5 Days to Landfall

by Robert Roy Britt

  “Anything,” Amanda said.

  “CNN wants to do an extended spot for tomorrow afternoon. They’re devoting a full hour to the storm and the whole season, at three p.m., and they want somebody to explain Harvey.”

  “Oh, Jeez, no.”

  “But you’re the only one…”

  “I know. I’m the only person who can do it. Frank, c’mon. You’ve got half a dozen people here who can explain perfectly well what’s going on with Harvey. You know how I hate television. Jeez, I’ll probably pass out.”

  “It’d be all taped at around noon, nothing live. You can do it three times over if you need to.”

  “C’mon. Why me? Really.”

  “Because I’ve got the same fears you do about this storm, Amanda. I know the spin you’ll put on your description. I know the message that will come through loud and clear, between the lines.”

  “OK. I’ll do it. But if we’re going to bother, don’t give it to CNN exclusively. Let the other networks in, and the Weather Channel. Now, what’s the other thing?”

  “You know the New York weather emergency coordinator?”

  “Leonard Lassitor,” Amanda said in a dull voice. “Wouldn’t know a hurricane if it blew him off his feet.”

  “That’s him. I know he’s a thorn, but he’s the only weather emergency coordinator we have.”

  “Jeez, Frank. He’s been sitting on the damn evacuation report for a year, at least. Nobody’s even seen it.”

  “I know. But we have to work with him anyway. I want you to call him today, tell him to keep his eyes on Harvey. Don’t engage him beyond that, just give him an early heads up.”

  “OK, I’ll do it. Hey, Frank. About the blip in the GFDL last night. You think it was just a glitch?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s never happened before. What if it was on purpose?”

  “Christ. We’ve got enough to worry about around here. Let’s not make it worse by inventing conspiracy theories.”

  “I’m not inventing anything. It was just a concern.”

  “Well, let’s leave it at that, then.”

  ***

  As it did whenever a storm was threatening, activity in the Bunker picked up as the day went on. Reporters started to call. TV crews wanted to come in and get footage. More forecasters came in, some to work, some because they couldn’t stay away when a monster like Harvey was gearing up.

  Amanda had compared notes with each forecaster, soliciting opinions and engaging in a hurricane forecaster’s version of shoptalk. Millibars, wind speeds, vortexes, intensification. She’d learned nothing she didn’t already know about Harvey. She was back at her cubicle, dreading her next task.

  Amanda reached for her phone, hesitated, then picked it up. It was eleven, and she’d put off calling the weather emergency coordinator as long she could. She wanted to talk to Leonard Lassitor like she wanted to stick needles in her eyes.

  Weather emergency coordinator was a new post in New York. The mayor, a brusque man who many said was involved in things way beyond the politics of the City, had finally capitulated to repeated recommendations to improve the City’s hurricane emergency plan. The Army Corps of Engineers, the National Hurricane Center and a slew of emergency officials had pressed him to create a central clearinghouse for information and operations in a storm emergency, an entity that would act as an umbrella for decision making over the dozens of agencies that would need to coordinate.

  Somebody had to run the new agency, which would operate within the Mayor’s Office of Emergency Management. The choice had turned political, and Leonard Lassitor was owed more than a few favors. One of those favors was connected, by a distant thread, to promises the mayor had made during his campaign. The well-paying position was given to Lassitor, a wide politician with a wide political reach who had held various posts in City government. Nobody had been happy with the appointment, mainly because Lassitor had no formal training or experience in meteorology or emergency management, but those who had shouted for the position to be created were powerless to affect the choice. And nobody knew how effective the position would be, anyway, as the extensive hierarchy within the Office of Emergency Management threatened to suffocate the new department. The bureaucracy had so far managed to keep outsiders in the dark about how the department functioned. Not even Amanda Cole knew if Leonard Lassitor wielded much power. He might merely be a pawn of the mayor or a weak shadow in a process that would sidestep him in the event of a real weather emergency. All she knew for sure was that he was the official contact.

  Amanda punched in Lassitor’s number. A secretary answered the phone, said Lassitor was over at the Mayor’s new Emergency Operations Center in the World Trade Center Complex, and connected her.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Leonard. Amanda Cole.”

  “Amanda, how wonderful to hear from you.”

  Amanda gritted her teeth, ignored the insincere pleasantry. “What are you doing in the Control Center? I thought it was only for use during emergencies.”

  “It’s quieter here,” Lassitor said. “Besides, with all these hurricanes you keep saying are coming my way, I figured it’s easier to stay here.”

  “One hurricane, Leonard. One. And Gert had a good shot at you.”

  “But she didn’t come here, and once again you’ve scared the residents of New York for nothing.”

  Lassitor’s tone was caustic, vindictive, as if it were Amanda’s fault that Gert had veered into the Carolinas.

  “We did our best. You know that.”

  “And I’m beginning to wonder if that’s good enough. Should I really be listening to you folks?”

  “Leonard, jeez, we gave you small odds on Gert coming there, issued nothing more than a watch. No warnings, no panic. We were appropriately cautious.”

  “We all have our opinions. Anyway, what do you want now?”

  Amanda wanted to hang up on him, but she remembered what Frank Delaney had said: Don’t engage Lassitor, just give him an early heads up. The conversation had already gone on too long.

  “I just want to tell you that we’re keeping a close eye on Harvey,” she said. “He’s wide, he’s powerful, and he’s got a shot at the Northeast.”

  “And what would you have me do, Ms. Cole? Near as I can tell, Harvey is more than forty-eight hours away from anywhere. Your own computer model shows a track into South Carolina. Not that that means much. Hell, I know enough to know that it might just go out to sea and not bother anyone.”

  “It might,” Amanda said. “But my conscience wouldn’t be clear if Harvey wipes you out and I didn’t mention the possibility as soon as it occurred to me. I’ve done that, so I’ll say goodbye.”

  She slammed the phone down. “Jeez,” she said out loud. She wondered how New York City’s own weather emergency coordinator could be so flippant about something so deadly serious. He must simply not recognize the danger. So many officials didn’t. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the National Hurricane Center had been shouting—loudly—since 1994 when their comprehensive report was issued on the possibility of a major hurricane striking the metro area. Little had changed since. Dozens of agencies, from transportation to police, would be working without a master plan, with little or no coordination, to inform millions of people whether or not they should evacuate and where they should go. It was, Amanda knew, a recipe for chaos. Leonard Lassitor was supposed to spearhead the development of a plan to coordinate the agencies. For three years now he’d been working on that plan, and nobody had heard a thing about it. New York was not prepared.

  ***

  Amanda ignored the first two rings on her phone. She picked up the receiver reluctantly. It was Jack Corbin.

  “How’s your leg?”

  “Sore, but it’s no big thing,” she said.

  “Well, it looked great with that black dress last night.”

  Amanda didn’t say anything.

  “I guess that was a stupid thing to say.�
��

  “Kind of,” Amanda said. “But I’m smiling.”

  Amanda wished she had all day to talk about nothing with Jack Corbin, but it wasn’t that kind of day. “Jack? I’m kinda busy.”

  “Sorry. I just saw that Harvey went Cat 4. He’s not screwing around.”

  “No, he’s not. I told you that.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday. You said Harvey could be here on Friday. What should I write?”

  “Official forecast is still the same.”

  “Charleston, I know. What about the LORAX?”

  Amanda hesitated, stood and looked around the room to make sure none of the other forecasters were within earshot, sat back down.

  “C’mon, Jack, I told you I can’t talk about it.”

  “OK. I won’t box you in. Let me ask you this: How much confidence do you have in the GFDL forecast right now?”

  Amanda let out a sigh. This was turning into a dance, Jack looking for a juicy quote, Amanda not wanting to say anything that might tip her hand. She thought fleetingly about whether she could get in trouble for kissing a reporter to whom she was giving information. The thought made her chuckle.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Amanda was concerned that she not let her infatuation with Jack influence their professional relationship. He had always shot straight with her, never twisted stories around, always been clear about what was and what wasn’t on the record. If Harvey became a worst-case scenario, there were thousands of lives at risk. Jack could help. Besides, her career seemed small in comparison.

  “Talk shop a minute?” she asked.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Frank Delaney would kill me…”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “They hindcasted Gert today.”

  “Hindcasted?”

  “Ran the data through the LORAX. Hindcasting lets us see how the LORAX would have done.”

  “Let me guess,” Jack said. “Last-minute strengthening?”

  “You got it. And remember that dogleg Gert made a few hours before landfall? Well, LORAX called that too.”

  “Has it been that good all year?”

  “No. First storm of the season it did terrible. We tinkered with the code a little, found some problems. After that it did better. We kept tweaking the algorithms after each hindcast, and it got better and better. Two of the last three storms it beat all the other models, hands down.”

  “And now?”

  “It shows a turn to the north, a curve out to sea.”

  “But you’re not using it for your forecast.”

  “Officially, we can’t. Besides, it could be way off base. Each storm presents its own unique problem. We don’t have enough storms under the LORAX’s belt to trust it on any one storm.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, then?”

  “Because I’m scared to death Harvey will split the difference, run right down the middle between the two forecasts. Look, Charleston is a good call at this point. Odds are with it. Thing is, people in the Carolinas know how to evacuate. We say ‘boo,’ they run. But what if Charleston isn’t the spot? We say ‘boo’ to New Yorkers and there’s millions of dollars at stake in lost tourism, things like that. In my official capacity, I can’t say ‘boo’ to New York right now.”

  “But I can,” Jack said.

  “If you’re careful. You say it too loud and my butt is history. And anyway, the GFDL is a solid model. It’s done well. Harvey may very well hit the Carolinas. Thing is—we still off the record?”

  “Until you say otherwise.”

  “I had a strange conversation this morning. You know Leonard Lassitor?”

  “Weather emergency coordinator,” Jack said. “Word on him is everything from political snake to ineffectual slob. I’m still trying to figure out if his post means anything.”

  “Me, too. I called him this morning to tell him we’re worried about Harvey running north, that we’re keeping an eye on it. He shrugged it off like it was a small thunderstorm that might rumble through, but probably wouldn’t. I’ve never known a more arrogant SOB, but even for him it was way out of line.”

  “Has his hands in a lot of pies,” Jack said, “and doesn’t seem to take too many orders. Maybe the mayor’s pet, or maybe they just filled the post for appearances and don’t have plans to make use of it, or him. He’s a friend of my editor, Walter Beasley, and Beasley says he’s a straight shooter. I’m not so sure.”

  “That’s why we need you, Jack. Even though we can’t say ‘New York’ right now, we’ve got to have something in the Times tomorrow morning.”

  “I can do that. I’ll get some other meteorologists to talk, you won’t be mentioned. Tell me, though. What’s your biggest fear?”

  “Too many to count,” Amanda said.

  “Give me a couple. It’s been awhile since I wrote about the threat.”

  “Time is our worst enemy. The ocean is warmer than normal this summer. If the steering winds take Harvey north, he could accelerate to phenomenal speeds.”

  “Like the 1938 hurricane?”

  “Just like the 1938 hurricane,” she said. “Forward speed of sixty miles an hour when it hit Long Island. The 1938 storm was only a Cat 1 by landfall, though. And still the storm surge was more than twenty feet. Harvey could be stronger.”

  “How much stronger?” Jack asked.

  “Depends. Soon as it moves north of Hatteras—if it does—it will begin to weaken as the ocean gets cooler. But there’s a chance that it could be Cat 5 by then. If so, and if it’s moving fast, it could race to New York in seven hours and might still be Cat 3, just through sheer momentum. This is all hypothetical, you understand. It will happen someday, but it may not happen with Harvey.”

  “And if it does?”

  “First problem is evacuation. Just in Manhattan and Brooklyn alone there’s more than a half a million people we consider vulnerable. Thing is, they don’t know who they are. Lots of people who aren’t in danger will probably panic and try to leave the City, plugging the bridges and tunnels. Even if everything went smoothly, it would take anywhere from five to nine hours to evacuate Manhattan. But we may not know where Harvey’s going until early Friday morning. People could wake up to clear skies and learn a major hurricane is just a few hours away.”

  “OK,” Jack said. “Now, what if it hits? What happens?”

  “Bridges go first. Unusable once winds reach gale force, well before the worst of the storm arrives. That compounds the evacuation problem. People have to be moved several hours before the center of the storm actually arrives.”

  “Storm surge?”

  “You won’t have to use any imagination to frighten people,” Amanda said. “We’re talking flood heights like New York has never seen. Start at Fire Island. On average, it’s a few hundred yards wide, and in only a few spots is it higher than five feet above sea level. We’re looking at a storm surge of fifteen feet or more. As the surge moves into New York Bay, the bathymetrics of a rising bottom and narrowing shores act like a funnel. The water has nowhere to go but up. So, at Coney Island the surge could exceed twenty feet and extend three-quarters of a mile into Brooklyn.”

  “Even in Manhattan the surge will top twenty feet. Lots of people will see water on the second floor, and it will rise incredibly fast, almost like a wave. There are a couple dozen institutions in Manhattan—nursing homes, hospitals, jails and so on—that will flood at least on the first floor. There’s at least that many in Brooklyn. Some face the water down around Coney Island and aren’t built to withstand the wind. My father is in one of those buildings.”

  “I’m sorry, Amanda.”

  Don’t bore him with how much it hurts. “I went to see him yesterday. Told the assistant manager that if she didn’t figure out how to evacuate the place she’d have some pretty serious lawsuits on her hands. I don’t know if it will help, but it made me feel a little better.”

  “It will help,” Jack said. “Hey, you just
reminded me. You think of anyone who might know which insurance companies have how much exposure to East Coast hurricane risk?”

  “It’s not too hard to find out, in general at least. Annual reports usually summarize exposure, talk about what a company is doing to spread risk.”

  “What about specifics?”

  “A little harder to come by. You’d have to be inside the company to know exactly what their exposure is. Why?”

  “Well, I got a tip from our business editor, said somebody sold short a big chunk of Global Insurance Company a few hours before Gert made landfall. Seems GLIC, as it’s known, has some pretty strong exposure in North Carolina.”

  “Could just be somebody who was thinking on their feet,” Amanda said.

  “Doesn’t look that way. I’ve been poking around about the people who made the trade. Perez family in the Dominican Republic. Then I got a visit from an FBI guy. Don’t know how the hell he knew I was looking into it, but he wanted to know everything I knew.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Not a damn thing. I feed it to him and we lose a story and a good source. Anyway, my gut tells me something is going on.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Goddard Space Flight Center

  5:55 p.m.

  The technician in Building 28 scratched his head. He’d hoped the call would be from the man in the perfect suit. When it turned out otherwise, the technician had been almost relieved. He was still wrestling with his conscience over the commitment he’d made to the man in the perfect suit.

  Either way, it was a big break from procedure, but Frank Delaney was the director of the National Hurricane Center. The technician hadn’t argued.

  It was nearly time to shut down the LORAX; Harvey would soon be within thirty-six hours of landfall. The GFDL model had it heading for Charleston. But instead of shutting the LORAX down, as they’d done at this juncture with every storm before, Delaney had asked him to keep the LORAX running real-time. No explanation. The technician shrugged and obliged. Didn’t make any difference to him. He entered it in the logbook, mentioned it to the technician who came in to work the night shift, then headed off to the hospital to visit his ailing wife.