Apocalypse Drift (32 page)
An aide soon delivered a parcel of clean clothes
so distressed, they could have been leftovers from a recent garage sale or rejects from the latest charity drive. In Reed’s mind, the experience of donning the clean underwear, unsoiled pants, and odor-free shirt was akin to preparing for a Broadway opening in a stylish tuxedo.
It wasn’t just his ordeal of isolation in Brenda’s flat that shaped his newfound appreciation. On the drive from Washington, the surreal images outside the plain government sedan reminded him of news footage of a war-ravaged section of Syria or Libya, not the capital of the most powerful nation on earth.
Fires still raged unchecked, some consuming entire blocks. Freeways were jam-packed with abandoned vehicles for as far as the eye could see. Overturned cars littered the surface streets, often competing with smoldering ash heaps of bonfire-roadblocks ignited during the riots. When his escorts pulled away from Brenda’s apartment, one of the men had turned and offered Reed a handkerchief. “Here, you’ll need this in a bit.” Puzzled, Reed thought perhaps they would be passing through areas of intense smoke, but that wasn’t the reason. It was the dead, twisted, decomposing corpses. After the first few miles, Reed became acclimated to the view, and he stopped counting the fallen bodies of his countrymen. But it wasn’t only people – the cadavers of horses, dogs, and cats were scattered among the ruins.
Many of Washington’s broad avenues were impassable, blocked by relic traffic or the rubble of collapsed buildings. Here and there, military vehicles and soldiers patrolled the streets. The driver commented, “It took the National Guard almost three days to muster and enter the city. It took another two days to establish order, but only in certain
areas. We held the Capitol building and White House, but a lot of government facilities weren’t so lucky. Much of this town is still ‘no man’s land.’”
After what seemed like hours, they successfully maneuvered to the Maryland countryside. The earth sported a “just rained” clean smell, and Reed felt an even stronger urge to bathe.
The foul, oily smoke from the city clung to his skin and clothing like a coating of grease. He recognized he hadn’t smelled daisy-fresh in the first place, but the drive through Hades-on-the-Potomac had saturated his soul.
Feeling physically refreshed, Reed’s mental outlook was bolstered as he absorbed the frenzied level of activity around the base. If it weren’t for a desperate longing to speak with his family, the congressman’s attitude would have appeared optimistic. Having no communication with his wife and children was practically unbearable. He was sure they were in a much better place than the average citizen was, but he didn’t
know
that for a fact. He craved some sort of confirmation.
It’s impossible right now, so get busy and do your job
, he thought.
Roll up your sleeves and occupy your time. You won’t fix a thing by worrying about them.
Reed’s mood was elevated further as he began
to acclimate to the current of energy that flowed through the gathered politicians. The country was in trouble, and these people had been elected to serve her. He forced himself to put aside his personal apprehensions, and began looking for his party’s leadership to report in.
Representative Wallace finally found a cluster of familiar faces and strode over to join the group. Hands pumped with a little more vigor than in the past. Standard political banter was replaced with seemingly heartfelt comments like, “Really glad you made it,” and “Good to see you’re alive.” Reed was a freshman and relatively unknown, so he remained on the fringe and just observed. The majority of the conversation concerned other parts of the country and what little news had filtered back to D.C. The legislators from rural areas believed things had remained stable in their districts, while those from districts that included larger cities were hearing bad news.
As best as anyone could tell, the chaos in Washington was the norm, not the exception. The congressman from Chicago had received a report that the second great fire to ravage the Windy City was blazing out of control; the burning skyline was apparently visible clear across Lake Michigan. Others had similar status reports from back home.
A loud, pounding noise sounded from
the minute stage at the front of the room, commanding the attention of all present. “Please come to order and take your seats. Please come to order, ladies and gentlemen,” the vice president instructed, pounding his gavel.
Reed found his assigned folding chair and sat wondering how all of this would play out. The House Majority Leader joined the V.P. behind the podium and tested the microphone. The room quickly became quiet.
“Elected representatives of the United States of America, I hereby call this session to order. As you all know, our country has experienced a catastrophic chain of events, and I’m sure every single one of you has a million questions. As many of you already know, the president has declared martial law throughout the country. Federalized forces are making every attempt to reestablish order throughout the land. The president has tasked the legislative branch with recovery and recuperation. When I spoke to the commander-in-chief this morning, he asked that we have a plan, ready to implement, the moment order is restored. He assured me that the executive control and the declared state of emergency would be lifted as soon as possible. So, our first order of business today will entail a situational update and briefing from several different speakers. First up will be, Director Morton of the Department of Homeland Security.”
Reed was relieved. He had worried that his peers would opt for the usual political theater and positioning, and he just wasn’t in the mood for a bunch of long-winded speeches. Evidently, everyone else felt the same way as he did – time to get down to business and be Americans first, politicians second.
Galveston Bay, Texas
The last boat cleared the mouth of the channel, heading southeast toward Galveston Island. David was readying to move closer to the line of boats when something in the northern sky caught his eye. A dark line of clouds was just visible over the horizon, and his heart sank at the sight - a northerner was moving in.
This time of year along the gulf coast, the weather patterns were mostly mundane. About the only serious disturbances were the massive cold fronts rolling down from the ar
ctic north. These powerful storms were strong enough to push the warm, humid air of the gulf out of the way. While frosts and snow were rare along the coast, these massive fronts were known to generate violent thunderstorms, high winds, and very cold temperatures.
What a time to lose the Weather Channel
, he thought.
Clouds normally trekked from the southwest to the northeast. Only a northerner came from the northwest
, and that’s where this line of clouds was coming from. David keyed the microphone on his handheld radio and called out for Boxer. When his father answered, he asserted, “Dad, look over your left shoulder at the clouds.”
Everyone could hear the broadcast, and several of the boats were close enough that David could see heads pivoting to look. In a few moments, Wyatt answered for everyone. “We need to find a port – right now.” It wasn’t good news.
Wyatt turned and looked at Morgan who was already pulling out charts. While he had a very accurate picture on Boxer’s large screen GPS, the scale wasn’t large enough to pick out details, like finding a place to ride out the storm. But even without a map, Wyatt knew the bay quite well, and there were only a few options. The sailboats in the fleet simply were not fast enough to outrun the front. Maxing out at about six knots, or seven miles per hour, they would be caught out in open water when the weather turned bad. Riding out the storm on open water was taking a big risk.
The danger wasn’t sinking or capsizing, even the smallest of the fleet’s craft could handle all but the worst weather. The risk was collision, equipment malfunction, grounding, and exposure by the crew. Boxer could handle anything short of a hurricane and survive relatively unharmed. Wyatt had piloted the boat through extremely bad weather and didn’t want a repeat event. He had once likened the experience to driving a convertible car through a tornado with the top down and no windshield wipers. The driving sheets of rain had reduced visibility to the point where he couldn’t see the front of the boat. The waves had slammed her so violently, Morgan had become ill. Later, she claimed to know firsthand what a pair of sneakers felt like in the dryer. The crews of the smaller boats
would take an ever worse beating.
As Wyatt mentally pictured this end of the bay, there were only a few options that would provide shelter from a north wind. Of those, only one was isolated from sizeable human populations, and after
what they had witnessed in the channel, avoiding other people seemed like a good idea.
“How about Redfish Island?
We can anchor and then raft up on the southeast side and ride it out,” Wyatt suggested, all the while scanning Morgan’s expression for evidence of her true reaction.
Morgan took her finger and measured on the chart. At their current speed and distance, they just might make it. Without a weather report, there was no way to tell how fast the front was coming on, but the boiling clouds behind them appeared to be catching up. “I can’t see or think of anything closer unless we turn around and go back to the channel,” she said.
Wyatt reached for the radio and asked if anyone had a problem heading for Redfish. After a few moments with no response, he continued, “Let’s make for the southeast side of the island.”
Morgan waited to see if anyone responded on the VHF, and after a period of silence, her voice was calm, but serious. “We are just over eight nautical miles away. At our current speed, it will be
70 minutes before we get there. I suggest the faster boats move ahead because it will take a bit to secure the anchors. By the time everyone else catches up, we can be ready for them.”
“That’s a good idea. It’s hard enough to set the hook without worrying about running into another boat. If we have everyone drifting around all over the place, there’s a good chance for a collision.” Wyatt glanced over his shoulder again, watching the churning, black clouds that were chasing the fleet. He picked up the microphone and announced, “
We all can’t arrive and anchor at the same time – there’s not enough space, and we’ll be crashing into each other. Every boat should make its best speed. If possible, the smaller vessels should raft up to the larger ones.”
A few of the captains came back with comments such as, “Good idea,” and “Good luck.”
Wyatt pushed Boxer’s throttles forward, and the big diesel engines increased their thunder. The heavy fiberglass hull rose slightly when she began to plane across the top of the water. As they passed the slower vessels, many of the captains signaled their support. Nobody wanted to be in open water during a northerner.
As Boxer and five other large powerboats surged past the fleet, their wakes created a bouncy ride for the vessels they passed. There wasn’t time to follow the rules and slow down, but no one seemed to care. The wa
kes produced by the passing craft were nothing compared to what the bay would kick up with a stiff northern wind.
After fifteen minutes, the outline of Redfish began showing on Boxer’s radar. At twenty minutes, he could see the northernmost tip of the island.
Redfish had been a natural oyster reef for thousands of years. An extension of Eagle Point, the small island housed trees and even a few buildings many years ago. Really more of a peninsula than an actual island, it was said that a person could walk across from the mainland at low tide.
Many people thought the island had
a primitive feel to it. Some described it as being similar to wandering around ancient ruins of long-lost civilizations. Part of this was no doubt attributed to its being an isolated place where people once tread, an experience similar to visiting a ghost town. All kinds of seaborne debris was known to wash up on the unhabituated speck’s shores - containers from the passing vessels, bottom refuge washed up by storms, and of course, everyday items blown from the decks of passing pleasure craft.
The Houston Ship Channel was less than a mile to the east. As this major shipping artery saw more and more tonnage, Redfish began to erode and shrink. The huge ocean-going tankers,
freighters, and tugs plying the waters of the bay generated bow wakes that could exceed 10 feet in height. Dozens of these commercial vessels journeyed up and down the ship channel every day, and the small island couldn’t handle the change from the normally tranquil waters of the bay. Throw in the occasional hurricane, and the small patch of dry land didn’t stand a chance. By the 1970s, there were no longer any trees. By the 1980s, the island was nothing more than a crescent moon-shaped spot, less than an acre in size. By the 1990s, the island was below the surface except at the very lowest tide.
Wyatt felt the wind shift out of the north just as Boxer turned out of the ship channel toward Redfish. In a matter of moments, the air temperature dropped several degrees, and Morgan scrambled down the ladder to fetch jackets. The dark line of ominous clouds was now almost directly overhead and moving quickly. On the horizon, flashes of lightning illuminated the sky.
Pointing Boxer the right direction was tricky through this section of the bay. Numerous shallows, oyster beds, and mud reefs dotted the area, many of them randomly shifting position over time. Boxer drew almost five feet of water, and the charts carried warnings of one to three foot depths at mean tide. Hitting a razor-sharp oyster bed, even at slow speed, could peel away the hull of the big boat. More likely, the outcome would be a broken propeller or two. If Boxer lost a wheel, she could continue with a single shaft. If she lost two, they would have to abandon her and all she carried.
Wyatt’s eyes constantly moved from the depth gauge to the chart plotter to the water ahead. The numerical depth readings were accurate, but under the hull of the boat. It was like trying to drive a car through a hole in the floorboard – by the time you ran over something it was too late.
Still, he could identify and anticipate trends, and right now the line indicating the bottom of the bay was going the wrong way. He watched as the numbers read 8…8…7…7…6, and reached up, pulling the engines into neutral. If he hit bottom, it might save the propellers if they weren’t spinning. As Boxer coasted, the numbers began to increase, finally reaching nine feet of water again. He threw the engines into gear and turned toward the leeward side of Redfish’s protected anchorage. This area had been dredged and was a known depth of 10 feet.
After navigating the shallows, Wyatt had a moment to study the island. When a Corps of Engineers project to widen the Houston Ship Channel had been announced, several groups banded together, asking the government to use the dredged materials to rebuild the now all-but-submerged landmark. Several preservation groups, as well as the recreational boating community, thought it was worth the endless petitions and emails to their congressmen. Finally, after an exhaustive effort, the proper authorities agreed, and Redfish was slowly rebuilt. Ever since, the small strip of dry land had served as a bird sanctuary, natural tidal break, and great weekend gunk-hole for the pleasure boaters.
The engineers dumped thousands of tons of soil onto the old island, topping it off with loads of basketball-sized rocks. While not exactly a sandy oasis for swimming and walking, the authorities had ensured all of that soil didn’t wash back into the nearby ship channel. Almost three acres of manmade land reappeared in the bay. Barely fifty feet wide and stretching almost two football fields in length, the island made an excellent breakwater. A small cove was protected from the large wakes rolling in from the ship channel and was enjoyed by dozens of craft every weekend. Right now, Wyatt wanted protection from the wind-driven waves that would soon start howling in from the north.
Typically, a layer of soft mud covered the bottom of the bay. Anchoring in such material was difficult at best, and often next to impossible. One of the reasons why Redfish was such a popular destination was that the bottom contained a bit more clay than was normal in the area. The sticky, thicker material increased the chances of setting the hook securely.
Wyatt nudged Boxer’s bow toward the center of the island and watched until the depth began to decrease. He flicked the safety cover off of the anchor chain’s release while Morgan made her way forward to release the manual safety on the heavy links. More than one vessel had been sunk by an accidental release of the anchor while underway, thus the redundant safeties.
Boxer’s engines were again shifted into neutral, and in a few moments, the wind started pushing her back from the island and over deeper water. When the depth returned to 10 feet, Wyatt signaled Morgan, and she released the safety and stepped back. Wyatt flipped the switch, and the anchor fell free of the pulpit, splashing into the dark water below. The first 20 feet of anchor rod was chain, and
that fed out quickly, rattling noisily over the pulley. After the chain, a heavy rope started playing out as Boxer continued to drift backward.
Proper anchoring normally involved some ratio of depth to the length of the line. In calm waters, a ratio of five or six to one was acceptable. In rough seas, over seven to one could be required to hold a vessel in place. Boxer was in ten feet of water, so over 70 feet of anchor scope needed to unwind to provide a secure hold.
The rope had markers every ten feet. Morgan watched and counted, holding up fingers so Wyatt would know how much line had played out. At 90 feet, Wyatt flipped the switch on the dash, and the pulley seized the line. Now began a waiting game to see if the hook had caught and buried itself in the mud. It took a few more moments for the line to pull tight, halting Boxer’s backward drift. Wyatt set the waypoint on the GPS and then pushed the throttles into reverse, giving the engines just a touch of power while watching the readouts on the screen beside him. She held! There was no movement at all except the expected side-to-side drift on the line. They had a good anchorage. Wyatt picked up the radio and let the other captains know.
The follow-on boats behind Boxer had to be aware of how far she was swinging to and fro on her line before they could repeat the same process. Any boat at anchor can swing several degrees port to starboard, and collisions were always a concern when anchoring in tight proximity.