camp and make food. You are the Roman Legion. This is our land. The Judge has laid claim to it and it is ours. We are free men now and we answer to no one other than The Judge. We must get busy now and then rest. Tomorrow, we will strike out to find a location to build New Rome City. Rest now, tomorrow, we move.”

Chapter 22

The Coast of West Africa

Monday, September 15

5:42 AM

When Rabula awakened he immediately noticed that Mokeela was not in his bunk. Mokeela had lain in the palm frond bed for two weeks nearly motionless, yet now was gone. Rabula stood up in his hut. The dry dusty soil was cool on the bottom of his feet and between his toes. He stretched quickly then burst through the doorway, brushing aside the woven palm mat that served as a door.

Rabula scanned the village for the shaman. Two old women were stoking coals in the fire ring in the center of the village for the day. They worked bent over horizontally at the waist with without flexing at the knees. No one else in the village was awake.

“Have you women seen Mokeela?” Rabula asked.

“I thought he was staying in your house,” the women closer to Rabula answered without looking up.

“Yes, but he is gone.”

“We’ve been here for nearly an hour. No one has been here, the village is still asleep.”

Rabula moved on, circling the village looking for footprints that might point a direction which to pursue. Footprints ran everywhere, however—children’s, men’s, women’s, goats’. Rabula stopped to think a moment.

The cool of the morning lit softly on his bare shoulders as he stood considering where Mokeela might have wandered. The air was thick with humidity, yet refreshing in the early dawn. Gnats began to buzz his ankles then drifted up to his face and ears. One flew too close to his nostril and in a quick exhale without even thinking of it, he foofed it away. Although blinded, Mokeela might have walked anywhere in the village almost as though with full sight—the result of having been born, grown up, and lived in the same village one’s entire life. Suddenly enlightened, Rabula said aloud, “The beach.”

He walked briskly down the pathway through the jungle underbrush that led to the beach. He walked lightly so that if he stepped onto a barren root or sharp stick he could readjust his weight over his barefoot so that the bottoms of his feet would not become cut. The morning dew lay heavy on the shrubs and felt cool to his arms as he brushed through them. The leaves that overlapped the trail brushed up against the outside of his legs with cool dew so that his legs were quickly saturated.

When he emerged from the forest undergrowth onto the sand beach, Rabula instantly saw Mokeela standing knee deep in the water. The ocean lay calm and peaceful, like the morning, for the first time in weeks. Small waves lapped up at Mokeela’s legs gently. The shaman stood facing the east with his arms out slightly to the placid ocean as though he were trying to raise his arms out straight but they were too heavy and had begun to slowly fall back to his sides.

Rabula walked gently down to his old friend, waded into the water beside him, and placed his hand on the shaman’s shoulder.

“It is Rabula, your friend,” Rabula said.

Mokeela said nothing but turned his head slightly in the direction of Rabula as though he were looking at him. Yellow puss oozed freely out of his eye sockets and down his cheeks until it dried in streaks just above his jawline.

“You should not be up,” Rabula continued, “you should go back to the hut and rest.”

The two stood facing out across the placid ocean. Rabula evaluated the shaman and concluded that aside from the wounded eyes, Mokeela looked strong, having gained most of his dark color back and shedding the waxen look he’d had when Rabula had pulled him out of the ocean. They stood abreast for several minutes quietly—both seeming to enjoy the peace of a morning not yet awakened. The only sound was the soft lapping of the miniature waves that broke behind them in two inches of water. They could feel the sand fleas working around their toes in the water.

“The big storm is building,” Mokeela said suddenly. “There,” he pointed ahead, “to the west.”

“Yes, it was a big storm that we had. They always move westward. I’ve heard that when they hit the other world, they are stronger than any storm we’ve ever seen, that they strengthen as they travel the great water.”

“That is true, but that is not what I mean.” Rabula was glad to recognize that his friend’s voice was calm and relaxed. He spoke in a matter-of-fact and natural tone so that Rabula had reason to believe that the shaman was in his own head after all. ‘Perhaps,’ Rabula wondered, ‘it is possible to go nabuti for a time, talk to the otherworld, then return to normal to speak with the living.’

“Do you remember my vision?” Rabula continued.

“Which vision?”

“With the birds of prey that circled one another so fast that they destroyed everything beneath them. Then a tree grew in the center of the circle and the birds lit upon the tree.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The tree is growing now; and the birds are resting on the tree. Their damage is done.”

“Where?”

“There,” He pointed ahead to where he seemed to be looking again, “to the west, across the great water.”

Rabula was silent, not knowing what to say. He shuffled his feet which had sunken up to his ankles in the side. He noticed that Mokeela stood in the sand up to his calves.

“There was much destruction when the birds of prey met. Many died. And now, the winds that the birds started still churn around the tree.”

Suddenly Mokeela turned to face Rabula, again appearing to see without eyes.

“Rabula,” there is great danger. “I believed the great storm that the birds of prey created was the only one. That their vengeance would be satisfied. I was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night, I dreamt again. I’ve had no visions since the night of the ugalla. Until last night.”

“What did you see?”

“The birds of prey were resting atop the tree that sprouted in the center of the great storm they’d created. The tree stood alone in a great plain of nothingness—more barren than the great Sahara that you and I traded salt across as youths. Then, in each direction, I saw three other trees start to sprout. They sprang up from the land far off in the distance. And, above each tree that sprouted, I saw birds of prey begin to circle in large lazy paths around the small trees. It was then that I awakened full of fear.”

“What does the vision mean?”

“The tree stands alone now, but it will sprout others. Other storms will come.”

“Where? Will they come here?”

“Everywhere,” the shaman said calmly and turned back to face westward across the ocean.

Chapter 23

Somewhere Over South Dakota

Monday, September 15

8:45 AM

Air Force One was scheduled to arrive in Seattle in another two and a half hours. President Collins wanted an action plan ready to go when they touched ground. His chair sat empty at the head of a rectangular table in the jet’s largest meeting room joined by top advisors and military brass. Joint Chiefs Chairman General Thomas Gearing had a three ring binder, four inches thick full of paper, laying on the table before him. A small TV monitor sat in one corner of the room showing Professor Allen Stillman’s bust fidgeting with a microphone clipped to his shirt collar. The meeting room buzzed with quiet chatter amongst those nearest one another and with the shuffling of papers and whistle of jet engines outside.

The door burst open leading back to the president’s private study, a small, weasel-like aide walked out sideways speaking of the day’s schedule, then President Collins emerged. He wore two creases of wrinkles between his eyes vertically, and several horizontally across his forehead. He sat down at the head of the table. The aide stood right behind him holding several binders of information.

President Collins rolled back his chair and sat down on the cool burgundy leather seat.

“Okay, folks,” the president began in a rich Carolina accent, “we need to figure out our next step. Here’s the situation right now. Obviously, we’re heading out to Seattle. Our weather people tell me it’s not safe in DC. So, were setting up camp out on the west coast. If it was my decision, we’d stay put. You’d think the president could call the shots but really the Secret Service guys do. Nothing worse than the president turning tail and running, but that’s what were doing. I don’t know how we’re supposed to tell people to stay calm while we’re running for high ground, but that’s the deal. Anyway, we’re going to be in Seattle to set up headquarters for a while.”

He put on his reading glasses, glanced down at the papers the aide had placed in front of him, and continued. “Okay, bottom line. We’ve got an estimated fourteen million people dead. The entire southeast of the U.S. is ruined—laid waste to like never before in history. We’ve got the strongest storm in the history of mankind swirling around down there, centered on Florida, or what used to be Florida. The weather guys say it might move or it might stay, but they admit they don’t have a clue. There’s one guy, Professor Stillman out of the University of Colorado who seems to be on top of this. This sort of thing is his field.” The president pointed to the TV monitor. “Professor Stillman, you with us?”

Upon hearing his name, Stillman straightened up, looked into the camera and said, “Yes, I’m here.”

“Good, glad to have you on board. Stillman tells me he thinks the storm will sit still, like a top spinning around. Isn’t that right Professor?”

Stillman adjusted in his seat. “Yes, Mr. President that’s right.” He began to say more but was cut short by the president. President Collins was clearly in a mood for quick answers with little or no elaboration. What you had to say, you had to say and it had to be said concisely.

“Good. What we have to do right now is consider survivors. I’ve met with some probability guys, statistics fellows, and they say that the probability for some people surviving a storm like this is very small. But, when you figure there’s fourteen million people to account for, even though the odds are small, there still may be several survivors.”

“How many?” John Allen, the National Security Advisor spoke up, apparently wishing to be even more concise than the president.

“They estimate a few thousand, maybe a few hundred.”

“That’s not very many out of fourteen million,” General Gearing noted. “How would they survive anyway? We’re talking about a storm with 500 mile per hour winds that completely cut Florida off into an island.”

“Well,” the president answered, “that’s not very many, true. And how would they survive? Who knows? Just sheer stroke of luck. They get trapped under a tractor-trailer or something and it protects them. They hole up in an old bomb shelter. Who knows? I don’t care how they’d survive. But, what I do know, is that we’re going to try to get them out of there. I want a rescue plan before this bird hits ground. We’ve got people trapped in that storm. What can we do, General?” He looked at Gearing.

Gearing sat calmly with his hands in a praying position, fingertips of each hand together.

“All right,” Gearing said, “I’ll need a number as far as how many people we’re talking about so we can plan to rescue.”

“Robbins,” President Collins called back to the aide with the weasel face. Robbins snapped at attention. “What was the best guess by the stat guys back in DC?”

“Their range was between five thousand on the high end and fifteen on the low end.”

“Fifteen!” John Allen exclaimed. Allen was known to be the most calculating, man in the oval office, in an ice cold, humanless manner. He saw situations with steely hard clarity and consistently made decisions devoid of emotions. In that way, he was simultaneously both the president’s greatest and worst asset at round-table meetings. “We’re talking about a multi-million dollar rescue to save fifteen people. We’ll likely lose a hundred to save them.”

“That’s the low estimate, John.” President Collins spoke calmly to ease the always tense Security Advisor.

“I asked each statistician,” Robbins continued, “for a single number best-guess. The lowest guess was 350 and the highest was twenty five hundred. Averaged out, the guess was just over eleven hundred.”

“That’s still not very many, Jonathan.” The Security Advisor called the president by his first name, a privilege few could get away with, to diffuse the man.

“I know it’s not John, but that’s not the point. The point is that all of the estimates are greater than zero.”

“I don’t like it,” Security Advisor Allen said bluntly. “It’s a simple cost-reward scenario. The cost and potential loss is greater than any possible reward. You’ll likely lose more lives than you save. That’s all there is to it. In that situation, you don’t do it.”

“Those people are trapped in the biggest storm ever. We’re not going to just leave them.”

“At the expense of soldiers’ lives? If you could spend a hundred dollars with the possibility of gaining fifteen bucks, you wouldn’t do it.”

“This is not money, you can’t look at it that way.”

“Besides, we don’t have any proof that there are any people there. My office has been scanning the Florida island by satellite ever since the clouds cleared. There’s not one iota of evidence of life.”

“You can’t go by that alone, Allen.”

“What I’m saying is we’ve got satellites that we can read people’s license plates if we want to but we don’t see a thing other than rocks. We may as well turn the cameras and look at the moon for survivors.”

“I’m operating on the assumption that there are survivors not on the assumption that they’re aren’t. And, I don’t care how many there are, we’re going in after them. I’m not going to be the president who has the largest catastrophe in the nation’s history and does nothing about it. I don’t care if its one little girl and her kitty cat, we’re getting ‘em out.”

“This isn’t a time to worry about your station in the history books,” Allen said coldly.

“I’m not worried about the history books,” the president said deftly, his face beginning to redden and his voice level increase. He pointed his finger at Allen. “And, this is not a decision open to vote. The decision has already been made, the only question is how we’re going to do it. Unless you’ve got a comment that helps answer that question, then keep your mouth shut Allen and stop wasting our time.”

Allen put up both hands, palms forward, and tilted his head slightly as if to say, “Okay, it’s your deal, but I think you’re wrong and that you’ll regret it.”

“Gearing,” the president returned to the General, “say we’ve got a thousand people, how can you get them out of the eye?”

“One thousand. First we’ve got to figure out our mobility capabilities—whether we’d go by plane, sea, or land and water, or some combination. Do we know the exact conditions that we’re working with?”

“Stillman,” the president called.

“Yes sir.”

“What are the conditions of this storm?”

“It’s roughly five hundred miles in radius so its a thousand miles across. The eye is centered over central Florida; its about eighty miles in diameter. I’ve been using the satellite imagery that you let me have access to, which I appreciate and is very helpful by the way Mr. President, and I’ve clocked winds up to 512 miles per hour. They seem to be sustained at right around 485. The lightning is unbelievable. There’s so much that it’s hard to track. And, the intensity of the bolts is incredible. Take the strongest bolts in a normal thunderstorm and they’d be the feeder bolts in this storm—they’re the tributaries to the real bolts here.”

“What’s it like inside the eye?” the general asked.

“It’s nice. It’s like a Sunday afternoon day inside.”

“So what we have to do is get in there, get the people, then get back out,” the general concluded, somewhat dumbly the president thought. “Gentlemen, any thoughts?” Joint Chiefs Gearing asked the two other brass at the table—another general, in an Air Force uniform, and an admiral.

“There’s no way at all,” the admiral spoke up, “we can send a ship in there. 500 hundred miles an hour winds. No way. Heaven only knows what kind of waves that would create. Do you have any ideas Professor?”

“No sir. We can’t see the area beneath the storm at all. The clouds are too thick and the winds are too strong. It’s almost like the wind actually blows the radio signal away which I know sounds stupid but that’s what it looks like. Plus, there’s so much lightning. The interference from the bolts makes any data we get just a bunch of jibberish. It’s like watching TV or listening to the radio during a thunderstorm, every time a bolt strikes you get a shot of static. Well, with the Cat X, it’s continuous. So, no data. A huge blind spot. But, my guess in winds at 500 MPH would be waves around fifty to a hundred feet.”

“No way possible,” the admiral repeated and sat back and crossed his arms as though he were done with the meeting.

“General Adams?” Gearing asked the Air Force general.

“We’ve never sent a plane into 500 mile per hour winds. The highest any plane has ever been in is 225. Those were hurricane hunters and they shook so badly we thought the rivets were going to pop out. I’m afraid our planes would just rip apart.”

“Could we modify a plane?” the president asked. “Strip it down to nothing then just build it into a brick craphouse. Is that possible?”

“Sure, that’s possible. We could take a cargo plane and reinforce it. The problem then would be weight. The stronger you build it the heavier it’d get. Plus, for a thousand people, we’d need four or five planes and have to pack the people in like sardines.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if it got them out of there.”

“Yes sir, but still, I don’t know if it’ll work. Even if we get through the storm wall, there would be the problem of landing. We can’t set these types of planes down like some barnstorming pilot landing in a corn field.”

“You landed in the jungles of Vietnam and the sand spits in the South Pacific.”

“We also had engineering crews there to build landing strips first. That’s very different. We’d need a runway a mile and a half long minimum, flat with no debris.”

“Allen,” the president turned to the Security Advisor, “anything like that visible from your satellite imagery?”

“Slightly. Most of Florida is stripped down to bare rock and it’s jagged. There are crags and gorges all over it. You couldn’t land there, no way. It’s perfectly round now and has a stripe of rock down the center. But, there is a strip of sand on each side. The sand bars were underwater a month ago but the storm created them. The sand bars are flat. The one on the west side is largest. There’s no way to tell if it’s hard packed like Daytona Beach or if it’s soft and loose beach sand. But it does appear flat and smooth.”

“How’s that sound, General Gearing?”

“How long is the sand strip? Any rocks?” Gearing asked.

“It’s long. It’s quarter moon shaped, maybe forty miles long at the longest side up against the rock portion of Florida. They’re aren’t any rocks. It’s clean sand.”

“Okay, we’ve got a possible landing area. We’ll have to think about the sand and come up with a contingency plan if it’s soft. The next problem is the approach. Professor, how high up does this storm go?”

“It’s an extremely high storm. Hurricane speed winds go up to about forty five thousand feet. I doubt you could fly over it.”

“Not at forty five, those types of planes will only fly up to about thirty thousand with a good headwind. You say forty miles long but the approach would be a problem. Dropping from thirty thousand down to sea level in forty miles is impossible to be ready to land. We’d have to circle around inside the eye then cut around to land which is the exact way you don’t want to go about landing.”

“Can you do it?” the president asked.

Gearing paused, “It would be very dangerous. Flying through that storm then trying to land like that on an untested surface.”

“Can you do it?”

“We can try.”

“That’s not the answer I want to hear. I want to hear, ‘Yes, sir. We’ll get it done. No question.’”

“I’d like to say that Mr. President, but I’m trying to be honest. I don’t want to mislead you. No matter what, this would be a dangerous mission and I offer no promises.”

President Collins sat back in his chair and folded his hands behind the back of his head. “Is this our best option? Does anyone else have another plan?”

No one spoke. Everyone around the table looked down pretending to be reading the papers before them as school children do when the teacher poses a question, each hoping someone else would speak up.

“If there are no other options,” the president continued, “then this is our best plan. We go with our best plan. General Gearing, you get on the horn with your people and tell them to strip down four planes, reinforce them, do whatever you’ve got to do to get them ready.”

“Yes sir. How much time do we have?”

“I want those planes in the air by Wednesday.”

“Sir, with all due respect, that’s three days away, counting today.”

“Yes, I know. I wanted to give you an extra day.”

By the end of the meeting the plan had been fleshed out as much as could be hoped. The rescue mission was to be called “Operation Sea Horse”. One of the president’s aides came up with the name presumably because the plan was such a wild adventure they were to haul the survivors out of the sea as if on horseback of the olden days. The president liked the cowboy mentality and decided that would be the name.

Essentially, Operation Sea Horse involved preparing four, four-engine cargo planes for the mission. Each would be stripped down to the bare minimum then reinforced with double girders, rivets, and cross bars throughout the fuselage. The Air Force would send two planes initially. They would land, set up a base camp with satellite link for communication and search for survivors. The planes would be flown by the Air Force, but carry two teams of about fifteen Army personnel in each. One team would be in charge of setting up the base camp, the other would be in charge of exploring and searching for survivors. These planes would be loaded considerably with food and supplies. Later, the other two planes would fly in largely empty to begin the exodus of the survivors. Three of the planes would shuttle the survivors out, the last would stay on until the search team had the chance to make a second sweep across the terrain. Any stragglers would be gathered then the entire group would exit Florida and leave any equipment behind that wouldn’t fit.

The President adjourned the meeting to allow for the preparations to be made. General Gearing was already on the phone detailing what needed to be done in preparation for the rescue planes. The President called his advisors over to plan a press conference when they landed to relay the mission.

Before they began, Professor Stillman’s voice was heard through the TV monitor.

“Mr. President? Can you hear me?”

There was much noise in the jet’s meeting room with people moving about and talking. An aide near the monitor heard Stillman.

“Hello?” the aide said to the TV screen.

“Can you hear me?”

“Hello? Professor?”

“Yes. I need to speak with the president.”

The aide glanced over her shoulder. “He’s busy right now.”

Stillman saw on his monitor that the president was only drinking a glass of water. “Catch him before he starts with his meeting. It’s very important. I have some information that he may need.”

The aide reluctantly made her way to the president, bent over, and whispered something in the president’s ear. President Collins set down his glass of water.

“Move over Robbins,” he told the weaselly aide who stood in front of the TV. The aide moved so that the president saw Professor Stillman again. “Stillman, sorry you got left out. What’s on your mind.”

“Mr. President, I’ll be brief because I know you’re busy, but I think we may have a problem.”

“Think we’ve got a problem, I know we’ve got a problem. What have you got?”

“The last time we met I mentioned what happens if you sit in a bathtub and swirl your finger on one side of you, do you remember?”

“Yes, you said the same thing results on the other side.”

“Right. Well, I think the Cat X might cause the same effect.”

The President shuffled in his chair and sat up. “Tell me you’re not telling me what I think you’re telling me.”

“Sir, we’ve got a storm swirling at 500 miles per hour. That’s an awfully strong swirl. It’s stationary, which is good, but that means it’s not unlike the swirl in the bathtub.”

“What are you saying? Do you think it’ll spawn another storm?”

“Well, yes and no. In the bathtub example, the environment was basically flat and two dimensional—it initiated a similar swirl in the opposite location. The Earth is a different environment from that. It’s spherical which creates different dynamics which would have different results.”

“What are you saying, Stillman?”

“I believe the Cat X may spawn three other storms.”

“Three others,” the president said and looked at his advisors standing around him half-jokingly. “Where and when? Keep talking.”

“I believe this system is looking for equilibrium. I’m a big believer that the forces of nature seek balance. Just as a vacuum is filled, high pressure air flows toward low pressure, satellites go around in orbit in a delicate balance between centrifugal force and gravity. They seek balance. We’re working on the when and where right now. One of my grad students is a programming whiz. He wrote a little program that generated some predictions and he’s working on improving it right now. Basically, we’re thinking the three storms will pop up in other parts of the world and we think we might be able to pinpoint where. Here’s the theory that we’re operating on: do you remember from high school chemistry what a methane molecule looks like Mr. President?”

“You’re kidding right? I don’t even remember taking chemistry.”

“Well, methane is the common name for CH₄. Carbon has four of what we’ll just call “units” to bond with other molecules, hydrogen has one. So, CH₄ is a just a carbon atom with four hydrogens bound to it. Together they form a tetrahedron, a pyramid with a triangular base. Each hydrogen atom is set an angel of 109 and a half degrees in relation to the other. Taken altogether, it creates a very evenly balanced molecule. Are you with me?”

“I think so. What’s that got to do with the storm?”

“Liken the Earth to the carbon atom in the center and, in your mind, picture one of the hydrogen atoms as the Cat X. Just for reference purposes, we’ve started calling the storm, Cat X Alpha. The others, heaven forbid they form, we’re calling…”

“Let me guess,” the president interrupted, “Cat X Beta, Gamma, and Delta.”

“Yes sir.”

“Maybe I didn’t take chemistry, but I did join a frat.”

“Yes sir. We’ve got Cat X Alpha centered on Florida at 28 degrees 40 minutes west latitude, 81 degrees 30 minutes north longitude. That’s one of the four points of the pyramid. From there we can predict the other points. If Cat X Alpha stays put like we think, the other three would pop up 109 ½ degrees away. We can’t say exactly where for sure though.”

“I thought you said 109 ½°.”

“Yes, but they could pop up anywhere at that angle. It’s like this, how can I illustrate it?” The professor pondered to himself a moment. “It’s like a martini glass, sir. The shaft on the bottom, the base, points to the Cat X Alpha. Assume the angle up to the actual glass part is 109 ½°. The glass is round which means we don’t know exactly where the other three points would be. The three storms could pop up anywhere along the rim of the glass. Once one showed up, we’d know exactly where the others would show—exactly 109 ½° from the new storm. Does that make sense?”

“Yes it does. That’s pretty sad,” he said offhand to the aide to his side, “I don’t understand the methane example but I get the martini glass example. That’s saying something, isn’t it?” The aide didn’t know what to say so he said nothing. Returning to the professor, “So, what’s the next step? Do we just wait for another storm to pop up?”

“Well, we’ve gone a little further. Understand, this is uncharted waters for sure. We went out on a limb with the whole notion of M.I.D.S. and we’re going even further with this theory because we’re making it on the fly. But, we think we have an idea of where the other three storms would emerge.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“There are four factors as we see it: one is the angle from the Cat X Alpha; two is whether it falls along either land or water, water is preferable to a storm; three is the water temperature; and four is the dominant wind and ocean current patterns. The first factor, the angle, is already set. Go back to the martini glass. In your mind, put Florida right on the bottom of the martini glass base, down against the table. The rest of the globe would be curling back up around the glass. The other three storms are somewhere on that rim. The rim would cut through China just south of Mongolia, around to Arabia then eastern Africa, down through the South Indian Ocean and across Anarctica. Then, the rim goes on up through the Pacific, generally through Fiji, the Solomons, Iwo Jima, then southern Japan and back into China. Those locations form a circle roughly 109 ½° away from Cat X Alpha.”

“Okay, where do you think the storms will start?”

“We think the first storm will start anywhere that there is mostly water, warm water, and winds and currents that already move in the prescribed direction. In this case, there are three possibilities: the Indian Ocean, south Pacific and the north Pacific. Any of those places could see it happen. I believe the Indian Ocean is the most likely.”

“Why’s that?”

“The Pacific is so big that the currents pretty much just arc across the area in which the storm would have to start. In the Indian Ocean, the currents already circle in generally the prescribed area, size, and direction. Plus, it’s a warm ocean. It’s a natural fit, the Indian Ocean just sits there like a big pond waiting.”

“What if a storm pops up there? How strong would it be?”

“If a second storm popped up in the Indian Ocean, the other two would emerge in the Pacific just south of the Solomon Island group, then right over China. As far as how strong it would be, our new program should help answer that question, but our initial thoughts are that it would be as strong as the Alpha eventually. The two that would follow would also be equal. Balance.”

President Collins sat back to take in what he was hearing. “Do you know what that would mean, Professor Stillman?”

“Yes sir.”

“A storm like that over China. There’s 1.2 billion people in China.”

“Yes sir. Not to throw salt into a sore wound but there would be other ramifications. Specifically, erosion affects and cloud cover. Four Cat X storms would reshape the Earth’s crust likely on a much grander scale than the Alpha did to Florida. The four would interact with one another to cut away any land in their paths and deposit soil in the calm areas between the storms. The cloud cover would be everywhere, except for the four eyes. The ecosystem would be totally thrown off in terms of light and rainfall norms. The affects would be unheard of at best, catastrophic at worst.”

“Hmmph.” The president rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I sure hope you’re wrong, Stillman.”

“Me too, sir.”

They both sat for a moment not speaking. The aides that surrounded the president stood still. President Collins sat looking downward toward the table in front of him focusing on nothing in particular. To professor Stillman, the president seemed to age right there on the monitor.

“Okay, Stillman,” the president looked up, “you keep doing whatever you’re doing. I’ll have my people keep in contact with you, let me know if anything new pops up. Let’s keep this quiet about other Cat X’s for a while, okay?”

“Okay, Mr. President. We should know more in the next few days.”

“Very good. By the way, tell Bill Douglass ‘Hello’ if he’s still out there. And tell him his team back in Miami screwed up real bad this time and his butt is fired.”

“You just told him,” Stillman said and smiled and Bill Douglass’s head leaned over into the screen from off camera for a quick moment.

The president gave a smile from the right side of his mouth as well. “Right now, I’ve got to get two planes ready to go into that storm. So long Stillman,” and with that, the president clicked the remote control and Professor Stillman was gone.

Chapter 24

Southeastern United States

Tuesday, September 16

3:38 PM

Cleaning up at the edge of the Cat X was proving to be a discouraging task. The National Guard had been activated by the president and the Army ordered to help as well. Those troops who’d not been stationed in a city in attempt to keep civil order were placed along the fringe of the storm to clean up the mess left behind in its wake. They were strung out in a long arc from North Carolina down to Louisiana. The clean up crews had a simple mission: clear roadways and save people.

By the nature of the mission, the crews worked in the most miserable of conditions. They were ordered to pack their supplies then simply move into the storm. There was no need for a compass to gauge directions. The only directions were either “into” or “out of” the storm and were determined by shades of greyness. They’d go from general sunshine to overcast to a mizzle to drizzle then straight rain. Then, the rain would fall hard then come in sideways and by then there would be no sunlight but for whatever diffused through the rain and clouds and made everything an even grey, ground or sky. The winds would pick up until a man could not stand relaxed for fear of a gust suddenly kicking him off balance. By that point, the crews saw trees down and occasionally a power line on the roads but nothing extraordinary so they knew it would be time to really move into the storm. They’d press on until they were at a point that they could not go without goggles over their eyes and a plastic guard over their faces to cut the rain and hail shards that ripped at their flesh. When a man had to stand with one leg far behind the other, both bent heavily at the knee and his body leaning hard windward just to maintain balance, he’d know this was where he’d have to work. If the wind and rain ever did begin to subside, the officer would order them to move further into the storm, no more than twenty miles, and they’d be right back in the same forlorn conditions. Always, in their advances upon the natural enemy, they’d reach a point where they could press on no further. It were as if a man were entering the ocean with the lofty goal of swimming across it. He enters gingerly at first up to his knees and waist and perhaps neck. He may swim out a bit, may swim further even. And yet, eventually, he reaches a point where fear overcomes any determination to continue and he worries if he can make it back. He looks ahead at the endless ocean and thinks that if he expends all of his energies and takes one more stroke he’ll never get back. So he stops and edges backward. Whenever the officer saw in the men’s eyes they’d reached that point, not faking it, but real, animal fear, he’d order them to stop and say, “We work here.”

They made no attempt to keep dry and wore no waterproof clothing because their was no point. The rain water would come down the back of one’s neck or sideways up his sleeve or even upward into his legs and under his tunic. Always, the water would work its way in and nestle beside a man’s skin and chill him. At night, they made no attempt to set up shelter. They’d simply crawl underneath the tanks they’d driven in and parked sideways to the flow of the wind. They drew lots for who’d get to lay in the lee of the tank’s tracks—the winner being allowed the luxury of nestling up aside the steel tracks for a brief relief from the wind. The others would line up beside the first man like cordwood until the last man simply lay on the ground or concrete with no other protection than the man lying beside him.

Days were spent doing little else than rummaging around and wandering. More dead people turned up than alive. The dead all looked light blue. Most had their mouths and eyes open. Water flowed into or out of the mouths freely and hard rain drops pounded on the eyeballs without flinches.

Sometimes, the crews would stumble upon a few people alive and huddled together in some type of a shelter: a blown away roof from which they’d crawl out like dogs from under a house, a twisted compilation of trees, or large rocks. Sometimes they’d appear floating along flooded channels on a log or board and once a family passed by on a house. Every so often they would see a few more survivors trickling toward them afoot. They all came with the same appearance and expression—numb shock and despair. They’d walk up a flooded road, rain beating down or sliding in sideways or slamming down in pelts, their hair stuck to their faces and their heads hanging low over their chests.

They all walked slowly having no need to hurry. They’d all seen death strike too much at loved ones or friends or strangers indiscriminately. Hurrying ahead might only mean a death that came while you’re out of breath just as easily as laying back might mean a calm death. They’d all seen fools go running ahead, pointed to the northwest as though they’d run the hundred miles or so to safety, only to get smacked broadside and killed by a flying 2 by 10 piece of lumber or a picnic table or a home entertainment system or just an old tree limb. It didn’t matter. The same items might strike someone who laid back casually as soon as they’d strike a man sprinting all-out. The panickers were always killed, the calm often were, so the lesson was to stay calm and you might get killed anyway but you might not. One man had walked as calmly as if he were in a city park and a small car suddenly tumbled over him. A woman was determined to walk up the side ditches of a highway, waist deep in water, just to stay low but a sheet of galvanized tin roofing sliced across the road and decapitated her as cleanly as chopping the stem off a crooked neck squash. A young man, perhaps twenty, had been trying to walk calmly with some strangers when he lost his sanity and sprinted ahead at full speed yelling and cursing. He’d run only fifty yards when a frame house tumbled across the street from behind a grove of pecan trees and jumped in front of the man. He ran with his head straight up so that he could curse the heavens and never saw the house but ran straight into the wall knocking himself out cold instantly. He rebounded off the wall unconscious about two yards, still on his feet and out cold, then fell backward straight, with his heels as though they were suddenly hinged to the ground. His head hit before his back and the people heard the hollow knocking of his skull cracking open, the sound of a dry coconut busting open. When the people came up to him the house had blown away but the man was in the same place, lying face up eyes open looking at the clouds. Blood flowed out from the back of his head and mixed with the rainwater that blew across the street. The people left him on the road to work out his differences with the heavens.

When the clean up crews finally saw someone walking towards them out of the greyer darkness ahead of them, the soldiers would take the survivors by the shoulders and triy to talk to them but the numb people would make no sense in their replies, not realizing they were safe then. Often they wouldn’t respond at all but just seemed hell-bent on walking from more grey to less grey and expecting at any moment their life to be plucked away like pieces of popcorn thrown out onto a sidewalk and an observer wondering which kernel would be swooped up next by the ravens feeding on them. The troops would stow the survivors inside the tanks like luggage. If someone seemed too far gone to ever return to the place called sanity, the soldiers would set him up back in the center of the highway, pointed in the right direction, and say, “Walk.” The space in the tank would be saved for the next person who stumbled out of the dark grey and still held what once had been known to the people as “hope”. When the tank was full the officer would say, “Okay, let’s go!” and they’d start walking out. When they got back to the mizzling rain, they’d dump the survivors out, get sixteen hours furlough during when they’d sleep the entire time, not bothering to dry their clothes because it was pointless, then turn and head back into the dark greyness.

It was a simple mission.

Chapter 25

Somewhere Over Texas

Wednesday, September 17

11:58 AM

Two reinforced cargo planes were back in the air before lunch. They’d been modified and taken off from Nellis Air Force Base outside of Las Vegas then flown to Dallas. The Air Force figured that was about as close to the edge of the storm as they wanted to push it so Dallas was slated as the fueling stop. The crews, twenty men in each plane, rested for two hours and enjoyed a hot meal, then boarded again and took off pointed for what used to be central Florida, a greyness that bordered black, constant lightning, and wind they could actually see.

When the planes took off, it was clear that this would not be a normal mission. The crews, the Army soldiers especially who were unused to flying, were abnormally unnerved. Whereas the Air Force troops were accustomed to placing their lives into the hands of the machinery they operated, the Army soldiers were more prone to place their lives into more manipulative, tangible things—rifles, foxholes, methods of killing with one’s hands and such. One soldier vomited the lunch he’d just eaten onto the floor as his plane was still on the runway and made the plane smell so badly that the Air Force guys opened the side door of the plane as if they were going to parachute out. The Air Force fellows sat separated from the Army and looked with despondence at the intruders onto what was their realm, the air.

The first hour of flight was little more than a bumpy puddle-jump. Nothing seemed extraordinary and a faint notion of complacency began to settle into the minds of the crews. They might bump along a bit, roll to and fro, then thrust through into the eye and find the flight suddenly smooth. The pilot might circle around inside the eye a few times scouting for the best landing area, he’d find a clean strip of hard-pack sand, then he’d lay her down with a slow grabbing of sand against the wheels. The brass had tried to get experienced hurricane pilots but the Hurricane Hunters who normally flew the scout planes for the National Hurricane Center right into the storms had been blown away by the Cat X. So, they’d settled on fighter pilots, men who could dodge and duck in a split second even though such maneuvers were impossible in a tublike cargo plane. But still, these were the best of the best with icewater in their veins and with only a few bumps they just might turn out to be fine in the end.

When several of the soldiers had just about convinced themselves that the worst was at hand and that it wasn’t all that bad after all, they finally hit the hurricane force winds. Immediately, the plane jolted and felted as though it jumped up about twenty feet instantaneously. Or, it felt as though the plane had been dropped deadly from a cable from a height of several feet to crash to the ground. Several men who’d been casually chatting went sprawling to the floor of the plane trying to figure out if they’d just gone up or down. Now, the plane rocked up and down violently, not in swells that make a person air sick but in hard jams that tested the plane’s welds and rivets. Lightning flashed regularly in blue-trimmed bolts.

In the cockpit, the pilot and copilot gave up flying by any notion of vision and had begun to rely solely on instruments. The windshield looked as if it were underwater, as though they’d landed belly up onto a dark green sea, skidded to a halt, then sank. The window would go from a blackish green to blue-white and back continuously. It began to become an annoyance to the pilot who momentarily wished he had a Venetian blind he could turn to block out the useless window altogether. “Flying blind,” the pilots called it. Flying blind was no particular thing to worry about as long as the instruments held and thus far they were. It was little different from flying in the dark, except that there were no lights dotting the ground, or like flying in heavy fog. The pilots simply had to trust their instruments—bottom line. A plane or a jet could be flown and landed even if it had no windows at all by using the instruments. So, the pilot kept a keen eye on the gauges, meters, digital readouts, lights, and computer screens and aside from the bouncing plane, everything seemed fine.

The planes continued in this manner for another forty-five minutes. Despite the violent jolts from the winds and the rain which had increased yet, the planes pressed on.

“We’re looking good,” the pilot’s voice came on through the cockpit of the lead plane. “We’ve got about a hundred more miles boys. Just hang tight.”

Reassurance mixed with the apprehension in the eyes of the crew strapped into jump seats in the cargo area. A hundred miles seemed an awful long distance.

“We’ll be okay,” a fat man called “Bigs” said. Bigs looked too fat to be in the Army much less involved in a special mission like this, yet, there he was. The young man next to him, a sandy skinned redhead with the name “Swindell”, sat hunched over clutching his backpack tight to his belly. “We’ll be fine,” Bigs repeated to Swindell. “Just hang tight and we’ll be on the ground in no time.”

Swindell tried to smile at Bigs then returned to his cradled position, evidently the position that he would finish the flight.

“It’s probably going to get bumpier here shortly,” the pilot’s voice continued. “The strongest winds will be just before we get to the eye. But, then as soon as we break through the eye wall it’ll be smooth sailing.”

The captain’s voice had the tone of determination and confidence and it worked into the bones of the troops and helped.

The navigator and communications officer were becoming worried. They sat behind the bulkhead wall that separated the cockpit from the cargo area in a sort of three sided office. The readings they saw or heard and the glances they cut at one another were gilded with anxiety trying to be overlooked. The navigator’s radar was useless. It merely was a computer screen of solid green with no variances of shade or spottedness to delineate bad from worse conditions. He’d expected to suddenly see a black hole appear on the screen about the size of a silver dollar—the eye. But, being an estimated hundred miles away, it should have appeared twenty minutes prior and it had not. He rationalized the possibilities for its absence and he came up with only two: they could be lost in the storm or the instrument could be malfunctioning. If they were lost, they were likely riding with the winds around Florida. At this distance from the eye, if they indeed knew where they were, Professor Stillman had predicted winds near 300 MPH—about the ground speed of the plane in normal conditions. If they were riding with the wind, they’d be traveling at 600 MPH ground speed, if they were heading into the wind, they’d be sitting still over the ground.

The GPS system was out, that was clear. The constant lightning created such interference as to jam the satellite frequencies. It were as though they were flying through a tunnel of stone, insulated from the reach of the GPS satellites.

The gyrocompass was showing a southeasterly tack, which was somewhat reassuring to the navigator who’d expected east southeast. But, he began to question the gyrocompass. In the plane’s jolts, it began to roll around in its casing and rotate from a range of 120 to 160 degrees—hardly normal for such an instrument which was designed to remain rock steady. The only possible conclusions were that the plane was spinning as wildly as the compass showed or that it was malfunctioning. The navigator thought it hardly possible for a plane to take such erratic actions and still fly, so, he concluded that it must be malfunctioning. He ran the conditions through his mind: ‘We’re either lost or the radar is malfunctioning, GPS was out which reinforced the theory of being lost, and the gyrocompass was out.’ He refined his thinking even more and boiled it down to this: we’re lost and we can’t trust our instruments. Both conclusions were bad news to be sure but the second, while flying blind, could be deadly.

The communications officer had taken off his headset. For thirty minutes it had produced nothing more than the electric buzz of static and crackles whenever lightning struck which, having nothing else to do, he’d actually tallied on notebook paper and averaged out to one lightning strike every 0.65 seconds. The buzzing had become increasingly loud so that he’d turned down the volume in intervals to “1” then finally just took off his headset altogether to rest his ears from the din and clear his mind. He’d even lost contact with the other plane, the other communication officer’s voice being drowned out by the electric jibberish until their was no more voice. He tapped the navigator on the shoulder and the two men commiserated their situations.

The communications officer put his headset back on and called the pilot to inform the cockpit of the situation, a situation whose thesis sounded like an old Bermuda Triangle movie: we’re lost, we can’t talk to anybody, and our instruments are dead or malfunctioning. The pilot said very little, just, “Okay, keep us posted.” The pilot had flown many a dangerous mission and had excelled in them all, precisely the reason he’d been chosen to lead this mission. And, aside from technical skill, he’d been blessed with that indescribable, unnamed sixth sense that might only be called intuition or a gut feeling. Whereas most people who stray from conventional wisdom to take on some maverick course are led only to foolishness, some great men had been so peppered with talent that to take a different path based purely on a hunch enabled them to lead their followers to some type of miraculous victory. History had shown the pilot flying the lead plane to have received such a blessing. He was not unaware of this talent and referred to it simply as “Fortune.”

The pilot bore straight ahead as though he knew his direction precisely or perhaps because he had nothing else to do. They flew for another thirty minutes— ten minutes past the time they’d estimated as to when they should have popped through the eye wall. The plane jolted so hard that the men in the cargo area had taken to slouching down as far as they could so that their upper torsos were buckled against the canvas woven seats rather than their waists. The navigator had given up trying to do any work. The instruments were useless and even if he did try to tap out a command or change screens he’d wind up pressing the wrong button on his keyboard or pounding it with his hand as the plane lunged. If he did reach his hand forward in attempt to tap a key, invariably the plane would lurch so violently that the officers’ arm would flail wildly so that the communications officer looked over and saw more of a cowboy riding saddle bronc than a navigator.

Aside from the high hum of constantly driving rain, continual lightning cracks and thunder rumbles and roar of wind, all of which the crew had somewhat become accustomed to, a series of even more fearful sounds began to emerge. There were creaks and pops and metallic cracks; to forty ears careening for those very noises, they were all the unmistakable sounds of torqued and strained metal. They all knew that the plane was breaking up. If they didn’t pop through the wall soon, they’d bust apart in mid-air and spew out into the clouds and the Cat X would distribute them like dandelion seeds. Panic may well have set into the hearts of the crew had it hadn’t been for the fact that they were too preoccupied with holding on against the violent jamming of the flight.

Then, the pilot was somewhat dumbly stricken by an awareness that he didn’t know where the other plane was. They’d been flying together from Texas, the second plane right on his right wing tip, not a hundred yards off. They’d entered the storm together, flown together, lost contact together, and now, perceivably, were still in the same vicinity bouncing all over the sky. The pilot feared a collision.

At once, both the pilot and copilot saw a flash of yellow, distinguishable from the blue-white lightning, through the windshield ahead and to the right of the plane. The flash couldn’t have been far away because the range of visibility was so poor, certainly no more than a hundred feet. The two squinted as though that would help clear the window and loosen the rain from the sky.

The pilot immediately got a feeling inside, his sense of Fortune kicking in, and he craned the plane hard to the right toward the flash. Suddenly, from somewhere above and behind the cockpit, the second plane dropped down in front of the lead plane. It swept down across the windshield, not more than twenty feet away, flying upside down. Both the pilot and copilot were able to look into the cockpit of the second plane. Inside, they saw the other pilot sitting calmly, an expressionless look on his face, seemingly staring out at the lead plane. A still snapshot of the pilot, angling downward was burnt into the men’s memories. The errant plane drove downward right past the lead plane. Midway down the fuselage, the metal glowed hot-orange and there was a hole the size of a delivery truck in its side. As it passed through the line of vision heading at an almost straight-down angle, the pilot saw that there was no tail section. It had been sheared off clean like a tip of a snap bean.

The scene came and went in an instant. No more than two seconds passed between the flash and the downward swiping pass of the plane. But, the image was embedded in the pilot and copilot’s minds then played and replayed as if in slow motion. The plane had looked otherworldly through the water soaked windshield. Everything was distorted. Lines that were supposed to be straight were not, the letters on the side of the plane were blurred, the plane’s movements were in jarbles back and forth rather than continuous motions. And yet, the ghostly image created a clear message: the plane had been hit directly by a bolt of lightning, had broken open and the tail section ripped off, and was it going down.

Momentarily stunned, the pilot gathered his senses and saw ahead to the left there was an unmistakable lightening in the sky—they eye. Fighting the violence of the storm for stability, he turned the plane to the lighter sky. Quickly, the sky brightened noticeably. Another realization hit the pilot. The copilot, too, came to the same conclusion and voiced the fear yelling, “We’re coming in with the wind!”

“I know!” the pilot yelled back. “We can’t do anything about it.”

“We’ll be going too fast!”

“We can’t do anything about it. There’s no room to turn!”

“We’ll be going too fast!” the copilot repeated.

At the pre-flight meeting, the engineers who had done the math told them not to do exactly what they were doing—enter the eye flying with the wind. Doing so would mean flying at 250 miles per hour that the planes normally did, plus the 500 miles per hour winds of the Cat X. When they hit the eye, with its calm winds, they’d be doing 750 MPH air speed. The cargo planes were simply not built for such velocity.

The entrance into the eye was indeed tricky business. Going straight into the Cat X winds would mean flying 250 MPH, minus the 500 headwind for a net of entering the eye at 250 miles per hour—flying backwards. Flying at a ninety degree angle would mean entering the eye at 560 MPH but the plane would be facing one direction and flying almost sideways and slightly backwards. Righting its direction when it hit the eye would likely be too violent to sustain the integrity of the craft not unlike making a left turn while driving seventy-five on the freeway. It was a game between two tricky forces. Running with the wind put the plane too fast and cutting across the wind decreased speed but made the plane move at tricky angles. So, the engineers recommended flying slightly with the wind and slightly across it. The plane would slice into the eye, perhaps at 650 miles and hour which was twice the recommended speed, but roughly headed nose first. The lead pilot, could use his sense of Fortune, and feel to determine how much he should go with the wind and how much he should slice across it.

Before the pilot could turn the plane hardly any, they thrust through the eye wall and bright sun beamed into the cockpit blinding both men. At the same time, the plane jolted so hard that the copilots seat broke the bolts loose that fastened it to the cockpit floor and he slammed against the wall still buckled in. The pilot gained his vision and saw that the horizon was tipped at a forty-five degree angle, yellowish earthen tone to the left, a stripe of storm-grey ahead, and bright blue to the right.

There was a loud crack somewhere like lightning splitting a yellow pine. The plane flung leftward, and the pilot saw all grey, then all blue, then all yellow, and then grey again and the pilot knew that his Fortune was gone and the color pattern repeated four times before the plane hit the ground.

Chapter 26

Florida

Wednesday, September 17

2:11 PM

The colonel and Jenni both heard the plane break up and the colonel saw it. They’d gone out with Maggie to the eastern portion of Florida in search of food and supplies and by sheer chance, he was looking up at the clouds almost directly where the plane came into the eye. He’d taken a break from searching and was watching the lightning work when suddenly a flash of yellow sun reflected off metal. A plane, a four engine cargo, burst through the wall of clouds like an outlaw ramming a police blockade. It came in sideways with its left wing tipped hard to the ground and its right wing angled up toward the opening to the blue sky above. No sooner than it entered the eye that it snapped to the right as the calm air caught the tail fin. The tail ripped off like tearing the metal lid from atop a sardine can then the left wing broken away at what would be the plane’s shoulder. A loud crack shot down across the barren Florida plane, and when Jenni looked up she’d seen the plane tumbling wildly. It flopped head over tail and side over side with no pattern other than generally downwards and in a side swipe across the sky. A trail of water and debris followed it and pointed its aggregate direction which was over the colonel’s left shoulder so that he and Jenni had to turn to watch it as the plane drove across the sky. It continued northward, mostly, with pieces of airplane debris ripping off the fuselage at intervals until it fell just beyond the horizon and gave a yellow flash against the dark grey backdrop of the northern rim of the eyewall.

“Did you see that?” Jenni exclaimed.

“I sure did.”

“What was that?”

“That, was our rescue plane.”

Jenni was breathing hard. She looked at her father for guidance as if to say, ‘What do we do now?’

“It just broke apart,” is what she said aloud.

“Yes.”

“Do you think anyone survived?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Looks like it blew up when it hit.” Already, black smoke could be seen rising in a puffy ball just over the horizon.

“What now?”

“We’ll need to go check for survivors.” He looked in the direction of the crash and measured with his eyes. “That’s about twenty miles away give or take a few. We’ll never get there and back to camp by dark, especially not in this terrain. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll go on to the crash site, you’ll have to go back to the camp. We told your mother we’d be back by dark and she’d worry sick if we don’t make it by then. Tell them what has happened. Take Maggie with you. I’ll be back tomorrow some time. Can you do that?”

“Sure Daddy.” The colonel could tell she was disappointed that she would not go with him. “You don’t think we could get there and back by dark?”

“No sweetie. It’s too far. You’re mother would worry too much and she’d kill me.”

Jenni looked in the direction of the crash. “All right,” she said.

“You’re sure you can find your way back?”

“Of course, Dad. I just follow this gorge back to that peak,” she pointed along a rock gully towards a low pinnacle about ten miles away. “From there, I can see Iron Mountain.”

“That’s right.” The colonel fidgeted a bit and said, “I’m still going to worry about you until I see you tomorrow.”

Jenni smiled, “I know Daddy, I’ll be okay,” and she kissed him a peck on the cheek, turned flauntily, and started to march away. “Come on Maggie! Let’s go!” she called and slapped the side of her thigh. The labrador hopped a skip-step and loped over to Jenni happily. After they’d gone a few steps, Jenni looked back over her shoulder as she walked and said, “You be good, Daddy. Don’t you stop at any chicken wing places along the way and flirt with the waitresses!”

“Oh, I’m sure I will! There’s a Hooters right up the way here, I’ll be sure to hit it up!” the colonel called back and smiled at his daughter. She shook her finger at her father in a shame on you, boys-will-be-boys manner, then turned and walked away.

Jenni could have walked back blindfolded. She had the colonel’s good measure of practical, common sense such that she oftentimes would scare the boys. Sometimes on a date or in a social situation, before thinking, Jenni would let loose a comment so cutting that it ripped to the core of any situation and laid bare everything before them unnerving the boys to no end so that they’d finally retreat from her intimidated. Thankfully, she’d learned to speak with caution and that boys liked girls with more leg and less lucidity. Aware of this fact, Jenni had learned how to play the boys like fine fiddles, keeping her thinking to herself and sharing her beauty. In all though, it left her with the lonely feeling that she had to pretend to be some stylized girlie girl in order to be liked and that if she were just herself the boys would shy away.

She had been given the colonel’s sense of direction as well. She set her pace steady letting her lithe legs do the work, swinging her arms beyond normal, and allowing her thoughts to drift as though she’d put her body into cruise control for the trip. She thought of the airplane crash and how it had tumbled across the sky. She tried to picture what it had been like inside the plane and what the rescuers might have thought or whether they’d panicked or if they even knew what happened. She wondered what the crash site would be like and if her father would come across maimed and charred bodies or body parts. The scenes that she rendered were too macabre to mull over so she tried to pass them from her mind and think about what she’d tell her mother and the others back at Iron Mountain. But, there wasn’t much more to say other than what she’d just thought so she just looked out across the plain and gullies and rocks as she walked and was surprised to realize that soon she was wondering about Chad Hamilton. She wondered if he was all right back at the University of Connecticut or if this storm was so big that it went all the way up there too. The image of Chad in his navy white uniform back at the ball kept coming into her mind and how handsome he’d looked and how sincere. She looked at the ring on her finger, the gold ring with the blue stone that he’d given her. He’d called it an “honor ring” and promised to come back for her after he’d been made officer. Then Jenni wondered what Chad was doing right then. She glanced at her watch and it told her it was Wednesday, almost 5:00 in the evening. ‘He’s probably got a date tonight,’ she told herself, ‘with some drop dead gorgeous chick who just likes him because he’s cute. She’d be so beautiful it’s stupid, but she’d be wearing some really low-cut black dress and showing cleavage and she’s a skank and she’s just playing him and he’s getting ready to take her out to a nice restaurant right now.’ After dinner they’d go out dancing and the girl would dance really sexy and close to him and Chad was smiling as he danced in Jenni’s mind and she thought Chad leaned over to the beautiful girl and whispered, “I love you” into her ear. Jenni wondered if she was there in Connecticut too, if Chad would go take her out to dinner tonight or if he’d still go with the beautiful skanky girl in the black dress.

She shook the thoughts from her mind knowing they were silly school-girl thoughts and told herself that he’s probably just studying—sitting in his dorm room at his desk reading. He’d grab a bite at the cafeteria shortly, hit the books a couple more hours, watch a little TV with his college buddies, then call it a night. She tried to convince herself that this was indeed the scenario, knew that it likely was, but the other scene kept trying to fight its way into her mind, pushing the image of Chad at his desk aside until Jenni forced it back into its right place. The tug-of-war continued until Jenni realized she was walking up to Iron Mountain. While she was thinking of Chad and the beautiful girl, the entire trip had somehow passed beneath her feet. She saw her mother standing at the ledge looking eastward. Her mother suddenly waved, stopped when she saw Jenni walking alone, then dropped her arm.

“Don’t worry,” Jenni called up, “Dad’s okay! I’ll tell you all about it!”

By the time the colonel reached the crash site, the sun was well down beyond the rim of the eye wall and it was nearly dark. The smoke had since faded away and only faint, steamy smoke rose from the wreckage. The fuselage was still somewhat recognizable although the plane had no nose, no tail and the body was only half present. It now resembled a short, fat cardboard tube that had sunken into a misshapen oval from years of gravity and rot.

The plane had apparently impacted the ground over a hundred yards away from where the bulk of it now rested. The ground was charred black where it had hit and spilled its fuel over the ground. Skid marks led to the site where it now rested. Metallic debris was strewn around the site, nothing of any recognizable shape at first glance.

The colonel walked up slowly, entering the back side of the fuselage. He peeked inside carefully. There was no one to be seen, alive, dead, or in between. He stepped into the wreckage and saw that for the most part, the plane was clean and that there was little of anything inside. On the right was a small closet type of structure built into the frame of the plane, but aside from that, he may as well have been looking into a huge section of a cement water main. The colonel stepped over to the closet and tried to open it and discovered it locked. Outside, he found a metal bar and used it to pry the closet door jam enough that he could get his fingers in around the door. Using both hands, he jerked hard at the door and ripped it open. Pieces of particle board shards threw up into his face and a couple went into his mouth so that he had to spit them out. Inside, he saw mostly electronic equipment of various sizes and shapes mounted into the walls and shelves. On the closet floor were two metal suitcases that were strapped in against the walls with metal bands and snap-clasps. Immediately, they caught his attention as the suitcase on the left was labeled in red stencil “ANTENNA” and the one on the right, “RADIO”. ‘Sometimes there is indeed something called luck,’ the colonel thought to himself.

Colonel Brackett pulled them out and carried them both to a clean slate of stone a few yards from the wreckage. Before opening them, he decided he’d better have a better look over the site before it became too dark to see. He walked the entire site from resting place to impact location then back. He was amazed in that nowhere were there any signs of life—no bodies or no body parts. In a way, he was relieved. He did make a couple of very lucky finds. He turned up a case of ready made field rations. They came in brown plastic pouches and by adding water, a person could heat and cook his own meal on the spot. These would be priceless. And, he came across a large piece of canvas that could be pitched into a fine tent.

The metal suitcases stood side by side on the yellowish rock. ‘This is important,’ the colonel told himself. ‘I better not screw this up.’

He opened the one that said RADIO and true to its label, inside was a transceiver. It was simple in its design with surprisingly few buttons and knobs. He switched the one labeled “POWER” and almost surprisingly, green lights lit up across the radio’s face. It made no sound so he switched it back off. The ANTENNA suitcase held a small dish, about eighteen inches in diameter, a tripod on which to stand it, and a string of connecting cables. Gently, he took out each item, looked them over front, back, and sideways, then set them neatly in rows on the stone. When the suitcases were empty of the equipment he peeled the foam lining away and looked underneath half-expecting to find the instruction booklet but, of course, there was none.

‘Okay,’ he told himself, ‘I gotta figure this out.’

He set to work, trying to think in terms of systems. In that way, he might be able to rationalize what to do. ‘This is not that hard,’ he began. ‘I’ve got a transceiver. I turn it on and talk into the mic and it beams a signal up to a satellite somewhere. I’ve got an antenna. Link the antenna to the transceiver, point the antenna at the satellite, it’ll pick up the signal they send and the transceiver will interpret it.’ Conceptually, it was indeed a simple task. The colonel knew though, finding the satellite would be the problem.

He commenced to linking the units together. The colonel was a smart man, yet the type who had trouble connecting TV and VCR and who normally just hollered for his daughter to come do it after he’d worked himself into a fit of frustration. Jenni would click it together in a couple of minutes as simply as though she were making a cup of coffee. So, he was surprised when he realized the connections were quite simple. The ports were such that only one end could have fit into one place and they fit nicely and with no ports or cables left over so that there could be no mistake and he knew that it was done correctly.

Before switching it on again, he looked over the system altogether. He had the radio sitting atop the closed suitcase, cables ran over to the antenna twenty feet away to avoid interference, the antenna mounted by wing nuts on a small box atop the tripod, pointing up and toward the west.

“Okay, let’s give it a shot,” the colonel said aloud, and switched on the radio. Again, lights came on but no sound. He walked over and clicked the power switch on the antenna and immediately, the dish began to move atop the black box in a whirring sound. It swiveled first sideways and then vertically as though it had a mind of its own, until it was pointing nearly straight up, slightly to the east. When it reached its near-zenith it made fine, quick little motions then finally settled still and was quiet. “Well I’ll be. It points itself at the satellite.”

The colonel was excited now. He hopped back to the transceiver and fiddled with the knobs. Turning the volume up generated a humming, buzzing sound which he found encouraging. He clicked the mic twice, each time it echoed electric static-clicks through the radio speaker, then spoke into it, “Hello there. Can anybody hear me? Hello there, this is Colonel James Brackett. Do you copy?”

He waited and there was no answer.

“Hello, does anyone copy. This is Colonel James Brackett. Does anyone copy?”

He waited and there was no answer again. He adjusted the knobs again and found no difference in any readings. There didn’t appear to be a tuning knob which the colonel thought odd but he kept at it steadily for a good thirty minutes with no success.

He sat back to look at the equipment, trying to let it work its way into his mind and to develop another approach. Having fidgeted with small engines and lawn mowers, he knew that oftentimes, when there seemed no other possible technique, just leaving the machine alone and forgetting about it to clear his mind was the trick. Upon returning, he’d often find a new idea would have fermented in the back of his brain and it would be so stupidly simple, that it would work. He walked over and sat on a boulder that the colonel recognized as a perfect sitting-rock and wondered if he could somehow put it in his backyard which wasn’t even there anymore then decided that was stupid thinking and flushed the thought from his head.

It was dark now but for the flashes of lightning to the northeast and the quarter moon overhead which gave good light.

Suddenly, the colonel heard static and then an electric voice.

“Sea Horse Base, this is Ranch HQ, do you copy?”

The voice was peppered with static bursts, evidently from the lightning, yet it was clear. No sound came again as the colonel scurried to the radio. Before he could speak, the voice repeated, “Sea Horse Base, do you copy? This is Ranch HQ, come in Sea Horse Base.”

“Hello there, Ranch HQ. Can you hear me?”

No sound.

“Sea Horse Base, do you copy? This is Ranch HQ. Do you copy Sea Horse Base?”

“Yes I copy. Loud and clear. Can you hear me? This is Colonel James Brackett. Can you hear me?”

Again, no sound.

“Sea Horse Base, do you copy? This is Ranch HQ.”

“I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

Still, nothing.

The same exchange continued for ten minutes. The calls through the radio were so regular that the colonel timed them and noticed that “Ranch HQ” issued a call every thirty seconds. The colonel knew the routine. The radio operator would issue calls every 30 seconds for an hour, then every minute for an hour, then every five minutes, then fifteen, then at the top of each hour. The colonel fumbled with the few controls on the radio like someone playing the slots and hoping to hit a lucky combination. Aside from the volume, nothing he did seemed to have any affect though one way or the other. He checked the connections and they too seemed fine. He sat on the flat stone in front of the radio and responded to the radio operator’s call for lack of anything else to do.

“Sea Horse base, come in. This is Ranch HQ, do you read?”

“Yeah, I read you.”

Finally, the cadence was broken when the operator said offhand, “I think you can hear me.”

The colonel sat bolt upright. “Yes, I can hear you he said into the mic.”

“If you can hear me,” the electric voice said to the colonel through the radio, “click three times.”

The colonel paused a moment wondering what he meant, then realized the operator was talking about the clicking sound the mic generated each time he pressed the talk button. In a quick succession, the colonel pressed a click-click-click.

“Now make four clicks,” the voice said.

Click-click-click-click.

“Make two clicks, wait, then make three clicks.”

Click-click, wait, click-click-click.

“I hear you!” the voice said excitedly.

“Hot dang!” the colonel jumped up and thrust his fist at the sky. He grabbed the mic and clicked over and over several times. Then, he sat back down and waited. Nothing happened for a minute or two.

“Okay, do you know Morse Code? Click once for ‘Yes’ and twice for ‘No’.”

‘Morse Code,’ the colonel thought, ‘I used to know it. I think I still know it, except for the obscure letters. Crap, I know it well enough so he went ahead and tapped the mic once.

“Good. This is going to be a little tricky because you can’t make a long sound, just shorts, so you’ll have to pause a second after long taps. Pause about five seconds between words. Do you copy?”

The colonel clicked out: long, short, long, long, pause, short, pause, short, short, short – “Yes.”

“Copy that affirmative,” the voice said and the colonel smiled. He could communicate now. “Identify yourself,” the voice said. “Is this Sea Horse?”

“No.”

“Who is this?”

“Lt Col Jim Brackett USARet.” It took well over a minute to tap out his full name.

“Where are you?”

The colonel thought then clicked out: “Storm eye.”

“Where is the plane?”

“Here crashed.”

“How many survivors?”

“0.”

“How about the other plane?”

The colonel thought, ‘The other plane, what other plane?’ then clicked, “No other plane.”

“How did you get there?”

“Rode storm out in hole.”

“Are you safe?”

“4 now.”

“How many others are with you? You can just give a rough estimate if you’re not certain.”

“6.”

“Six? Just you and six others? That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Who are they?”

The colonel thought for a moment to prepare for the long transmit then clicked, “wife Dot daughter Jenni others Will Baxter Marge Mary last names unknown” then he decided to add “1 dog.”

“Copy those names, six names and one dog.”

“Yes.”

“Okay colonel, give me a second, I’m gonna get some higher ups on the line here. Can you hold on a few minutes?”

“Yes.” ‘As if I had other business to attend to,’ the colonel thought. But, before he did, he quickly tapped out “Need help,” then he sat back, feeling confident for the first time in a week. ‘Wait til the others hear about this,’ he relished how he’d tell them and smiled an energetic boyish grin in happiness.

Then, he thought he heard voices coming from back over his left shoulder. He turned to the northeast, peered through the darkness, and sure enough to his surprise, five figures were walking toward him. Even through the dimness the colonel could tell that they walked with the loose canter of men. They spoke to one another naturally as old chums and had evidently not seen the colonel.

Feeling even better yet with his strokes of luck, the colonel called out before the men arrived at the crash site, “Hello there! Hello! It’s good to see you! I found a radio and have called for help!”

The men started at his voice and stopped to listen.

The colonel knew that, like cowboys walking up to another’s campfire at night the initial exchange was full of wary distrust with each party feeling out the other for true intentions, so he added, “Come on up, I’m friendly. Come on up here and we’ll talk on the radio. They’re going to send help.”

One of the men began walking again then the other four began also. When they came into view, the colonel saw that they all were dressed alike in dark blue trousers and light blue shirts as if they were a work crew of some kind. Their names were stenciled across their right lapel and a long number across the left and then the colonel recognized their clothes as prison issued garb which startled him a moment.

“It’s sure good to see some other folks,” the colonel said amiably. “I’m Jim Brackett.” He was about to mention that he was with six others because it seemed natural in the introductions then decided not to. “I was thinking for a while nobody else made it through that storm. Was that a doozie or what?”

The men didn’t speak, nor did they seem pleased to have come across the colonel.

“I found this radio in the plane,” he pointed to it and the antenna. “I can hear them plain as day but they can’t hear us. But, I can tap out Morse Code and they can hear that.”

“What did you tell them?” the man with ‘Ferguson’ across his chest asked brusquely.

“Well,” the colonel was becoming very wary now, “Mr. Ferguson is it?”

“He don’t go by that,” one of the men to Ferguson’s right blurted rudely.

“Okay, what shall I call him?”

“He goes by Blacksnake.”

“Okay, Blacksnake. Well, I told the man that there were no survivors in the plane crash. He said they’d sent two planes but I guess the other one didn’t make it through the storm. I told them that we were safe now but that we needed help.”

“What else did you tell them?” Blacksnake asked.

“Nothing. I had to tap all that out in code so it’s kind of slow talking. The man said he was going to call up some higher up officials and get back with us.”

“You say ‘us’. How many people are with you?”

The colonel thought, then said, “None. Just me.”

Blacksnake looked at the colonel as if to measure him up. The colonel stood firm. Then, the voice came back through the radio, “Okay colonel, are you still with me?”

The colonel took up the mic and clicked out, “Yes here”. “See what I mean?” the colonel said to the prisoners and smiled.

“I’ve got General Gearing on the phone, he’s in charge of this operation. He wants to talk to you.”

“That’s the head guy in the Army,” Colonel Brackett said surprisedly to the prisoners. “He’s Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the top dog, four stars. I met him a couple of times, good man,” the colonel looked at the radio when he spoke but when he looked up the others were not where they had been.

Just then, someone jerked the mic from the colonel’s hands.

Gearing’s voice came on saying, “Colonel Brackett, it’s good to hear from you again. We’re going to get …” but he was cut off by a boot crushing down onto the radio. The colonel looked up stunned and saw Blacksnake jam down again with his boot heel caving the face of the radio in. Another man kicked over the antenna dish then jumped on its rounded side breaking it into several pieces. Blacksnake picked up the radio high over his head with both hands and thrust it down hard to the rock. It shattered its shell and a few parts shot loose. He did it twice more so that the radio now flopped and crumbled around, held together by wires and circuitry.

The colonel jumped to his feet and began to back away saying, “What the hell did you do that for?” and just then someone blind-sided him with a hard hit to his right ear and someone else jumped him from behind and put him in a choke hold. He wrestled around but a man grabbed his feet and bound them together in his arms. The jolt had stunned him and he couldn’t breathe and he fell over. The wind was knocked out of him when he hit so he tried to inhale but got no air then he saw a black circle in front of him. The circle got bigger and bigger until all he saw was black and then he lay limp. The men let go of him and the colonel lay awkwardly on the hard stone ground.

When he awakened, he was very groggy but realized his hands had been bound behind his back. His neck hurt just above the shoulder blades from lying oddly on the ground with his chin jammed to one side. The colonel could tell that the sun was breaking and knew that he’d been out all night.

“He’s waking up,” a voice called.

The colonel heard footsteps behind him coming over.

“Okay,” Blacksnake’s voice said. “Let’s get our stuff together. We’ll head out in a few minutes.”

The colonel fought to shake his head clear and wake up but found it unusually difficult. There was the smell of freshly cooked jambalaya and the colonel knew the men had gotten into the self-cooking field rations. Finally, someone was kicking him in the ribs saying, “Get up. Get up.” He tried but it was difficult with his hands behind him. Someone grabbed him by the shoulders, strained, and righted the colonel.

“You don’t look so good,” one of the men said with delight. “You better shape up. Today’s your trial day. We’re gonna have us another trial boys!” The others smiled but for Blacksnake.

“Let’s go,” Blacksnake said and started walking. The others surrounded the colonel and prodded him. He began walking and realized he did it with difficulty, as though he had to consciously tell each leg to move forward with each step and as though each leg weighed twice what it was supposed to weigh.

They walked for three hours without resting. The colonel was very weary. They walked up to a gorge that dropped straight down fifty or sixty feet. At the bottom, a river ran through the gorge with pristine, clear water. Blacksnake led the group upstream until finally, they arrived at what was obviously their camp. Surprisingly to the colonel, there were many people in the camp, all men. The colonel guessed well over two hundred and all dressed in the blue prison uniforms. He saw a ramshackle hut sort of construction built at the head of the river where a beautiful, natural spring boiled water up to start the river. The hut was made out of anything that could be scrounged up. Altogether, it was more of a canopy from the sun than anything else. It had a roof, generally, and no walls. The spring boil percolated upward and formed a conic shaped pool, pointing deep downward and rimmed in the yellowish-orange color of the stone but also showing green and aquamarine tint lines. The lines swayed gently as the water boiled upward as though the spring were actually alive and breathing. The water smelled slightly of sulfur and when he got to the edge the colonel could see all the way down into the spring, perhaps forty feet deep, as clearly as though it were in wading depth.

They walked into the hut. A man was sitting on a busted up and roped together chair surrounded by others as though he were a king surrounded by attendants. The colonel saw that many of the men who had been outside were drawing up to the hut to see what would happen next.

“Judge,” Blacksnake said to the man in the chair, “we found this man at the plane wreck. He was not on the plane. Nobody survived the crash. This man is a leftover from the old world.”

“Yes,” The Judge said. “What’s your name friend?”

“Lieutenant Colonel James Brackett.”

“Colonel?”

“Yes. US Army, Retired.”

“Well, well. An army brat. How lucky are we?”

“He found a radio,” Blacksnake informed The Judge. “He called for help to someone.”

“He did? Colonel, that’s a high crime—calling for an invading force from outside New Rome.”

The colonel wasn’t sure what to say so he said nothing.

“What all did you tell the outside?” The Judge asked him.

“I told them the plane crashed, that their were no survivors. I told them we needed help to get out of here. That’s all. I only had it up an running a few minutes before this fool came and busted the radio,” the colonel nodded over toward Blacksnake who glared back.

“Ooh, he’s spunky!” The Judge said delightfully and mock-laughed. Other men did the same. “I like that. The big colonel, army man.”

Blacksnake began stepping toward the colonel, clearly angry at the insult.

“Hold on there,” The Judge called and Blacksnake stopped just in front of the colonel, eye to eye. “You’ll have your time. We must have a trial first. New Rome is based on law and order not brutish heathenism. Back away for now.”

Blacksnake bit his teeth together and stared hard at the colonel. The colonel stared right back. Blacksnake began backing away.

“That’s right, Blackie,” the colonel said mockingly. “Go on back to your little safe spot.” The other men hardly seemed to the colonel to breathe expecting Blacksnake to lunge at him, but he did nothing. “Just stand right there like a good little boy Blackie. Maybe Daddy will let you come play some time.” Still Blacksnake did nothing but glare hatred through the blackness of his eyes at the colonel.

“Well then,” The Judge said, “we’re going to have another trial. The last one with the prison guards went pretty well I think.” A few of the men standing near chuckled under their breath. “We’ll have it tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Right now, we need to treat our prisoner with all the respect he deserves. He’s a Lieutenant Colonel. I expect him to be treated as an officer in the US Army should be treated. Take him to the prison. Have two men guard him at all times. Tomorrow is trial day.” The Judge crossed his arms and sat to communicate that he was done talking and expected his actions to be carried out.

“Let’s go,” Blacksnake said and led them out of the hut, around the spring, and to the mouth of a cave cut into the side of the gorge. Two men pushed the colonel inside the cave which was the size of a small garage, then the men stood at the mouth of the cave with a posture that screamed, “We’re important!”

Shortly, a small young man with “Wexall” on his shirt came in carrying a flat slab of wood. He set it down at the base of the cave.

“Here’s some water and fish. The fish is raw because we can’t cook it. Just consider it to be sushi,” he said and smiled in a shy and friendly manner at the colonel, and turned to leave. Then, he stopped and slowly turned back to the colonel. In a whisper barely audible, he asked, “Are you a prophet?”

“What?” the colonel asked.

“A prophet. Are you a prophet?”

“No, I’m no prophet.”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone talk to Blacksnake like that. At least not without getting their face bashed in.”

“Yeah. He wasn’t very polite.”

Wexall grinned and said, “No, he’s not polite. I once seen him kill a man with his bare hands. Crushed the man’s head like a cantaloupe. He buggy whipped some other fellow with a live black snake. Beat him across the head and face for no other reason than he was standing there at the time. Like near beat the life out of the man until the snake’s body flew off while he was swingin’ leaving only the snake-head in his hand. That’s how he got his name, Blacksnake, on account of the black snake. That was long before I got put in.”

“I see. Well, that’s a good yarn.”

“Ain’t no story. I believe it.”

The colonel saw that the man was as serious as he could be so he said, “Then I believe it too.”

“Anyway, I still think you’re a prophet. Some folks is prophets and don’t even know it.” With that, he turned and left.

“Well, I’ll be,” the colonel said to himself.

He was indeed hungry. He examined the rations. The water was in a dented tin can and was clean and smelled of sulfur, obviously from the spring. The fish meat appeared fresh and was firm although he couldn’t recognize the species. He sipped the water which tasted good, then nibbled at the fish, chewing then swallowing small bites.

As he ate, he thought about the situation. ‘I’ve stumbled upon a collection of prisoners. Of all the luck. To go from finding a working radio to the outside to being captured by inmates.’ He half chuckled at his thoughts. ‘Obviously, they’ve got some kind of a cult going here. The one called The Judge is the demi-god; Blacksnake is the taskmaster. He’s the one they fear. It’s all over their faces. And this trial is clearly a farce. The Judge said they’d already had one and the others had laughed. Blacksnake is just waiting until then to get a crack at me.’

He thought about busting out of the cave and ran options through his mind. He could do it right now. The two guards could easily be knocked aside in thrust as they were stupidly standing with their backs to the cave entrance. But, then he’d have to run for it, they’d yell and the others would hear and they’d be on him. The colonel knew he could fight, but he could hardly intend to whip over two hundred men. Or, he could jump in the water and try to float away but that was stupid. He’d easily be seen in the clear water and they could travel much faster on the rock shore.

Perhaps slipping out at night was a better option. The men would mostly be asleep. He could bust through the guards, run for it and hope to come across a gorge where he could either hide out or run up along its course. If he could hide out the night he still couldn’t be tracked in the day because their was no soil in which to leave footprints. At least none atop the plain, in the gullies and gorges, there were pockets of sand. That posed a problem. If he traveled atop the barren plain, he’d be visible for miles. If he traveled in the gorges, they’d eventually find footprints and thus know his entire route.

The colonel mulled over the escape options and finished the fish and water then laid back against the stone wall to rest. Wexall came in twice more during the day with more fish and water, each time trying to start a bit of a conversation. The third time he brought a friend with him, Williams, who was tall and thin, and seemed stunningly dull-witted.

“Wex says you’re a prophet,” Williams had said to the colonel.

“No, I’m no prophet.”

“Wex said you was.”

“I’m not. I used to be a colonel in the Army until I retired, but not a prophet.”

“But Wex said you was a prophet.”

“I’m not.”

“But Wex said you was.”

“I’m not a prophet. How else can I say it.”

“Wex said you was.”

‘What the heck?’ the colonel thought to himself and stopped trying to explain it to Williams. Wexall was grinning, “He’s a prophet all right,” Wexall said to Williams and they left.

‘Williams and Wexall,’ the colonel thought. ‘That’s a funny pair. I wonder what those boys could possibly do to get themselves thrown in the big house. Try to use a stolen credit card with a whore probably.’

Just when he’d decided to go ahead with the escape at night plan, another idea struck him. At first it sounded so off-the-wall as to be ludicrous, but, the more he fleshed it out in his mind, the more he liked the idea. By dark, he’d tossed out the possibilities of escape and had decided ‘After the trial tomorrow morning, I’m walking out of here, not running.’ The only obstacle was, as he told himself, ‘I’ve just got to beat the dog mess out of that Blacksnake.’

With the decision made, he snuggled back as best he could against the rocks knowing he’d need to rest to get all of his strength for the morning and went to sleep.

Chapter 27

Florida

Thursday, September 18

8:44 PM

At the same time that the colonel was bedding down in the cave to sleep, Jenni stood atop the northeast ledge of Iron Mountain looking out across the plain for her father. All day she’d expected him to appear hiking across the barren landscape at any moment and now she expected him to pop out of the darkness into the moonlight at every breath. She squinted and tried to peer further into the dark night than she could actually see, hoping to get a glimpse of him in one of the lightning flashes. Their were voices behind her, new voices. Some were even newer than the ones she’d heard an hour earlier when she’d walked out to the ledge to look for her father. Maggie sat quietly at her side and Jenni stroked her gently on the head unconsciously. With each stroke the pup would nose over toward the girl a bit then slide away until Jenni’s hand dropped to her collar.

“Jenni,” her mother’s voice called, “Jenni.”

“I’m here, Mom.”

Dottie Brackett appeared behind Jenni drying off her hands with a rag. “Some more people showed up. That makes twenty newcomers.”

“That’s great.”

“One of them is a boy about your age. He’s very polite. Cute too.”

“Yeah, really?” she smiled in play-interest.

“Yeah, really.” Dottie looked at her daughter and said, “You don’t have to worry about your father you know. He can take care of himself.”

“I know he can. But, he said he’d be back today some time. It’s getting late and he’s not here. That’s not like him.”

“I know, but something came up. There’s a good reason.”

“But what?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but I do know that your father has been through some terrible things and this can’t be much worse. You know he was a P.O.W. back in Vietnam.”

“Yes, but still.”

“One thing I know about your father, he’s too hard-headed to get himself into any trouble he can’t get himself out of.”

Jenni laughed a chuckle.

“Come with me, darling.” She took her daughter by the shoulders and turned her. Maggie heeled at Jenni’s left side all the way around her. “Let’s get back to camp. We’ll need to rummage for a lot more food tomorrow morning. We’ll send out several groups in different directions. You can take the group heading east to look for your father at the same time. Okay?”

“Okay Mom.”

They walked arm in arm and Jenni kissed her mother on the cheek.

“I don’t know what it is with you two,” she chided. “I’ve always said you can talk with ESP without even talking. Why don’t you just ask him where he is?”

“I did. He said he was at the local Hooters flirting with the waitress! He said he’ll come stumbling in tomorrow morning!” she smiled hard, showing lots of teeth, broke away from her mother and ran ahead. Maggie galloped along with the girl. Dottie Brackett grinned and shook her head. ‘Way too much like her father,’ she told herself.

The camp had grown to become a busy place. In the colonel’s absence, Will had taken on the lead role and organizing the newcomers was the top priority. Thirteen people had shown up that morning, trudging in from the west for no other reason than they “Saw a high point and came to it.” The other seven had just arrived and Will was busy arranging places for them to sleep. They’d hauled most of the furniture out of the tower basement, at least all that would fit through the crack in the rocks, and made a sort of courtyard atop the mountain. Each person had been allotted one pillow or couch cushion for comfort but they’d quickly run out. Now, Will was trying to decide how to reallocate such luxuries based on necessity. The two elderly ladies, Marge and Mary got to keep theirs. Baxter was pouting because his had been repossessed. Will and Dottie had forfeited theirs. There were a few older women to whom he’d doled out the cushions. Another woman, apparently in her forties, swore that she had a bad back although she walked and moved with no apparent malady. One handsome young man, no more than forty was adamant that his wife get one of the pillows. She was a pretty blonde woman who, to Jenni, probably looked younger than she actually was. Her face and skin had the smooth, clear tone that said she’d spent many days in health spas getting facials and herbal treatments. She moved as though it were absurd that she not be given one of the cushions, the most fluffy and illustrious one at that, immediately. “Big Player,” as Jenni immediately named her husband, spoke down to Will as though they were checking into a five star hotel and the bellboy had spilled Kool-Aid onto her luggage and Will, as hotel manager, owed them stiff apology and quick recompense. “Wifey princess,” Jenni had even invented a term for the type. Will was a bit at a loss for words due to Big Player, struck by surprise and knocked off his mark. Jenni thought the scene unfortunate and was about to intervene on Will’s side but he graciously offered the best cushion left to the man who looked at Will scornfully. Jenni thought the scene altogether sad.

Behind the wifey princess, stood a good looking young man, obviously the one Jenni’s mother had mentioned. He became aware of Jenni and Jenni saw him look up and down her body then, ever so slightly, purse his bottom lip and chin, turning his mouth down at the corners as if to say, ‘Not bad.’ Jenni turned and walked away out of sight.

Eventually, Will got everyone organized and settled into their own little location. Each family or group of friends wound up in their own little niche atop the mountain. There were slight rises and knobules and cracks on top of the mountain so that, generally, each family had their own little abode, a slight sense of privacy that the others naturally respected in an otherwise very public form of living. Of course, at any time anyone could have climbed back into the basement. But, no one wanted to crawl into the cold darkness that seemed too much like a grave. And, to the original survivors who had been trapped in the basement, they knew it to actually be a grave with the old man still entombed in the cabinet and duct-taped shut. The food had just been used up that day, all of the useful supplies had been drawn out; there was no more use to go inside short of a storm returning and even then it would be hard for the original seven to reenter the place that had held them captive.

Dottie Brackett lay down aside her daughter. It was hard enough to sleep on sheer stone even with a couch cushion for a pillow. She saw that her daughter had taken off her shoes and was using them as a pillow, pretending to be asleep. Dottie did the same.

“He’s okay, Jenni. He’s a big boy and can take care of himself. He’ll show up tomorrow.” Dottie spoke with a clear, unquestioning voice that Jenni found soothing.

‘She’s probably right,’ Jenni told herself. ‘Mom’s known Dad for a long time. She’s probably right.’ Jenni settled in as best she could and decided to let sleep overtake her.

Lying flat on the rock, Dottie looked up at the moon nearly straight overhead. She’d shown no fear and tried to comfort her child, to allay her anxiety, and felt her strength had done so. But, looking at the moon and stars encircled by the raging storm, Dottie Brackett’s intuition knew something was wrong. And, beneath her facade of apathetic strength, she was worried.

Chapter 28

Seattle, Washington

Thursday, September 18

10:25 PM

“What are we going to do now?” President Collins asked no one in particular. “We know we have Americans inside that storm. Our planes both crashed and burnt. We’ve got two others ready to go. Do we send them in? What do you think General?” He looked at General Gearing.

Gearing turned to General Adams of the Air Force. “What do you think, Adams?”

“No way. I won’t send two planes into a mission where two other planes just failed. We don’t run suicide missions in the Air Force.”

“You do if I tell you to,” the president said coldly.

“Not under me. I’ll resign first,” Adams said flatly.

“Easy now,” Gearing intervened, “nobody’s resigning. We’re just tossing ideas around, brainstorming.”

“We’re not sending those planes in,” Adams repeated.

“I get the message Adams,” President Collins consoled, “you can lower your dander. What I need then, is options. Let’s talk people. We’ve got survivors inside that storm, seven that we know of. We’ve got to get them out. How can we do it? I want to talk about all possibilities, however stupid they may seem. I want off-the-wall thinking. This is the darnedest situation I’ve ever heard of so I what the darnedest thinking. No holds barred. No boundaries. Nothing off limits. Are we clear on that?”

There was a general consensus amongst the dozen or so sitting around the round table centering the temporary presidential office that had been established.

“And John Allen, I know you think it’s a waste to try to pull seven people out when we’ve already lost forty. You’ve made your point on that so there’s no need to bring it back up. I want you thinking about ways to get those folks out. I love you like a brother but sometimes you’re a real son-of-a-buck. Now I need you to set aside your S.O.B. attitude and put your brain to constructive ideas. We clear?” The president smiled.

“Ten-four,” Allen said.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re not going to sit here until somebody just flops an idea down and everybody talks about that one, the goods and the bads. We’re going to recess this meeting for thirty minutes. I want everyone in this room to get the heck away from anybody else in this room and I want you to come up with an idea. The question is, ‘You’ve got twenty people to rescue, we’ll assume there’s more than seven and just use twenty, you’ve got twenty people, you’re the one who has to make the call, how would you go about getting them out? Everything is at your disposal, every branch of government, every civilian group, all of the military. Spare no expense because we can work on costs later. I don’t want you talking to anyone for the next thirty minutes. And don’t come back empty handed. Everyone will offer their idea. Saving the people is up to you. We’ll come back here, share our ideas, then talk them all up and down. Are we clear?”

The group nodded.

“Okay then, leave people.”

The aides and advisors left quickly as though they’d been waiting for a bathroom break, the military brass seemed not to want to get up out of their seats and their faces reflected their thoughts that the exercise was childish. Not until the president glared at the men hard did they rise, with much raucous screeching of their chairs on the wooden floor, then left together. Eventually, everyone who’d been in the room left. Professor Stillman became aware that his face was sitting on the TV monitor looking at the president so the professor, although he was still in Boulder, also got up out of his chair and the line of the camera before him.

Forty minutes later all of the stragglers had again seated around the large table. Pleasing to the president, there was a new look of freshness on their faces. Clearly, they’d generated ideas and fleshed them out a bit. There had been no such excitement of ideas prior.

President Collins was eager to hear the most enthusiastic of the group but was afraid their enthusiasm would squelch others. And, it just might prove out that a meek idea may prove most effective. So, he started with the person at his immediate left and announced that he’d simply go around the room in order.

The ideas were broad of range indeed. Several people, apparently lacking any sense of creativity and therefore falling back on the obvious choice, suggested just flying in the two cargo planes that were already waiting. Surprisingly to the president, Security Advisor John Allen also suggested flying the two planes in. His only two contingents being that they fly one at a time, no need to risk two planes when one could easily carry twenty people out, and that they carry only two man crews—pilot and copilot or pilot and navigator. Allen offered the justification that it minimized losses with only two men in each plane and was therefore the best plan despite evidence proving that it was a failed plan. Though extremely simple, President Collins liked the idea as it was doable immediately, minimized losses, and did in fact contain the remote possibility of success.

Some of the other ideas hardly had that possibility. One aide suggested they string a cable from the North Carolina mountains to Florida. How the cable would be strung was undetermined. Then, somehow, hook the survivors on the cable so they dangled like rock climbers then, again somehow, just reel them in right through the 500 mile per hour winds. It’d be like hauling in a trot line, the president had compared it, and seeing how many catfish were still alive. Another aide, a lifetime New York City resident, had played off the cable idea and blurted that they could just dangle the cable from some high-flying helicopter down to Florida and haul people up. Gen. Adams asked where he expected to find a helicopter that could fly in and hover at 40,000 feet and carry a cable eight miles long and if it got to the eye anyway why would it need a cable because it could just go down and land then.

Another creative idea was to get the folks at NASA to somehow launch a rocket that could drop supplies right into the eye. There would be food and water and such but more importantly there would be what was called “barrels”. The premise was based on the crazies who’d gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel and survived. They could build the barrels so strongly that they could seal themselves in them then push out into the storm itself. The wind would push them around and around the eye but they’d likely work their way out away from the edge of the storm. They’d have GPS beacons on them and when they got far enough away from the electrical interference of the storms we could locate them and pluck them up. The general consensus was that the plan was pretty hair-brained initially but the more one thought about it, the better it seemed. The NASA representative became very apprehensive wondering aloud how they’d expect to drop a dumb supply pod from space into a circle 80 miles across. One fellow did some quick math and calculated that was 5,026 square miles although that didn’t help any of the others picture the scenario. To many, 5,000 square miles sounded like a darn large area, ‘The country is only 3,000 miles across even,’ one of the generals had said. Discussion was moving along until, much to the NASA rep’s delight, Professor Stillman spoke up and said that the pods would never work their way out of the storm; that hurricanes suck inward, not spray outward and that the pods would just ring around the inside edge of the storm, rimming out the eye as long as the storm lasted. That pretty much squelched the Niagara Falls barrel theory and they moved on.

From then on, the ideas lacked any real enthusiasm and President Stillman had all but concluded to go with Advisor Allen’s notion of sending in one plane at a time. One of the last ideas was offered by a young aide, a quiet young man from Illinois. His premise was that going through the storm was not an option. Therefore, one must go either over it or under it. Going over would mean going through space, which caused the NASA fellow to shuffle in discomfort again, but that has an inherent problem in the plan. “Even if we did get in there from space,” the aide suggested, “there would be no way to get back out. We can’t launch a rocket from inside there. If we did that, we’d basically be adding people into the storm and doing the exact opposite of what we wanted—putting people in rather than taking people out.” He went on to say that going under would mean one of two things. Either, burrowing all the way from the edge of the storm to Florida—hardly an option considering how long and how much of a project that Chunnel had been in Europe, or, going underwater. The aide’s theory was that the waters underneath the storm, deep down, might be relatively normal being insulated from the storm’s fury above. Submarines could be sent in, perhaps reinforced as the planes had been. Then the people loaded onto the subs and hauled out.

“How would they load the subs,” Admiral Frank Nevins questioned. “They’d have to surface in order to load people. The conditions would be inoperable—500 mile per hour winds, seas fifty to a hundred feet. You can’t bring a landing boat out and back in with seas like that.”

“Well,” the aide said, “that’s where the experts, you guys, would come in. I don’t know how to do that either. All I’m saying is that going over the storm in a one-way street and going through it has proven to be a failure; that leaves going underneath it.”

“Coming in through space and leaving by submarine,” the president pondered. “Why not just skip the space part and bring the subs in, get the people, then leave?”

“I just figured we’d need to get the people rounded up.”

“Well, that’s something to think about. Stillman, any idea what waters would be like at a depth of say…” he cut himself off. “How deep can our subs go, Admiral Nevins?”

“Depends on what class of sub. We’ve got recovery vehicles that go down close to eight thousand feet. Generally, the nuclear subs can run down to one thousand. You don’t want to go any lower than that.”

“What would it be like down around a thousand feet Stillman?”

“Sir, I hate to say it but I really don’t have a clue. I study weather, atmospheric weather, not underwater conditions. But, I’ll get my team right on it and come up with our best guess.”

“You see,” President Collins turned to the others at the meeting for a quick editorial, “that’s what I like. Stillman doesn’t know the answer, he admits it instead of issuing some crock of B.S. but then says he’ll work on it and come back with an answer. That’s what I like. Anyway, I imagine we can dig up some oceanographer who can let us know what to expect.”

“Sir,” Admiral Nevins spoke up, “this brings up some real questions, aside from how to board passengers in those conditions.”

“Talk to me.”

“First of all, just because you’re underwater doesn’t mean it’s all smooth sailing. We’ve gone underneath hurricanes before and at four hundred feet down you still roll up to ten degrees. Who knows what it would be like, even at a thousand feet, in a storm like the Cat X.”

“Well, that’s something we’d have to think about.”

“Also, navigation would be a shot in the dark. GPS systems don’t work in depths like that—can’t get the signal down there. Subs rely on depth charts and oceanographic maps to find their way around. They look at the depth and the ocean floor and compare it to their charts to figure out where they are. Just like you might look around at the surroundings when driving a car, subs do the same thing with the ocean floor. But, the ocean floor has been totally revamped by the Cat X. It looks nothing like what our charts show so they’d be sailing blind and just might get lost. And a third problem that I have is this: we’ve only lost two nuclear subs during peacetime in America, the Thresher and the Scorpion, and those were way back in the sixties. I sure as dernfire don’t want to send a couple of subs in under my command and see them go down too.”

“Are you guys generals and admirals or are you eunuchs?” President Collins blurted. “It seems like every plan we come up with has you men worrying about making a decision that might hurt your status in the military history books. I want hard, bold decisions.”

“We’re just looking out for our troops is all,” General Gearing said. “Certainly, you can respect that.”

“Absolutely, General. I can. But still, in times like these, we need bold action. You don’t get bold results by pussy-footing around. You know that.”

“Yes, I do, Mr. President.”

“All right, listen, I see two possibilities here: flying the two planes in or using the subs. We definitely need to think some more on the subs—need to think out every possible thing that might go wrong and what might go right. The planes should be ready at any time, right General Adams?”

“Yes sir. Ready if you need them.”

“That’s what I want to hear. As far as the subs, I want a committee to turn every stone and get a plan together. Adams, you’ll head it up, Nevins you get on it too because the navy’s going to bear the brunt of it. I’ll ask for volunteers at this point and go from there. One of the president’s advisors said she’d like to serve and, both surprisingly and happily to the president, Security Advisor Allen did as well.

“That’s good John, I was hoping you’d sign on.”

“Looking forward to it, Mr. President.” He grinned. One thing was certain about the man, he thrived on crisis and was at his best in one. “The main problem I see is, like you said, loading the people. I’m a big believer in our military; I’ll put my money on them getting a sub in there. The question is loading the people. These aren’t special ops soldiers, these are normal folks.”

“I’ll tell you what Advisor Allen,” General Gearing interjected, “I’ve met Colonel Brackett, he’s not a normal folk. I don’t know about the others, but he’ll get on that sub. There are soldiers in this Army that think that man walks on water and he’d just walk out to the sub, rip the hull open and jump in.”

“What I’m concerned about,” Allen continued, “is getting the people together. Say we get the sub or subs in place, we can’t just wait around out there while a landing crew goes ashore, then rounds up the people in an eighty mile diameter circle, brings them back, then loads them up. We’re not talking the Love Boat docked in port waiting. You see what I mean? Those people have to be ready—primed and in position ready to jump onto that sub, right now!” He slammed his fist into his open palm.

“That’s where the men who drop in by rocket come into the picture, right?” President Collins looked at the aide who’d come up with the idea for approval. The aide nodded.

“You’re right, of course, Allen,” Admiral Nevins said. “We’ll have to think about the loading part. We’ll have to get word to the people first. Have to get in there and get them ready.”

“I like the thinking,” the president said. “This is what I want, constructive dialogue. Now we’re getting somewhere. We’ve got lots of things to think about with the sub concept, that’s what the committee is for. Be sure to round up others. Get any experts you think you’ll need to plan this out right. Let’s give it an operational name just for working purposes. The floor is open for naming this plan.”

No one spoke up, apparently all drawing blanks. Then Advisor Allen said, “Operation Fox Storm.”

“Fox Storm? Where did you get that from?” the president asked.

“We’re trying to sneak up on the storm from under the ocean, like a sly old fox—Fox Storm.”

The president turned his head to the side and said, “I like it. Anybody got a better idea?” No one did and there were a couple of people said “sounds fine to me”. “All right, Operation Fox Storm it is then.” He turned to Admiral Adams, “Adams, anything you need you let me know. Anything. I want a report, an initial brief in three days with a timetable as far as when you’d be ready to go if we need to. Clear?”

“Yes sir. We’re on it. I’ve got several names down I want on the team already.”

“I like it! This is what I like!” President Collins was enthused for the first time in a long time. “We’re getting them out of there, people! We’re going to get them out as sure as we’re sitting right here in this room!” He stood up and gave a quick forearm thrust into the air. Then he scooted his chair back against the wall and burst into a little side-to-side jig, pumping his arms up and down like he was inflating a bike tire and skipping his feet back and forth. He did the little victory dance only occasionally when he was in an especially playful, jovial mood. He even had a name for it, “The Carolina Shuffle”. His closest aides and advisors had seen him lately always in his deepest, most solemn nature. So, when he started to dance they all smiled broadly and felt that that long distant emotion called happiness might not be something that had been blown away by the Cat X like everything else, at least not just yet. The president even grabbed an attractive young aide by the arm and started slinging her around by locked elbows. The young woman giggled at the welcome frivolity and nearly dropped her attaché as her boss flung her around. Two of the young men started clapping out a beat and even crusty John Allen cracked a smile out of one side of his mouth.

Enjoying the welcomed respite from constant sincerity that the impromptu fiesta created, no one noticed on the TV monitor in the corner, Professor Stillman sat solemnly yet quietly, worrying hard.

Chapter 29

Florida

Friday, September 19

6:28 AM

When the colonel awoke in the morning, Wexall was sitting at the mouth of the cave waiting.

“Good morning. You slept like a baby.”

The colonel shuffled around trying to roust himself awake. Indeed, he had slept better than any night ever since the tornado had struck down the tower. It took a few minutes for him to clear his head enough to sit up and flap his eyes so that they were open longer than they were shut.

“Today is your trial,” Wexall said. He was laying out a breakfast for the colonel. “I’ve got you a treat today, cornbread.”

Sure enough, Wexall opened a piece of aluminum foil and in it was a shapeless glob of cornbread, hot and steamy. It smelled good and made the colonel’s mouth water.

“Where’d you get that?”

“We found some supplies in the dungeon. We brought ‘em up.”

“The dungeon?”

“It ain’t a dungeon, really. It’s just the basement of the prison. That’s where we all was when the storm hit. They say we was down there because The Judge is a prophet and he led us down there. Like Moses leading the Israelites to Canaan. Here, eat up.” He held out the cornbread. The colonel took it, smelled it, then chomped a big bite. It tasted delicious.

“Is The Judge some kind of prophet?” the colonel questioned through a mouthful of cornbread.

“Something like that. They say he’s like a messiah, kind of. Gonna get us out of prison and gonna set up a new world. He calls it New Rome. I guess he is kind of like that because he got us out of prison, freed us, just like Moses done.”

“You said ‘they say he’s like a messiah’, what do you say he is?”

Wexall looked back over his shoulder toward the opening of the cave where the men stood at guard, shuffled his feet while sitting on his haunches, and hunkered down even more.

“I don’t know. I guess he’s kind of a messiah getting us out of there. Guys say he is. He scares me I know that. I think he’s crazy. I’m scared of Blacksnake and Blacksnake will do whatever The Judge says, no questions.”

“Tell me about this trial. What should I expect.”

“It ain’t no trial. They act like its a trial but it’s just for fun. They go through the motions but it ain’t no trial. They’re gonna find you guilty of something. They’re gonna kill you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“They already done it. They caught three of the prison guards when the storm hit and tore everything up. They put them on trial too and found them guilty of treason. Then Blacksnake kill them one by one. Some guys held them down and Blacksnake cut their jugulars with a knife.”

“Where’d he get the knife?”

“There was a little kitchen knife in the dungeon. He got it out of there. It was one of them big cleavers for cutting meat.”

“I see.”

“They got guns too, from the guards, but they done shot up all the bullets. They was stupid and just started shooting one day for show and then they was out of bullets.”

“Well that’s a good thing.” The colonel nibbled the cornbread down to the foil wrap then picked little pieces out with his fingertips and ate them.

“I got to go, it’s almost time,” he said suddenly and bolted. “Good luck.”

The colonel wadded up the foil and tossed it into a corner of the cave.

‘Well, I’m going to have to put on quite a show it looks like, quite a show indeed,’ he thought to himself. He stood up and started stretching out. He started with his neck and worked it around, then his arms and shoulders, then torso and trunk. He worked all down his body until his limbs felt as though they flopped freely. Then, he took an athletic stance and did a few quick punching thrusts, somewhat judo style and somewhat boxing style, and a few kicks at all angles. He jumped up and down in place to get his blood pumping and shook out his arms hard and legs.

The colonel sat back down in the corner of the cave, breathing hard and blood pumping and feeling good. He had to think now—to think through the entire situation, every possibility, and get it all straight in his mind. He did just that and envisioned what things might look like and how things might go. When he felt that he had it all figured out, he just sat back against the cool stone, closed his eyes, rested, and waited.

Thirty minutes later, a voiced called into the cave, “Let’s go. Come on out here. It’s time for your trial.”

The colonel moved slowly, just to spite the guards. The sun outside was bright so that the colonel squinted hard. The guards, six of them now, bound his hands behind his back again and led him back toward the hut that The Judge had been seated under the day before. The colonel walked as slowly as he could, buying time to allow his eyesight to adjust to the brightness. Squinting, the colonel saw The Judge sitting again on his sad throne. Blacksnake stood at his right elbow.

All of the men were lined, roughly, along the path leading towards The Judge’s hut so that from where he sat, The Judge would see two lines of men, the spring’s boil, then two lines of men again, and finally the guards leading the captive toward him. There seemed to the colonel to be more men this morning, perhaps three hundred he guessed. None of them spoke and they stood rather still for such a large group. The guards led the colonel up into the hut right before The Judge again. The Judge gave a quick nod and they all backed away to join the other men who’d formed an audience.

“Good morning, Colonel,” The Judge stated formally.

The colonel nodded sharply but said nothing.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Good. We try to treat our captives with due respect here in New Rome. That’s important in a civilized society, don’t you agree, Colonel?”

“Absolutely. So I can assume you have a society based on written law?”

“Of course we have written law. It is written on the wind.” Some of the men chuckled thinking that was a joke but The Judge didn’t laugh so they stopped short realizing that he may have been somehow serious. “You’re facing a serious charge, you know, Colonel?”

“What charge?”

“Treason. You were found in dialogue with the outside world trying to incite an invasion by them. Is that correct?”

“That’s an interesting way to put it. I was trying to get us rescued. But, I have another idea.” The colonel decided that there was no use going into the farce-trial. The sooner he altered the movement of events the more likely he’d be able to change them altogether. “I have a different idea, a purer idea.”

“Oh, what’s that?” The colonel had won his first battle—he’d aroused The Judge’s curiosity.

“I am a prophet, just like you Judge.” A few of the men drew in audible breaths at the blasphemy spoken by the captive.

“A prophet? Go on.”

“That’s right. How else do you think I survived that storm? Every person in Florida has been wiped out except for those under your command, and me.”

“And what do you prophesy?”

“I prophesy that New Rome will be built into the next great empire, rivaling any that has ever been and that you, Judge, will reign over it as a true master and king.”

“I like this prophet,” The Judge said to the crowd, “he is a wise prophet and speaks the truth.”

“Judge, do you believe that you are a true prophet?”

“I am.”

“Do you believe that true prophets possess strength beyond just physical.”

“They do.”

“Do you believe that true prophets accept challenges that come to them and then conquer those challenges?”

“They do.”

“Then I have this proposal: it is not befitting for prophets such as us to be subjected to petty trials like common thieves. I propose that I be tried as a true Roman captive would be tried—inside the Coliseum as a gladiator.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd of men. The Judge too turned his chin slightly sideways and upwards in curiosity.

“I will fight any man,” the colonel continued. “Let New Rome choose her greatest warrior. I will fight him as a prophet to prove my guilt or innocence. That is my challenge. A true prophet accepts challenges without backing down.”

The Judge thought a moment wondering how the questioning had turned to him and how he’d been tricked into this scenario. He couldn’t very well now say ‘we’re going to have a trial now and you’re guilty’ without looking a fool. And besides, the notion of a gladiator fight did seem like fun. It was clear by the movements of the men they were relishing the prospects of a little blood sport.

“I have made my decision,” he stood and announced royally. “There will be a fight. The colonel will fight a New Roman gladiator to determine his guilt or innocence against the charge of treason.”

Hardly before he’d finished speaking, Blacksnake stepped forward smartly and snapped, “I’ll fight him.”

“Very well, then,” The Judge sat back down again coolly. “Unclasp the colonel’s hands,” he instructed the nearby guards. “You men form a circle around the area. Form a coliseum.” A couple of Blacksnake’s lieutenants, Dinky and Scorpion, started barking orders to the men to line up. Then walked around in an arc yelling at them until a semi-circle had been formed with the hut at the straight edge as though it were a bandshell. Blacksnake walked past the colonel as they were unfastening his hands and centered himself in the makeshift courtyard. When the colonel was free, he rubbed his wrists, turned to face Blacksnake and sized him up, and the situation, coldly.

Blacksnake stood bolt upright looking as angry as he had the day before when the colonel had insulted him. Rage glowed in his eyes. He’d waited all night for this chance and now was his opportunity to punish the man who’d infiltrated New Rome and worse, had insulted him. ‘He’s not a big man,’ the colonel thought, ‘but, if he’s half the fighter these men think he is he’s formidable.’ The colonel had long ago learned that fighting has little to do with size. Fighting, he’d concluded, is a gift given to people as a talent. Just as some people are talented at playing tennis or drawing pencil portraits or singing in the church on Sunday, others were talented at fighting. Both happily and sadly, the colonel knew he’d been blessed, or cursed, with the talent of fighting.

The colonel looked around. There didn’t seem like much to work with in a fight. The men made an open fighting arena on stone that was essentially barren. A little sand had dusted in from somewhere since the storm but for all practical purposes, they were fighting on concrete. There were no stones or sticks that could be grabbed to strike with. The hut provided some primitive weaponry if needed: the poles leading up to the canopy, a sad looking stool aside The Judge, and even The Judge’s chair or a leg off the chair.

To the colonel, fighting held only two rules. The first, was that there are no rules in fighting. Men, stupidly because of pride and machismo, make up rules like you can’t use a stick or rock, or, you can’t bite. The colonel felt and used no parameters of weaponry. If there was a stick he’d grab it, a knife, he’d wield it, a gun, he’d shoot it, a grenade, he’d throw it. Men considered biting to be “sissy fighting” but the colonel knew teeth to be the sharpest parts of a person’s body, easily able to cut an opponent’s flesh, and available even while wrapped up in the most desperate situations. He would bite in an instant if given the chance. Men made rules like ‘You can’t hit a man when he’s down.’ To the colonel, when a man was down, you don’t just hit him, you destroy him. You kick him or drive down on him and curl his arm around over his back until the elbow joint pops out and the arm moves freely up past his head or you grab a cinder block and break it across his skull or ram it into his kidneys.

The second rule, ironically both opposes and coalesces with the first. The colonel’s second rule of fighting was simply: Win. Do whatever is necessary, without any boundaries imaginable, and win. The colonel looked at Blacksnake and knew, one way or the other, he was going to win this fight.

The colonel shook his head as a bull does when sniffing the female scent of a heifer, ready. It was time to stop thinking. It was time to fight.

Sensing the colonel’s readiness, Blacksnake nodded his head slowly to say, ‘Come get some’.

The colonel started walking toward Blacksnake at a normal pace, Blacksnake crouched slightly. Colonel Brackett walked on straight ahead but used his peripheral vision to scan the entire situation. The colonel thought of an old football drill from high school and said to himself, ‘Bull-in-the-Ring’. Surprisingly to everyone but himself, the colonel turned and slanted toward the right edge of the crowd. The men whom he approached grew nervous and backed up a bit but the colonel turned and skimmed the rim of the men. He walked quickly, edging the semi-circle, then broke into a jog then a brisk trot as a man marking his territory. He circled in this manner five full revolutions, Blacksnake turned around with him so as to never take his eyes off the colonel. Blacksnake began to laugh in a mocking tone at the colonel for going around in circles as cowardice. On his sixth revolution, the colonel sped up to a full sprint and on the seventh revolution, without even the hint of looking, he lunged at the smallest man in the group and struck him across the face with a curled forearm. The colonel hit the man with the knobby point of his elbow across the man’s temple. The colonel let the weight of his barrel chest bull into the blow so that the little man’s head ricocheted off his arm and the man’s upper body lifted up off the ground. The colonel landed on the man and, in the same motion, picked up the unconscious little man by waist as though he were a fifty pound sack of seed. This would be his weapon.

Blacksnake was righting himself on the scene. Following the colonel around, he’d become dizzy and had momentarily lost the colonel when he’d suddenly surged into the crowd. Even now as he stood facing the commotion, his vision flickered a bit, still spinning then resetting again and again and he thought he saw the colonel with a man atop his shoulders and then he was hit by something and he fell onto his back.

The colonel had thrown the small man into Blacksnake as though the man were not a living soul but some worthless piece of sapwood to be discarded. In the same motion of tossing the man, the colonel followed the man he’d thrown and charged down upon the both of them on the ground. Blacksnake lay on his back, stunned, with the small man across his chest horizontally. Seeing the colonel coming, Blacksnake tried to rise but was hindered by the man lying across his chest. By then, the colonel was upon him and hit Blacksnake hard across the cheek. Then again. And again and then twice more. The colonel stood up, catlike, and flung the small man aside. He fell as though dead and his head bounced against the rock ground. Blacksnake went to strike at the colonel while the colonel straddled him but the colonel dropped a sharp knee into Blacksnake’s stomach letting the fullness of his weight drive into the man’s guts. The colonel did it twice and Blacksnake rolled over onto his side.

Still straddling over Blacksnake, the colonel tried to stand him up a bit so that he could strike him down again. Blacksnake suddenly wrenched around and jolted the colonel off balance then Blacksnake swung around and drove a hard right fist into the colonel’s ribcage. Blacksnake came with a left to the colonel’s liver but it was a glancing blow and another right and hit the colonel in the nose sharply. The colonel got the hollow tingling pain that comes from being hit across the nose and his fury went beyond the line that separates rational man from beast.

The colonel sent a quick knee into Blacksnake’s eye sending him back to the ground. He covered his face with an arm and when he uncovered it several men were stunned to see Blacksnake had been cut and blood was running over his cheekbone. The colonel finally got Blacksnake standing up where he wanted. With no weapon handy, the colonel decided to use the stone ground as a weapon. He enticed Blacksnake to charge him, and when he did, the colonel dropped to almost his knees and caught Blacksnake around his waist, wrapping him in a bear hug. The colonel let Blacksnake strike at his back, sacrificing the blows for a larger, more devastating maneuver. Blacksnake hit hard, he indeed was a good fighter, and the blows sunk deeply into the colonel’s back, hurting. The colonel bucked up and lifted Blacksnake, spinning the man as he lifted. He wheeled him until Blacksnake was almost completely vertical and upside down, then the colonel raised up on his toes and drew Blacksnake as high as he could before relaxing and then driving Blacksnake downward in what a professional wrestling fan would call a “Pile Driver” move. Blacksnake’s head crashed into the rock at the colonel’s feet. He’d put his arms up to soften his fall but the blow still made a cracking sound when he hit and the skin across his skull split from the top of his forehead to the crown of his head.

The colonel raised up onto his feet again, drew Blacksnake up, then drove his head down into the rock again. He did the maneuver twice more and by the third and forth time Blacksnake no longer placed his hands above his head in attempt to break the fall. His arms just fell limply to the ground and buckled loosely when his head came crashing down.

Amazingly after four driving blows, Blacksnake was still semi-conscious. The colonel grabbed him by the back of his shirt and sat him up for everyone in the crowd to see. Blacksnake’s head was unsteady atop its neck and his eyes did not focus correctly but rather somewhat cross-eyed and with his left eye lazy. His arms hung down by his side and his legs folded back underneath his body. Blood ran down his face in stripes profusely and dripped onto his light blue shirt giving it navy colored stains. The colonel stood holding Blacksnake up, breathing very hard from the running and fight and anger. The small man whom he’d hit then flung at Blacksnake lay on the ground motionless, never knowing what hit him. Then he spun Blacksnake around to let him face The Judge.

“Here’s your champion! He’s a fool!” the colonel yelled.

Then, to add insult to injury, the colonel pulled Blacksnake up from behind the woozy man so that he tried to stand on his own. The colonel reached around Blacksnake’s neck and settled his right arm under his chin snugly, hooked his right hand onto his left arm, and wrapped his left around the back of Blacksnake’s head into the sleeper hold—illegal in wrestling, but in the colonel’s fight, not only fair but a method to Win. He drew his arms as tightly as he could, constricting Blacksnake’s neck down to the size of a man’s arm.

Blacksnake showed weak signs of a struggle. He flailed his arms a bit and shuffled his feet. His face became as red as the blood streaking down from his cut head and the veins at his temples and across his forehead bulged so far out through the skin it appeared that if someone just tapped them with a finger they’d just as easily pop and gush blood like a swollen tick under foot. The colonel spun Blacksnake again, slowly, so all of the men could see their leader then. He stopped when his back was to The Judge, then applied more pressure yet, taking a deep breath and bucking up for one last go. He held the grip as long as he could. Blacksnake didn’t move anymore and the colonel could feel Blacksnake’s weight now heavy and dumb.

“Here’s your champion!” he yelled again to the crowd then lurched upward letting go of Blacksnake and let him fall to the ground. He fell as a skeleton would fall had it come unhinged from its hanger, stupidly and into a pile at the ground.

The colonel cowered over him a moment, then reached down and fumbled through Blacksnake’s pants and, sure enough, pulled out a kitchen knife Blacksnake had hidden in his sock. The crowd of men drew a breath expecting the colonel to cut off Blacksnake’s hand, or genitals, or leg, or head or something. The colonel drew Blacksnake’s head and ripped off his shirt. Using the man’s stained shirt, he wiped the blood off of Blacksnake’s forehead as best he could, drew up the knife’s tip, and rapidly scratched something across his forehead just below the split line in quick, slicing cuts. He cut deeply, all the way to the bone, so that it would scar over permanently. When he finished, he wiped the knife on Blacksnake’s shirt, swung around behind him, and held the unconscious man’s head up for display again. Enough blood had already run into the cut so that the men could all read in square capital letters, the word “LOSER” across Blacksnake’s forehead.

“Here’s your champion!” he yelled a third time and threw Blacksnake’s head to the ground. The colonel stood and faced The Judge again, still holding the knife.

The small man who the colonel had struck across the temple and hurled at Blacksnake had gone into a convulsion. He shook wildly, kicking his legs and flailing his arms, none with any synchronicity. None of the men came forward to help him but just stood doltishly and watched. A white foam, like a soapy shaving cream gurgled loudly out of his throat and oozed down the side of his face. He blew large bubbles through his mouth the size of grapefruits as he shook and smaller bubbles through each nostril. The bubbles would inflate clearly, pop into sticky strands that flew up and stuck to whatever they landed on, then new bubbles would immediately start in again.

“I think that settles it,” the colonel said to The Judge. Then to the crowd, “I’m walking out of here! Anybody that has a problem with that, step forward right now and let’s settle it!” He waited a moment and no one hardly breathed. Having nothing else at his disposal to fight with, they’d seen him knock out then use a small man as a weapon. So shocked at that act they’d half expected the colonel to snap off one of the man’s forelimbs and brandish it as a club. Certainly, after seeing what he’d done to Blacksnake and now clutching a real weapon in the kitchen knife, no man would think of challenging him. The colonel heaved with breath. “I didn’t think so.” He spun back to The Judge. “How about you, Judge? You got a problem with me walking out of here?”

Again, The Judge had been trapped. He couldn’t say he had a problem with it without taking on the colonel himself. The Judge was no fighter and his best warrior had just been destroyed and mocked. He quickly decided that a cool response, as though he’d known the results and were in charge all along, was the best response.

“Nicely, done,” The Judge mock-clapped, “nicely done, Colonel. And with a touch of style no less. Bravo! Bravo! By all means, you are free to go. You are hereby released and dismissed of all charges.” The Judge leaned back pompously as though it were his words that exonerated the colonel.

“I’m not being released by anybody, you psychotic bastard.” He was still reeling from the fight-fury. “I’m walking out of here of my own accord. Anyone who wants to try to stop me can have at it and I’ll slice their liver out and stick it in their mouth.”

With that, he turned and walked slowly away. The men parted a wide opening for him to leave. They saw the gleam of the knife smeared with blood and the rage in the colonel’s eyes and no one dared look crossly at him.

When he had the men behind him and felt their stares against his back, the colonel started thinking. He had to get to Iron Mountain and to the others. These fools would likely pursue him. So, he struck a course due west figuring once he got over the horizon, he’d turn southward for several miles, then angle back to the east to find Iron Mountain. ‘I’ve got to get back and get Dottie and Jenni to a safe place.’ He forgot about the men behind him and set a stiff pace for himself, taking long, quick strides and unconsciously still clutching the kitchen knife with the point ramming downward.

Chapter 30

Florida

Friday, September 19

5:27 PM

Jenni had been back to Iron Mountain for an hour after searching the entire eastern side of the storm eye. She sat on the ledge looking eastward exhausted physically and forlorn. Having no footwear other than flip-flops, her feet had blistered across the strap lines. She sat on the stone with her knees up tight rubbing the tops of her feet gently. Her white shorts were now a rusty brown, darker on the sides where her hands brushed by as she walked. A brownish red circle rode on each cheek of her butt from sitting.

The Big Player’s son, whose name she’d learned was Thad, had joined Jenni’s group. He’d introduced himself and said that he was named after Thaddeus in the Bible and asked if Jenni knew who that was. Jenni didn’t answer so he went on to say smartly that he was one of the apostles in the New Testament. Jenni explained that she knew who Thaddeus was and that he was actually a disciple rather than an apostle. Thad said that was what he meant to say and wondered to himself what the difference actually was.

He said that he just wanted to ‘help out in the search’ but Jenni could tell he was really pursuing her. He was after her and using her father’s misfortune of being lost as a ladder to climb to her balcony. ‘Fine,’ she’d said to herself, ‘let’s see if he can keep up.’ She walked so briskly that none of the three others who went along could keep up. So, unable to start a conversation with Jenni in what he’d envisioned would be a short, leisurely stroll, he had settled to follow behind Jenni’s lead and spent most of the day watching the two circular smudges on her backside as she walked. The smudges rose and fell alternately, with a slight roll toward the side she was stepping with, ever so gently, and then back. Thad had found the gentle cadence of the circles’ motion altogether enjoyable to watch and almost mesmerizing so that following Jenni helped pass the nearly twelve hours of hard walking they’d done. When they’d returned, unsuccessfully and with Jenni both saddened and discouraged but even more eager to search another direction, she announced they’d be hiking to the north tomorrow morning and that anyone who wanted to come along was welcome but no one said a word. They’d just shuffled off to their private partitions of Iron Mountain, eager to strip off their shoes and lie down.

Just then, a voice called her name, “Jenni!”

She looked to her left where the call had emanated up toward the northwest. There, at the bottom of Iron Mountain, she saw her father.

“Daddy!” she jumped up, wheeled around, and raced down the slope toward him. She came on him so fast and with her arms out that the colonel had to drop the knife onto the ground to the side for safety. Jenni grabbed her father so hard he had to reset his feet for balance. She wrapped her thin arms around his neck and pulled herself in close, pressing the side of her face hard against his chest. He wrapped his arms around his daughter and held her close. She seemed as if to cry at his chest.

“Hey now,” he said. “There’s to be no crying. I’m okay.”

“I was worried, Daddy.”

“I’m okay.”

Jenni pulled back and looked at her father as if to check whether it was really him. “What happened to your lip?”

“Huh?” The colonel was unaware of a scratch on his upper lip. ‘Blacksnake must have had on a ring and cut me when he hit me,’ the colonel thought. It hardly was much of a cut, yet looked substantial having scabbed over. The colonel felt it with his fingers. “It’s nothing, I’ll tell you about it later.”

Jenni pressed her head to his chest again and drew her father in tightly. Then she pulled away again and said, “You are in very big trouble. Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again. It’s not fair for my mother and I to sit around worrying while you get home late. Is that clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” the colonel smiled and hugged Jenni with one arm. “Come on, let’s go see your mother. Then we’ve got some work to do.”

He bent and grabbed the knife, Jenni looked at him questioningly, and they started walking up the slope.

“What kind of work?” Jenni asked. “And where did that knife come from?”

The colonel thought best how to mention the news without frightening her. Then said simply, “Jenni, we’re not alone here. There are other people.”

“Yes, I know. People have been trickling here for a couple of days. We’ve got like thirty people here now.”

“Really?” he said with surprise. Then a fear struck him and he stopped in his tracks, “What kind of people were they? What were they wearing?”

Jenni was confused. “Just people. All kinds I guess, some old, some young. They were just wearing regular clothes.”

“Nobody in a prison uniform?”

“No,” still confused. “Why do you ask that?”

“Jenni, we have to move out of here, tonight. You say there’s thirty people here now?”

“Something like that unless some more have shown up today. I’ve been out all day looking for you.”

“From now on, you are to stay with me, is that clear?” he said firmly.

“Okay.”

“Thirty people,” the colonel thought as he spoke, “that’s going to make things a whole lot more difficult. Come on, sweetie-pie, let’s go say ‘Hi’ to your Mom, I’ll tell you all about it, then we’re rolling out of here.”

Two hours later, the colonel had told his story to everyone and explained the situation and was leading the thirty people on a southwesterly course through the dark. That was about an hour and forty-five minutes later than the colonel had expected but, then again, he had come across some unforeseen issues. First, there were quite a few more people than he’d expected. And, the group was certainly less-than-willing to hop up from their relaxation to light out through the dark simply because some cowboy of a man had shown up and said for them to do so. The Big Player had likened himself as something of a king-of-the-mountain, the dominant male of sorts, and now another stallion of apparent virility had galloped up to his territory. The new stallion didn’t even offer challenge, he just strode in and issued orders as though he’d been in charge all along.

The Big Player stated flat out that he and his family weren’t going. He was dressed as though he’d just come from a country club golf outing wearing a white polo shirt, bermuda shorts, and boat shoes with no socks. His shirt collar was sticking up then crushed down to give the slightly mussed look as though it had stood up of its own chance accord and, being the cool Big Player that he was, he didn’t bother to right it. And yet, he was constantly borrowing his wife’s mirror to primp his hair and check over his face. The colonel wondered why the man didn’t just fix his collar and had mentioned that fact offhand at some point quietly. Jenni had seen preppy boys spend a good fifteen minutes trying to perfect the sloppily-uncaring look of a properly stuck-up-and-crushed-down collar and explained to her father that the man wanted it to look that way.

“He does?” the colonel had simply said confused then shook the notion clear from his head.

The Big Player had issued his statement to the colonel of not moving loudly so that others could hear, then invited anyone and everyone to stay with him. The colonel had sized him up in a glance and decided their wasn’t much to size up beyond the blowhole. ‘All hat and no saddle,’ he’d thought and felt a bit sorry for the man.

“That’s fine, chief,” the colonel told Big Player, “do as you like. But, I’m telling you this. We’re taking all of the supplies we can from here and there will be a group of prisoners laying for me. They’ll find you if you’re stuck up here on this pinnacle.”

“How do you know that? You said you doubled back when you came here.”

“I did. But, you were able to find this place weren’t you?”

Big Player wasn’t sure what to say to that and wondered if that were just a statement or an insult as well. Then, he added, “You can’t take all of the supplies. You have no right to take the supplies from these people.”

The colonel felt sorry for the man again. The colonel wanted to walk over and slap the Big Player across the side of the face and wake him up because he was just wasting time and giving the prisoners a head start, but, he was making his stand. He was fighting, in his own stupid way, for his family and certainly for his ego, and the colonel could respect that to some degree. So, the colonel settled for asking, “What’s your name?”

“Andrew Stallings,” the man said formally. “This is my son Thad and my wife Muffie.”

“Andrew, I’m Colonel James Brackett.” The colonel spoke slowly and calmly. “I’ve been through a lot of bad stuff, a lot of war and I know what kind of evil men are capable of doing. We’re leaving, Andrew. We’re taking the supplies. We’ll see how many people go and how many stay. If we have to divide up the supplies, we’ll do that. You’re welcome to come with us.”

With that, the colonel turned, barked out, “Okay, people! We’re walking!” and started out, Dottie and Jenni at each side. The rest of the families on Iron Mountain fell in behind but for the Stallings. They stood atop the mountain looking suddenly lonely and shocked. Andrew Stallings was downcast as exactly none of the others stayed behind. The herd followed the new stallion.

“Muffie?” Jenni heard her father say to himself when they’d cleared away from the others a bit. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

Jenni giggled under her breath and Dottie scolded, “Be nice, Jim. You shouldn’t make fun of people. You be nice.”

“I’m not making fun of anyone.”

“You’re making fun of the woman’s name.”

“Well, crap…Muffie?”

“Be nice,” Dottie said forcefully.

“I was nice to that man.”

“You hurt his pride.”

“I was nice. What else was I supposed to do? He’s got too much pride anyway. I did him some good if anything.”

“Stop it. He’ll come along and when he does, don’t you rub his nose in it.”

The colonel didn’t say anything.

“Is that clear?” Dottie asked.

“All right, loud and clear.”

Jenni giggled again. She loved how her father ordered everyone else in the world around, and the orders were simply followed, but her mother ruled over him without question.

“Loud and clear, General Mom,” Jenni said. Jenni knew that since her mother’s nickname outranked the colonel’s and that it slightly irked him, she’d often call her mother “General”. She said it with gusto then laughed again. She loved teasing her father.

After only thirty minutes of walking, the rumor had trickled up to the colonel in the front of the pack that the Stallings family had indeed joined the group. The colonel stopped a moment, turned and strained to see through the dark. Sure enough, the white polo shirt of Andrew Stallings could be seen tromping along behind keeping a bit of a distance as though they weren’t really with the group. Two darker figures were with him.

“Yep,” the colonel said, “here comes Andrew Stallings and Thad and Muffie.”

Dottie swatted the colonel across the back of the head sharply and said, “Be nice.”

“What? That’s their names.”

The colonel saw her glare even in the low light. “Let’s go,” he said and pressed on. Jenni laughed again.

Chapter 31

Seattle, Washington

Sunday, September 21

1:30 PM

The committee had investigated Operation Fox Storm for the three days the president had allowed and now they were ready to make their report. Oddly though, President Collins didn’t call a meeting with the same group of advisors, secretaries, and brass to gather around the large round table of what they called the temporary White House. The new White House was a huge, log resort known as The Timberlodge, built in the twenties, where the elite had gathered for relaxation and to bathe in the hot springs bubbling out of the mountains. Rather, he’d called together only Generals Gearing and Adams, Admiral Nevins, and Security Advisor John Allen. The four men waited in the lobby of the The Timberlodge. They sat aside a fireplace that a small car could be parked inside as a garage. The fire was built up so that it licked as high as a man’s chest and threw a sharp warmth. Gearing and Nevins were commenting on the beams that held up the lodge—massive redwood poles that had been stripped of their bark, dried, and painted with crankcase motor oil, when an aide announced that the president was waiting outside to go.

President Collins sat in the driver’s seat of a large black S.U.V. and motioned for the men to hop in. They did. Two other men were already inside.

“You fellows know Bill Douglass here,” the president waved at the man in the passenger seat, “and you’ve seen this fellow on the TV screen at our meetings,” pointing to the man right behind him, “Professor Stillman. From Colorado.”

“Hello, Bill. Professor,” they all said and shook hands around the group.

The president was a down-home man who’d grown up among the tobacco plantations of eastern North Carolina and insisted that he drive himself. The Secret Service nearly had a fit but eventually went along with it. Three Secret Service cars went before them and three after him. They wanted him to take one of the identical presidential limos as was normal so that no one would know in which car he exactly rode, but, the president said that you don’t drive limos where they were going and had insisted to go with the Chevy Tahoe and did.

“We’re leaving,” the president called into a radio and the cars ahead pulled out and the president popped out quickly. “We’re going to ride a little bit first fellows. Then we’ll talk. Just enjoy the scenery.”

They drove up into the mountains on a two-lane winding mountain road. The fog had set in and turned to a misty rain. The firs and spruces went from green right by the road, to softer and softer shades of green-grey further into the forest until eventually there were no trees but only mysterious grey fog. The men had to pop their ears several times as they climbed in elevation. Then, they turned off the road onto a gravel road to the right and followed it upward still for a good half an hour. The limos seemed completely out of place as granite stones the size of walnuts kicked up under their tires. The Tahoe rumbled along as though happy to finally be off of blacktop.

Suddenly, they came around a bend and the vehicles eventually rose up out of the fog as though surfacing for air from underwater. Immediately, the sky was bright blue and the range of vision was limitless. The men saw that they were right at the tree line and that other peaks in the distance jutted up out of the fog like triangular islands. A little further and the road opened into a kind of plain, a bald, level and grassy. The president pointed the S.U.V. out to the southeast toward a line of four mountains rising above the greyness, put it in park, and cut the engine. The limos pulled alongside and parked as well.

They sat several minutes in silence just gazing out across the sea of fog to the mountains in the distance.

“Okay boys, let’s talk,” the president began, calmly looking ahead to the southeast. “She’s that-away, the Cat X. Just jump over those mountains and hike the plain and cross the big river and go a little further and you’re right in her. We’ve got to get those folks out. How we gonna do it? Have you got a plan for us General Adams?”

“Yes I do, Mr. President. It’s a heck of a long shot, but, I’m starting to think it just might work. I think Operation Fox Storm has a possibility for success, although I’m not putting any money on it.”

“Sounds good. Boys, I want to hear the plan all the way through and then I’ve got some bad news. I’ve been talking to Stillman here the past couple of days and there have been some developments.”

“Is the storm changing?” Gen. Adams asked, “Because if it is, our whole plan was just a waste of time.”

“No, the Cat X is still the same,” Stillman said, “and I don’t expect it to change. It’s stable.” He left out the ‘Alpha’ and certainly the other three, at least for the time being.

“Go ahead with the plan,” the president instructed, “then Stillman will fill you in.”

“All right. Operation Fox Storm,” Adams began. “Here’s the deal. The concept is to get the people out by sub, you know that. Advisor Allen here has been looking the area over with his spy satellite and he’s spotted more people. A lot more than seven, he estimates more like a hundred. So, we’re prepping two subs right now. We took a couple of nuclear missile submarines for the job because they have more space. Basically, we’re just tossing out the missiles, stockpiling the subs with supplies and more sleeping quarters, and crossing our fingers. There’s not much else to do in a tight time frame.”

“How long are you talking?” the president asked.

“We’re shooting for readiness in six months.”

Stillman shook his head slightly at the comment. Advisor Allen, who sat behind Stillman, noticed.

“First off, we’ve got to get somebody in there to get the people ready. They need to be in place when the subs surface. We’re planning on fifteen minutes, twenty tops at the water’s surface then we’re down and we’re gone. Whoever is inside is inside and whoever isn’t gets left. We ruled out flying someone in as too dangerous so we spoke with some NASA folks. They think we can drop a team in from space. We’d launch a rocket from Vandenberg Air Force Base down in California, a Delta 2 probably or maybe even just a modified missile. We wouldn’t need too much of a rocket—just enough to drop a capsule in over the eye. They’re not even talking about going into orbit. They’re talking about flying in at about 400 kilometers high. That’s right at the minimum for an L.E.O.—Low Earth Orbit. We’d do it all in one burn. Launch, run up and across in a big rainbow, then cut back downward. At about 350 kilometers the capsule would disengage and start dropping out of the sky. They were envisioning the same kind of conic capsule that the moonshot astronauts used to employ. Same concept. They’d run it down as far as they could right into the center of the eye to about only ten kilometers or less then deploy parachutes. That sounds like a lot from 350 to ten kilometers but that’s the height that jumbo jets fly at; about thirty thousand feet. That’s an awful high altitude to be parachuting from but that’s the plan for getting someone inside.”

“That’s quite a plan,” the president noted. “What happens if they can’t get in?”

“Then we’ve got problems. We can go ahead with the subs if you’d want and just hope some of the people are relaxing on the beach when they pop up.”

“Any problems with that part of the plan, Stillman, as far as the weather?”

“No sir. As long as they stay inside the eye, they’ll be fine. The eye dynamics are such that the eye itself is like a lazy summer afternoon. Right next to the eye wall, maybe a half or even a quarter of a mile away, the air starts moving in the opposite direction of the storm oddly. Then when it gets right up to the eye wall itself, it moves counter-clockwise and quickly gets up to 500 MPH. But in the middle, you’d be fine.”

“How about the subs, Adams. How are we getting those people loaded?”

“We had to do some creative thinking here and it’s still a wild ride. We’ll submerge outside the storm, and feel our way in. We’ve got some oceanographers working on what the ocean floor might look like to give us a road map. They’ll come in as deeply as they can and still feel safe at around a thousand feet. We’re going to work the east coast of Florida. When they get in there, they’ll surface and point into the wind and waves. The coast is all sand there now, as opposed to rock to the north and south. The beach drops off almost straight down at the water’s edge because of the currents. That’s good because it’ll let us edge up close to shore and if we bump a little there’s less likely to be a breech in the sub’s integrity than if it hit rock. Professor Stillman tells us the winds would wane a bit in there as we get real close to the eye. We’re thinking we can get in close enough to the beach so that the winds are down to regular hurricane wind speeds and operate in there.”

“So far this is sounding good,” the president interjected. None of the men looked at Admiral Adams as he spoke, who sat in the very back seat, but simply gazed out across the mountains and listened.

“I know. Now we’re getting to the tricky part. We’re working on developing a new hatch that’s large enough to deploy two inflatable boats at once. The hatch would be water tight and open something like the bay doors on the Space Shuttle. The crew that dropped in from space would be on the beach and ready to go—already have the people prepped and lined up according to the order to be rescued. We’ll deploy two boats with crews of two men in each. They’ll motor towards shore. The problem is the wind and current. By the time they get to shore, they’ll be quite a ways up the beach. Fortunately, Stillman feels the water right beside the beach should be somewhat calm. The water and waves would be going laterally to the beach, not coming straight in, so we’d thankfully not have fifty foot waves crashing the beaches. The beach itself should be workable. The reason it’s there in the first place is because it was calm enough that the Cat X deposited sediment there. The landing craft would be able to run back up the beach to gain back the ground they’d lost. Did I say that right professor?”

“You got it general.”

“We’d load people into the inflatable craft. We think we can get eight in, maybe ten if we cram them. With 200 people on the high estimate, four boats working, say we get ten people in, that’s twenty trips total or five trips for each boat. When the landing boats are loaded with people then they run up the beach further about a mile so that the current will ease them back toward the sub. They leave the beach and head straight out. The current side-slips them and if they gauge it correctly, approach the sub. The chances of them just pulling up to the sub are so small we’re not planning on that even happening. So, we’ve come up with another plan to get the survivors aboard. Don’t laugh. While the boats are loading, we unroll a long cable, maybe up to a mile long even. Periodically there are hooks on the cable and buoys to keep it afloat. The landing boats drop a grappling hook out of their stern and make a run to cross the floating cable. They’ll hook the cable, just like fighter doing a tailhook landing on a carrier, and the current would draw them over to the cable. They grab the cable. Each person has been given a deep water life jacket and fitted in a harness. They clip themselves together and then they’re clipped to the cable. Then, the sub reels them in. They’ll be coughing and spitting water when they get in the sub, probably mad as hornets too, or scared, but we’d get them in. The landing boats go back and forth until we get everybody or the sub captain decides we’ve got to submerge. Then, we’re out of there.”

When he finished, there was a moment of quiet.

“Well, that’s a plan all right. I’ll be the first president ever to haul people in like fish on a trot line.”

“I know it sounds crazy, sir, but some very smart people have put a lot of thought into this and I think it has enough of a possibility to actually work. The trick is going to be the space crew. That’s a dangerous mission. We’d only send volunteers in there. We can’t order someone on a mission with that small of a margin for success.”

The president thought a moment, shaking his head slightly, then asked, “And that’s the best plan you’ve got?”

“That’s the one.”

President Collins took a deep breath and said, “All right then, Operation Fox Storm is a go.”

“We’ve already started working on the subs, sir,” General Gearing added.

“Good. Now, Professor Stillman has some news gentlemen about the situation that throws a bit of a wrench into things. Stillman, tell them what you’ve got.”

“Well, I’ll cut right to the chase gentlemen, the Cat X is fueling three other storms of Cat X strength and caliber. The Cat X is stationary, which is great because its destruction is already done and we can launch this rescue operation, but its bad in that its fueling three others storms. Its acting like a drive shaft turning the gears of the other storms.”

“You’re not serious?” Advisor Allen asked.

“Yes sir. It’s already happening. We’re calling the Florida storm Cat X Alpha, and the others Cat X Beta, Gamma, and Delta. They’re located in the Indian Ocean, Pacific, and on top of China.”

“Why aren’t they tearing things up like the Cat X?” Allen asked, then added, “Cat X Alpha.”

“They’re in their infancy. But, looking at satellite imagery, you can see cloud and air movements that are clearly in an organized pattern, a Cat X pattern. And, these are not normal movements for these regions.” Stillman handed the president a DVD and he slipped it into the player on the dash and pressed ‘PLAY’. Two DVD screens deployed from the ceiling and an image of the earth looking down on the Cat X appeared. The DVD went into time lapse animation and the storm rotated neatly.

“This was yesterday, gentlemen,” Stillman went on. “You’re all too familiar with this storm. It’s holding steady.”

Then the scene changed to high over the Indian Ocean. “Now we’re over the Indian Ocean. Focus where the yellow dot is in the center of the Indian, that would be where the eye is forming. As you can see, the clouds rotate around the dot, plain as day. They go clockwise because it’s south of the equator, mostly. Anyway, the dimensions of the general form of the Cat X Beta are identical to the Alpha. Gentlemen, this is not normal activity. And, this is what I’d predicted would occur. This popped up exactly where I said it would—this is not a random thing.”

“Congratulations professor,” Allen said wryly. “Sounds like you can write a book on this one.” Stillman ignored the comment.

The DVD switched to the Pacific Ocean and showed a similar pattern. Then it switched to China and showed the same again, although slightly less conspicuous.

“The Cat X Delta isn’t quite as far along, thankfully, because it’s over land. But, in time, it would get up to Cat X power.”

“How much time are we talking here,” General Gearing asked.

“Well, it’ll be an ongoing thing. My models predict they’ll get to full Cat X strength in six months or so. They’ll be up to hurricane strength in about three months. Maybe four.”

“So,” Admiral Nevins concluded, “if we wait six months, a lot of Chinese are going to get blown away.”

“That’s why we can’t wait that long,” the president stated. “That and another reason. Tell them, Stillman.”

“We’ve got to kill the Cat X Alpha. If we don’t, it’ll spawn the other storms and they’ll stay. They’ll be permanent for all practical purposes just like the Red Eye storm on Jupiter. I don’t think I need to elaborate on what having four Cat X storms would mean to mankind.”

“How do you ‘kill’ a storm like that? Get out your Red Rider B.B. gun and give it two pumps instead of one?” John Allen wasn’t liking the science fiction he was hearing from the professor.

“Storms operate as systems. If we disrupt the system, it will die. On a scale such as this, the only thing we have capable of causing enough disruption to such a storm is the hydrogen bomb. We’ve got to bomb the storm to kill it.”

Advisor Allen shook his head hard.

“We’d send one missile right into the eye with the biggest nuclear warhead we’ve got. A few moments later, we’d send four others into the storm itself evenly spaced around the eye. The eye’s bomb would be the killer. It would do a few things. It would send a shock wave out into the Cat X in a concentric fashion. That would disrupt the normal circular flow of wind. Secondly, it would then draw air inward into the eye which hurts the storm, and thirdly, it would send the air straight upward through the eye which is the exact opposite of normal storm dynamics. The other four nukes just have the purpose of wreaking havoc in the storm and causing disruption of its normal wind flow. We believe this type of bombing would disrupt the storm’s dynamics enough that it would break it apart and lose its fundamentals as a system and thus immediately start to dissipate.”

“And you’d kill everything in sight,” Allen added.

“I realize this isn’t the most environmentally friendly solution. Throwing nuclear bombs around won’t win the green award, but, with all due respect, there’s not much life there to kill right now, Advisor. And, the other option of having four Cat X storms isn’t very desirable either.”

“I’ll agree with you there, professor.”

“If we kill the Cat X Alpha early enough, the other three will lose their driving force and fizzle out as well, harmlessly. If we wait too long though, they’ll have developed to the point that they can sustain themselves. They’d just keep maturing and then their actions would ignite our Alpha storm all over again. There’s a cut off time period, a ‘point-of-no-return’ by when we must act to kill the Alpha.”

“When is that point-of-no-return time?” General Adams asked.

“Three months.”

“No way. That’s impossible,” Adams blurted adamantly. “The engineers about flipped when I told them six months.”

“Well,” President Collins said, “now you can watch them backflip when you tell them three months.”

“Mr. President. Be realistic. A plan as crazy as this, we can’t just throw it together and jump in the water.”

“We have no choice. Today is September 21^st, Stillman says we’ve got three months. I’m sending those missiles in before Christmas, I’ve already made the decision. Just as I’ve also already decided that a rescue mission, Fox Storm, will be attempted. There is no way imaginable that I’m dropping nuclear bombs on Americans without first trying to get them out of there. These are not options, these are stated facts. I don’t mean to be blunt with you, but I don’t know how else to say it—you’ll have the subs ready and we’ll carry out Fox Storm before Christmas and then we’re bombing. That’s it.”

No one spoke anymore. The DVD kept circling to the beginning showing the Cat X’s in order over and over. The men all looked out the windows across the mountains and the blues, greens, yellows, reds, and oranges of the storms on the DVD screen could be seen out of the corners of their eyes. The colors reflected off the glasses that the aging brass wore. The fog had risen now so that the mountain peaks they’d seen clearly when they arrived were now barely visible and were soon obscured completely. In minutes they were completely enveloped again by the fog, which was even thicker now than it had been on the way up, and even the limos nearby were grey and the third one to each side wasn’t visible at all.

After quite some time of sitting without speaking, the president grabbed his radio, said “We’re moving,” started the engine, and they began to descend the mountain. “We’ve got a lot of work to do boys and only three months to do it in. Let’s get started.”

Chapter 32

Florida

Wednesday, October 15

2:17 PM

It had been nearly three weeks since the colonel had returned to his family and the others then led them away from Iron Mountain and they were well-settled into a kind of routine by now at their new home. The colonel had led them like Moses leading the Israelites into the wilderness all the way to the southeastern rim of the eye wall, so close that they could feel the air start to pick up a bit and occasionally a slight mist would speckle their cheeks. They’d skirted the rim around almost to where the rock dropped off in a cliff down to the southern tip of the eastern beach. Lightning burst around them and nearly straight above them so loudly that a few walked with their hands covering their ears. The colonel decided that they’d settle in amongst the crags that were created by the broken limestone. It provided some shelter and, more importantly, hiding places from the prisoners. The group was wary of being so close to the storm, but eventually, sleep and weariness had the better of them and they agreed to settle in as their ears and minds grew accustomed to the violent noise.

The colonel had been right about the prisoners pursuing him. He went on scouting missions regularly and sent Will out as well with some of the newcomers. On one of the missions, only two days after they’d left Iron Mountain, the colonel saw a small group of the prisoners ranging over Florida. They were obviously looking for him. The colonel watched them for two hours, partly to see what they were up to and partly because he didn’t want to reveal his cover by hiking. The prisoners eventually made their way across to Iron Mountain, far on the horizon, and the colonel imagined them trying to piece together the situation from the hints and clues that had been left behind. By then, darkness had begun to fall so the men headed back northward. The colonel figured that having found the old campsite would provide the scouts with enough new information that they could return to the prisoners’ camp with a report.

Twice more prisoners were seen roaming around the Florida plain. But, neither time did they walk all the way south to the eyewall edge where the colonel had set up camp. The prisoners had stopped a few miles to the north figuring they could see all there was to see down to the storm, turned and moved on.

So, by mid-October, a routine had been established in the new camp on the southern rim of the eyewall. The colonel had evaluated the necessary roles, the apparent aptitudes of the people, and assigned responsibilities. Food was the immediate concern. At first, it appeared that there was nothing to eat but for the fish they could catch. Will was placed in charge of fishing along with seven others. At first they walked the sand beach that met up with the rock-cliffed coast where they were camped. It rained constantly down by the water’s edge and the wind blew, not abnormally, but continually. They waded knee-deep and indeed had seen fish, whiting, working the sand shore trying to catch sand-fleas. But, catching the whiting proved a difficult task. By hand it was impossible so they looked for something out of which to form a gig. In the lee of the rocks, where the wind and current wrapped around the rock coast, the current curled around and cut into the sand beach. There, a debris pile had developed and collected everything imaginable from simply driftwood to any of the unrecognizable bits of clutter and debris that any person in the Southeastern United States might have in his or her house—Barbi dolls, fountain pens, vacuum cleaner hoses, aerosol cans. Even things that couldn’t float had somehow made their way to the debris pile like chicken wire and a bowling ball. While rummaging for a shaft and head out of which to make the gig, Will enjoyed the serendipity of suddenly finding a slightly rusted tin can with its goods still inside. It had no label but was clearly either a vegetable or fruit and was therefore priceless. With the other “fisherman”, they’d found a total of nine cans of some sort that day and triumphantly returned to the camp.

That night the colonel had appointed a second team, this to be headed by Jenni, to search the debris pile daily and drag out anything and everything that might be of any remote use. Since the waters rose and fell with the tides daily and the currents constantly were in turmoil, it could be expected that the debris pile would constantly be changing and that new treasure could be found. The colonel put the older ladies on this team with Jenni. They thoroughly enjoyed the work. Each day, they would descend the rocky crags to the beach with Jenni, whom they’d immediately taken a liken to as a sort of an adopted granddaughter. Then they’d look through the debris with the interest of a treasure hunt. Nearly the entire day they’d fumble through each small item and fully expected the next piece of wood they overturned to reveal a glorious reward just as they would had they been sitting at a slot machine dropping quarters. Even the most mundane find was heralded and somehow considered unique, a simple reminder back to the life they had known only a few weeks prior. For instance, when a woman named Velma shouted, “A spoon rest!” and held up a tacky spoon rest with an alligator painted on it, the others had all gathered around to admire the find as though it were a golden nugget wrestled from the creek at Sutter’s Fort.

Will’s fishermen constructed four passable gigs and became somewhat effective at their use. Hitting the whiting was not the problem. Having no barbs on the points was, so that after impaling the fish they had to pounce on them before they wriggled off the gig and were lost.

Jenni’s team was prolific, daily hauling things up to camp that the colonel could see no use for at all, whether they were camped in the Cat X or sitting back in their living room before the storm. Such useless items as a coupon for $10 off at Burdines (date expired), a back scratcher, four pencils, an unfired 20 gauge shotgun shell, a Pepsi can with the bottom ripped off, and a miniature black-and-white TV complete with old batteries were recovered. They set up the TV as if to view it and turned on the switch but nothing happened, of course. One lady even fiddled with the rabbit ears antennae and switched the large dial as if to home in on a stronger channel.

“This junk doesn’t do any good,” the colonel told Dottie quietly.

“No,” she’d answered, “not now, but you really never know when you might find a use for something. And besides, it does do some good—it lifts their morale every day. They actually look forward to going down there and seeing what’s washed up.”

“Well, you’re right about that. You are right.”

So, everyday, the colonel bragged on the ladies and praised whatever trinketry they hauled up as being an enormous find and crucial to the group’s survival.

Aside from the junk, there were legitimate finds. There were more cans of food, there was wood from which a fire could be built to cook the fish and pieces of sheet metal to cook the fish on. There was twine and bits of rope to harness together scraps to improve their shelter. And, if the colonel ever put in a request for something such as “tongs to turn the fish”, the ladies would be on a mission to find something out of which tongs could be contorted and they never failed.

The colonel had assembled a water crew and Baxter had been put in charge. They collected it down near the shore from the rainfall. They’d laid out some sheet metal the ladies had found and together with some old plastic trash bags, created a large funnel. The water would simply drip down into jars, or cans, or buckets they’d rummaged up so that water was always plentiful. The job was so easy that several of the people had volunteered, and Baxter was proud to have been named leader of such an important task. But, after collecting the water a few times, he saw that it wasn’t the most desirable of tasks after all. Mainly, it required constant attention. The containers would fill steadily so that if one were set up, by the time the person had returned to camp it was time to return and replace it with another. This meant getting wet again and again. So, the water crew members, or whomever was on duty, spent the entire day walking around in his or her wet clothing. They’d worked out a rotation so that only one person fetched the water each day so they would be wet one day, then spend four days drying out.

Colonel Brackett made himself scout. He’d range the perimeter of the camp daily, miles out, scanning for the prisoners. He wanted to do the job himself, not trusting anyone else. He usually went alone but occasionally would take Will with him if they had plenty of fish already and twice took Jenni along at her begging. Once, while scouting with Will, they’d stumbled upon one of the prisoners who was napping in a gorge under the sun. The prisoner had awakened and tried to run in a sleepy-sprint but the colonel caught him quickly. The colonel told Will to wait where they were and the colonel took the prisoner over into the next gully then came back alone and told Will, “He won’t be letting the others know about us. Let’s keep this to ourselves, okay?” and Will had nodded.

The colonel thought about what to do with Andrew Stallings, “Big Player” as Jenni called him and came up with what he thought a fine task—head of camp security. It was a good idea, the colonel congratulated himself. Stallings was actually a capable man. He was young and strong and unnecessarily handsome. He was smart, or, at least well-educated. In his own miserably twisted way, the man did have the natural underpinnings of leadership. Had he not been so insecure about himself and about the other men supposedly looking at Muffie the wrong way, he might have been a decent fellow, so the colonel thought. At any rate, they needed someone to look after the camp while the colonel was away scouting and Stallings was the best choice. And, importantly, the assignment fed is ego that he be in charge. The colonel had made clear to everyone that while he was away, Stallings was indeed in charge, and the man proudly accepted his assignment.

Stallings took the role with enthusiasm and carried out his job with sincerity. He spent much of his time gazing out to the north looking for intruders. More than once he’d issued an alert that the prisoners were coming only to find out that it was the colonel returning from an unsuspected angle. Perhaps Stallings was a bit bossy, letting the group know who was in charge while the colonel was away, but generally effective. He’d yell that Will’s group was roaming too far up the shore fishing and might be seen. Or, he’d yell down that Jenni and the ladies made too much noise when they made an especially lucrative find. Jenni would yell back that she was sorry then wonder how their little exuberance would possibly matter alongside the din of constant thunder. ‘His yelling down at them had even been louder than we were’, she’d tell her ladies, but for the most part, she played along knowing to an extent his position was given in pacification. She’d apologize then go on about her business.

Muffie and their son Thad had not been assigned a job. The colonel knew that no role would befit Muffie in the eyes of Andrew Stallings so he left her without a role. Partially, he wanted to see if Stallings would give her one, partially to give him a break as Dottie had recommended so he wouldn’t have to buck up against the colonel only to be shot down in front of the others again, and partially to placate him—they did not need discord amongst one another while living in such close quarters. Stalllings didn’t assign either Muffie or Thad a job. They were presumably on the “home security” team along with their patriarch.

At any rate, by mid-October, the group had settled into a clear routine in this manner. Certainly not comfortable, yet certainly not uncomfortable. Eating fish daily had become a bore but there were no other options. Sleeping on rocks had been eased by carrying beach sand up to form beds and occasional scraps of rug or carpet or cloth that the ladies would find to be dried and used as pillows. In this way, the days passed uneventfully and began to blur so that the day of the week was never certain until someone reported it from their watch.

Presently, while the colonel was out scouting, Will off fishing, Jenni and the ladies down rummaging, two prisoners walked right into the camp and called out, “Hello! Anybody home?!”

Stallings had been gazing hard up the beach at two dark spots he’d sworn were moving and were likely prisoners but actually weren’t anything beyond his imagination except rocks and the real prisoners had walked right behind him unnoticed. He wheeled around, saw the men, then rushed at them. He wielded one of Will’s old gigs that he’d taken to carrying for just such a situation, embarrassed that the enemy was able to simply step into their camp so casually while he’d held such close guard.

He bluffed a charge and stopped just short of the men. They stood watching him puzzled.

“What are you doing here?” Stallings demanded.

“We came to see the colonel,” one of the men answered.

“You know him?”

“Oh yeah. He was locked up with us for a while.”

With that, Stallings assumed the worst. He’d been looking for a reason to dislike the colonel and to turn the others against him and now it was evident—the colonel had been a prisoner himself, was therefore one of the enemy, had infiltrated their camp, and was leading them to ruin. He’d have to tie up these men, then hide, wait, then lay for the colonel when he returned.

Stallings bound the men with some rope and twine the ladies had found while he had Thad hold the men at gig-point. He bound their wrists, too tightly, behind their backs then tied them together, back-to-back. Then he encumbered their feet by attaching large rocks to their left ankles. The prisoners were surprisingly cooperative. And actually, they even offered tips to Stallings when he couldn’t figure an effective way to attach a generally spherical rock to a short rope. Stallings ignored the tips as though they were the exact way not to tie the rocks. ‘Clearly, that must be some faux-knot that would easily come undone for and escape,’ he reasoned.

When the men were bound adequate to Stallings’ approval, he sat down with the gig, still pointing at the men, and lay in waiting for the colonel’s return. As time passed and the excitement of the intruders, who seemed more harmless than the old ladies, waned, Stallings began to get the picture straight amongst the men’s endless chatter. The colonel had been to the prison as a captive, but only as a captive to the prisoners, not the judicial system. He’d apparently beaten their lead man then escaped. Try as he did to reconcile the colonel as the enemy, it became clear that he was not. He felt foolish for a moment for his haste and in tying the men up, yet left them bound.

By 5:30, everyone had returned from their outings. The ladies were back with four cans of something, Will returned with five nice fish, and then the colonel came in silently from the western rim of the eyewall.

“Colonel!” one of the prisoners, who appeared the leader, exclaimed.

“Well, what do you know? It’s Wexall and Williams,” the colonel said.

“Good to see you again,” Wexall said as though they were old friends.

“Sure. How did you two get here?”

“We just walked. Started up at the prison and started walking south. Took us three days. We haven’t had anything to eat in two days—we stole some food before we left but ate it all the first day.”

“How did you find our camp?” The colonel figured if these two misfits could find it, others certainly could.

“Just stumbled on it. We was trying to get away from them others and walked as far as we could, then started walking around the edge of storm and then here we were.”

“Is anyone looking for us?”

“No. They gave up after a week. You don’t know what kind of trouble you started back there, colonel.”

Williams, kept silent but would nod at almost every sentence Wexall spoke. He bounced his head excitedly at this report.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, a civil war busted out. When Blacksnake woke up and got his senses back after you beat the tar out of him, he couldn’t believe The Judge let you just walk out of there. He was mad I think it’s fair to say.” Williams laughed and shuffled his feet and the rock tied to his left foot scooted around. “Blacksnake had it out with The Judge. Talked to him like nobody ever talked to him, except you. People done split into either they’re on The Judge’s side or they’re on Blacksnake’s side. Some folks is still loyal to The Judge, saying he’s some kind of messiah that brought us out of prison; that’s what The Judge is preaching these days anyway. And some folks has joined Blacksnake. The liken themselves as warriors and call themselves the True Romans.”

“Are they fighting each other?”

“Heck yes they’re fighting. The Judge decided he and his people was going to leave. Said it would be like Moses in the wilderness, so they left looking for another camp. But, as they was leaving, Blacksnake’s people attacked them and they’ve been fighting ever since. Lots of men is dead.”

“Which side are you two on?”

“We ain’t on neither. We stayed with Blacksnake because I figured he’s more dangerous than The Judge. If somebody’s gonna win it’s probably gonna be Blacksnake and I’ll want to be on the winning side rather than the losing side. See what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“But, things were getting so bad around there, we decided to slip out one night and that’s what we did. Those warriors want to fight all the time and if they can’t find any of The Judge’s people they’ll just fight themselves. There’s no place for guys like Williams and I in a place like that.”

“What do you want to do now?”

“We want to stay with you. You’ve got real nice people here,” Wexall pointed to their capturers, Andrew Stallings and Thad.

The colonel called Stallings and Will over for a quick conference. Everyone else watched the men talk quietly. The colonel did most of the talking. Will seemed to agree and Stallings evidently needed more convincing but eventually came to nodding his head too then the three men returned.

“All right, boys,” the colonel stated, “you can stay with us.”

Wexall and Williams smiled at the group in thanks then looked back at the colonel.

“Everybody helps out here. You’ll be given a job and expected to do it.”

“No problem.”

“If you slip up in the slightest way or if we think you’re some kind of a scout for the prisoners, I’ll split you open and rip out your liver and if you’re still alive I’ll tie you to a log and send you out into the storm.”

“No sir, colonel. We’ve got nothing to do with them. Nothing.” They believed the colonel would indeed rip out their livers.

The colonel knew them as being harmless and scared runaways but wanted to put a little fear in them anyway. “I wanted to ask you boys but didn’t get a chance, how did you two get into prison anyway?”

Wexall and Williams were surprised. That was the one question generally agreed as off limits amongst the prisoners and was only answered if offered by the prisoner himself and usually his answer was a lie. But, the question had been asked by the colonel so they needed an answer and they felt that if they lied he’d somehow find out and tie them to a log and send them off.

“I stole some money from my company. Got on the computer and took some numbers out of one column and put them into another column.”

“I thought they had special prisons for white collar criminals.”

“They do, but, I stole too much.”

“How much?”

“Five point two million.”

The colonel bugged out his eyes and thrust his jaw forward in disbelief. “You stole five million dollars? No wonder you got caught, greed got the best of you didn’t it?”

“Sort of. I never got any of the money because they found out real quick. I never even saw any money. All I did was type in numbers on a computer screen. Funny how if you type the wrong numbers you get sent to jail.”

“And they put you in Stark for that?”

“That and the fact that when they searched my house they found some dirty magazines along with a newspaper. The newspaper was apparently opened up to a picture of the governor’s daughter and the prosecutor made it out like I was stealing money and going to try to kidnap the governor’s daughter like some sick-o or something. I never even saw the picture of the governor’s daughter they were talking about and don’t know if they really found it or if they was just making that up.”

“What about you Williams?” the colonel asked.

Williams was uncomfortable answering. “I stole a casino boat.”

“You what?”

“Stole a boat, a casino boat.” It was difficult for the man to speak as though he had to think of each word individually.

“How you do that?”

“Just got and stole it.”

“He used to work on it,” Wexall elaborated, more at ease speaking about Williams than himself, “he was the janitor or something. It was one of those boats that goes out every day, gets into the international waters where folks can gamble, and just runs around a while, then comes in. He lived on the dock somewheres and when the boat came in he’d clean it and restock it and whatnot. One New Year’s Eve the boat went out, came back in the morning, New Year’s Day. It usually comes back at like 1:00 AM but this was a special all-nighter being New Year’s so they didn’t come back until daylight. Everybody was soused to the gills, even the captain and the crew.”

“They couldn’t even stand up by theyselves,” Williams threw in.

“Everybody left, Williams here went to clean the boat and found the captain and his boys sprawled out on the floor drunk as skunks. He helps them off the boat and lays them down somewheres and goes back on the boat and the engine’s still running and the door to the bridge wide open. He starts thinking about all the money in them slot machines and in the vault. He’d seen them take the money off of that boat everyday and there was tons of money and with it being New Year’s there’d be twice that amount. So, he just slips the ropes off the dock, hops up in the captains seat and puts her in gear. He reckoned he’d just sail off to the Bahamas or somewheres, he don’t even know where the Bahamas is, and live off the quarters in the slots. Whenever he needed more money, he’d just bust open one of them slots. He’d be eating conch salad everyday and drinking pina coladas for breakfast. All paying in quarters. He could live on the boat even.”

Williams nodded to certify that that was indeed what had happened.

“Well, how’d he get caught?”

“Oh, they caught him later that day. He had the boat out at sea and couldn’t see no land and realized he was lost, just going around in circles. He got nervous and panicked so he got on the radio and called somebody and they sent the Coast Guard out. They just drove the boat back in. When the owner of the company found out they pressed charges and put him up for grand larceny and operating a ship without a license. Even charged him with operating a casino in state waters because when they found him he wasn’t quite far enough out to sea. There wasn’t even nobody on the boat except him and they say he was running a casino!” Wexall slapped his leg and laughed at the foolishness of Williams. “That’s why they called him ‘Bugsy’ in the pen. After Bugsy...”

“Bugsy Siegal, I know,” the colonel interrupted and chuckled himself. “All right then, boys. You’re with us now. Just be good and you’ll get along fine.”

All of the others had thoroughly enjoyed the prisoners’ tales. They provided some form of entertainment, something which had been devoid from their lives for weeks. Immediately, the group could see that these men were harmless, simple-minded, not mean-spirited as you’d expect a state inmate, and pleasantly comical. They looked forward to more stories.

“Okay gang,” the colonel announced, “let’s get ready for dinner. It’ll be dark soon. We’ll have a fire tonight down on the beach to welcome our newcomers. We’ll sit around the fire and maybe they’ll have another story of two to share. Let’s get to work.” The colonel clapped his hands and the group began to scurry in various directions. Each person heading to his own section of the camp or to do his job or to tidy up or a thousand other little tasks that coexist with any type of camping. In everyone’s mind, it was turning out to be a special day—new faces, a rare campfire, and the delightful possibilities of exciting tales from the prisoners.

The colonel watched his people moving about working diligently. For a moment, he felt good and got the tingle that precedes pride. His leadership had turned a complete hodge-podge of misfits into a somewhat effective encampment. Each person was becoming efficient and the days flowed quickly. To some degree now, the people even seemed content and, though foreign to all luxuries, not far removed from some basal form of happiness. Still, worry weighed on his shoulders. Looking forward, the colonel knew that it was impossible to keep any group’s spirits high forever without some type of change. Routine bred efficiency and effectiveness, but, it also gave way to monotony and then tedium and then drudgery which bred complacency and finally discord. The colonel had once wondered why many hurried city-people considered the simple routines of a farmer as pure and envied his primordial life and yet, for a teenager who’d grown up in such a life, he could only dream of escaping the farm’s chores in exchange for the fast nights of the city. Having led men and seen the routine many time, the colonel knew the cycle was the same for the teenage farm boy as for a group of soldiers as for a group of storm survivors. He was biding time, worrying, and praying that his brief radio contact was being acted upon and that another rescue mission would not be far off.

Chapter 33

Vandenberg Air Force Base, California

Saturday, October 25

11:03 AM

“You men have been chosen because you are the best,” General Adams announced from a table inside a hangar along with General Gearing and Admiral Nevins. Eight men, the oldest not past thirty years old and most in their early twenties, stood in uniform at attention, standing stiffly before the table with their class A uniforms neatly pressed and their caps tucked under one arm. One marine had a duffel bag stuffed full and lying on the hangar floor as though he’d just stepped off of a plane himself. All stood with the grim look of sincerity on their faces. “You represent the hope that made America great. The president, America, and especially those people trapped in the storm are all counting on you.”

The men stood silently, without moving. They stared past the brass at the table into the bright daylight that flooded into the hangar silhouetting the generals and admiral.

“Men,” General Gearing said, “we want to be clear about a few things. This is a dangerous mission. So dangerous, in fact, we asked for volunteers only as you know. If this were a normal situation, we would never send our men to do it. The risks are too high. To be honest, if none of you boys come back alive, frankly I won’t be surprised. I’m not saying that to scare you or anything, I just feel like I should be totally honest with you. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you do come back alive, I want you to know that right now. But, I can’t change the fact that this is the most dangerous mission I’ve ever sent personnel into. I want you to know, that at any point in your training, anyone can walk away from this mission with no questions asked, no shame. You men in the front row have been selected for this mission. If one of you drops out, one of the alternates behind you will step up. This is a voluntary mission. Not a single one of you if required to do this. We sent the word out to each branch and you stepped forward—I salute your bravery. But understand, the decision to go or not to go is open-ended all the way up until we push the ‘GO’ button. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir!” in general unison.

“Thus far, you’ve been kept in the dark about the mission except that it was very dangerous. Admiral Nevins here will fill you in on the logistics of the mission.”

Nevins explained to them the general plan of Fox Storm. He told them they’d be trained as astronauts in the six weeks or so they had to operate in. He explained how they’d be launched into a low orbit, descend into the eye, parachute to the ground, then organize the people into loading groups. He explained how submarines would meet at a rendezvous point and how they’d ferry the people out to the subs to latch them onto lanyards strung out from the subs’ sterns to be reeled in. And, he explained how, immediately after the subs cleared, five hydrogen bombs would be delivered via missile into the storm to disrupt its natural flow and kill it. Lastly, he told them about the Cat X Beta, Gamma, and Delta and it wasn’t necessary for the admiral to explain the stakes that those storms meant.

When the admiral finished, all eight men were thoroughly surprised when a figure came into the hangar from outside silhouetted starkly by the sun and accompanied by several others, men and women, in business attire because when he was well-inside they could see that it was President Collins. The president said a few words similar to General Adams’, with regard to their bravery and the sincerity of the matter and how there were Americans trapped in there and we don’t leave Americans to die without at least trying to get them out. Then, he went down the two lines and shook each man’s hand, placing his left hand on the man’s right shoulder and looking him straight into the eyes as he shook the man’s hand and called him by first and last name without glancing at his nametag, and thanked him sincerely. The president gave each man a pin in a little plastic bag that depicted a hurricane with a rocket driving straight into it from space. He also gave them a survival knife with the same logo engraved on the handle along with the words “BRAVERY” and “HONOR” on one side and “OPERATION FOX STORM” on the reverse.

Afterwards, the men enjoyed a lunch hosted by the president and were happy to see the mood change from death-serious sincerity to a much lighter tone. A large red and white striped circus-style tent had been erected outside the hangar and tables neatly set underneath with white tablecloths and actual silverware rather than plastic. They ate barbeque pork sandwiches and listened as the president told stories about his days while training to be a naval aviator. All of the men laughed hard at the president’s self-effacing humor and the gist of the stories was that the president wanted to be a naval aviator with all his might but his stomach simply didn’t agree. Each story seemed to end with the president getting sick and barfing either in his helmet, on his flightsuit, or onto someone else. To the young volunteer’s surprise, there was a large cooler filled with iced-down cold beers that they could just twist off the top and drink as they pleased. The general had mentioned that their training didn’t start until tomorrow so they could rest up the remainder of the day. The volunteers drank beers quickly and got a bit light-headed and they listened to the president’s stories. Eventually, the generals and the admiral started telling stories about stupid things they’d done or something that happened back in Vietnam or on a base. They had funny stories about other presidents too like when Bush got sick and threw up on the Japanese ambassador’s lap. They’re were lots of puke stories for some reason and everyone laughed and it all seemed like such fun then.

The president’s aides, who seemed far too young to be in such an official capacity, loosened their silk ties and drank as well. Their boss was finally letting down his hair and enjoying himself and even though they knew it was half an act the president wanted to put on to loosen up the boys, they were going to join in and not miss the opportunity. So, they dipped deeply into the beer cooler as well. They looked more like gussied-up college kids except that they carried briefcases and attachés and wore dark, pressed, pin-striped suits and expensive and stylish sunglasses. The women wore dark business suits with skirts that ended well above their knees with long, smooth legs not meant to go unnoticed that ended in black pumps. They were all deftly attractive, both male and female, and polished in appearance, presentation, and speech and therefore, also adroitly intimidating to any peer. And now, they drank the beer and laughed easily.

Some of the volunteers, young men with an overabundance of testosterone and always on the lookout for an attractive young woman, had begun to take keen notice of the female aides sitting across the table. The military men shot quick glances across the tables to the women who received and interpreted them clearly. Buttressed by the beer, the young women were becoming emboldened and began to speak up, adding their own thoughts confidently to the matters of the rescue, the military today, contemporary movies and Hollywood, then ideal vacation spots. Someone put on some music at that point, appropriately calypso when one aide was explaining the benefits and detriments of each Caribbean island that she’d just been to the past summer. She suddenly hopped up and started dancing around beneath the tented canopy. Three other female aides joined her in a quick circle. They danced holding beers or wine coolers with their arms up above their heads and their feet too far apart for skirts above their knees. Sensing their opportunity, three of the volunteers stood up and joined the aides dancing. Rather than joining the circle of dancers, the men selected one woman to whom they were more attracted and began dancing behind her as though they’d been a couple all along and she had simply turned to dance with her back to her man. Eventually, the woman would sense the man’s midsection encroaching the forbidden area that lies behind women’s backsides, they’d turn to face the young soldier and then dance with him alone thereby completing the soldiers’ coup d’etats. Divided into couples suddenly, one woman found herself to be the unchosen, odd-woman out and was at a loss for what to do next. But, one of the male aides joined her to dance to conveniently absolve the uncomfortable situation.

Clouds had formed and blown overhead as they’d eaten. The air cooled then a light rain began to fall but no wind blew. Inside the tent, it was cool and dry and snug. The party only tightened in on itself a bit, condensing as those seated near the edge of the tent drew in their chairs closer to the dancers. The beer cooler was set up just outside the tent so that to replenish a beverage one only had to reach through a window of light rain into the cooler, draw out a drink, then retract it back through the rain into the tent with a refreshingly wet arm. Looking over the scene, President Collins noticed that everyone was thoroughly enjoying him or herself and there were few dry arms and those were of young ladies who’d coaxed someone else into fetching a refill for them.

Sensing that the meeting and luncheon were going better than expected, President Collins called his chief of staff over and whispered that all of the aides, the young people, were to stay at the base overnight. The chief of staff was to formulate some guise of an assignment for them such as evaluating the rescue volunteers or simply becoming familiar with the workings of an Air Force base. The president would have a plane fly from the base tomorrow afternoon up to Seattle to shuttle them back to the temporary capital. In all, it would serve as a much needed mini-vacation and no harm would be done short of the fuel needed to fly them up the coast to Seattle. President Collins had rationalized, “Pilots need flight hours anyway. They might as well do something useful,” and it was settled.

When the president announced the plans for aides and offered the explanation of learning about the base, everyone saw through the reasoning immediately and recognized it as really a one day pass. The young aides cheered loudly and the rescue volunteers did as well. One of the women grabbed the cap off the Marine dancing before her and absent-mindedly tossed it into the air as though graduating from an academy. The cap flew up and drilled into the tent above then fell onto the picnic table. The bill dipped into a bowl of cole slaw then catapulted the slaw into the air in a sort of fireworks finale. The young woman cupped her hands over her mouth and crouched in surprise, like a child who’d done a naughty deed in plain view of parents and awaiting punishment. But, everyone just laughed and the incident did nothing more than to lighten the mood of the party even more. She fetched the cap, wiped off the slaw juice, put it on her own head, then resumed her dance with the smiling Marine.

Forty-five minutes later, President Collins was prepared to leave. The aides were still in the tent living up their freedom. As he made his way toward Air Force One, the president noticed one of the rescue volunteers standing alone at the entrance to the hangar where the men had been commissioned for the rescue. The young man wore a black navy class A officer’s uniform so that the president knew his name from his uniform—the only naval officer in the group. He stood leaning against the sliding hangar door. The president stood and watched the young man for a moment. The young officer looked down at his feet and seemed to draw circles in the concrete with one toe. Then he pulled up a five gallon bucket, flipped it over and wiped it off, and took a seat on it. He sat with his feet wide apart, his elbows on his knees with his fingertips together as though praying, and hung his head with the bill of his cap pointing straight downward so that he looked through his hands down between his feet.

President Collins said to the others with him, “Wait here a moment,” and walked over to the young man. Before the young officer knew it, the president’s voice asked, “Too much punch, Ensign?”

The ensign jerked up to his feet and yanked off his cap, “Mr. President. No sir, I didn’t drink anything.”

“You’re Chad Hamilton, correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re missing the party over here all by yourself.”

“Yes sir.”

“Not the partying type?”

“Not really, sir. I don’t mind it. I don’t mind if people have a good time. It just doesn’t seem like the time to be partying is all.”

“Here, here.” President Collins tipped up a bottled water towards Chad and sipped. “When I saw your application two weeks ago I don’t remember you being an officer.”

“No sir, I wasn’t. I just got commissioned Wednesday, only three days ago.”

“Congratulations. How’s it feel to be a naval officer?”

“Good I suppose.” Chad paused a moment. “To be honest, I haven’t done too much, just packed my stuff and flew out here.”

“From Connecticut, right?”

“Yes sir. UConn. I was in the NROTC program there. I was supposed to graduate in December and get commissioned then, but when I heard about this rescue mission I signed up.”

“You dropped out with only two months to graduation?”

“Yes sir. Well, I didn’t exactly drop out. I’ll finish when I get a chance. I only needed three more classes. Admiral Nevins was nice enough to go ahead and pull some strings to get me commissioned even though I haven’t graduated from college yet. He said I could finish out the program with my training here.”

“Nevins is a good man.”

“Yes sir.”

“Why’d you sign on, Hamilton? Why drop out of college with only two months to go?”

“Well, this is a once in a lifetime mission, that’s for sure. I can’t pass that up, can I? College will always be there.”

President Collins knew the story but wanted to see if the young officer would say it. “Is that all? Is that the only reason?”

Chad looked out toward the tent. The music floated through rain toward them and bounced off the steel hangar. “No sir, I know the people in that storm. The colonel who radio’d out, Colonel Brackett, his daughter and I were high school sweethearts. We grew up together.”

“I see. Are you still sweethearts?” Chad thought, still staring at the tent. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t think so. She’s a great girl, sir. God doesn’t make them any better. I let her down once, and her father, in a pretty big way. If nothing else, I aim to make up for the mistakes I’ve made.”

“What’s her name?” the president asked, although he already knew.

Chad stood a moment without answering as though formulating her name with his tongue was difficult to do, then said in a clear voice, “Jenni.”

“Well, Jenni Brackett better look out because I think a brand new naval officer is going to come knocking on her door real fast.”

Chad looked at the president and smiled coyly. President Collins smiled back.

“Ensign, I don’t want to mislead you,” the president said in a suddenly serious tone, “Admiral Nevins told me all about your situation. Told me that you and the girl used to be serious, about the accident and the trouble you got into. We were reluctant to sign you on because this isn’t a place for emotions. Emotions can get in the way and make us act funny.”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

“But, we decided that’s also you’re best asset. You’re motivated to get the job done and that’s why we went with you. Some of these guys I think just have some kind of a death wish. I think if we told them we wanted volunteers to jump off the Empire State building with no parachute they’d step forward.”

Chad laughed then said, “Not me sir. I plan to get out of there and bring the people with me.”

“That’s what I want to hear, my boy. Now, listen, I’m heading out of here, you start training tomorrow morning. There’s no sense in you standing around in the rain fretting about things—there’s nothing you can do right now and worrying about it won’t help a bit. Do know what the Bible says about worrying?”

“Yes sir, ‘Who can add an hour to his life by worrying?’, or something to that effect.”

“You’re a Christian then?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Me too. You’re going to be fine then. Now, I want you to collect your thoughts then get back over there and introduce yourself to Aimee, one of my aides. You’ll recognize her because she’ll be the one with the blouse unbuttoned the furthest.”

Chad laughed again and said, “Okay, sir.”

“I’m serious.” He opened a leather binder and scribbled a note on a small piece of paper and handed it to Chad saying, “Give this to Aimee”.

Chad read the note:

Aimee, Please show Ensign Hamilton around the base tonight. Catch him up on our current trade policies with Mexico as well.

- J. Collins

“You be sure to give it to her. I’ll check up on it when she gets back to Seattle.”

Chad smiled, said “Yes sir,” then folded and slipped the note into his breast pocket.

President Collins gave Chad a quick nod, patted him on the shoulder, then snapped around and left. As he walked away, he turned over his shoulder and called back to Chad, “Training starts tomorrow, my boy. I’m counting on you.” Then he boarded Air Force One and was gone.

Chapter 34

Groton, CT

Tuesday, December 16

9:48 AM

Two submarines, the USS Wyoming and the USS Maryland, pushed away from the dock at the sub base in Groton and began to ease down the Thames River. In that way, they were no different from any of the other submarines that have come and gone in and out of the base. But, there were differences now. Two of the differences were visible and one not. To a viewer who might be passing over the bridge of U.S. 1 to New London and look down out of his car window, the subs would appear unusually large. If the viewer knew submarines, he’d perhaps wonder why two Ohio class ballistic missile submarines were exiting the fast attack base of Groton. Having luckily been at sea when the Cat X struck, the two subs’ normal base in Georgia had been destroyed, simply washed away like a sandbar suddenly finding itself caught in a new current. Having no place to return, the subs were channeled to Norfolk where they were stripped of their 24 Trident missiles, informed of and outrigged for their special mission, then forwarded on to Groton for final preparations. If the passerby crossing the bridge were only a novice toward submarines, he would notice that the two submarines steaming below were noticeably different in color. The tops of the subs, that portion above the water line while at rest, had been painted a bright, tangerine orange. Normally, subs thrive on the notion of invisibility, both audibly as well as visually, and are therefore painted black. However for the rescue mission, they would need to be seen and so they were painted as brightly as possible. Under sail, their bright new color they gave the appearance of something of an immense child’s bathtub toy. Having seen hundreds of subs pass beneath the bridge and past the docks and harbors, inlets, and points jutting out into the Thames around New London, or past the Coast Guard Academy and Fairview or Pequot Avenues that skirt the river’s banks, an educated viewer might think the two orange subs were as odd as though two orange jelly beans had somehow been dropped into the midst of a vat of black licorice beans—they were painfully different.

Unnoticeable to the passerby overhead, however, would be the submarines’ mission. Unlike every other sub that had passed beneath the bridge, the Wyoming and Maryland were not being sent out laden with Tomahawks or Tridents. Rather, they were being sent out to rescue. Their mission was more tangible than simply patrolling a beat and certainly more tangible than the abstraction of nuclear deterrence. They bore no weaponry at all. The cylinders that had housed the Trident missiles had been emptied and had been filled with sailors’ bunks, food, fresh water, and medical supplies. Each sub was capable, then, of carrying 150 survivors if indeed that many could be found, rounded up to the rendezvous point, and bustled onto the subs in the paper-thin window they’d been given to pull off the rescue.

Somehow, to the captain of each sub, their non-combatant mission weighed even heftier on their shoulders than had they been carrying more firepower than nearly every nation contained in their entire arsenals. This mission would truly delineate life and death. Success would mean life; failure would mean death. In that sense, the mission contained an almost fresh, and certainly frightening simplicity. Under normal circumstances, the Wyoming or Maryland would leave their home port in Georgia and tool around the depths of the ocean. Their job was little more than to just be there. Aside from usual onboard tasks and tedium, protocol, maintenance, the crew and officers corps never did anything beyond leave and then later, return. Discrediting Hollywood’s fictionalized rendition of ballistic missile subs in constant crisis or carrying out a dangerous dalliance with an enemy submarine deep below the ocean surface, life aboard a sub was painfully boring. Thus paradoxically, the ballistic missile sub’s captain lived a double life. On one hand, he commanded the most powerful entity known to man—a ballistic missile submarine. On the other hand, due to the nature of deterrence itself, the sub’s existence and therefore the captain’s job was constantly inactive. Upon returning from a “mission”, the captain and crew of a ballistic missile sub might be hard-pressed to answer the question, “Was the mission successful?” Had no nuclear war broken out, the answer would have to be, “Yes,” yet, the crew might feel as though their actions had no bearing upon the result. Missions are designed to accomplish a specific goal so that when finished successfully, the sailor might say proudly, “Mission accomplished.” Usually when returning to base though, the sailors would simply throw their duffels over their shoulder, walk the gang plank to the dock, then leave with no more pride in the mission being accomplished than the clock-worker who’d just punched out at 5:01 P.M.

In their orange-colored rescue mission, however, the successful mission could be measure by lives saved. It could be quantified in that sense. The captain would be able to say upon return, “My crew saved eighty-seven souls from the belly of that storm.” Success could not only be quantified in the objective, inhuman manner of numbers, but it could be peopled with faces. As each survivor left the sub and walked ashore in Groton and saw trees and the color green for the first time in months, the captain could look at his or her face to see a real person breathing and truly say to himself, “Mission accomplished.”

This tangibility and hard line between life and death was surprisingly unnerving to both captains, as well as frightening. So unnerving was the new mission that the night before, at a special send-off dinner, the two captains had commiserated these feelings while sharing a quiet moment together on the dock overlooking the western bank of the Thames. Hard men who were accustomed to making hard decisions quickly, found themselves rattled as though they were young ensigns fresh out of the Academy on their first mission at sea. The captains didn’t fear the actual logistics of the mission, they were certainly dangerous but not impossible, but rather the fear of failure weighed heaviest on their hearts. The greatest fear, would be to return to Groton in a huge orange submarine, pop the hatch and emerge to say, “We rescued no one.”

The president had wanted the rescue subs to be sent off with some kind of fanfare. Apparently, he’d envisioned a joyous bon-voyage party amid a Fourth of July atmosphere. The subs and the crews were to be commissioned as saviors and thereby buoyed by the public’s support. In the end, though, only a small ceremony had been arranged and attended by few people, mostly family and base personnel, and one local television affiliate. A cold, grey winter rain had blown in during the night, ironically, a slender feeder band that strung out from the northern tip of the Cat X all the way from North Carolina in a huge arc across Connecticut and into the ocean. Fog enveloped the subs so that the opposing sides of the Thames were visible only as shades of darker grey. As soon as the orange subs were away from the docks the people ashore dissolved into the greyness seeking warmth and dryness and were gone. The Wyoming led the way down the Thames River and past Fort Trumbull and the golf course and finally the lighthouse pinpointing the mouth of the river. They dipped into Long Island Sound where the rain fell heavier. Behind their sterns the Connecticut shore stood as a thin horizontal stripe of sand-grey, out of focus from the fog and rainfall—a cold, bland scene that might just as well had gone unchanged from when the religious zealots of the early 1600s laid eyes on the same grey coast and worked their way upstream to settle New London.

Leaving the grey world behind them, the captains gave orders to dive and the subs left the moist Connecticut air so thick it had more to be swallowed than inhaled and descended down into the deep blue world without light.

Chapter 35

Vandenberg Air Force Base, California

Wednesday, December 17

1:18 PM

Four men in bright orange spacesuits were strapped into the capsule that set atop the Delta II rocket with steam exiting an exhaust vent midway up its body. In four minutes, they’d be propelled skyward at over 25,000 miles per hour. The men were arranged so that they sat in a circle with their backs facing the center of the circle and each man looking outward in a different direction. Their seats were laid back so that their upper torsos were nearly flat and their feet up well above their heads. Green, yellow, and red lights reflected off the clear bubble-shaped facemasks an inch beyond their noses. They breathed deeply so that each time they exhaled little fog patches would blow up on the inside of the bubble in front of their mouths then quickly dissipate making way for the next.

Chad had been named ‘Communications Officer’ for the mission. The only other officer onboard, and the only member of the team older than 20 something, Major Chuck Hilton was named the ‘Commanding Officer’. The other two were enlisted men, a Marine Lance Corporal and an Army Sergeant. Chad’s main job was to assemble the radio equipment they carried onboard when they arrived inside the eye of the storm, create a link without the outside, then communicate with Mission HQ to coordinate the rescue.

“This is Air Fox, come in HQ,” Chad called into the mic wrapped around his jaw inside his helmet. The space flight portion of Operation Fox Storm had been dubbed ‘Air Fox’ to differentiate from the submarine portion, ‘Water Fox’.

“You’re looking good, Air Fox,” a calm voice called back. The four men had come to know the man behind that voice during the six weeks of their training as a simply, “Sammy”. He was a round faced, heavy set fellow with a clean bald head and a temperament that said without words: “Hi! I’d like to be your best buddie!” He’d been chosen by Mission HQ to be the spokesperson linking the HQ to Air Fox precisely because each man onboard had come to know and love Sammy. This trust, HQ hoped, along with Sammy’s easy-going voice, would keep the men as calm as possible. Although they simply had to sit down and hold on for the ride, there would be no place for jumpy nerves. NASA operates by written and tested procedure and jumpy nerves are not encoded into the manual. “Be sure to snap me a picture of a pretty girl laying out on the beach, boys,” Sammy joked.

“I’m putting Morales in charge of that,” Chad said and the young Marine smiled.

“Morales? He’s too scared of women.”

Morales laughed a nervous laugh.

“That’s not what I heard,” Chad said. “I heard he and one of President Collins’ aides were pretty friendly.”

Morales shook his head, still smiling. The Army Sergeant turned his helmet back and over his shoulder and in a quick laughing voice said, “You know it’s true too.”

“No, no,” Morales said, “not true. It’s all speculation. There is no proof.”

Sammy was doing his best to take the men’s minds off the launch while the technicians went through final preparations, especially in these final minutes prior to take-off. He joked and teased them a few more moments.

“Okay, boys, here we go,” Sammy informed the soldiers and sailors turned astronauts. “We’re getting ready to get it on right now.”

The Launch Director had just started his final checks of “Go Flight” or “No Go” and all responses were coming up in quick “Go Flights”. The launch doctor peered into his monitor and his assistant voiced what the physician was thinking saying, “The Major’s pulse is skyrocketing.” Beside ‘Major Hilton’ on the monitor was the pulse rate in red: 156. The other three showed pulse rates of only in the low 100s. On a line closed to the astronauts, the doctor interrupted the Launch Director, per written NASA procedure, and explained the situation. The Director called for Sammy to check it out and for the physician to make a decision and to make it fast.

“Talk to him,” the Director instructed Sammy. “See if he’s got his wits about himself.”

“Is everybody ready?” Sammy called to the astronauts.

“Ready to go,” Chad’s voice called back. Excited, he yelled loudly into the mic. “We’re just waiting for you guys to push the button. Going on a little Florida vacation!”

No one else responded. Chad was the Communications Officer.

“Everybody else ready?”

“Yes Sammy,” Chad’s voice came back, “we’re all set.”

“Let me hear from them. Morales?”

“Yes sir, ready to go, sir.” Morales said quickly.

“Swoff?” Sammy asked the Army Sergeant.

“Let’s do it, Sammy.”

“Major Hilton?” Sammy finally got around to the real reason for the interview.

There was a slight pause. The major’s pulse was above 160 now and the physician was about to call it off right then but the major’s voice came on and said, “Okay, let’s go.” Whereas the younger men’s voices had been quick and eager to respond, the major’s had not. But, neither was it reluctant. It contained every aspect in the three words he spoke that could make them bland as though he’d decided to stand up, walk outside, and mow the grass. “You ready to lead this ragtag bunch of half-wits?” Sammy tried to chide him into conversation.

“Yes,” was the major’s response.

Sammy looked at the Director and gave an ‘I don’t know’ face.

The physician hesitated, then, on the secure line, announced, “Go flight.” After all, all the major or any of the men had to do was sit there and get ready for a bumpy ride. He’d proven to be an able officer in his twelve years in the military, ‘He’ll have time to lower his pulse when he gets on the ground,’ the doctor thought to himself.

The Launch Director and technicians completed the final checks then a computer animated voice started a countdown at 20 seconds. When the astronauts heard the countdown they jostled in their seats to settle in even better than their tight straps would allow. Chad stuck up his chin and wiggled it back and forth. He gritted his teeth and drew in a deep breath. At twelve seconds the men felt the rockets catch as the fireballs were shot beneath them like Roman candles. The rocket began to vibrate quickly and Chad felt the straps holding him into his seat individually against his back. Above each man there was a small triangular window, no larger than a dinner plate, that showed bright blue outside. The windows began to vibrate so that the edges were no longer clean lines but blurred with the color of metal dashboard inside the capsule. At six seconds Chad’s seat felt as though it were trying to buck up and topple him over.

“Here we go boys!” Chad called out at four seconds.

At one second he clenched both his teeth and fists, drew in a deep breath and held it.

Precisely at zero, the rocket heaved up. Chad saw out of the corner of his eye, through Sergeant Swofford’s window that faced the tower, separation break between the rocket and its crutch holding it vertical. They began to move, slowly at first, then faster. Chad felt himself being pressed down against the seat. All of his weight was pressed down on his back as though he were lying on his upper shoulders and shimmying up a wall with his feet. Then he felt as though his weight had doubled then tripled then he lost count and he may as well have weighed ton. The rocket vibrated rapidly, not like the large gyrations shown in movies and which he’d expected, but in tight, wildly quick-paced vibrations. The rocket vibrated as though a gas engine was being revved far past its permissible RPMs and was about to throw a rod or crack or lock up a cylinder and then it revved another ten times further.

Outside the window, the colors changed in flashes. At first, the color had been bright, light blue. In an instant, it had changed to grey, then white, then back to light blue, and then molded into a deeper blue. The rocket hurled spaceward with a loud, high pitched hum. A minute later some semblance of calmness fell over him and Chad told himself to breathe. He did and he wondered if he’d inhaled since before takeoff and wasn’t sure.

At 300 kilometers, about seventy seconds into the flight, the rocket shed its main stage. When the main stage blew apart its separation, the rocket jolted so violently that the men collectively thought something had gone awry. In an instantaneous violent jam as though the bulkhead had just cracked in half, the capsule lunged upward then fell back. The second stage ignited and threw the astronauts back against their seats again. It propelled them higher and the sky outside the small windows suddenly turned dark blue and then finally black. The rockets extinguished themselves and now the capsule sat quietly as though it were not moving at all. Chad felt his weight go from a ton to nothing with the same driving-over-a-round-hill feeling one’s stomach gets multiplied by a hundred. The sound, like the vibration, had suddenly ceased. They traveled now imperceptibly, silently, and smoothly. For a moment, the four men sat in silence amid a perfectly calm, weightless, and peaceful world. A diametric opposite to the violent ride they’d taken to get to this low orbit place or to the fiery descent they were about to enter into. The men enjoyed the moment of tranquillity, catching their composure for the descent. Ascent and descent were always the two phases of a mission NASA most worried over. These four novice astronauts would now enjoy both in a matter of fifteen minutes.

The four shields that together housed the capsule suddenly blew apart from the nose of the rocket. They separated in four neat directions, the top of the shield peeling away from the nose first then moving down. They hurled away, head over heel, from the capsule. Now, with the shield’s gone, Chad had a wider range of vision through his small window. With the shields on, he’d had to gaze through both the capsule window and the shield window a foot or so away. With it gone, his window immediately opened up into the emptiness of space. He gazed out trying to stretch his neck forward for an even better view like a child on his first commercial jet flight. He saw stars, more clearly than he’d ever seen them before with no smog or vapor or streetlights to hinder vision and more than he’d ever seen before. They shown crisply, as points rather than stars with rays. Then, from the top point of his triangular window, a brightness startled Chad. He sucked his neck down and hunch his chin out so that he looked out of the tops of his eyes past his brows forcing his mouth to open dumbly. The small tip of the Earth showed back at him and moved slightly down his window frame to draw into better vision.

“Look at that!” he said aloud. “I can see the Earth through my window. That’s awesome.”

The other men strained to see but could not at the moment.

“Where is it?” Morales asked.

“It’s over here on my side. You’ll probably see it in a minute when we spin around.”

The Earth shown in blues and white swirls and tan. It appeared not unlike Chad had seen in pictures, however, he was caught unexpected by its brightness. It appeared as though it held some massive fluorescent bulb in its core illuminating it from within. The atmosphere around its edges glowed neon blue against a coal black backdrop. The Earth moved down the window until Chad could no longer see its round edge and the window was full of glowing Earth. He tried to figure out which part of the world he was looking at. He gauged the shape of the tan earth and even though Chad had a strong visual sense of geography, he saw no line or form that would hint at familiarity. Too much of the tan earthen portion was concealed by white swirls. He took at what coastal region he could see, a line in the general shape of a stretched “S”, and flipped the image around in his brain rotating it ninety degrees each flip fully anticipating one of the flips to register with a known portion of geography in his memory. Nothing clicked. By then the tan earthen section had passed by and the window had filled almost completely with white. Chad took his eyes off the soil and looked at the clouds. Suddenly, his blood pressure dropped and he felt as though something passed over him like a caul from head to toe. Before him now, the Cat X sat framed in the triangle, crystal clear and speckled with fine details, as though challenging and mocking him at his foolery to enter its gullet. Though static, Chad thought he could see the Cat X churning and drawing in strength from its feeder bands that spiraled out from its eye. The bands spun outward like tentacles and wrapped around the Earth as from an enormous leviathan. He’d of course seen the storm innumerable times via radar. But, then, it had always been represented in grainy digits and moved in choppy time-lapse which gave it some otherworldly quality. It appeared as though it were embedded in some silly video game as if the user could manipulate it by selecting preferences of “Size” or “Strength” or even “Color”. Now, he saw it in lifelike form and clarity, moving in deft fluidity and in all its naked reality and daring him to draw into its heart.

“I see the storm boys,” Chad announced gravely. “She is one mother all right.”

“What’s it look like?” Swofford asked.

“Scary. It’s like you can see it move. See it swirling.”

“Great. That’s what I want to hear.”

“How are you doing boys?” Sammy’s voice asked in their headsets.

“Sammy!” Chad called back, then remembered the protocol and said, “This Air Fox. We copy you. Over.”

“How you doing boys?” Sammy repeated, shunning the NASA protocol which he thought stupidly stiff.

“You tell us, over.”

“You’re looking good down here. Everything’s going picture perfect.”

“That’s what we wanted to hear, HQ.” Then he added, “You should see the view I have right now, Sammy. Over.”

“I wish I could, Chad, but these NASA pinheads couldn’t find a spot for a fat middle-aged bald guy.”

“I hear you. It’s okay, Morales has his camera ready. I can see the storm, the Cat X. Over.”

“Yeah? What’s she look like?”

Chad was about to answer in the same way he’d answered Swofford with ‘Scary’, then decided against it and said, “Nothing to her. Just a little Kansas dirt devil is all. We used to jump inside those things as kids. Over.”

“What are you talking about? You’re still a kid.”

“I’m a kid on one heck of a wild ride too. Over.”

“Everything doing okay there, major?” Sammy asked.

“Okay,” the major called back.

Chad was beginning to think ahead to the next step. He knew Sammy was just trying to keep everyone calm with small talk and Chad was obliged to comply. He wanted the men to stay calm as well and found Sammy’s nonsensical talk soothing all the while. But, deep down, Chad knew they were just passing time and that they’d soon pass to the next stage and be flying again. “How are we coming along down there?” he asked finally, setting the small talk aside.

“Coming along fine. We’re about to separate the capsule. Give us just a minute, all right?”

“Roger. Understand you’re about to separate the capsule. Over.”

“Yes, Roger. Just hold tight a second,” Sammy’s voice said in the men’s ears.

Silence enveloped the men. No one spoke. The only sound was of each man breathing. They heard themselves inhale and then exhale, conscious of each draw of air. Chad watched the Cat X pass by until it was gone and then the Earth shown its roundness on the other side at the top of the window. The luminescent blue gave way to black in a smooth arcing swipe. Gradually, black drew down across the triangle until there was more black than Earth.

“Okay, Air Fox,” Sammy called, we’re ‘Go’ for separation.”

No sooner than he’d spoke than the men felt another jolt ripple from below them and heard the crack of metal breaking. The capsule jammed sideways slightly then drifted freely. Through his window, Chad saw the Earth jerk violently to the side when the crack sounded then settle again. This time it moved on a different course, sideways rather than downward across the window, and more quickly.

“We have separation,” Sammy’s voice said.

Shortly, Morales announced excitedly, “I see the rocket!” The rocket’s second stage, a small white cylinder, fell away from the capsule gently earthward. The capsule, a shiny steel triangle floated softly as a throwback to the bygone days of Apollo. Massive chutes were housed in the cone atop the capsule, heavy heat-resistant tiles insulated its bottom and flanges.

Chad felt helpless. In a way, he’d been glad when NASA had informed them that, aside from activating the chutes, they wouldn’t have to do any of the rocket’s or capsule’s manipulation. They literally had to sit back and ride. Their jobs would come later. The main parachutes were to be deployed at ten kilometers, the height of a jumbo jet’s flight, then the secondary chutes again at four kilometers to slow the capsule for a land-based landing. NASA explained that during descent they’d lose radio contact yet assured the astronauts the altimeter would work and that they simply had to pull the chute’s at 10 then again at 4. ‘Those chutes will get pulled, trust us,’ Chad had joked. But, as he sat passively floating in zero gravity the feeling came over him that his fate was totally in the hands of others, completely beyond his control. The palms of his hands sweated.

“Check it out!” Morales called. He’d taken a pen from his breast pocket and was spinning it before him like a pinwheel. The pen would float dormantly until he’d flick it with gloved hands on each end and then it would rotate at the same rate that his hands had moved. Chad looked over his right shoulder and saw the pen spinning.

“Cool,” Swafford said and Chad heard the velcro of Swoff’s breast pocket rip as he pulled out his pen to do the same thing. Morales’ pen eventually got flicked wrong and wheeled over toward Chad. It hit the capsule wall gently and careened back toward him. Chad caught it in a gaudy glove, said, “Here you go,” and slowly sent it back toward Morales in a spinning, tip-forward motion who caught it in smooth flight.

“Cool,” Morales repeated.

“Okay boys,” Sammy called, “get ready. We’re about to burn.”

“Copy that. Air Fox ready for burn,” Chad said.

“We’re sending you in, boys, I’ll talk to you when the chutes open.”

With that, the first thrusters hit. The capsule immediately spun around. More thrusters fired and the capsule halted its spin then the men felt it lunge. They were pulled away from their seats and hung against the belts strapping them down as the thrusters backed the capsule down, butt-first. When the thrusters ceased, the hanging feeling ceased as well and the men settled back in their seats. They felt motionless again, although Chad knew they were flying at thousands of miles an hour backwards. Small thrusters fired in short bursts now and then to keep them on course. With each burst, the men’s heads jostled gently in the same direction in unison. The men sat silently.

Two minutes later the capsule began to vibrate, almost imperceivably at first and then, quickly, plainly. The blackness outside took on a color of some dull sort and then the color turned to deep navy blue and then to a cool blue.

“We’re going back in boys,” Chad announced, “hold on tight.” He fixed his eyes on a display that showed red digital numbers. The altimeter showed the men at 348 kilometers and dropping quickly. ‘Ten and four, ten and four,’ Chad thought to himself. ‘If we just get those chutes to open, we’re good to go.’

Chad thought he felt gravity start to settle him into his seat and thought he could feel the capsule accelerating. Outside his window, a yellowish glow began to lighten the blueness and was replaced by fire-orange. The capsule dropped freely now, within the full grip of gravity. It vibrated rapidly again as it had during ascent only a few minutes earlier, only these vibrations were more refined than the gurgles of liquid oxygen combusting. These were only of air slicing by and of particles of heat tiles peeling away as they burnt. The bottom of the capsule began to glow orange-hot and yellow streaks of glowing flames engulfed the capsule.

Chad watched the altimeter. His job was to announce the altitude at every 50 kilometers down to 100, and then in increments of 10 down to 10. He called the marks out in a loud, clear voice. It had dropped into the 200 kilometers and then into the 100s. ‘Ten and four,’ he told himself over and over. He’d asked the NASA men why ten thousand. The number seemed like such a long wait to pull the chutes when dropping from 400. They agreed but said it was less a matter of spaceflight and more a victim of the circumstances. They were dropping into the eye of the Cat X. They would want to free fall as far down as their guts would allow. Deploying the chutes any higher, at say 40 kilometers would mean floating into the eye wall. It was only speculation that they’d enter directly into the center of the eye anyway. NASA explained that they’d do their best to pinpoint their trajectory, but once the capsule entered a free fall they’d have no control over its course. Sliding too far one way would see them drawn into the 500 mile per hour winds and blown away. Ten kilometers, they assured, may seem like a long way to free fall, but would seem like an immense height once the chutes were opened and they were drifting at the whims and fancies of the Cat X. The further down they fell, the better. In essence, they were in an overblown game of chicken.

“One hundred kilometers!” Chad shouted, and then shortly after, “Ninety kilometers.”

The men clutched their fists hard. This was the portion of the flight they’d all secretly worried over the most during training. ‘Would the chutes open? Would they be fine when they opened or would they singe from the heat and melt away uselessly?’ They’d each wondered in their own way at various times during their training.

“Seventy kilometers!”

“Sixty!”

“Fifty kilometers!”

They continued to drop. Although the technicians at NASA assured them that they’d reach a max speed and sustain it, it felt as though they were picking up velocity continually, like riding a sled down an ever steeper hill.

At fifteen kilometers Chad began counting down by one’s as prescribed by NASA. He counted in a slow and deliberate voice and when he’d stated one digit the meter would hold only a few moments before changing again. At twelve he yelled, “Twelve, get ready!”

Then, “Eleven!” Chad hollered louder with each number.

“Ten kilometers, deploy main chutes!”

Nothing happened. They kept falling unchecked without any bump or rumple to interrupt the freefall and hint at parachutes trying to open. Chad looked at the light labeled “MAIN CHUTE” and it was not lit as it had been in the hundred or so times they’d practiced the procedure while in training. There was only one reason: Major Hilton hadn’t activated the parachute.

“Major! Pull the chute! Pull the chute!” Chad yelled, then added, “Nine kilometers…Eight!”

Again, nothing happened. The light did not come on, there was no jerking sensation as the chutes caught, and there was no response from the major.

“Major?! Major Hilton?! Pull it!” Chad screamed.

Morales and Swofford were both looking over their shoulders at the major.

“He’s just sitting there!” Morales screamed. “Pull it!”

At seven kilometers Chad reached forward with his right hand. His arm felt heavy and he fumbled as he grappled for the lever. He was the secondary party to deploy the chutes in case of an emergency and free falling well past the named mark was enough of an emergency. He grabbed the yellow handle and turned it hard ninety-degrees to the left, then pulled the round safety shield away that protected the parachute lever. He threw the shield to the floor then grabbed the latch, and yanked hard.

At once, the men heard a popping sound and felt a jolt through the capsule. The parachutes fizzled their way upward away from the capsule’s tip and two seconds later, the chutes opened and caught. The capsule jerked violently and sprung upward as on a bungee. Chad knew the three chutes had opened and wondered how the nylon cords and stitches could ever sustains such a jolt without ripping. He wondered if, when the capsule sank back down from it’s bungee action, there would be enough line and material left to hold them. The capsule settled back easily and the altimeter slowed drastically showing at six kilometers then immediately changed to only five. Only one kilometer more and they’d be at the secondary chute altitude. Chad’s chest heaved up and down and he breathed hard through his mouth.

“We got it!” Morales exclaimed. “She caught!”

“Five kilometers!” Chad said and glanced up through his window and saw portions of two white parachutes as huge circles in the sky. Then he said, “Major Hilton?”

Again, there was no response. Swofford reach around and swatted the major on the arm and the man didn’t move other than from the swat.

“He’s froze up,” Swofford announced.

“We’ll be on the ground shortly,” Chad said, then kept watch at the altimeter calling out the intervals.

The orange glow had already subsided considerably and the view outside the small windows was turning from fiery to a dullen slate blue.

“Mission HQ, come in. This is Air Fox. Over.” Chad called into his mic. He waited a moment, then called again, “Mission HQ, this is Air Fox. Come in, over.”

“We’ve got you Air Fox,” Sammy’s voice came back.

“We dropped a little further than expected. Opened main chutes at six kilometers. Down to five now. Are we okay?”

“Understand you opened main chutes at six kilometers?”

“Affirmative.”

There was silence for a moment as Sammy checked with the specialists. And then he said, “Yeah, Air Fox, that should be fine. The boys say the further you go down the better, the more of a chance you’ll stay in the center.

“Four kilometers!” Chad called. “Mission HQ, the major is frozen up. I had to pull the main chutes and I’m going to pull the secondary chutes. Over.”

“Understand the major is frozen up.”

“Roger.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know and we don’t really have time to find out right now.” Chad spoke rapidly and loudly, with adrenaline pumping. “I’m going to pull the secondary chutes.”

“Roger that, Chad. You go ahead and pull them when you’re ready.”

Chad reached forward for the secondary chute latch, turned the shield handle and threw it aside then grabbed the deployment lever. The main chutes were designed only to slow the capsule down and break its freefall. They’d opened fine and the altimeter reported they were dropping certainly much slower, but still falling at an estimated sixty to eighty miles per hour. This design had worked fine during Apollo when landing in water, but, the astronauts would now be landing on ground, likely rock. Sixty to eighty miles per hour into rock would not suffice. The secondary chutes, really a large single parachute designed to bisect the three main chutes that were already overhead, would slow the capsule to about twenty miles per hour. Impact would still be a jolt for sure going from twenty to zero in an instant, but it was deemed sustainable. ‘This chute better open,’ Chad thought, ‘just open up and we’re good to go.’

“Four kilometers, deploying secondary chute!” he shouted loudly and jerked the lever toward him. Again, there was a pop from above, a rippling sound, and then another jerk that jolted the men down into their seats. The altimeter slowed again.

“She caught!” Chad exlaimed. “Secondary chute caught!”

Morales and Swofford cheered. The major was still motionless and silent.

The altimeter continued to slow until it steadied at a leisurely descent. The capsule floated almost peacefully now.

“Three point seven kilometers,” Chad said. “Mission HQ this is Air Fox. Secondary chute is open. Repeat, secondary chute is open. Over.”

Sammy came back, “Copy that Air Fox. Understand secondary chute is open.”

“Affirmative. We’re dropping like a baby now!. Over.”

“Good deal boys. I like it.”

Chad suddenly became aware that nearly every muscle in his body was taught. He consciously told himself to relax and did so, melting back into his seat. His heart was racing and his chest still heaved with each breath so he drew in a deep breath and blew it out fast then felt calmer. Another couple of slow breaths and he felt his body returning to normal. ‘Just a little bump and we’re there is all,’ he told himself. Chad reach over to his left side and patted Morales on the shoulder in congratulation then turned and did the same to the right to Swofford. “We’re looking good boys.” Each man patted Chad back and glanced awkwardly over their shoulders and through the corners of their helmets’ facemask.

“Three point two kilometers.” Chad sat back and relaxed. He switched between watching the lazy descent of the altimeter to gazing out the window. Nothing could be seen except for light grey clouds but they were a welcome site. If he leaned his head forward a bit and looked upward, he could see half of two parachutes floating lazily.

At three kilometers even the window turned darker grey, then almost black, and then back to the dark grey, then light again. Chad thought the color change puzzling. He watched the window again. About fifteen seconds later, the same color change pattern occurred—light grey to dark, to almost black, to dark, then back to light. He glanced at the altimeter and it read two point eight kilometers. Fifteen seconds later, the pattern repeated itself. This time, Chad leaned his head forward inside his helmet and looked up past his eyebrows at the chutes. When the window turned the nearly black color, the edge of the chute furthest away from the center began to ripple in flutters. Chad recognized the flutters from sailing in Long Island Sound as “luffing”—the occurrence of the mainsail fluttering while heading too far upwind in a tack. The window turned to dark grey and then light and the luffing passed with the color change.

“Two point six kilometers,” Chad said and waited for the next color change. ‘We must be spinning around,’ he told himself and kept an eye on the parachute. When the colors began to turn again, the sail again began to flutter slightly and then luff. This time, the luffing was is large flaps, as a woman shaking out a dirty rug. The colors changed to light grey again.

In an instant, Chad grabbed the latch at the center of his chest that held the seatbelts strapping him down and jerked the latch open too free himself. Immediately, a red light that said “Seatbelt Open” started flashing joined by a buzzing sound. Chad pulled himself up out of his seat and pressed his helmet against the window for a closer look.

“What are you doing?” Morales asked.

“We might have a problem. I’m just checking it out. It’s okay.”

Higher now, Chad could also see out of the others’ windows. Straight behind him, through Major Hilton’s window, was the near-black color. To his left, through Morales’ window, the dark grey was turning to the near-black. Indeed, they were spinning around. Chad could see the parachutes better now. He saw all of one and part of two of the main chutes. The secondary chute was obscured by the three main chutes but distinguishable by its orange color rather than white. When the near-black color swung around to Chad’s window, the parachute above him began to luff so hard that it changed its shaped from a circle to semicircle to even a crescent shape. Chad was afraid it wouldn’t catch air again and might just crumple up but as the capsule swung around it caught wind and filled again. Chad looked back at the near-black and thought he saw something. He had to purposely adjust the focus of his eyes from distant to close up, as though he were trying to view a magic-eye picture. Suddenly he realized he was looking at a wall of clouds, mixed with rain, not a hundred feet away. The cloud wall came as plainly in view as though it were a brick building. Chad saw the edge’s of the clouds in hard lines and the clouds were brewing. He saw rain falling diagonally in thin stripes.

His window turned black again as his side of capsule came around to the eye wall again. The chute nearest the wall luffed in large gulps, faltered momentarily, then collapsed in on itself. Chad felt a slight rumble through the capsule and put out his hands to steady himself. The chute fluttered out toward the eye wall a bit then a draft of air entered it from beneath and it ballooned out and caught again.

“What is it?!” Morales asked.

“We’re coming in too close to the eye wall. It’s messing up our chutes.”

Chad watched the capsule spin a full turn. This time around, the chute didn’t luff so much as it was yanked violently by the air surrounding the eye wall. In a quick suction, the chute collapsed like a beach umbrella, shaking the capsule hard, and flew straight out from the capsule toward the wall.

“It’s sucking us over into it!” Chad yelled. He pushed himself back from the window and looked up at the dashboard of lights, switches and buttons. “We’re getting out of here boys! Repeat, we’re getting out of here!”

He glanced at the altimeter: two kilometers even. He found the switch he was looking for labeled “Escape Hatch”. He flipped up the safety on the switch, another red warning light began to flash along with an even louder alarm. Chad flipped the switch. The capsule was dancing continually now in the pull of the air molesting the parachutes. To deploy the escape hatch, both he and the major needed to flip switches, so Chad called, “Major, flip the Escape Hatch switch!” Chad didn’t expect a response, but, he wanted to at least say he tried to get the major to do it before he violated procedure and did it himself. Chad climbed over Swofford, reached his arm to full length, flipped the safety, and then the switch.

Instantly, there was an explosion inside the capsule. The bolts that held the escape hatch blew and the hatch was jettisoned away like a champagne cork. Smoke or steam filled the capsule immediately but it dissipated quickly with air blowing inside from the hole above Morales’ head.

“Bail out! Bail out!” Chad ordered. “Do it now!”

Morales and Swofford clamored with their buckles, undid them, then drew themselves up out of their seats. Morales awkwardly fumbled through the escape hatch. He poked his head out, paused as if he were looking around a moment, then climbed up and perched on the hatch.

“Go, go!” Chad yelled.

Morales leapt out of the capsule. Swofford started to climb up himself. Chad glanced at the altimeter. It read one point seven kilometers. He remembered the technicians saying that anywhere below one, don’t bother jumping out of the escape hatch. He turned and faced the major, bent down and placed his helmet to the major’s so that they were facemask to facemask.

“Major Hilton!” he screamed, “we have to bail out!” The major sat looking forward with a blank stare on his face. “Major! Wake up!” Chad head-butted the major with his facemask. With each rap the major blinked, but didn’t alter his stare which was focused not on Chad right before him but on something off in the distance. “Wake up! We’ve got to bail out!” Chad shook the major but he showed no signs of comprehension.

Chad looked up again. Swofford was gone along with Morales. The altimeter read one point four kilometers. For a moment, Chad thought of unbuckling the major himself. Perhaps he could drag him to the hatch, lift him up and pitch him out. But, there would be no way to open his parachute. Chad thought that maybe if they jumped together he could pull the major’s chute and then his own but dismissed that as foolishness. At one point three kilometers Chad decided to bail. He worked his way over the major toward the hatch. He’d have to leave the major and hope the capsule makes it all right. At one point two kilometers, he clamored through the escape hatch and jumped away from the capsule.

He tumbled a few times then caught himself belly down with his arms outstretched. Chad looked around, saw the eye wall to his right, and wrenched his body around so that the wall was behind him. He tried to angle himself away from the wall, flying Super Man style. The further away from the wall he worked, the better. But, almost immediately, he got nervous free falling and grabbed the rip cord to his chute and yanked it. The chute fluttered out and past his face then opened and jerked him upright violently. The wind that had been ripping past him and flapping his suit ceased and he hung by a harness around his torso. Chad looked up at the round parachute as if to verify that it had actually opened. Below him two other chutes floated downward, Morales and Swofford, and were nearly on the ground. Above him, Chad saw the capsule so close to the eye wall it was almost inside it. The chute nearest the wall flopped around aimlessly. Then, the largest chute, the large orange secondary chute began to lean toward the eye wall. The capsule drifted over until the parachute that was flopping suddenly jerked over into the wall. The capsule lurched sideways. The chute flew forward and ripped lengthwise then flapped like a ribbon. The orange secondary chute billowed out abnormally then entered the eye wall itself. In an instant, the orange chute was swallowed by the eye wall. The other parachutes followed and the capsule jolted sideways and was yanked inside the wall in the blink of an eye, disappeared into the near-black clouds, and was simply gone.

Chad looked down again. He was almost to the ground and prepared himself to land. Morales and Swofford’s chutes were sideways now on the ground not far away. Chad saw the ground as flat, with few rocks, and appeared to be sand. At about a hundred feet he pulled the cords to slow his fall for landing, flexed his knees and bucked up his feet, and hit the ground with a sideways roll in the same motion. He fell on his side with a thud and his head bounced inside his helmet hard. The collision knocked the breath out of him and when he caught it he realized his eyes were closed. He opened them and saw sand speckling his facemask and felt earth beneath him and he knew he was on the ground and safe again.

Chapter 36

Florida

Wednesday, December 17

1:31 PM

One of the ladies looked up from rummaging through the driftwood pile and saw the parachutes first.

“Look!” she yelled and pointed up the beach at the sky. “Parachutes!”

The others raised their heads from the debris and gazed in the direction she was pointing. Jenni’s young eyes saw the chutes before the older ladies. A clump of parachutes, white and orange, dangled a metallic speck of some sort. The chutes rose up and away from the speck like helium balloons. Below the clump of parachutes, two solitary parachutes floated softly and then Jenni saw a third chute open higher than the two, lower than the clump. She had no idea she was looking at Chad.

Whenever one of the ladies saw the chutes, she’d holler something like, “There they are!” or “I see them!” and the others would exclaim, “Where? Where are they?” until they too saw them. Jenni watched the parachutes and waited to see if another would open. None did. Instead, she saw the clump of orange and white parachutes suddenly disappear in a flash into the clouds, dragging the metal speck with them. She glanced back just as the lower chutes were hitting the ground. They landed up the beach not more than three miles she guessed. She watched the other chute land then said to the ladies, “I’m going to greet them. They’ve come to rescue us.” One of the ladies threw her arms around Jenni and hugged her hard. Jenni gave a laugh and hugged her back. “Finish up here. I’ll bring them back here.”

Andrew Stallings had heard the commotion and was heading down toward the ladies and came upon Jenni heading up the rocky crags.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Some parachutes just landed up the beach. Three of them. I’m going up to them.”

“No you’re not.”

“Actually, yes I am. We need to get to them before the prisoners do just in case they saw them too.”

“I’m in charge of security here, not you. You don’t know what they’re up to.”

“They’re here to rescue us. Why else would they parachute into a storm like this?”

“You stay here. I’ll go.”

“I’m going. You can come if you want. If you can keep up.” Jenni passed by, called to her mother who was cleaning up from lunch, and told her the situation.

“You be careful,” is all Dottie Brackett said and Jenni was gone. She climbed back down the rocks to the beach then started out at a brisk trot. She did the math as she ran. If indeed they were three miles away, she could run the first mile in six minutes, the second in perhaps eight, and the third in ten. Twenty-four minutes and she’d be there. That was being liberal. Andrew Stallings was still trying to figure out exactly what had happened when he looked up the beach and saw Jenni two hundred yards up the beach already. He left the ladies and began running himself.

A mile up the beach Jenni saw that two of the parachutists were up and walking. She looked back and saw Andrew Stallings behind her and saw that he was walking too. The run had winded him quickly and he’d turned to a jog-walk, jog-walk cycle. Jenni kept up a brisk pace. She’d jogged somewhat regularly back home and could easily run three miles without stopping if she didn’t push herself too hard. She slowed her pace and forced herself to breathe only through her nose rather than in gulps through her mouth.

As she drew near to the men, perhaps a hundred yards away, she drew up and began to walk. She wanted didn’t want to be out of breath when she came upon them because she’d have to do some talking to explain the situation and that they were in danger and they needed to get out of there right now. The one man had not stood up yet. He sat up with his knees bent only. One of the men stood over him and the other bent down at his feet. Jenni noticed they all wore orange jumpsuits and carried white helmets in their hands. As she approached, they still hadn’t seen her. The two standing helped the one sitting to his feet. They supported his arms and pulled him up. The man stood awkwardly and didn’t put any weight on one leg. They all pulled their helmets back on to free their hands and the injured man threw his arms over the other two’s shoulders as a crutch. The three began hobbling up the beach toward the bluff.

When she was almost upon them, she called out, “Hey there!” so as not to startle them by walking right up on them. Three helmets turned to face her. They were not simply jump helmets, but rather, bulbous and oversized space helmets. Their faces were obscured by the reflective shield that they’d pulled down over their facemasks as sunglasses.

Immediately after turning his head, the man nearer to Jenni flipped up the reflective shield to reveal piercing green eyes. He bucked the injured man’s arm off of his shoulders quickly so that the man had to hop a couple of times on his good foot to regain his balance. The man stared at Jenni, his eyes bearing hard on her. The other men seemed to look more at him than at Jenni as if they too were surprised.

Then, in a quick swiping motion with his right arm, the man grabbed the under side of his helmet and pulled it off from left to right and Jenni saw his throat and then mouth and then one eye then the next and then sandy blonde hair and she said, softly, “Chad.”

“Hi Jenni. I came to get you out of here.”

Jenni stood still and looked at Chad in disbelief not sure that what she was seeing was real. Then she said simply, “Hi Chad.”

“Are you okay, Jenni? You’ve been here a long time.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look great.”

Jenni suddenly became aware of and conscious of her looks, the first time in three months.

“I’m a mess, Chad. I’m all dirty. Just look at my clothes.” She pointed to her shorts which were supposed to be white but were more of a khaki reddish color.

“They look awfully good to me.” Chad looked down at Jenni’s hips, gave a slight grin, then looked back up into her eyes. Jenni blushed.

Morales and Swofford were standing by trying to act like they weren’t there. The chemistry between Chad and Jenni obviously boiled over and was spilling all over the ground and they were trying not to step in it. Morales shuffled his feet and tried not to look at Jenni.

“Oh, Jenni, this is Morales and this is Swofford. He broke his ankle we think when he landed.” The two men pulled their helmets off again, nodded politely, not sure what to think of dropping out of space and Chad meeting an obvious old flame within minutes.

“We came in a space capsule,” Chad explained. “We launched in California and were supposed to land in it but we got too close to the storm and had to bail out. It got sucked into the storm.”

“I saw it.”

“Our commander was inside. We’re here on a rescue mission, Jenni. We’re going to get you and your family out of here. Now that the commander is gone, I’m in charge of the mission. I’m an officer now.”

Chad had more surprises than Jenni could take in at once. “Listen,” she said, “we have to get out of here. It’s not safe. We have to leave now. We can catch up later.”

“What kind of danger?” Chad asked.

“I’ll explain while we walk, come on.”

Chad and Morales hoisted up Swofford again. Jenni took their helmets and led them back down the beach. They made slow time which worried Jenni. Twice she climbed up the bluff to look out across the plain but saw no one either time then climbed back down to the men. By then Stallings had caught up with them and had brought Thad along as well. Stallings and Thad relieved Chad and Morales. Morales wanted to talk and began explaining in great detail how they came to be where they were and all the intricacies of Operation Fox Storm, both Air Fox and Sea Fox. Stallings and Thad listened with keen interest and asked several questions. Stallings told as much as he knew of the prisoners, almost all coming second hand from the colonel. Yet, he told it with great authority and in the first person. Jenni walked quietly then said she was going to hike up along the bluff so that she could keep and eye out for the prisoners. She hoped that Chad would say he’d come with her and he quickly did. As she made her way up the rocks she overhead Morales ask Stallings, “What’s the deal with those two?” and Stallings answered, “Huh? I don’t know?”

On top of the bluff, Jenni looked in all directions and saw no one. She began walking the bluff ledge southward toward their camp. Chad walked beside her. They walked slowly, in no hurry, without talking. Finally, after three months of thinking of one another, they were together again and roughly alone. Both felt no need to talk but just enjoyed walking and knowing that if they wished they could simply raise an arm and touch the other on the shoulder and were content with that.

After some time, Chad said, “I missed you, Jenni.” Jenni looked down at her feet. “I thought I’d lost you when the storm hit. When I heard you’re father had radioed out and that you were okay, I was ecstatic.”

“We were pretty excited too.”

“When I heard they were getting a rescue mission up, I volunteered right then. They only took volunteers because the mission was so dangerous.”

“I’m sure glad you made it.”

“Me too. It’s good to see you, Jenni.” Chad stopped and took Jenni by the hand. “I told you I’d come back for you and here I am. I’m not leaving you again Jenni Brackett.”

Jenni batted her eyelashes and looked out toward the sea and storm. A massive lightning bolt struck and flashed in her eyes. “I’m glad,” Jenni said and looked back at Chad.

“We’re not out of here yet, Jenni. The most dangerous part is coming up. Two submarines are coming towards us right now. They’ll be here on Saturday. We’ll have to go out there to meet them.” Chad pointed out into the sea that raged with wind, rain, and lightning.

“What’s today?” Jenni asked.

“Today’s Wednesday,” he answered and felt his eyes well up with tears that his girl had been tossed into a situation so raw she didn’t even know the day of the week. “I’m getting you out of here, Jenni Brackett.” He held up her left hand and looked at the ring finger and saw the sapphire he’d given her at the ball back in Winter Haven. He felt warm all over when he saw that she was wearing it. “I told you this was an honor ring. That meant on my honor I’d come back for you. I’m here Jenni and I’m not leaving. Do you hear me?” He pulled her in close and looked down at her with a serious stare.

“I hear you, Chad. I’m glad you came.” She looked down at his chest then up at his face again. As soon as her eyes were up again, Chad kissed her hard and long. She kissed back and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck. He held her by the narrowness at the small of her back and pulled her close and up toward him so that he could feel her breasts pressing against him. When he pulled back from the kiss he looked her in the eye and said, “You’re my girl, Jenni Brackett, and I’m going to marry you.” Jenni smiled and blushed again.

They hiked back along the bluff more quickly and beat the others back to camp. Jenni was glad to see her father was back from scouting already. He hadn’t seen the parachutes but the old women were more than eager to catch him up on the developments. When he saw Jenni walking in holding Chad’s hand, he said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Out of every man in the U.S. military, they have to send Chad Hamilton.”

“Colonel Brackett,” Chad said formally and held his hand out to shake.

The colonel shook his head, looked at Chad’s hand, said, “I never thought I’d say this, but I sure am glad to see you son,” and gave Chad a bear hug. Jenni smiled and saw that Chad had a smile of surprise when her father released him. Chad went over and hugged her mother gently. Dottie gave Chad a kiss on the cheek then placed her hand on his cheek palm down.

“I’ve got two other men with me, colonel.”

“Is it just you three?”

“Yes sir. We had a fourth, Major Hilton. He didn’t make it out of the capsule. He just froze up. I don’t understand it.”

“You came by plane?”

“No sir. We came by rocket. We took off from Vandenberg Air Force Base a little over an hour ago. We dropped into the eye in a capsule.”

“Well I’ll be,” the colonel said and shook his head. “Tell me you’re not in charge.”

“I am sir. I’ve been named an officer just a couple of months ago. An ensign. The other two fellows are enlisted.”

“Well I’ll be. It’s funny how things work out isn’t it?” the colonel said to no one. “All right. When the others get here we’ll sit down and have a pow wow. Does that sound all right with you, Ensign Hamilton? Since you’re in charge.”

“Yes sir.”

The colonel teased about Chad being named an officer only a brief time prior but Jenni was proud of him anyway. Dottie watched her daughter and grinned at the way that she watched Chad and noticed how he stood and the way he moved and how he spoke with her father as a fellow officer. Dottie knew that she was losing her daughter and she was happy inside.

That night the ladies cooked up as much of a feast as they could. The entire group sat around a fire that Wexall and Williams had built down on the beach. Swofford’s ankle had been fastened in a makeshift splint and crutches had been fashioned out of driftwood. All thirty-plus survivors and three rescuers sat around the fire. They sat on the sand either Indian style, with their legs behind or before them, or on their haunches. Colonel Brackett and Chad did most of the talking. The colonel explained their side of the ordeal all the way from the tower collapsing to fighting Blacksnake. Chad explained the size and power of the Cat X and how the planes had tried unsuccessfully to land. He explained Operation Fox Storm and what was going to happen. Jenni sat beside him and liked the way he stood up when it was his turn to speak and how he spoke with a deep, clear, and confident voice.

The colonel listened carefully to Chad’s words and seemed to like Fox Storm but questioned the pick up.

“They’re going to reel us in like fish? That’s the best they could come up with?”

“Yes sir. We can’t get inside the storm to land. We barely made it coming through space. We’ve got to go underwater.”

“But reeling us in?”

“That’s the only way they figured they could do it. The waves will be too large and powerful and it’ll be too rough to just pull up to a boat.”

The colonel doubted that many of the people would make it even with lifejackets. They’d panic and suck in water and drown. “And this is to go down on Saturday?”

“Yes sir.”

“That’s pretty quick. What if you couldn’t find us between now and then? Why so soon?”

“We were supposed to have a radio but it was on the capsule. We would have been able to talk to Mission HQ. Headquarters.” Chad paused a moment. Everyone listened quietly. The fire crackled above the constant roll of thunder and glowed yellow-orange. “There’s something else. This storm, the Cat X, is spawning three others just like it. One in the Indian Ocean, one in the Pacific, one over China. They’re not as big or powerful as this, but they’re growing every day. They’ll eventually get to be as strong as this one. You can see them with satellite imagery.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the colonel said. “Do you know what four storms like this would do?”

“Yes sir. That’s why the president is going to destroy this storm.”

“Destroy it how?”

“H-bombs. This Monday he’s launching five missiles right here. He’s going to blow this storm to smithereens. They think that’ll bust it up and then the others will dissipate. That’s why we’ve got to get out of here so fast.”

“This is crazy,” the colonel said and scratched the back of his neck.

“I know it is colonel but that’s what we’ve got to work with.”

“What if the subs don’t show? Does HQ even know you made it alive?”

“Not exactly. We spoke to them after the parachutes opened on the capsule but not since we bailed out obviously. They’ll be here.”

“How do you know?”

“President Collins is committed to getting you guys out. He told me to come down here and do it and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Wait a minute,” the colonel said jovially, “are you telling me you met the president?”

“Yes sir,” Chad said proudly. “Twice actually.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I served in the military for thirty-two years through two wars and never got so say ‘Boo’ to a president and this kid is an officer for a month and meets the president twice.”

“It’s been almost three months actually, sir,” Chad teased back. “Don’t worry, when we get out of here, I’ll be happy to introduce you if you’d like.” Everyone laughed. Dottie laughed loudest and Jenni beamed.

The colonel shook his head and said, “Okay, I’ll remember that Ensign.” Chad smiled.

Later, when they’d all separated and bedded down for the night, Chad caught the colonel alone and said, “Tomorrow, I’ll have to go look for other survivors. I’d like for you to come with me if you would because you know the landscape.”

“There are no other survivors. I’ve roamed around for months and not seen anyone except for those prisoners.”

“Then I’ll have to go to their camp.”

“They’re killers, Chad. They’re living in some crazy state of anarchy fighting themselves right now. Ask Wexall and Williams. That’s why they ran away.”

“I have to go. I gave my word to President Collins to round up as many survivors as possible.”

“He didn’t know most of the survivors were convicted felons and murderers. I’ve seen these men up close. They don’t live in the world of reality. They think one of the men is some type of a prophet come to lead them to the promised land. The other guy is just a flat out sadist.”

“I still have to go. There may be others like Wexall and Williams who want out.”

“What do you expect to do, politely ask who’d like to come along and then bring them back here? You can’t bring those men to join these people. I won’t have it.”

Chad thought. The colonel had a point about bringing the inmates down to the others. That would be too dangerous.

“Then I’ll tell them where to be and when and see if anyone shows up.”

“You’re not going to do it.” The colonel was adamant.

Jenni and Dottie had come up and were listening to the men argue.

“I am, Colonel. You can’t stop me.”

“Yes I can.”

“You’re not in charge here, sir. I’m going tomorrow. I’m asking you to go with me because I could use your help but I’m going with or without you.” With that, Chad turned and disappeared into the darkness to join Morales and Swofford bedded down on the beach.

Chapter 37

Florida

Thursday, December 18

7:13 AM

Chad caught Jenni’s eye as he was leaving in the morning, saw worry on her face, and mouthed ‘I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.’

When he was but about fifty yards away he heard a voice call, “Wait up, Ensign!” He turned and saw Colonel Brackett hustling to catch up.

“You’re going the wrong way already. Come on.”

Chad looked up and saw Dottie and Jenni standing proudly and waving goodbye. He waved back and smiled.

“Come on, Ensign. This was your idea, let’s get it over with.” Then to himself, “I can’t believe I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“Thanks for coming, sir.”

“I’m not here by my own accord, Ensign. Women get you to do things that don’t make any sense. None. Are you old enough to understand that son?”

“Well, I just dropped out of space right into the middle of this storm didn’t I?” Chad smiled and looked at the colonel.

Colonel Brackett looked at the young man, smiled himself, wryly. He had to admit, the kid had wit. Then he said, “Okay, now that worries me. That’s a good point, but that worries me.”

The two walked on at a quick pace. Dottie and Jenni watched them until they were out of sight then Dottie gave her daughter a big hug. “He’s a fine young man,” Dottie said. “You’d be doing well to have him.” She left it at that.

“I know,” Jenni said.

Chad and the colonel hiked for hours. The colonel had forgotten how far away the prisoners’ camp had been by foot. Chad looked silly hiking in an orange space suit with a metallic ring around his neck for snapping a helmet into. He wore only briefs and a tank top beneath the suit—he was supposed to change into a thin pair of coveralls and then a wetsuit for the rescue, but, those items had been lost in the capsule. He couldn’t very well approach the criminals wearing long briefs and be taken seriously. By one o’ clock he was sweating hard inside the suit, told himself, ‘What the heck?’ and stripped it off. He walked in the briefs, “wife-beater” shirt, and orange boots, and carried the space suit flung over one shoulder. The colonel laughed at the sight Chad made. “Looking good, Ensign Hamilton. I like the new officers’ uniforms they’ve issued.” He laughed and Chad giggled at his own appearance. “If Jenni could only see you now, Ensign.”

“She’d still love me even if she did see me looking like a clown like this.”

“What makes you think she loves you?”

“She does.”

“How do you know that? You two have barely even spoken three words in years.”

“Yes sir.” Then Chad told himself, ‘What the heck? Let’s do it right now and get it over with. Right now.’ He went on, “Sir, I love your daughter. I always have.”

The colonel wasn’t sure how to respond to that statement. “I see. Love’s a two-way street, you know. You still haven’t answered why you think she loves you.”

“She does. I know it.”

“Why should she? You walked out on her and left her high and dry. My daughter used to worship the ground you walked on, then you left her cold. You broke her heart, you know?”

“I had to get my life in order then, sir. And I did, and now I’ve come back for her.”

“I hate to tell you son, but, I don’t think she’ll have you back.”

Chad hiked on looking down, drew in a breath, then said, “I aim to marry Jenni, Colonel Brackett. I’d like to ask you for your permission, sir.”

The colonel was surprised. He looked over at Chad. The young man didn’t glance at the colonel but only looked ahead with great sincerity. “That’s pretty bold and straightforward. I’ll give you a straightforward answer. I like you, Chad. You’re like a son to me. My wife says you’re more like me than like your own father and I think she just might be right. Before that accident, I’d have given anything for you to marry Jenni. But you let her down, me too. I entrusted you with Jenni and you put her life in danger. Then you left her. As her father, that’s unforgivable. I can’t control if you and Jenni were to run off to Vegas and marry or something, but I won’t give you my blessing either.”

Chad look downcast. No matter what he did, how good he would become, he would never be good enough for Jenni Brackett. Inside, he knew that was true. “If I’m like a son to you, don’t sons get forgiven for mistakes they make? If they ‘fess up, serve out their punishment, and work to make amends?”

“Yes, they do Chad. But, they also don’t marry my daughter.”

“She’s a grown woman you know?”

“That’s how you see her. She’s six years old to me.”

“I hate to tell you sir, but she’s not six years old, whether you like it or not. I just don’t know what else I can do. What do you want me to be, sir?”

Colonel Brackett knew he was being unfair to the boy and that Chad was right in everything he said. Still, the colonel was a hard-headed man and his mind was set. “That’s just the way it is. That’s all.”

Chad had reason to be angered but, out of respect for the colonel, he bit his tongue. The colonel’s mind was apparently set and there would be no need for argument. He walked on, saddened.

Just before nightfall, the colonel pulled up and said, “Okay, here it is. Down in that little valley.” He pointed down through a hollow. The river could be seen below, crystal clear water leading back up to the spring around which the prisoners were camped.

“Check your weapon,” the colonel said. Each rescuer had been armed with a .45 automatic strapped to his leg. The colonel had borrowed Swofford’s. “I can’t believe we’re going in there with only twenty rounds each. Keep your spare clip handy.” They pulled the hammers back and snapped a round into the chambers. Chad put back on his space suit and zipped it up.

“You say these guys are bad?” Chad asked.

“Yes, they’re psycho. Especially the one they call Blacksnake. Just remember, we’re here just to tell them the time and place, then we’re out of here.

“Yes.”

“If you don’t mind, Ensign, I’d like to do the talking.”

“That’s fine.”

“The main thing to remember is to just stay cool. We’re just walking in, talking, and walking out. If we have to do any shooting, shoot only a man right in front of you. We don’t have enough bullets to be firing like cowboys. If we get scattered, find a gorge and hide in it. You can find your way back right?”

“Yes.”

“Just don’t take a direct route or they’ll trail you to our camp. Travel like a snake.”

“Yes sir.”

“You all ready?”

“Yes sir, let’s do it.”

The colonel started down the hill, he and Chad clutching their guns and letting the pistols lead the way. They walked down to the river then up along its banks. The first prisoner to see them was washing something in the water and looked up at them silently. He turned his head as the two passed then stood up after they’d gone by. He flagged down a couple of others and the word spread so that by the time the colonel and Chad came to the spring the entire camp seemed to have been assembled around what served as a main plaza. There were noticeably fewer men than the colonel remembered.

The colonel and Chad walked up to the men who had arranged themselves in a semi-circle. “Watch our backside,” Colonel Brackett whispered to Chad. “Where’s your leader?” the colonel called forcefully. He wasn’t sure who their leader would be so he simply named him as ‘leader’. No one spoke but shortly the men began to part ways for someone. Blacksnake walked forward.

“Colonel, I’m surprised that you came back,” Blacksnake said.

“Don’t think I wanted to. I have some information for you. For all of you men. This is Ensign Chad Hamilton. He’s come to rescue us.” Chad nodded his head once.

“This boy in the clown suit?” Blacksnake said. “He couldn’t rescue his own nut if he had any.”

“He’s an officer in the United States Navy and you’ll treat him with respect,” the colonel announced. “He’s come to rescue anyone who wants out of here.”

“I respect no one but myself. Military ranks mean nothing to me, colonel.” Blacksnake emphasized ‘colonel’.

“Saturday, at exactly noon on the eastern beach, midway down is where the rescue will take place. Today is Thursday so that’s in two days. Submarines are coming to take us out of here. Any man who wants out, sincerely, with no monkey business, is welcome. That’s Saturday, noon, east beach. Next week they’re blowing this storm up with nuclear bombs. Anyone left will be fried.”

“All lies. He’s just trying to scare us. Why would these men leave New Rome? They’d only be thrown back into prison. Here, they are free.”

“That’s up to each man, isn’t it Blacksnake? And if you men think living a life in fear is freedom, you’ve forgotten what freedom is.”

“They are free here. There is no fear.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s the one you call The Judge?”

“The Judge? He’s dead.”

“How did he die?”

“He and his followers committed treason. Treason is a capital crime you know.”

The colonel was disgusted and ready to leave, “You men heard me. Saturday, noon, east beach, then they’re blowing it up. Any peace loving man is welcome. If you come to fight, we’ll shoot you.” Then to Chad, “Let’s go.”

They turned to walk back the way they came, each man looking over his shoulder and listening for footsteps. None of the prisoners were about to approach them after what they’d seen the colonel do to Blacksnake. He’d beaten Blacksnake using a man as a weapon and with his bare hands. Now he held a gun and likely the kitchen knife that he’d used to carve into Blacksnake’s forehead. They walked unmolested. When Blacksnake saw that none of his men were trying to stop them, he became furious. “Colonel!” he yelled.

The colonel and Chad turned around. Blacksnake stood breathing heavily with his lips pursed in anger, adrenaline flowing. “You beat me once, now I’m going to kill you. I’ll kill your foolish boy first so that you can watch and then I’ll kill you.” Blacksnake began walking forward.

“I told you, he’s an officer in the U.S. Navy and you’ll respect him.”

“Come here, boy.” Blacksnake stopped and beckoned Chad to approach him. Chad stood frigidly. “Are you afraid of me, boy? What’s the matter, boy?”

The colonel looked around to see if any of the other men were encroaching but they were not.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

“I was just looking at the tattoo on your forehead,” Chad said, “that’s a nice one. I’ve never seen anyone get “LOSER” printed on their forehead.”

With that, Blacksnake rushed at Chad, screaming some feral call, with insane eyes. He’d taken but two steps when the colonel shot him twice square in the chest. Blacksnake jerked, then fell forward onto his face and skidded several feet burning the flesh off of his skin on the smooth rocks.

“I told you,” the colonel said loudly for the entire crowd to hear, “any man that wants to join us peacefully, may do so. Any man that wants to cause trouble gets shot.” He turned again and led Chad out of the prisoners’ camp. The prisoners stood motionless until they were gone and out of sight.

When they were over the ridge and out of sight, the colonel said, “Come on, we’ll jog for a while.” They jogged for an hour. Chad was surprised that the colonel, as such a large man, could keep it up for so long. He simply kept running. After the hour it was dark out and they walked again, at a slower pace this time.

“I think we’re fine,” the colonel said. “Those boys are scared poopless.”

“It scared me a little too,” Chad said.

“That Blacksnake guy was crazy. Absolutely crazy.”

“I thought he was going to jump on me.”

“He was. He’s nuts. ‘I was just looking at your tattoo.’ Hah! That was a great line!” The colonel slapped Chad on the back.

“That was pretty funny,” Chad laughed. “I can’t believe you just shot him though.”

“He deserved it, don’t worry. You heard him say he’d just killed another man. He would’ve killed you too.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Sure, son.”

“Thanks for sticking up for me too.”

“There’s no need for disrespect. I won’t tolerate it. I won’t have some state inmate disrespecting a naval officer.”

“Thanks.”

“You did good back there, son. You kept your cool, even got a jab in at Blacksnake.”

Chad shook his head once. “That was scary. They don’t teach you about that in ROTC. I’m glad that’s over.”

“I’m just looking at your tattoo! Hah!” The colonel threw back his head and laughed hard, then pushed Chad on the shoulder in a friendly shove like chums and they walked on together through the darkness back toward their camp and the colonel chuckled now and again as he ran the comment through his mind over and over. ‘I’m just looking at your tattoo!’

Chapter 38

Florida

Saturday, December 20

10:34 AM

“Okay, let’s go over the drill one more time, people,” Chad announced. The thirty-two survivors were arranged in groups of eight on the beach. He and the colonel had arrived back at the camp the morning before and they’d spent most of the Friday explaining and drilling how the rescue would occur. Some of the survivors, most loudly Andrew Stallings, had begun to complain at the monotony of the drill but the colonel kept on them about practicing. Stallings asked how hard could it be to sit in a boat then get dragged through the water by a cable. To an extent, he had a point, but, the colonel, and Chad, went ahead anyway. Failure, if it occurred, would not occur due to lack of preparation.

Chad approached the first group of eight made up entirely of older ladies. He’d shed his spacesuit. Rumbling through the ocean was no place for a bulky suit that would only fill with sea water. He wore only the silly combination of underwear and wife-beater tank top, was barefoot, with the survival knife the president had given him wrapped around his left leg and a .45 automatic pistol strapped to his right. He felt awkward walking up to the ladies with very little of himself hiding, but at least Morales and even Swofford were dressed the same. His briefs were thankfully the long version that came down to his thighs, but, they were tight, of course, and showed his manliness in a firm clump and curved snugly against his buttocks leaving little to imagination. The old ladies didn’t seem to mind and actually enjoyed watching the polite young man as he gave out instructions in what looked like a small boy playing super hero. In each one’s own mind, as they’d adopted Jenni, they’d all already taken him on as a grandson.

He spoke in a friendlier tone to the ladies than to the others and with a great patience. He answered their many questions, however mundane or obvious the answer, with great sincerity.

“Okay ladies, remember how this is going to work? Two orange submarines will appear offshore. We’ll wait at the edge of the beach and wade out into the water. Four landing boats will come out of the subs and come over to us. We may have to walk a little up or down the beach to catch them. As soon as the boats get here, we’ll hop in. We’ll have to be fast—we only have a few minutes to get everyone in the subs. If you can’t step up over the edge of the boat, one of us men will help you. Or, better yet, just slump over into the boat. It’s soft inside and you won’t get hurt. It’s just very important that you get in quickly. The subs can’t bounce around out there very long and if you delay, they’ll leave us. When you’re in the boat, there will be lifejackets. Take the closest one and put it on. Remember, over your head, snap, snap.” Chad mimed the action as he spoke. “When you get yours on, pull the two straps snug. Then help anyone having trouble. The boat will be moving and it will be bouncing but we have to go quickly. After you have it on, there will be a short cord with a snap-ring on the end. Snap your ring to the person sitting in front of you. Does everybody understand?”

The old ladies shook their heads. They asked several questions, most of which he’d already answered, had been asked yesterday, or simply couldn’t be answered such as, “How much water can we expect to swallow?” He answered as best he could, politely.

Chad could see that the ladies were frightened about going out into the Cat X on a tiny boat and their questions were mostly just that they wanted to talk about it. He went on in the calmest voice he could manage. “The sailor will cross the life-cable and will snap you onto it. You’ll have to slide over the edge of the boat into the water then. It’ll be rough ladies and you’ll flop around in the water, but they’ll pull you in, I promise. Even if you swallow some water, that’s okay. They’ll pull you in quickly. I’ve done this several times out in California. It’s a bit of a wild ride but you can do it. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” the ladies said together.

“Okay.”

With that, Chad walked them through the routine of stepping into a make-believe boat, putting on lifejackets, connecting with the person in front, then slipping out into the water. The ladies went through each step perfectly.

“Okay ladies, you’re going to do fine. Just rest up now and get ready. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Chad went from group to group and checked each one out. Morales went along with him. Chad placed Swofford in the last group, much to the injured man’s disapproval, but with a broken ankle, he was too much of a liability. He was supposed to operate one of the boats. The navy had been adamant about not allowing any of their men to leave the submarine. They’d finally agreed that a sailor would take the boats to shore but they’d return with the first group and get back on board. It would be up to the volunteer rescuers to shuttle the survivors from then on. The sub commanders had permission to simply close the hatches and dive at any time they felt necessary and leave behind whomever was not inside. The navy was going to make sure that their people were off of the sub as short of a duration as possible.

The four rescuers were supposed to man one of the four boats each. With only Chad and Morales available, Chad asked Colonel Brackett to operate one and he of course agreed. Chad needed one more man to operate a boat and asked the colonel who he thought would be good a good choice and with some hesitancy he nominated Will. Andrew Stallings felt slighted but by his own admission he’d never operated an outboard motor and the colonel felt this wasn’t a time for on-the-job learning. Things looked good as far as numbers. If no prisoners showed up, they could get everybody in one trip for each of the four boats. That would be much quicker than expected. If prisoners showed up, they’d go last and more trips would have to be made.

Dottie and Jenni had been assigned to the second boat, piloted by the colonel. Chad was making the rounds from group to group and when he came to their group Jenni announced, “I’m going with you, in your boat.”

Chad, the colonel, and Dottie all looked at her.

“You can’t go with me Jenni, I’ve got to get onboard last.”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

“Jenni,” the colonel spoke up, “you’re going with me, with this group. That’s it.”

“I’m going with Chad. I’ll catch up.”

“No, you’re going with your mother with this group. There’s no discussion on this.”

“No, I’m not, Daddy. I’m staying with Chad and going with him. I don’t mean to be disrespectful but I’ve made up my mind.”

“You will go with your mother and I.”

The others in the group suddenly felt awkward and wished they could somehow slink away unnoticed.

“Come here, I want to talk to you,” Dottie said to her husband and walked away from the group up towards the bluffs. The colonel watch her go, gave a quick ‘I don’t believe she just called me out’ look to the others, then followed his wife. Jenni stood beside Chad. The two stood quietly. Dottie was clearly angry at her husband and laid into him. Each person in the group tried not to watch the scene but did anyway. Dottie’s force scared them all a bit. Her words were just beyond the range of audibility but her body language was loud and clear and it said that the colonel was out of line. Jenni and Chad watched and the only portion of what Dottie said that could be made out was, “…not a child anymore, Jim, stop treating her like one.” When Dottie finished, she returned to the group calmly and in a voice as polite as though she were serving tea, she announced, “It’s all set. Jenni, you go right along with Chad. We’ll meet you on the submarine.” With that, she demurely settled back into her spot and stood quietly waiting for the subs to arrive. The colonel walked back and stood without saying a word, looking out at the sea, a cold scowl across his eyes in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Maggie walked up to her master and nudged against his leg. The colonel held her head close to him and worried. He had been preparing himself for the fact that he may have to leave Maggie behind and the thought nearly tore him in two. Although he loved Maggie, the fact remained that the boats were going to be packed tightly and that she was a dog. He simply could not take her along and endanger the rescue of human lives. The colonel had gone over the fact with Jenni and at first Jenni protested, she cried, and then through her sobs she said she understood. Each night since she slept curled up with the labrador with her arm wrapped around the dog’s chest like an overgrown teddy bear. Now, it looked like he was losing his dog and that Jenni was turning against him as well.

Wisely, Chad thought it best to move on to the next group. Jenni came with him. She stayed at his side as he checked over each group. Chad checked them over until he was satisfied, then announced they’d all better have a seat and rest with about an hour until the subs arrived. Most everyone did sit down on the beach sand.

Chad walked up the through some crags in the bluffs to look for any of the prisoners who might arrive. Jenni came with him. Atop the bluff, a large boulder stood at the ledge so he climbed onto it for an even higher vista and Jenni climbed up as well. Chad looked in all directions but saw no one.

“I guess they’re not coming,” he said. “That’s their decision. I tried.” Then he added, “You know, you really should go with your Dad.”

“Are you on his side too?”

“No. I’m on your side. I just want to make sure you get onboard. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get everyone onboard and I have to go last. Those subs won’t wait long. They’re not too excited about doing this in the first place.”

“That’s exactly why I’m staying with you. I’ve lost you before, I’m not losing you again, Chad Hamilton.”

“You’re going to get me killed by your father. I don’t know who’s more hard-headed, you or him.” Jenni smiled then Chad added, “I asked him if I could marry you, you know?”

“You did?” Jenni was surprised.

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

Chad just shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t know who’s more hard-headed.” With that, he climbed back down the rock bluff and sat down on the beach separated from all of the others. Jenni sat down beside him and he seemed to her to be depressed. “He’ll never forgive me, Jenni.” Chad drew up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his chin on his forearms. Jenni knew this was a time to be quiet. She leaned over against Chad and laid her head against his shoulder and sat still. They waited without talking.

An hour later, someone yelled, “There it is!” Chad had been staring at the sand between his legs, sadly. He looked up quickly at the call and, sure enough, only a couple of miles offshore was the figure of an orange ballistic missile submarine, dulled by blankets of rain and wind-blown seawater. For some reason, the appearance of the sub came as a complete surprise, he knew when and where it was coming, and then, suddenly, there it was.

Chad jumped up and ran down to the others yelling, “Okay, group one get ready! Get down to the beach! Let’s go!”

All of the people began standing up, some with stiffness, and brushing the sand off their legs and bottoms.

“Morales,” Chad called, “get them ready. Colonel Brackett, get your group ready to go too. Let’s be quick people, those subs aren’t waiting forever.”

Two inflatable boats could be seen now fighting their way beachward. The boats would be visible at the crest of a wave, then slide over its backside into the trough and be gone for longer than one would expect. Just when they would be thought lost to the sea, they’d pop up again shooting white spray behind them. Even with the howling wind and constant roll of thunder which everyone besides the rescuers had grown to ignore, the outboards could be heard whining in a high pitch, straining against wind and current they had no business being in. The survivors watched with great anticipation as the boats neared. Their course pointed straight at shore but they side slipped as much as they progressed forward so that their net movement was at a 45 degree angle to the shore.

As the survivors watched, and when the boats were halfway between the sub and shore, a splotch of white water suddenly broke in the sea just beyond the landing boats. Quickly, the tower and then hull of the other submarine burst through the waterline much closer to shore than would seem practical.

“Okay, the other sub is here too!” Chad yelled. “Will get your group ready!”

The first two landing boats had made it across the open water to the shore but were a good three hundred yards downwind. The water was somewhat calm where it met the sand, as had been expected, but held a powerful current. The pilots turned the boats upstream and gunned the motors. They whined in protest but flung the light boats up the coast quickly. Soon, they slid up onto shore right in front of Morales who grabbed the first boat and yelled to the ladies, “Okay, everybody in! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“How many?!” the pilot yelled at Morales.

“Thirty-five total—one trip for each boat!” Chad yelled back. The pilot pulled out a walkie and repeated Chad’s words into it.

The ladies climbed in as quickly as they could which was not very quick. Morales was eager to get going. After the last lady climbed in, he shoved off with Chad’s help. The pilot gunned the outboard again which strained even more heavily laden with extra weight, the pilot turned the boat, and started the run out toward the sub.

The colonel already had his group in his boat and was getting them buckled into their lifejackets. He bent over, kissed Maggie on top of the head and told her to “Stay!” The pup sat on the beach in three inches of water wagging her tail watching her master leave as though they were playing a game of hide-and-go-seek. The pilot turned the boat out to sea and raced the engine. The boat jumped up and tore out toward sea. For a moment, the colonel glanced back at Jenni standing on the shore and then at Chad and his facial expression told the young officer clearly that he had been entrusted with his daughter and that he had better see her to safety. He looked back at Maggie. The dog sat wagging her tail in the water, eager to play the game, but puzzled as to why her owner was leaving.

Chad saw the other two landing boats bearing toward shore. Both subs lumbered in the heavy surf. They were laid out broadside to the shore pointed straight into the wind and waves. They bucked their bows up out of the sea with each oncoming wave and showed their noses then would crash back down into the surf like great blue whales frolicking. Chad knew the captains were yelling orders angrily right then trying to keep the bows forward and that the men were being thrown around inside the sub violently. They were fighting to stay bow-windward because being turned sideways would mean the sub would roll violently and they’d probably call it off right then.

‘Just get on the boats and head out,’ he told himself. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

“Hello! Hello!” a voice yelled from behind him. Chad turned and saw several prisoners coming down out of the bluff.

“Crap,” he said. “Just when we get everything straight.” He ran up to meet them but slowed as they drew near. He reached down his leg and pulled out his pistol.

“We’re not here to fight. We’re here to leave. We want to join you.” The man speaking held up his hands as he spoke. Chad looked the men over quickly. They were all out of breath, apparently having run most of the way. Several were buckled over at the waist with their hands on their knees.

“All right,” Chad said in a businesslike tone, “here’s the deal. We’re taking these people out first. You men wait here. I’ll send a boat back for you. How many are there?”

The man who’d spoken wasn’t sure. He looked around and tried to count but messed up and started again. Chad made a quick count himself and came up with twenty-two, give or take a couple. “Are there any more coming?”

“No, it’s just us. Blacksnake was going to kill any man that tried to come here. We had to sneak out. We can’t go back.” There was desperation in the man’s voice.

“He’s still alive?” Chad asked in disbelief.

“He’s a tough S.O.B.”

“I guess so. Is anyone coming for you?”

“I don’t think so. We snuck out during the night.”

“Well, I’m sure they know you’re gone now and where to find you. Let’s go.”

Twenty-two was too many for two trips, he could make it in three. He’d send Morales, Colonel Brackett and come back himself. They walked back down to the beach. The boats were almost up the shore to the them.

“Divide yourself into groups of eight. Be ready when we come back.”

The first boat was ashore and Will was loading his group into the boat. Chad helped the people aboard then jumped over to the other boat when it arrived.

“My group on, let’s go!” Chad’s group, which was all men except for Jenni, climbed in quickly. They pulled on and snapped up the lifejackets. Chad grabbed the pilot’s walkie as he turned the boat and followed the other boat out.

“This is Hamilton, calling in Morales, Brackett! Come in!” He had to scream over the engine, wind, and rain.

“This is Morales! Over!”

“We’ve got more people! Twenty-two prisoners! Repeat, twenty-two more! You’ll need to make another run! Over!”

“Roger that! Understand I need to make one more run! Over!”

“Affirmative! Brackett, do you copy?! Over!”

“I copy you, Ensign. I’ll make another run too!”

“I’ll come back and pick up whoever is left, over!”

“Roger that!” Morales’ voice came back.

Morales’ boat was almost as far out as the subs. A large yellow ball, as big as a Volkswagen floated about two hundred yards behind the submarine. It was strung out by a cable housed atop the sub. A makeshift deck had been cut into the hull on top of the ship. It was protected on three sides but open toward the stern. At its base, a huge winch had let out the yellow balls that trailed each sub. On the deck, inside the protection of the three walls, landing crews of six mariners in each sub stood tethered to the walls waiting to help drag the survivors off the cable then stuff them down through a slide built into the front wall the size of a manhole.

The pilot in Morales’ boat eased off the gas when he drew in near the line between the sub and the yellow ball. The conditions were horrendous to work under. The lightweight boat rose and fell as dramatically as on a roller coaster. Whenever they were on top of one of the wave’s crests, the wind would hit them squarely in the face at over a hundred miles an hour and stinging rain hit so hard it made welts. For a moment they could see down into the trough nearly a hundred feet below. Crossing the trough gave the sensation that they were falling the hundred feet and fully expected each time to capsize. But, they would simply settle into the trough’s valley. Then, at the bottom, they’d get a reprieve from the wind and look up at the walls of water on both sides. They were sure that the waves would break over them and leave them fifty feet underwater, but they didn’t. The boats would somehow start to climb up the next swell until it was at the top and again the rain was nailing them again.

Sure enough, the cable, painted fluorescent yellow was soon visible. It would appear running through one of the waves, about two-thirds the way up, strand across the wave high above the trough like a high-wire, then disappear into the opposite wave. The pilot eased through the bottom of the trough toward the yellow line running taut overhead. As they began to climb the next wave, they began to raise up ever closer to the cable. When they reached it, Morales stretched out with an oversized clip on an extension stick that looked like a very long tennis racquet. He slammed the racquet clip against the cable and it snapped on. He threw the clip into the water and it was trailed by a line that went straight to the pilot. Without hesitation, the pilot jumped into the water.

“Okay, everybody overboard!” Morales yelled but none of the ladies seemed crazy enough to jump into the raging waters as the pilot had done.

“Let’s go, you’re first!” Morales called to the woman who had been sitting beside the pilot. She realized then she was tethered to the pilot. The tether became taught and jerked her out of the boat quickly. The next lady saw it, then she was pulled out too. The others realized they were all about to be pulled out so they started to climb overboard. Most of them were only halfway out of the boat when they were pulled in. Each one came up spitting water and gasping for air. A few looked at Morales with contempt for putting them through such trauma but they were already beginning to line up like fish on a stringer and Morales knew they’d be onboard the sub shortly and but for a little spitting, they’d be fine. He knew that it took sixty seconds to reel in the buoys and even a person dragged underwater, which they wouldn’t be, but even a person underwater would likely be fine.

“This is Morales, pull them in!” he yelled into his walkie. At the crest of a wave he flailed his arms at the men on the deck and they waved back.

“We’ve got them!” a voice called back and Morales gunned the motor and headed back ashore.

The colonel’s boat dropped his group without incident as well and he headed back to shore not far behind Morales. The second submarine’s landing boats had drifted considerably down past the survivors and the prisoners so that the group was now a good half mile up the beach. Down wind, the colonel saw the other two boats, Chad’s and Will’s, working their way out to the other sub. When he got to shore again, the colonel saw that there were fewer than twenty-two people as Chad had said. Nine were already in Morales’ boat and were strapping on the inflatable lifevests stored in the floor compartment. A quick count showed that only ten were left. In his haste, Chad had counted several prisoners twice.

“Give me six! Six of you guys get in!” he yelled. No one appointed who would go and who would stay and all tried to climb in. The colonel knew he’d made a mistake by not saying, “You and you and you and you stay here.” Seven men were in quickly and the colonel yelled, “You three stay here!” to the laggards.

He jumped out, pushed the bow around quickly, hopped back in and pointed the boat toward the sea.

Then, he told himself, ‘Why not?” and yelled, “Maggie, come!” The labrador had been running with the men and wagged her tail in bursts when she saw the colonel again as though he’d been gone on a long vacation. At the command, she raced forward and lunged into the water and turned from a run to a jump to a swim in one motion. She swam hard, fighting through the small waves that knocked her back, out to the colonel’s portion of the boat. He reached over and pulled her in by the scruff of her neck. She stood between his legs and flapped her tail, a stream of water flowing off the end with each wag, licked her owner on the side of the face, then turned and sat down. The colonel gunned the engine and lit out across the water, bouncing hard.

When Chad’s group flopped over the sides of his boat he saw that Jenni was still in it.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you,” she said, “I’m not leaving you.”

There was no time to argue with a hard-headed woman so he raced the motor, turned the back, and headed back in.

“This is Hamilton. I made my drop. I’m making my last run!” he yelled into his walkie.

His boat screamed across the water. Unknown to him, the captains of both subs were growing increasingly anxious. They’d bobbed and been tossed like toy ships for over ten minutes, were frighteningly close to shore, and were ready to dive. Listening to the radio contact, they knew there was only one more run and were prepared to stay for it, if possible. The first sub to have arrived, the Maryland, was already reeling in both Morales’ and the colonel’s groups together. As soon as they were onboard, they’d dive and go. Even at a depth at over 600 feet the sub had rolled over twenty degrees in the motion of the waves. The captain was eager to get down around a 900 feet and hit full throttle out of there.

Chad ran the boat nearly up onto shore and yelled for the men to get in. They hopped in quickly. Then Chad saw another man running across the beach yelling wildly, “Wait, wait!” Chad held up.

“Get these on and clip yourselves together,” he instructed and tossed each one a lifevest.

The man raced across the beach toward them.

“Come on! Hurry! We don’t have much time!” Chad yelled. The man raced into the water up to his thighs. Just when he should have leapt up into the boat, he reached down toward his right foot. When he raised up out of the water, Chad saw that he had a homemade knife. He held it with the point down, ready for stabbing. The other three prisoners jumped away from the man in fear. He raised the knife above his head and in a quick motion, drove the knife into the starboard bow of the inflatable boat. Chad revved the engine to full throttle throwing everyone backwards and off balance. The man with the knife still had it stabbed into the boat and was yelling as loudly as he could. He held onto the safety rope with his left and retracted the knife with his right as the boat hopped up to planing speed. The man drug along through the water but seemed unphased by it. He jammed the knife in again and wrench it around this time. Chad grabbed the pistol from his leg with his right hand, his left hand manning the outboard’s tiller. He pulled back the hammer and let it fly shut, pointed and fired a round with one hand into the man’s upper torso. The gun startled Jenni and the others who’d not seen him pull out the gun. The man still held the knife inside the boat and Chad fired another round, this time at the man’s head. The man slumped into the water and pulled the knife with him. Everyone in the boat looked back as the dead man floated behind them. Then, on the beach, they saw several more prisoners, perhaps five or six, gesturing violently at them.

“Our boat has been damaged!” Chad yelled into the walkie. “Repeat, our boat has been damaged! We’re losing air!”

“Keep coming, we see you,” an unknown voice radioed back.

Chad ran the throttle as high as it would go, but, the boat was losing air fast. In only a few seconds the side on which he’d sat was limp and sunk beneath his rear. When they were halfway to the sub, everyone was hunching down in the middle of the boat because the sides wouldn’t support them. The boat flopped around in the waves and the motor began to sputter as it operated at a level where the exhaust was below the water line. The other pontoon was limp by now and moved with the motion of the water.

“Come on!” Chad yelled, “Just a little further! Come on!”

With a hundred and fifty yards to go, the motor sputtered hard in deep gurgles then conked out completely. The boat settled down off its plane and water immediately came over into it. Chad tried once to restart the engine but by then it had sunken halfway up its housing with more engine below water than above.

“We’re going down!” he called into the radio. “Send another boat to pick us up! Repeat send another boat to pick us up! Do you copy?!”

In the excitement, Chad had forgotten for the moment that the other boats were gone. After making their last run the boat’s pilot was to toss himself into the water clipped to the others and simply let the boats drift away, their use fulfilled, because there was no need or place for them when the survivors were reeled in.

There was no answer at the moment. Chad waited a few seconds longer. “Come in! We’re going down! We need another boat to pick us up! Send another boat to pick us up!”

Again, no response came. No one who received his message had the heart to tell him they were doomed. He looked at the sub ahead of him which he’d been heading for and saw no one on the landing deck. At the other sub, there appeared to be a scuffle of some sort. The inflatable boat was nearly under now. Chad clipped he and Jenni together, said, “We’ve got to go into the water,” and together they slid in. Entering the water was easy because they were already in up to their wastes. The prisoners slid in as well and quickly the weight of the engine drew the boat down backwards and, like that, it was gone.

When the colonel had heard the gunshots, he craned his neck and tried to peer through the hard rain. He saw Chad’s boat motoring hard, saw Jenni with him, and thought they were okay until he heard Chad on Morales’ radio. He’d lost his own radio because he been holding Maggie in a tight bear hug the entire time the winch reeled them in. He’d barely stood up onto the deck and turned the dog loose to run up to the sailors, when he’d heard the shots go off. When the colonel heard Chad say they were going down, the sub had just peaked on a wave and the colonel could see them slip into the water and he saw the boat go under. In an instant, he leapt out off the deck towards the water forgetting he was tethered to seven other men. The tether snapped taut and broke the colonel’s leap so that so landed against the side of the sub rather than in water. The man attached most closely to the colonel was jerked off his feet with the colonel and the next man slid off the deck as well. The sailors grabbed the others and held them as in some extreme tug-of-war. Someone’s voice could be heard through a loudspeaker saying, “Get them onboard! Close the hatch! We’re going down!”

The colonel slid down the side of the sub into the water and was slamming against the hull in the waves. With the line as a hindrance, he couldn’t right himself and was repeatedly ducked under, pulled out, again and again. He yelled when he was out of the water for the men to let him go and he fumbled with the clip on his lifejacket but couldn’t operate it as he banged against the hull and was doused with water.

Finally, with great effort, the sailors hauled the three men up. The two prisoners were eager to be back on board. The colonel lay on the deck and coughed violently and threw up more sea water than the sailors expected a man could hold. Quickly, everyone slid down through the round slide except for the six sailors and the colonel.

“Get him down the chute!” one of the sailors yelled at the others. The sailors tried to pick the colonel up but he fought back with kicks and swats.

“Let me go!” he screamed as though possessed. “Get off me!”

The sailors fell onto the colonel with each man grabbing a limb and holding it tight. Together, they wrestled him up and moved him toward the slide. He kicked violently and the men lurched forward and back. One sailor lost grip of the colonel’s right arm and he fell to the deck hard. When he approached the colonel again, the colonel drove a fist across the man’s face and knocked him backward. Someone else belly flopped onto the colonel’s head and lay as dumb weight. The colonel bit the man’s chest hard and felt warm blood on his tongue. The man yelped and bucked up but they’d had his arm again and hoisted him up.

He bucked hard and groaned but the sailors heaved him into the slide head first. The colonel tried to throw his hands out but the sailors kicked him in the groin and jammed him into the slide. He started to slide down the chute. The colonel caught one man’s arm and yanked it trying to pull himself up out of the slide but the man just went with him and crashed his forehead into the top of the round hole. His arm ran through the colonel’s hands and then the colonel fell hard onto a steel deck inside the sub.

The other sailors quickly followed down the chute, although no one wanted to go first and meet the colonel. The colonel tried to scuttle up the slide but a sailor came down and drove into him and knocked him back to the deck again. When the six were all down, they jumped onto the colonel and held him down with their weight.

“Go! Go! Go!” the sailor who was clearly the leader yelled. “Close the hatch and dive! Close it and dive!” Another sailor flipped a lever and the sound of hydraulics was heard as the hatch closed. He radioed the bridge to dive and sirens immediately sounded and red lights flashed that said, “DIVE”.

The colonel lay beneath the six men still struggling hard and yelling, “Let me go!” or “Get off me!” in some feral tongue. His eyes flared wildly and the pupils were dilated. He wrestled the six men more as a beast than a man. Not ten feet away, Dottie Brackett stood with one hand over her mouth watching her husband and she knew that something had gone wrong with Jenni.

Chad and Jenni kept looking at the subs each time they hit the tops of a wave or swell. The sub they’d been heading for before they sank was already diving. The hull was completely submerged and only the tower stood out as an orange spire. The other sub, the one on which he thought he’d seen the colonel fighting, was beginning to dip as well. The waves washed over the deck now whereas a minute prior they did not.

“They aren’t leaving us are they?” Jenni asked in disbelief.

Chad wasn’t sure how to answer that question because he knew that they were but didn’t want to say it—either to Jenni or to himself.

“The boats are gone,” he said finally. “They can’t get to us.”

“Gone where?”

“They just let them go. They can’t take them onto the lifeline they had strung out.”

“Maybe we can swim to them,” Jenni said naively.

Chad just shook his head.

They floated a while longer. By then, one sub was completely gone and the other showing only the top of its tower. A few seconds later, it too was gone and the ripple that it made was quickly blown away so that it looked as though they’d never been there at all but were some dreamt up mirage.

“Come on, we need to swim toward shore,” he said and started stroking with his head up out of the water. The current ran parallel to the shore so that they were swimming perpendicular to the current which was good, Chad reasoned. ‘Swimming perpendicular,’ he thought, ‘should take us in gradually and run us down the beach away from the prisoners.’ His thinking proved right. They swam for half an hour then rested by just floating and found themselves still not halfway to the shore from where they’d started. For a moment, Chad thought they might not make it to the shore at all or if the current would just toy with them and not loosen its grip. He could see the bluffs on shore and, by watching a crag or peak, saw that they were shooting up the beach at an alarming rate. “Let’s go,” he said again and started swimming again. Jenni swam hard too.

After another thirty minutes, they’d gained considerable headway, were in less ripping current, and Chad decided they would make it. He thought of resting again then making a last run but opted against it and decided to push on although Jenni was clearly struggling. He feared that resting might see them drawn back out into the pull of the current.

“Come on, Jenni. We’re almost there. Keep working. Come on!” he shouted. Jenni picked up her pace again.

Ten minutes later, they stumbled ashore. They flopped onto the beach, Jenni face down and Chad face up, still linked by a nylon umbilical. Both of their chests rose and fell in heaves. When their breathing had slackened, Jenni rolled over and looked at Chad then sat up. They both looked out to where the subs had been. There was nothing but wind, rain, lightning, and white caps blowing horizontally. They didn’t speak and then Chad saw that Jenni was weeping quietly. She had the shivers and shook violently. He scooted over, wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her toward his body. She placed her head down against his chest and cried. Chad said nothing but kissed her on the top of the head in soft, gentle kisses. The warmth from her head radiated up through her hair and Chad could feel it against his cheek. Her breath was warm too on his chest and he could feel tears running down into opening of his shirt.

Jenni cried for a few minutes then raised her head and said, “They left us.”

“Yes. They had to.”

“Why?”

“They couldn’t reach us.”

“They didn’t even try.”

“There was nothing they could do.”

Jenni brushed the tears from her eyes and ran her fingers over her cheekbones as if to clear away the streaked mascara that she didn’t have to put on anyway.

“What are we going to do now?” she asked in a sobbing voice.

“We’re going to stick together just like you said.” Chad smiled and tipped up her chin so that she face him. “You wanted to stick with me, now I’ve got you by a rope.” He smiled and glinted his eyes and tried to cheer her. “You’re going to be sorry when we’re seventy years old and I’m still stuck on the other end of this rope.”

Jenni gave a silent little laugh and smiled for a second. Chad reached to her face and gently rubbed the tears away from her cheeks then leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. When he pulled away, he said, “Come on. We have to go away right now. We can’t be out here where those prisoners might see us.”

“Where will we go?” Jenni asked as Chad pulled her up.

“I don’t know. Up the beach the way we drifted. We’ll find a place to hide.”

They started up the beach, Chad leading and holding Jenni’s hand, still tethered together.

Chapter 39

Florida

Sunday, December 21

11:45 AM

Chad and Jenni walked all the way up the beach to where the sand wrapped around and met up with the rocky bluffs and then there was no more sand. The spot was the northern counterpart for where they’d made their camp for three months down on the southern end. They began to climb up the bluffs, having to crawl on all fours in places. Midway up, Chad came upon a cavern back into the rock wall with an opening about the size of a fireplace. The hole ran back into the rock and turned black so that he could not see how far in it went.

“This has some possibilities,” he said as Jenni climbed up and joined him. There was a small ledge, generally level, at the mouth of the hole and she stood beside him and held onto his waist and looked in.

“Looks creepy in there,” she said.

“It’s just dark. Nothing creepy about being dark, it’s just dark.” He sounded just like her father talking about the dark basement in the Bok Tower, Jenni told herself. “Let’s go on up to the top and look around to see what’s around here.”

“Okay.”

They climbed to the top of the bluffs. On top, there was little to see. The plain back to the south and west was the endless plain of rock, boulders, and washed out gullies. The beach stretched out to their left and they had a good clean view of anyone who might trail them. There was nothing else to note so Chad said, “This looks like a good place. Let’s go back and check out that cave. We’re going to need a place to hole up tomorrow when they drop the bombs.”

The nuclear bombs had been on Jenni’s mind the entire hike up the beach. She was glad Chad had mentioned them and brought them into the open. On the walk, they’d both walked quietly and independently come to the same conclusion: they would not be rescued and would be on the receiving end of a nuclear bombing tomorrow.

“Do you think we can survive that?” she asked.

“I don’t know. We’re going to try, but I don’t know. Five nuclear bombs. One of them pretty much right here. I’d have to say it doesn’t look too good.” He saw that the thoughts worried Jenni so he said, “Come on, let’s go see what’s in that cave.”

They climbed back down to it. At the ledge, Chad reached down and pulled the survival knife from its sheath. He unscrewed the handle and separated it from the blade, pushed something, and the tip lit up into a small flashlight.

“Wow!” Jenni said, “that’s a pretty cool knife.”

“President Collins gave it to me.”

“Really? Can it turn into a boat and get us out of here?”

“I wish.” He stuck his head into the cave, light first, looked around and saw nothing, then walked in on his haunches. “Come on,” he called back to Jenni. “I guess we can be sure there’s no bears in here at least.” Jenni was a bit hesitant, but followed.

Inside, the cave took a sharp turn downward. It retained its general dimensions, about four feet in diameter, but dove down as a tunnel so that they had to use both their feet and hands to lower themselves.

“How far down does it go?” Jenni asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“You can’t see down there?”

“Not really. It goes on down a ways.”

They descended further. The rock was cool to their skin and the air began to take on a bit of a chill.

“I thought you said it wasn’t creepy in here. This is definitely creepy.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Then Chad added, “But, it’s okay. Just don’t think about the fact that you’re climbing into a tiny hole, down into solid rock, or the hole just might close up suddenly behind you and trap you. Hey doesn’t it seem like the cave is closing in on you?” Chad teased.

“Shut up Chad!” Jenni yelled playfully. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“No seriously, just look at the walls, it’s like they’re collapsing in on you. Look.” He shined the light straight to the side at the cavern wall. “Now watch.” He slowly moved the light toward the wall so that the beam tightened. He made a whistling noise as he moved it just for a sound effect. “See! See that!”

“Stop playing!” Jenni yelled with mock-anger and smacked him on the back then kicked him playfully.

“Ahh!” Chad yelled as if hurt. “My woman is beating on me! She’s abusing me! Somebody call H.R.S.! She’s beating on me!” His voice echoed and bounced around in the cave.

“Shut up and get going!”

Chad laughed and descended further. Shortly, the tunnel turned sideways and Chad saw that it opened in an underground cavern the size of a large, round living room. He heard running water. Sticking his head through the opening to the cavern, he saw a stream flowing fast at the far end of the room. The water boiled up at one side of the cavern room creating an immediate and sizable creek, a good six or seven feet across and over one’s knees deep. The stream ran the length of the cavern, perhaps twenty feet, then disappeared underneath the far cavern wall.

“Wow,” Chad called back to Jenni, “there’s an underground spring down here. Look at this.”

Jenni pulled up alongside him, stuck her head through the opening, and said, “That’s pretty cool,” and smiled at Chad.

“I think we found our new home,” Chad said and climbed into the room.

Inside, they both could stand and they stretched their backs. Chad shone the light up so that the cavern was well lit, they were both surprised at how much light the little flashlight threw out. The floor was roughly flat, with a few undulations. One section, down near the stream, was level sand. Chad hopped down there and shown his light into the water. He saw something rise up in the water. It startled him and he jumped back a step then he saw that it was a large, white fish. “Look at that fish!” he said loudly. He followed it with his light. It was an albino mullet with immense, bulbous, blind eyes. The water was as clear as glass and every intricacy of the fish was as visible as though it were standing on a table before them. It circled around the stream and spring and worked its downward-turned mouth on the bottom and sides of the stream sucking in algae.

“There’s another one!” Jenni exclaimed and pointed downstream. Chad moved the light, saw the other fish, then together and at once, they saw a school of the albino mullet moving together. The school made two swipes around the spring then swam downstream and disappeared with the water beneath the cavern wall. “Cool!” Jenni said.

They watched a while longer, taking in their new surroundings. Then Chad said, “Come over here, Jen. Let’s make a game plan.” Jenni came over and the two sat down side-by-side on the sand. “All right, tomorrow, President Collins is going to drop the nukes on us. We’ll stay right here and ride it out.”

“Do you think we’ll be okay?”

“We’re a pretty good ways down so I think we just might be okay here.”

“I can’t believe he’s going to bomb us when he knows we’re here.”

“He has to Jenni. The Cat X is making three others. They’ll wipe out everything practically.”

“That’s crazy.”

Chad didn’t want to say it but he figured he’d be as open and honest with Jenni as possible so he said, “Just so you know, the nuke they’re dropping in the center, it’s going to be a MIRV. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes,” Jenni said sadly.

“Multiple Independent Re-entry Vehicle.”

“I know.”

“They’re sending Minuteman III missiles. They’re only supposed to have one warhead after some arms reduction agreement but President Collins wanted a powerful punch in the center of the storm so they put three warheads back on the one coming here.” Chad could tell that talk of the nukes bothered Jenni deeply so he added, “The other four that’ll hit the stormy part of the storm will only have one,” and gave it the inflection that it were good news. Jenni didn’t buy it.

“We’ll never make it,” she said glumly.

“Plus, he’s going to try to hit right in the middle of the eye,” Chad turned to the positives. “That’s maybe thirty miles away if he hits the center because we’re up on the northern edge. We just might be far enough for us to make it.”

Jenni drew in a deep breath and sighed. She didn’t believe it. Chad wasn’t sure what to say so he went on with plans after the bombs as though fully expecting to survive the blasts. “After the bombs go off tomorrow, we’ll just chill in here for a while, several days probably just to let all the radioactive stuff settle or blow away. If things go as planned, the storm should break up after that and start to dissipate. Who knows, maybe in a week or so it’ll be gone enough that a regular rescue crew can come in.”

“Why would they bother even sending a rescue crew then?”

“They would, just to see if anyone made it.”

“After a nuclear holocaust?”

“They’d do it. Besides, somebody would be coming back here just to check out the damage. One week, maybe two tops, and we’re out of here.” He ran his eyes over to see if Jenni was taking the bait. She was not. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, arms around them, and shook her head slowly.

“That’s just wishful thinking, Chad. They’re dropping a nuclear bomb on us. Three of them.” She shuffled her feet in the sand and said, “We’re too young to die, Chad. Think of all the things we’ll never get to do. We’re too young.” She sat a moment longer then announced, “We won’t make it,” with finality. She cried without sound.

Chad knew she was probably right. He sighed too. They sat without talking for a while, each considering their mortality at such a young age when their lives were really just starting to take off. The only sound was of the water as it trickled boldly by their feet and the gentle draw and relax of two young breaths.

Finally, Chad gave a nod, took a deep breath, and jammed the flashlight into the sand so that it stuck and shone up at the cavern ceiling. He took a knee and spun to face Jenni. She looked over at him. He reached down to his gun holster, ripped a velcro flap open, stuck two fingers in, and pulled something out obscured quickly into the palm of his hand. With his left hand, he reached out and took Jenni’s right hand and turned her a bit so that they were face to face. Jenni looked at him puzzled.

“Jenni Brackett,” he said, “I’ve let you down in the past. After that, I know I kind of left you high and dry, but I needed to get my life back together. And, I made a commitment that I would come back for you and when I did, I’d never leave you again. I’m sorry for what I did. I want to ask you right here, and right now, if you will forgive me. Will you?” Her cheeks glistened in the flashlight’s glow from tear stripes down her face.

Jenni was a little puzzled but looked into Chad’s eyes and saw that he was dead serious in his question. She felt his hand shaking a bit. She said calmly and softly, “I’ll forgive you, Chad.”

“Jenni Brackett,” Chad went on, saying both first and last name formally, “I’ve told you before but I want you to hear this right now, I love you, Jenni Brackett. I always have. You are the only girl for me.”

Jenni blushed and said in a voice as soft as the flow of water, “I love you too, Chad.” Her eyes deepened and softened like her voice, becoming both loving and sultry in the dim light.

Chad opened his right hand and held up a diamond ring between his thumb and index finger. The flashlight caught it and even in the dim light the cut threw sparkles out piercing the darkness. Jenni drew a quick breath and put her free hand over her chest. Her mouth was open, her breasts rose and fell with her breath, and her eyes widened. She said in disbelief, “Chad.”

“Jenni Lynn Brackett,” his voiced cracked this time as he said her full name, “will you marry me and make me the happiest man alive?”

Jenni stared at the diamond. It was not large, yet not small, and set in a simple band of gold without any extra flash of gaudiness. In the faintness of the small light, the stone seemed to glow and the gold seemed to absorb the light warmly. She glanced up at Chad. His hand was shaking even more than before and his face sat awaiting an answer from her.

Jenni smiled and said gently, “Yes.” Chad grinned widely and Jenni’s smile expanded to show her teeth, white and straight. “I’ll marry you, Chad Hamilton.”

Chad looked down to the ring, reached for her left hand and pulled it to him. Jenni held it out with the palm down. The sapphire ring Chad had given her sat on her ring finger and Chad tried to pull it off. His fingers shook and he couldn’t get the ring off without pulling hard so Jenni gave a chuckle and pulled the sapphire ring off herself then slid it on her right ring finger. Chad held her left hand, Jenni fanned her fingers out, and Chad slid the diamond engagement ring onto her finger. Jenni raised up and bent back her fingers to inspect the ring, as women do, and said beamingly, “It’s perfect.”

“Does it fit?” Chad asked nervously and earnestly.

“It’s perfect.”

“Because if it’s too tight or whatever we can get it resized. The lady at the counter said we could get it resized or if you don’t like it we can exchange it for another.”

“Chad, it’s perfect,” Jenni said with a tilt of her head. Chad nodded.

Jenni looked at her new fiancé and stretched out her arms to embrace him. He leaned forward and held her around the waist and she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and they held one another tightly for a long while.

After some time Chad led Jenni back out of the cave. On the ledge, they paused for several minutes as their eyes readjusted to the sunlight. They both inspected the diamond outside then descended down onto the beach.

“What are we doing?” Jenni asked. She walked lightly and spoke with love in her voice as a young woman just engaged. She glanced at the ring on her finger several times in the sunlight to see how it looked.

“What would you say about getting married?” Chad asked.

“I already said yes, silly. Do you want me to say yes again?”

“No I mean, today. Get married today.”

“Today?”

“Yes. Tonight.”

“We can’t get married tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Get married where? There’s no church or courthouse or anything. Who’d marry us?”

“We’ll still get married.”

Jenni gave a smiling dumbstruck laugh at Chad. This was quite a bit for her to take in—facing her mortality, becoming engaged, and now Chad proposing they somehow marry all by themselves. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Jenni, we’ve always known deep down we’d marry each other. Am I right?”

“Well, yes.”

“I didn’t think it would be like this either, but this is how it happened. They’re dropping bombs on us tomorrow and I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to marry you again. Marry me today.”

“But how?”

“Let me worry about that. Will you marry me today?”

Jenni thought a moment. She thought about what her mother and father would say if she told them they were somehow “married”. She pictured the postcard-beautiful wedding in a small church with family and close friends that all girls dream of and that she’d always envisioned herself marrying in. It saddened her that if she married Chad today, she’d never have that and her parents wouldn’t even be there and her father couldn’t give her away. But, then she thought about the bombs tomorrow and about Chad and how she loved him and knew that if she ever wanted to marry Chad Hamilton she’d have to do it now.

“I just never thought it would be like this,” she said.

“I know. If we get out of here, we’ll go to a church and have a real ceremony with everyone there. We’ll make it legal and all.”

“But isn’t that what a marriage is, Chad? A legal contract? We can’t do that here.”

“No. Marriage isn’t just a legal contract. That’s just what’s on paper. Marriage is a commitment between two people that they’ll spend the rest of their lives together, faithfully. That’s why priests can marry people. In lots of places they don’t even have marriages written down. Marriage is just an acknowledgement that this man and this woman are together. It’s a social contract rather than a legal one. That’s why they have marriage ceremonies as kind of coming-out announcement parties and why they have witnesses at weddings. That’s why they say “from this day forward,” it’s a social contract. The legal part is just something on the side, something written on paper for property purposes largely. You can write anything on paper. You can’t make a commitment like that to just anyone though. And besides, historically, people married themselves all the time back in the European Middle Ages.”

“What, have you been studying up on this or something?” Jenni asked wryly.

“I just know my stuff,” he said and smiled.

Chad had always amazed Jenni with the things he knew. He could be such a bonehead at times, then throw out a detailed explanation of even the most mundane topics and leave everyone wondering, ‘How does he know that?’ and when asked, just answer honestly, ‘I don’t know’.

Jenni thought a moment longer, then said plainly, “Okay. I’ll marry you today.” She smiled widely with the decision made, looked up and shook her head and said loudly, “I don’t believe this! Today is my wedding day!”

They set the wedding for six o’clock. Suddenly, there was so much to do Jenni’s head started to race. She asked questions in rapid fire. “Where? What will we say? How are we going to do it? Is there anything else for us to wear? Would this actually be real? Are you just making this up to make me feel good?”

Chad found a part of the beach that backed up to the bluffs with a large, roughly square boulder at the bottom and said that would suffice as an altar and that they’d marry there. Chad told her to do what she could to make it ready and that he had to make some preparations for tomorrow. They’d be holed up in the cave if everything went well during the bombing and they’d need a few things.

Chad hiked up and down the beach and along the bluffs and through its crags. He’d pick up driftwood sticks, look them over good, then either toss them aside or collect them in his left hand until he had about five or six. They were all mostly straight and long as he was tall. Then he started gathering what looked to Jenni like sticks of firewood.

Jenni rummaged through a pile of driftwood and debris as she’d done on the southern beach. Her goal was to somehow decorated the rock altar and adorn it with some dignity and sincerity so that it was more than a rock being called an altar. She dug around as though she would suddenly come across an immense bouquet of flowers but found nothing but sticks woven into clumps by water and seaweed. Eventually, she fastened together a cross using the strands of seaweed. She wrapped the seaweed carefully in an “X” shape to fasten the crossbar to the cross’s trunk. Chad came up just as she raised the cross up from the beach. The crossbar was unbalanced and the heavier end swung downward and pulled at the seaweed. The binding unfurled in two quick unwraps and the crossbar sank and then loosed itself and fell to the ground. Jenni looked down at it and began to cry still holding the vertical shaft of the cross in her hand. “My wedding is going to be hideous,” she said in sobs.

Quickly, Chad picked up the crossbar. He tucked it under his arm and pulled his knife from the sheath. He reached under the waist of his shirt and pulled it out in front of his belly button and jabbed the knife tip through it just above the seam line then tore the material around his body. At the seam on each side, he cut a slice across the stitches then ripped around until the waist seam came off in a circle. He sliced the circle and held a one inch cotton strap. He affixed the crossbar on the shaft, wrapped it with the cotton band in an “X”, drew it taut, and tied the ends together. He shook it and the cross held firmly. “There,” he said and gave the cross to Jenni. “No crying.” He kissed her on top of the head and went back to work. Jenni found a way to hang the cross on the rock wall behind the altar then she got down on all fours and started to groom the sand in front of the altar. Chad watched her although he could hardly tell a difference between the sand she’d brushed and that which she hadn’t.

When she finished she walked over to Chad and said that she was going around the corner to wash her clothes.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes I do. Look at how dirty I am.” She pulled her tank top out before him.

“You look fine, Jenni. Just look at me. I’m in my underwear. We’re going to have a grunge wedding.”

Jenni looked at her shirt again and at her dirty white shorts. Jenni pulled her hair around in front of her face and looked at it. It was oily and napped together from the salt water. Chad saw that she was crying again in silent, deep-sad tears. He knew then that he was about to be a young husband and that he had many things to learn about having a wife and that the most basic was that she wanted to look beautiful for him. He could tell her that she looked beautiful, and to him she really did, but those would be hollow words until she felt beautiful. He told himself to remember this fact and tried to stencil it onto his brain.

“Listen, Jen, let’s do this. I’ll take you back into the cave. You can take a bath in the spring water. It’s really clean and soft water. I’ll bring your clothes back out here and wash them on the beach. I’ll scrub them really good with beach sand then lay them all to dry. I’ll clean up too. Okay? Do you think you’ll be all right by yourself in the cave?”

She raised her chin, tear-streaks down her cheeks, and said, “You won’t peek when I take my clothes off will you?”

Chad wasn’t sure if she was serious or teasing then decided she was serious and said, “I won’t peek. I promise.”

“Okay,” she said weakly and they climbed back up into the cave together.

Jenni made Chad wait outside of the cavern room and even made him turn off the flashlight when she disrobed. Then she told him to hand her the light but not to turn it on and they reached toward one another and waved arms until their hands met in the darkness. They traded light for clothes and Jenni said that he could go now and Chad felt his way back up toward the sunlight. When he was halfway up he saw the flashlight had come on and heard Jenni say quietly, “Ooh. That water is cold.”

On the beach he looked at the clothes. She’d given him her shirt and shorts and modestly kept her bra and panties to herself. The clothes, especially the shorts, were indeed dirty. He washed them first, soaking and grinding with sand in a cycle, front and back. After several minutes, he held them up and saw they were considerably better, though not exactly white, but a solid cream color. He washed the shirt which was easier then hung them both in direct sun on driftwood. He stripped, washed his own clothes, then walked into the water and washed himself with grainy sand that burnt his skin pink, raw, and clean with its abrasion.

He hung up his clothes and walked naked to the driftwood pile and pulled out several small twigs, snapping them on occasion so they were uniform then began to ply them into a curve. He sat on a rock, naked in the sun, and worked at the twigs diligently. Occasionally he held the stick form up to his head then quickly back down to work it again. Soon, he’d fashioned a hoop of woven twigs and drew it onto his head like a crown. Then he withdrew it, snapped off any twigs that shot out awry, replaced it once more on his head, then took it off, nodded and pursed his lips in satisfaction.

While the clothes dried, Chad dressed again then gathered several armloads of seaweed and placed them just inside the cave’s entrance like an animal stuffing a nest into its burrow. Each time he called down to Jenni and asked if she was okay, not wanting her to get frightened or stranded naked in the cave. Each time she hollered back that she was fine and to go away. When he’d gathered everything he’d waited at the cave’s entrance and sat down quietly determined to wait patiently until Jenni was ready. He looked out over the water at the storm and rain and wondered how it would look tomorrow after the bombs hit. He sat as quietly as he could, without shuffling his feet, lest Jenni think he’s trying to bother her or sneak up on her.

After some time, he heard Jenni call out his name and he answered that he was here and Jenni said it was okay for him to come down. He climbed down with her clothes. She turned the light off just before he reached the room’s entrance and he held the clothes out until her hand took them.

“Just a minute,” she said then soon the light was on and Chad saw her standing there wearing the still-warm clothes. “They look much better. Feel nice too. Thank you.”

Chad climbed inside and stood in front of her. She looked clean and refreshed. He ran his fingers along her cheek. Her skin was as soft and smooth as a baby’s, and cool, from the spring water. He brushed her hair back which felt like strands of straight cotton. “Wow,” he said dumbly. “You’re so soft.”

At six o’clock, Jenni was standing in front of the stone altar. Jenni wore the wreath Chad had made on her head as a crown. He’d found some seaweed that looked like miniature gladiolas and had woven a few into the crown so that Jenni would have flowers in her hair on her wedding day. He’d also collected and array of seaweeds and sewn them into a brush framed to fashion out a bouquet for her to hold. All told, they both looked rather appealing, in an earthy way, and even Chad was surprised at how good they came out but, more importantly, Jenni thought them both beautiful. She stood holding the bouquet proudly, watching her groom.

Chad hustled about until he found four rocks the size of bowling balls. He set them up on the boulders around them, two on the right of the altar, two on the left.

“There,” he said, “we need witnesses. There are our witnesses.” He stepped back, dipped into a formal bow and waved toward the two stones to the left. “Miss Jenni Lynn Brackett, I’d like you to me Mr. and Mrs. Stone. Mr. and Mrs. Stone, Miss Jenni Brackett.” Jenni began to chuckle hard. Then toward the other two, “Jenni, this is Mr. and Mrs. Rock, Jenni Lynn Brackett.”

“Glad to meet you all,” Jenni announced and bowed to each couple, “Mr. and Mrs. Stone, Mr. and Mrs. Rock.”

She smiled and nodded her approval at Chad. He pulled up and stood beside her. She placed her right wrist around his arm, then cupped her left hand over her right and leaned into him.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to do the ceremony too. Don’t laugh.” Jenni watched her man proudly, as though he were preaching a sermon. He spoke with a deep, sincere voice, though mottled by nervousness and mixed phrases he’d heard before at weddings, “wedding terms”, with his own. “We’re gathered here to join Chad Hamilton and Jenni Lynn Brackett in holy matrimony. We’re going to get married in the name of the Holy Trinity—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We understand that marriage was instituted by God and we don’t enter into it lightly. We know that God made Eve for Adam and that He said it was not good for man to live alone. And we know that God looks upon the faithful marriage of a man and woman as a holy endeavor. We’ll ask God to bless our marriage and to strengthen it as we go along through life. We’ll ask that God will bless our marriage and look upon it and us both with favor.”

Chad wasn’t sure what to say next and guessed he was getting a little preachy anyway so he changed to the vows. “Now we’ll exchange vows.” He turned Jenni to face him. She had tears running down her cheeks again. “Jenni Lynn Brackett, I vow to love you always. I’ll never leave you. I’ll be faithful to you. I’ll provide for you.” He paused a moment and thought, unsure what to say next, so he simply repeated, “I just vow to love you always, Jenni.” He nodded and she blinked both eyes to accept the vows. “Now ask me if I vow these things so I can say ‘I do’.”

“Do you vow those things you just said?” Jenni asked.

“I do.”

Jenni smiled.

“Now, do you Jenni Brackett, vow to love me, Chad Hamilton, always?”

“I do,” she said in a voice so soft and demure Chad thought it floated from her mouth as a silken butterfly.

“I’m sorry we don’t have any rings to exchange. The diamond will have to do for now. We’ll get golden rings when we get out of here.” Jenni nodded. “Then I hereby pronounce us husband and wife,” Chad said and leaned over and kissed Jenni gently on the lips. When he opened his eyes and pulled away, she was looking at him with the unmistakable look of love in her eyes and Chad felt a little embarrassed and blushed.

At the top of the cave’s entrance, Chad tried to carry Jenni across the threshold but more stumbled into the entrance than carried her. For an instant he feared he’d drop her into it but she caught herself and laughed hysterically. They climbed back down and entered the cavern room, both laughing giddily. They both suddenly became quiet, calm, and serious in the low light of the flashlight. Jenni stood before Chad on the sand by the stream and looked straight into his eyes. She took on the same look she’d had when he’d asked her to marry him only a few hours earlier. Chad stood bolt upright like a wooden statue unsure of himself. Jenni looked down at his chest then ran her fingertips alongside the length of his upper arm letting her fingernails drag gently upward tickling his skin. She looked at his face again, gave a little nod and blinked both eyes slowly, then reached to her waist and gently pulled off her shirt and showed Chad her bare breasts in the soft light then led him down onto the sand and gave herself to him.

Later, they turned off the flashlight and fell asleep holding one another. They awakened in the night and felt their nakedness against one another and huddled closer for warmth, then without planning to do so, found themselves connected again in the darkness. Finally, they wrapped together tightly, both arms and legs, and fell into a deep sleep and slept for several hours and weren’t sure what time it was, day or night, when they finally awakened for good.

Eventually, Chad sat up, still holding onto Jenni’s leg.

“I’m cold Chad,” Jenni said after hours without words.

“Yes, me too.” He flipped on the light and lit the room. Surprisingly, neither he nor Jenni were embarrassed about being naked in front of the other person. He looked at his watch and saw that it was after ten in the morning. “It’s after ten, the bombs are supposed to hit between 10:30 and 11:00.” Quickly, he hustled up the cavern tunnel saying, “I’ll be right back.” When he came back, he brought the loads of seaweed, having to make several trips. He brought it inside and piled it up.

“What is all that stuff?”

“It’s seaweed.”

“I know that. Why are you bringing it in here?”

“I know this is kind of gross, but it’s all we’ve got to keep warm. We can use this as covering.”

Jenni was unsure about crawling into seaweed. “Doesn’t it have little creatures in it?”

“I looked it over. I couldn’t see anything. I looked really close too.” Chad laid the seaweed out into an oval then laid down beside the seaweed and started throwing them over his naked body until he was all covered. He settled in as though in a recliner. “Not too bad. Come on in here.” He’d begun to warm already in the insulation the seaweed provided.

“Isn’t it slimy?”

“No, it’s entirely dry. It’s actually really soft. Warm too.”

Jenni came over reluctantly, knelt down, then nestled in beside Chad. They threw the seaweed over her body until she was against his skin again and completely covered.

“See, it’s not that bad, is it?”

Jenni still wasn’t too sure but felt the warmth already. She began to settle in against Chad.

“It just might have a few little crabs!” Chad joked and pinched at Jenni’s body, up and down her trunk. Jenni laughed and squirmed and told him to stop it but he kept on and Jenni got ticklish and began laughing and wrenching around wildly until they were both out of the seaweed they’d just gotten into. Finally, Chad lay on top of her and they stopped playing. He reached over and clicked off the light to conserve the battery then let his body press down against hers. They lay together a moment and kissed then Chad rolled over and they covered up again with the seaweed and held one another tightly and started to become warm and waited.

They lost track of time and began to feel cozy and sleepy when suddenly they heard a deep sonic boom.

“That’s the missile coming in,” Chad said in the darkness.

Five LGM-30 Minuteman III missiles had been launched from silos in North Dakota, dipped into space, and had broken back into the atmosphere. They’d already shed their lower two stages and were burning their third stage. The aerodynamic shrouds that protect the reentry vehicle in the earlier stages of flight had been shed and the missiles gunned downward with warheads at ready. The missile aimed at the eye indeed bore three warheads as Chad had mentioned. The warheads separated from the reentry vehicle and ran streaking down across the sky in three white stripes of vapor trails and smoke.

Chad drew Jenni in close and hoisted his body a bit higher than her as if to shield her. Moments later a double flash of light glowed all the way down into the cavern room and lit it a faint yellow. A second later a third flash lit the cavern, the light somehow bouncing its way down the tunnel into the room. Chad clicked on the flashlight quickly and yelled, “Cover your ears!” Jenni did so when she saw him cover his.

Moments later, through their cupped hands, they heard a rumbling noise from somewhere deep within the earth. The rumble started faint and grew quickly like thunder building for its boom. As the rumble reached what they thought to be a crescendo, the earth began to shake in quick vibrations and Chad knew the shock wave was coming on hard.

The roar and the earthquake feeling rose so high that it seemed like they were lying underneath a freight train at full speed. The ground beneath them was shaking violently, bucking them up. Then the rumble and shaking faded quickly and they thought the worst had passed and they lay motionless, listening through their hands. Then the shock wave hit in an unexpected blast. A loud crash cracked the silence and they felt it bounce off of their chests. The sound waves were so violent they would’ve burst their eardrums had they not cupped their hands over their ears. The cavern wall opposite them seemed to buckle and the ceiling seemed to buck up and then back down as if the cave were made of pliable rubber rather than rock. Chad was flung up off of Jenni a good foot and a half horizontally into the air, Jenni followed him up, then they crashed back down. Chad landed hard on Jenni and was afraid he’d hurt her. They heard the sound of rocks breaking in crisp, clean shards and then tumbling. The tumbles were not of head-sized stones, like Mr. and Mrs. Rock, but were the sound of stones the size of buses and tractors and houses. Two aftershocks ran through the cavern like rays of lightning. They heard the rocks and boulders settle into new places as the aftershocks passed through. Then they lay quiet and still for several minutes. Grumblings could be heard from deep down within the Earth as though she were complaining of the scar melted onto her face.

Whereas Chad and Jenni witnessed the bombs from inside and underneath the storm’s belly, the technicians back in Vandenburg Air Force Base watched from high above via satellite imagery. They’d zoomed in so that the monitor’s screen held the Cat X in its entirety. In an instant, the storm’s dark eye flashed bright yellow. Then double flashed again as the MIRV dropped its three warheads into the eye. In a period of seconds, other flashes lit the shoulders of the storm dimly as the outer bombs hit. Quickly, the eye became invisible. It went from a clear, dark dot on the monitor, to ashen grey like the clouds. Then it became stark white, bulbous, and began to grow. Soon, an immense mushroom cloud was visible on their monitor. It seemed to draw the eyewall of the storm into it then draw it up into the mushroom on such an immense scale that it was visible from space. After three minutes, the stormed was noticeably altered. Around the inner third of the storm, an Astrodome shaped arc of mist formed over itself like a death veil. In a matter of ten seconds, the misty arc evaporated and left the damaged storm bare. The inner core of the storm appeared to have been dwarfen, was lighter in color, and its life had been sucked out.

“I think that’s it,” Chad said finally, with relief.

“Me too.”

“I think we’re going to make it.”

Jenni smiled and hugged him.

“Let me go check outside.”

“No.” Jenni held him. “Wait a while. There could be more and there’s all the radiation out there.”

“Well the radiation is going to be there for a while, but, I’ll wait anyway.”

They lay down together for quite some time. Chad turned the light off again and cuddled up to Jenni on top of the seaweed bed. He ran his hands over the length of her body in the dark and he knew she was soon asleep again. He lay down beside her but was unable to go to sleep.

Later, Chad arose and turned on the light and dressed to go look outside. Jenni announced that she was coming with him and dressed as well. When they climbed up the tunnel and turned toward the opening, they began to grow worried. There was darkness where there should have been light and when they reach what should have been the opening their hearts sank. A single rock, whose size it was impossible to tell, lay against the cave opening sealing it shut. Only two small slats, one on each side, hinted at light outside although it was impossible to see past the curve of the stone around the entrance. Chad pushed at the massive stone and, of course, it held solid.

Chad glumly stated the obvious, “We’re trapped.”

Jenni drew up to the rock and looked and felt over it. She ran her hands around the entire exit and out through the cracks as far as they’d go. Then she too pushed feebly at the stone. She pushed again and again until she became mad and then hit the rock with closed fists until blood ran from her knuckles and she screamed, “No! Not again! No!” Her anger turned to crying and she began to wail hard and loudly, still facing the rock. She let her arms fall straight down by her side and cried in heavy, unhindered bawls. Chad wrapped his arms around her and held her but she gave no affection and felt as though he were holding a sack of seeds. She cried several minutes and Chad sat quietly and held her closely and rocked her back and forth gently. After she’d pretty much cried out, he led her back down into the cavern and put her into the bed and covered her.

“I give up,” Jenni said in a flat voice, “I just give up.”

Somehow, she was able to go immediately to sleep again and Chad was beginning to wonder and worry about how much his new wife actually slept. Then, sitting in the darkness, trapped in a stone cave and alone with Jenni having given up, Chad grew disheartened. He began to sob quietly and he knew that he had failed.

Chapter 40

Florida

Chad, too, eventually fell asleep. He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but he felt better when he finally awakened. He got himself up and got to work.

In the doorway to the cavern he arranged some sticks for a fire so that the smoke would rise up the tunnel. He took his time and built the sticks up carefully with a little dry seaweed at the bottom, then twigs, then branches, then small logs. When he was satisfied that it was a true one-match fire, he sat down to think and wait for Jenni to awaken.

It was two more hours before Jenni began to roust herself awake. Chad unscrewed the cap of his knife and took out a single match, lit it and carefully placed it to the seaweed at the bottom of his fire. The fire caught neatly and quickly rose up and it threw light as from a hearth more brightly than they’d seen the room yet. Jenni was surprised by the fire and sat up, still sleepy-eyed.

“I made you a little campfire,” Chad said.

“Thanks.” Jenni gave a sleepy grin and seemed to have her wits about herself again.

She woke up and Chad was glad to see that she was okay and that she’d had her cry and thrown her fit and that was over now.

“Are you hungry?” Chad asked.

Jenni realized she hadn’t eaten in two days and said, “I’m famished!”

“I’m going to catch one of those mullet and cook him.”

“That sounds good.” Jenni stood up and stretched and Chad watched her, running her eyes over her entire body and wishing that her clothes were off. “Hey! What are you looking at like that?” she teased and Chad was glad to see she was back to her old self.

“Just looking at my wife, that’s all.”

“You wipe that look off of your face. You’re a naughty dog!”

Chad was embarrassed that he’d been caught, looked away, and blushed.

“Bad boy! You just be good,” Jenni said playfully and sat back down.

Chad took one of the poles he’d collected and fashioned a spear by sharpening one end into a point. He cut backwards into the spear about an inch up then whittled into it to create a barb, tested the point and barb by pressing his fingertip on them, and was satisfied. He sheathed his knife again, stood, and held the spear at ready waiting for a fish. Jenni watched with interest. One fish swam upstream from under the wall toward the boil.

“There’s one!” Jenni yelled.

Chad hurled the spear and missed. The fish bolted back under the wall. Shortly, another appeared and Chad missed again. Jenni chuckled. Chad missed four more times, Jenni laughing harder with each miss and Chad growing more frustrated, and his spear tip was so badly misshapen that he had to carve it again. Finally, three came together and he threw the spear simply into the pack and hit the top one impaling him. The fish wiggled wildly on the end of the stick in the water. Chad leapt into the creek and grabbed the spear and raised the fished out of the water but it kicked hard and freed itself. Jenni yelped as it fell back in. The fish tried to swim but ran sideways up against the sand. Chad lunged into the water and trapped the fish between his chest and sand. Jenni laughed hard and then he flung at it from up underneath and kicked it up onto the rocks. It squirmed and slithered and he jumped up and grabbed it and clenched it hard. He held it up and proudly held it to present it to Jenni and said, “Got it!” and Jenni clapped, proudly.

He gutted, scaled, and cooked the fish on a skewer and it was so tasty he thought of catching another then decided to put it off until a little later.

They sat by the creek, where they’d cleaned up, and wondered what they were going to do. The fire had burnt down to merely embers and they were in near darkness again and with the fish gone the mood became somber again. Soon, Chad became aware that Jenni was crying again. He half thought to himself, ‘Not again, you’ve got to be kidding me! I can’t take this crying every other hour!’ At least this wasn’t the loud and dramatic bawling like she’d done up at the cave’s exit. This was the silent deep-sadness crying. Chad thought for a moment and wasn’t sure which was worse. He wondered what had come over Jenni. She’d never been a crier. She’d always been a strong young woman, a girly-girl but tough as nails. All this outpouring of emotionalism had thrown him off a bit, certainly caught him by surprise, and was wearing him out. It seemed that he spent as much energy appeasing her emotions as he did in trying to get them out of here. He was about to say as much but then, thought otherwise. She’d been through a lot lately, was still going through very new experiences. Perhaps he should give her a break. Then suddenly, as if some god-of-husbands spoke to him, he realized that another of the most basic things a husband needs to know is when to bite his lip and just shut up. Wisely, he just held Jenni close to him, and did just that. Chad was learning.

They spent the next two weeks on some carnal, primordial cycle, independent of civilized time, of eating, sleeping, and love making. They ate the mullet and Chad discovered there were occasional crawfish in the spring which they ate as well. They, of course, had plenty of water to drink and bathed together often. They made love whenever either one felt like it. On occasion Chad came to her but Jenni was unsure and said that she was sore and Chad cussed himself under his breath for being brutish and backed off but each time Jenni pressed her body against his and began to move. He resisted but was unable to stop and they went ahead and did it anyway and days passed.

Chad hoped beyond reason the Cat X might have subsided and a team might have come in and that they’d see smoke billowing from underneath the rock and call for them. But, realistically, he knew that was boyish thinking. He’d given it two weeks and figured another two is about all they could take before they started to go stir crazy. The supply of wood was diminishing to less than half of what they’d started with and there were noticeably fewer mullet than when they’d arrived. Plus, Jenni had always been slender but her skinniness had begun to worry him.

Sitting by the creek with his watch at two o’clock, he not knowing if it were AM or PM, he had a fire burning and was cooking a mullet and watched the fish move in the clear water. Then suddenly, a black mullet appeared swimming alongside two white ones. The black mullet’s eyes were of normal size. Chad grabbed the flashlight, turned it on and set the beam tightly as a spotlight, and shone it at the black mullet. He peeled away from the others frightened and swam away. The two albinos kept on blindly. Chad shone the light at them and they gave no response to the light. He shone the light on the black mullet and the fish quickly peeled away again. Clearly, the black mullet could see and Chad knew that could mean but one thing and he sat back and thought about his new idea.

Another week and a half passed in the same way. Chad still hoped beyond hope that they’d be found but figured it folly. He looked at his watch and the date told him it was January the 17^th. He set the 21^st as the cut-off date. Their one month anniversary, he reasoned. ‘If they don’t find us by then, we’re getting out ourselves,’ he told himself.

That night he shared his idea with Jenni. He told her about the black mullet and how it had sight so that it must swim in daylight. He reasoned that all that water flowing must go somewhere; it had to kick out somewhere. The plan was simply to swim out of the cave. Swim underneath the cavern wall and pray that the water popped out quickly. He didn’t mention it but he knew that these underwater springs often made twists and turns and that skilled scuba divers frequently drowned in them even with a full tank of air. He was worried that she might think it suicide and that he was crazy but she was excited about the idea. His reasoning did make sense, she said, agreeing that the water must come out somewhere and the only questions were where and was it accessible by swimming? They at least had some notion of a plan, and was she all for it.

Of course, no one came for them and the 21^st came quickly. They slept late that morning then ate a fish and cleaned up. They debated whether or not to wear any clothes. Jenni had taken to going naked and hadn’t worn anything for weeks. She argued they could swim better unclothed which Chad said may be true but that he expected to get out and when they did they’d wish they had something on. In the end, they agreed to wear their underpants but Jenni insisted on going topless saying, “You’re not wearing a shirt, why should I?”

Chad looked down at his bride’s breasts said, “Well, I’ll give you two good reasons…” but didn’t elaborate. Jenni smacked him on the arm and he was glad to see she was in good spirits. When she wasn’t looking Chad stuffed his wife-beater shirt down into his shorts for her just in case.

They waded into the water. It was cold, as all Florida springs are, at a constant 72 degrees. They dipped in until their bodies got used to the cold. Chad took the light, turned it on and held it in his teeth and said, “Hold my legs. I’m going to stick my head in and take a peek. Help pull me out in a second.” He went in, Jenni held his legs and he wrapped them up so that they held against the cavern wall. His body was completely under the wall and for a moment Jenni thought the current might pull him away without her but he held to the wall fine.

Underwater, Chad opened his eyes in the clear water and shown the light. The river ran about ten feet which was as far as he could see, then cut to the left, which was a good sign. The river narrowed but became more rounded so that it took on the same general shape as the tunnel that they’d crawled into the cavern through. He pulled himself back out and explained what he’d seen to Jenni carefully so that she could picture it in her mind.

Chad shook his head, “Okay, this is it. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Jenni said.

“I want you to know, no matter what happens, I love you, Jenni Hamilton.”

“I love you too Chad Hamilton.”

Chad smiled. “Okay, remember. Take a deep breath and hold it as long as you can. Try not to think about the air. Then let it out slowly. Stay calm. Don’t blow it all out at once because then you’ll want to suck in. Move nice and easy all the time.”

“I know.” Since sharing the idea, they’d practiced holding their breath underwater and had gotten their time up to where they could go sixty seconds each.

Chad insisted that Jenni go first even though she said he was a stronger swimmer and that she’d only slow him down. His worst fear was that he’d pop out somewhere for air and she never would. That possibility was unacceptable in every form imaginable. It would be pointless because if he showed up without Jenni the colonel would kill him anyway, he reasoned. He considered tethering themselves together, liked the idea but thought that might prove a hindrance and might get caught then rejected it. Jenni would go holding the light, then Chad would follow.

Jenni knelt by the creek’s exit and drew in deep slow breaths as Chad had shown her. Then she looked up at Chad, gave a nod and he nodded back, took a long breath, then ducked underwater, gave one kick, and disappeared under the cave wall. The cavern went completely dark as Jenni took the light with her. Chad paused a moment, drew in a breath, then dove after her. In one minute, they would either be free from the cave, or drowned.

Jenni saw the underwater passage just as Chad had described and she was quickly up to the point where the tunnel made a bend to the left. She glanced back before entering to check for Chad, saw him swimming toward her, then ducked her head underneath the ledge and looked up through the crack hoping to see light. She saw none. The tunnel went straight outward perhaps twenty feet so she pressed her feet against tunnel side and shot herself out. Chad followed. At the end, the tunnel cut back a bit again in a flat crack. Quickly, she swam in with barely enough room above and below her to pass between. The crack opened into a large reservoir, an underwater cavern twice the size of the one they’d lived in, completely flooded up to the ceiling. The white mullet glowed around them lazily, apparently relaxing in their home base. At the top, though, Jenni saw large bubbles trapped against the ceiling. She swam up, turned belly up, exhaled, then sucked in the air with her lips pressed against the moss on the cavern ceiling. Chad did the same. But, the air was stale. It was the remnant of some deep-down earthen gas that had leaked out from far down below the crust. The both blew the gas out immediately and their lungs were then empty and aching. They dove again and wasted a moment having to look around the cavern for the water’s escape route. Jenni’s lungs had began to burn wildly. She thought she’d inhale water and did for a moment. Then she got her wits and even though it felt like there was no air in her lungs she blew a couple of bubbles out of her nose just to make a point. She felt the flow of water on her skin and followed it through the next crack. Chad was right behind her and when they’d come to the end of the crack, the tunnel curved up a bit and Jenni thought she saw blue. She swam up into the curve and then over a hump and was certain then that there was light. She rounded one more curve and blue light caught her by surprise and blinded her. Then she was aware that she was tumbling down a flume and the water was all white and her head was in bubbly water. Instinctively she sucked in a deep gasp and took in a mixture of water and air. She fell head over heels in the rush of water then splashed into a pool that was well over her head at the bottom and from the bottom of the pool she saw a brilliant sun shining into aquamarine water. When she rose to the surface she drew in a large breath, choked, breathed again, then thought she saw Chad tumble down in what looked like a waterfall above her and almost fall on top of her. He came up and drew in a deep draught of air himself. The sunlight was blinding and they both squinted hard and saw one another in monochrome.

“Are you okay?” he asked concernedly.

“We made it!” Jenni yelled. She swam over to him and grabbed him in a bear hug. They sank under the water then struggled and separated and swam back up. The current had drifted them down to where they could stand and they embraced again.

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, darling! How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“We made it!” Jenni flung water into the air and threw her head back as though redeemed through water. Seeing Jenni so happy, Chad realized what they’d done and knew that they’d cheated death. He smiled and hugged her again.

After some time, when their eyes had adjusted to the sunlight, they looked around and took in their surroundings. The water fell out of the side of the bluff in a blue waterfall into the pool below. “I don’t know where this water was going when we went in there, but I’m sure glad it’s coming out like that now!” Chad said. The water seemed to be flowing right down through where they’d built the altar and married. Chad couldn’t figure it out and guessed that it had been flowing underground into the ocean and that the nukes had rumbled the earth enough to change its course. Finally, he concluded that it didn’t matter anyway.

After their eyes had adjusted to the light, surprisingly, the sky overhead was blue, with no signs of smoke or nuclear residue. Even better, the Cat X was gone. For the first time in four months, Jenni was able to look out across the horizon and not see black clouds, lightning, and rain. The horizon was ice blue and clear. When they stepped out onto the beach, they noticed the sand had been glazen by the heat of the nukes and they had to watch for shards of glass underfoot. They saw the rock that concealed the entrance to the cave—an oval stone lying on end leaning against the bluff wall as large as a tractor-trailer. And, most importantly, when they climbed up onto the bluff to look around, they saw four navy ships anchored a few miles offshore and they knew that they were saved.

Chapter 41

Gatlinburg, Tennessee

Saturday, February 21

2:48 PM

The “Chapel in the Woods” could only hold forty people but Dottie had somehow crammed forty-nine inside not even counting Chad and Jenni and the others in the wedding party. The chapel stood like a white New England frame church in a hollow aside a swiftly moving brook that came down out of the Smoky Mountains above Gatlinburg. Dottie sat in the front row, bride’s side of course, slipped her hand around the colonel’s arm and finally took a rest. It had been a busy one month to the day since receiving the phone call that Jenni and Chad had been found and they were fine. “I knew it!” Dottie had exclaimed and when she told her husband, the colonel showed no more emotion than had she informed him of having a pot roast that night and he walked calmly out the door and into his workshed in the backyard then wept in long tears and quiet gasps.

Dottie had watched him closely and worried for the past two months since escaping from the Cat X. He’d gone berserk on the submarine after the captain dove. He tried to fight anyone wearing a uniform so that the sailors eventually had to hold him down, shoot him up with a tranquilizer, then lock him into the submarine’s tiny stockade. Even drugged, he lay on the stockade floor drooling and cursing at the sailors in a slurred voice. Dottie convinced the sailors to put Maggie in the stockade with him and she lay down with the colonel. He eventually put his arm around the dog and fell asleep beside her and didn’t wake up for the next 36 hours, well after the bombs had gone off, and was still foggy-headed.

They’d spent the next month on an Army base in Texas undergoing check-ups and debriefings. Top officials told them of the Cat X and the other storms, had shown them all the evidence, and they watched with the rest of the world via satellite imagery how all four Cat X storms dissipated once the Alpha was disorganized by the blasts and faded. The colonel had wanted no part of it. He merely sulked around and cursed President Collins and spoke to no one except Dottie a bit and mostly to his dog. He’d taken to not sleeping much at night. He would toss around in bed, keeping Dottie awake, until finally getting up, leashing Maggie and going for walks in the night until sunup.

When Jenni and Chad were finally reunited with Jenni’s parents, they spent an entire day talking rapidly and eating and catching up. The doctors advised Jenni and Chad not to eat much because they wouldn’t be able to keep it down but the colonel slammed the door on them, rudely Dottie thought, and locked them out. He brought out enough food for an army in all types from health food to junk food. “I’ve got to fatten Jenni up,” he explained to his wife.

Jenni was worried about how they would take the news of she and Chad marrying themselves. She had to hold her father by the arm to get him to sit down for a few moments, then she told them the story from start to finish, discreetly leaving out the intimacies. She tried to emphasize that they’d married because they’d thought at the time that that might be their last night—that the nuclear bombs were coming the next day and although they didn’t regret doing it, they would not have if they’d not been in those circumstances. Dottie looked at her daughter and, though more slender than she’d ever been, recognized the full, roundness and softness of a woman who’d given herself fully to her husband. To both Jenni and Chad’s relief, Dottie smiled approvingly at her daughter, took her hand in her own, and gave it a little squeeze and said, “We’re delighted.”

Jenni was more worried about her father’s response and had expected a, “You did what?!” She and Chad both waited for his reaction. Surprisingly to them, he simply sat on the couch beside Jenni in a statuesque posture. He didn’t appear as though he were about to speak and although Jenni had laid out their story in much detail, Dottie could read his facial expression which said that he wasn’t really sure what she was saying.

“They’re married now, Jim,” Dottie translated. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“How?” is all he said.

Dottie looked exasperated at her husband, stood suddenly and said, “I need to go check on the pie. Jim, will you come help me, please?”

“Pie? You’re cooking a pie?” he said stupidly. Dottie took him by the arm and pulled him up and into the kitchen.

Jenni looked over at Chad who appeared more worried than she. “It’ll be okay. Mom will set him straight.” Chad nodded but wasn’t sure.

When Dottie and the colonel came back in, Dottie carried a tray of lemonade and offered them each a tall glass, heavy with ice.

The colonel, very formally, walked over to Chad and said, “Chad.” Chad saw that the colonel’s hand was extended as if to shake. He stood quickly and grasped the colonel’s hand firmly and squeezed. Then the colonel said slowly, deliberately thinking of his words, “Chad, you did a good job. I want to thank you for bringing my daughter out. I’m glad to have you as a son-in-law.” Then the colonel smiled, happy he’d said it and that it was over, then drew Chad in and turned the handshake into a hug. Jenni drew both of her hands to her mouth and felt as though she’d cry and did when she ran over to hug her father as well.

One quick month of wedding plans followed. Jenni chose Gatlinburg because their local church was no more and she’d fallen in love with the cutesy little chapel while on a vacation there as a child. Dottie had gone with she and Chad to the courthouse of Sevier County to get the marriage license. Dottie had called the clerk aside, a true southern lady in her sixties, and had explained all of the circumstances of the wedding. The clerk was thrilled that this was the young man she’d heard about on the news and looked him over amiably. Chad gave a quick nod to her as a greeting. Dottie, a southern lady of the first order herself, explained quietly to the clerk the importance of dates on a marriage certificate for the sake of propriety just in case Jenni had taken on child, lest any gossipy, meddlesome churchwomen wished to do the mathematics of marriage-and-birth. The clerk told Dottie to say no more and under duress of the circumstances backdated the marriage license to December the twenty-first. Jenni had already assured her mother that their marriage on the beach would be the one considered their anniversary and that the one in Gatlinburg would mostly just be for show, and so, she was thrilled with the backdating to make it legal.

Per Jenni’s orders, the ceremony was as traditional as a person’s great-grandmother’s. The only exception being that, at Jenni’s insistence, Maggie was to be the ringbearer. Dottie was unsure of the idea but went along with her daughter’s request. And besides, Dottie reasoned, it would give her husband a responsibility in the wedding. The colonel trained Maggie every day, so much that Dottie thought he’d wear the dog out, but Maggie loved every minute of the training, of course, as though it were a game. Dottie made a white pillow fringed in lace and attached the two golden bands on top of the pillow. During the ceremony, when the time came for the rings, the colonel stood at the rear of the chapel with Maggie. He said quietly to the dog, “Get the pillow,” and the dog eagerly took the pillow in her mouth. Then he said, “Take the rings,” and Maggie pranced down the aisle, offered a glance to both sides as she passed along, and gave the pillow to Jenni in exchange for a kiss on top of the head, then sat down with her tail wagging between Jenni and Chad as though waiting for the pastor to continue. “Maggie, come!” the colonel’s voice was heard and Maggie turned and bolted back out to the giggles of several in attendance. Jenni stood holding a simple bouquet of different colored tulips and wore a white gown woven with flowers so pale they could only be seen up close, a long train, and a laced veil. Chad wore his dark navy uniform, complete with sword dangling at his left hip. When the pastor presented “Mr. and Mrs. Chad Hamilton,” to the witnesses, Jenni held Chad’s hand and looked at her parents with a broad grin. Dottie sat primly, a demure smile, and offered gentle claps through white laced gloves that wouldn’t have been heard had the chapel been silent. The colonel sat with happy tears in swollen eyes. When Jenni looked at him, he told her in their unspoken language that only they understood, “I’m happy you’re all grown up and that you married Chad and although you’re moving out you’ll always be my little girl,” and Jenni smiled at her father and said without speaking, “I know.”