chance—sooner rather than later. These are things I saw in you during our last deployment. Think of it as a list of things you should be watching for. I know I will.”
She left Nick staring at the cover of the report.
A moment later, Jerry approached. “I’m telling you, buddy, the woman’s got a thing for you.”
Nick looked at him. “‘The hottest babe in DMORT?’ Who talks like that? No wonder you’re still single.”
Two hours later, Nick sat cross-legged in the open doorway of a refrigerated semi. Cool air poured over him from behind. It felt good, and he wished he could absorb the coolness and store it away; he wondered how long there would be air-conditioning anywhere in New Orleans. He arched his back and felt his shirt lift away from the skin; it was already dry. Behind him he could hear the low rumble of the diesel engine, which would idle all night to keep the refrigeration unit running. Inside the long trailer, six bodies of average height could be lined up end to end along each wall. A crude bench made from two-by-fours sat along each, adding a second level and doubling the sleeping capacity. Jerry lay in a sleeping bag under one of the benches; he had apparently thought it best not to test the construction with his considerable weight. Jerry was an easy sleeper, and he had dropped off in seconds; he lay on his back with his mouth open, snoring like a diesel himself.
Nick couldn’t sleep. He felt the wind increasing, rocking the trailer with sporadic gusts. The rain came harder too; the drops no longer fell vertically but dashed in all directions like angry bees.
Nick kept thinking how strange it was: In each of his other deployments, the disaster had already happened, and DMORT had been called in after the fact to help pick up the pieces. Here, they were waiting for the disaster to occur. The DPMUs were on-site and assembled, and twelve hundred DMORT volunteers from all over the United States were ready and waiting—and all they could do was sit and watch the disaster happen right before their eyes, like a bomb exploding in slow motion.
The Big Easy, they called it. Nick had a feeling that, after tomorrow, nothing would be easy in New Orleans for a long, long time.
6
Monday, August 29
The hurricane ripped into the Gulf Coast like a massive buzz saw, devastating everything in its path. It came ashore exactly where predicted, at the little town of Buras-Triumph about sixty-five miles southeast of New Orleans—and instantly removed it from the earth. The storm smashed into the shore as a Category 4 hurricane with winds of 140 miles per hour, enough force to strip the roof from a warehouse like aluminum foil or toss a mobile home through the air like an empty shoebox. Century-old oaks and chestnuts were downed in an instant, leaning over onto their sides like tired old men; power lines draped everywhere, crossing with a loud crack and sending showers of sparks sizzling into the sky; glass blasted from window frames, streaking through the air like shrapnel; corrugated sheeting ripped away from sheds and walls and sailed through the air like giant razor blades.
The hurricane plowed inland, driving an eighteen-foot storm surge ahead of it, thundering up the Mississippi River-Gulf Outlet and into the narrow Industrial Canal, where it poured over the levees like an overflowing sink and into the streets of the Lower Ninth Ward. Manhole covers rocketed into the sky and came crashing down with a deafening clang; geysers of water gushed from the storm sewers and shot into the air; abandoned boats sat like houses on city streets, and severed houses floated like boats.
And still the water kept coming.
Inside one of the thousands of houses being slowly submerged, a man struggled frantically to reach a six-inch length of cord dangling from the hallway ceiling above him—but every time he went up on his tiptoes, the black water swirling around his legs knocked him off balance. Twice he had fallen
She left Nick staring at the cover of the report.
A moment later, Jerry approached. “I’m telling you, buddy, the woman’s got a thing for you.”
Nick looked at him. “‘The hottest babe in DMORT?’ Who talks like that? No wonder you’re still single.”
Two hours later, Nick sat cross-legged in the open doorway of a refrigerated semi. Cool air poured over him from behind. It felt good, and he wished he could absorb the coolness and store it away; he wondered how long there would be air-conditioning anywhere in New Orleans. He arched his back and felt his shirt lift away from the skin; it was already dry. Behind him he could hear the low rumble of the diesel engine, which would idle all night to keep the refrigeration unit running. Inside the long trailer, six bodies of average height could be lined up end to end along each wall. A crude bench made from two-by-fours sat along each, adding a second level and doubling the sleeping capacity. Jerry lay in a sleeping bag under one of the benches; he had apparently thought it best not to test the construction with his considerable weight. Jerry was an easy sleeper, and he had dropped off in seconds; he lay on his back with his mouth open, snoring like a diesel himself.
Nick couldn’t sleep. He felt the wind increasing, rocking the trailer with sporadic gusts. The rain came harder too; the drops no longer fell vertically but dashed in all directions like angry bees.
Nick kept thinking how strange it was: In each of his other deployments, the disaster had already happened, and DMORT had been called in after the fact to help pick up the pieces. Here, they were waiting for the disaster to occur. The DPMUs were on-site and assembled, and twelve hundred DMORT volunteers from all over the United States were ready and waiting—and all they could do was sit and watch the disaster happen right before their eyes, like a bomb exploding in slow motion.
The Big Easy, they called it. Nick had a feeling that, after tomorrow, nothing would be easy in New Orleans for a long, long time.
6
Monday, August 29
The hurricane ripped into the Gulf Coast like a massive buzz saw, devastating everything in its path. It came ashore exactly where predicted, at the little town of Buras-Triumph about sixty-five miles southeast of New Orleans—and instantly removed it from the earth. The storm smashed into the shore as a Category 4 hurricane with winds of 140 miles per hour, enough force to strip the roof from a warehouse like aluminum foil or toss a mobile home through the air like an empty shoebox. Century-old oaks and chestnuts were downed in an instant, leaning over onto their sides like tired old men; power lines draped everywhere, crossing with a loud crack and sending showers of sparks sizzling into the sky; glass blasted from window frames, streaking through the air like shrapnel; corrugated sheeting ripped away from sheds and walls and sailed through the air like giant razor blades.
The hurricane plowed inland, driving an eighteen-foot storm surge ahead of it, thundering up the Mississippi River-Gulf Outlet and into the narrow Industrial Canal, where it poured over the levees like an overflowing sink and into the streets of the Lower Ninth Ward. Manhole covers rocketed into the sky and came crashing down with a deafening clang; geysers of water gushed from the storm sewers and shot into the air; abandoned boats sat like houses on city streets, and severed houses floated like boats.
And still the water kept coming.
Inside one of the thousands of houses being slowly submerged, a man struggled frantically to reach a six-inch length of cord dangling from the hallway ceiling above him—but every time he went up on his tiptoes, the black water swirling around his legs knocked him off balance. Twice he had fallen
Similar Books
