Sleepy found the work meditative. In the darkness, he could close his eyes or leave them open, it did not matter. He had always appreciated being alone, and his four hours in the hole every day was for Sleepy a relaxing stretch of isolation.
His shovel hit something solid, and he reached out with his fingers to work around it. It was another chunk of brick or cinder block that would slow him down. As he dug his fingernails into the cold earth, eyes blind, Sleepy suddenly felt that he truly was a mole. The thought made his heart sink. He never liked the term. It sounded so subhuman. We’re not animals. We’re men and women and children. We live and breathe and think and work and love.
And hate and fuck and fight and scratch. The obstruction was large. He felt its rough surface and knew it was a brick. It might take ten minutes or more to get it out. He dug with the shovel in a widening circle, looking for an edge to pry on. Sleepy tried to let his mind drift back into the Zen-like state he often enjoyed down here, but he couldn’t maintain it: His brother and Hammer kept taking over his thoughts.
He had a nagging feeling that Hammer would act sooner rather than later. In the past few weeks, the campaign to enlist more pushers and get cheap heroin on the streets had begun to work. Once Hammer had enough addicts buying from his pushers, he began raising prices. It was time to reap some profits now, and he would want to make sure he had found all the pushers he could summon. He had already stepped up his recruiting efforts, targeting more distant underground dwellings. He was invading homes occupied by more than two men, where the odds were riskier.
Sleepy had seen it all before. He knew Hammer’s business tactics would become even more aggressive.
He sighed deeply in the darkness.
Then his fingernails dipped into the indentation between one brick and another.
Mortar. Where there’s mortar there is more than just debris. He had found the wall of the old construction tunnel.
His mind leaped for joy. His head followed, and he bumped it on oak plank that supported the earth ceiling of the horizontal section of the escape tunnel. He rubbed his head, and then his mind began immediately to work on the new problem. It might take a full day to chisel a hole through the wall. Then there was the question of whether or not there was any way out of the construction tunnel. It might have been cut off on both ends, after its abandonment, by the actual construction areas it served. Sleepy felt a sinking feeling with this thought, one he hadn’t allowed himself all week. If he had not assumed there would be a way out, he could never had mustered the energy to dig every day. PJ never thought that far, and the question had never been raised.
Sleepy felt a new pressure. All week, he had known it would take a long time to dig the escape tunnel. He had not made a deadline, but had focused on the daily schedule. They didn’t have the men or the energy to keep up a more rapid pace, at least not for long. But now they were close. And so was the danger. He felt Hammer nipping at his heels. He stared into the darkness at the bricks, ran his fingers over them. The way out. We’ll double our efforts.
CHAPTER 29
Keesler AFB,
Biloxi, Mississippi
11:32 p.m.
The tarmac was quiet, the distant sounds of night bugs and animals mixing to form a barely audible hum. The moon was full and it cast an eerie blue light on the tarmac. Jack was standing near the WC-130, listening to nervous jokes made by a stringer Beasley had rounded up to take Juan Rico’s place, and two other journalists Jack didn’t know. They were all waiting for the flight crew.
Jack felt like a piece of him was missing without Rico around. He called him on his cell phone.
“On my way to face death again,” Jack said. “What’re you doing?”
“Watching Leno,” Rico said.
“Lazy ass.”
“Hey, wasn’t like I wanted to break an arm.”
“You going to chase Harvey?”
“I dunno. Maybe I let him chase me.”
“He might,” Jack said.
“Wanna bet?”
“Yep.”
“Double or nothin’?”
“Sure,” Jack said. “I could use a hundred. Where’s your pick?”
Rico thought. “Topsail Island.”
“Oh, c’mon. That’s a throwaway. Betting with you is like taking candy from a baby.”
“Topsail Island,” Rico said again. “Where you pick?”
“I’m here. You’re there. I pick New York.”
“Fuck you, man! I’m a one-armed bandit. Can’t even defend myself.”
Jack saw the erect silhouette of Captain Glen Barnes emerge from the hangar, followed by a crew of five.
“Gotta go, pal. Looks like we’re on our way.”
“Take pictures for me,” Rico said.
“Sure.”
Jack hadn’t gotten access to Barnes all day. Resting, the PR woman said. The whole afternoon and evening had been a waste of time. The Captain reached the clutch of journalists, extended his hand and introduced himself and his crew.
Jack took Barnes’ hand. “Jack Corbin, New York Times.”
Barnes grumbled.
Jack had met the pilot briefly last year at the National Hurricane Conference. His recollection of a short man with a condescending tone was correct. They had shaken hands, Jack saying something polite about maybe doing a story about the pilot someday and Barnes, returning the politeness, saying its always nice when reporters acknowledge the work of the hurricane hunters. It was the way he emphasized reporters. As though he were talking down to me. Clear tension, like I smelled his asshole and he smelled mine and we could tell we were from different packs.
Barnes was unimposing, average height and build. But he looked as though he contained a bridled, boundless energy, as if he’d managed to drink seven cups of coffee and yet keep a grip on his nerves for some possible future moment when superhuman energy would be needed. Air Force guys. Gung ho about everything.
Jack pointed to the stringer. “This is Harvey Miller, our photographer.”
The pilot seemed unimpressed. “Harvey. Humph,” Barnes said, casting a glance over his shoulder at his wiry copilot, who flashed an internal-joke grin. Barnes looked back at Jack. “I hate coincidences, Mr. Corbin. Glad we’re flying into Irene, sir.”
“We’re what?” Jack had forgotten all about Hurricane Irene. Everybody had, it seemed. But she was maintaining Category 1 strength, barely-chugging along in relative obscurity in the Gulf of Mexico, existing in the media shadow of her larger cousin. Irene, a small storm with a tight wind radius, had been inching across the Gulf toward Brownsville, Texas, near the Mexican border, with landfall predicted in two or three days. The Hurricane Center was taking her seriously, as they did every hurricane that might affect land, but the media had all but ignored the storm.
“Irene,” Barnes repeated. “We’re flying into Irene, sir.”
“But I thought we’d be going to Harvey. Jesus, I just assumed. I mean, it’s the biggest storm in years, and we’re going to miss it?”
“You might be missing it, Mr. Corbin, but we’ve been there already. With all due respect, we’re quite pleased not to be going back. It’s been a long season and Harvey is a helluva storm, sir.”
“But there’s no story in Irene. Damn. What the hell am I supposed to write? ‘During the Storm of the Century, Captain Glen Barnes was pleased to be flying into wimpy little Irene. ”’
Barnes studied Jack. He took a stick of Doublemint chewing gum from his shirt pocket, unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth. He wadded the wrapper up and flicked it with his thumb and forefinger, narrowly missing Jack’s shoe. Neither man looked down.
“Mr. Corbin. This is the military. We take orders from CARCAH, not from reporters. Not even The New York Times can tell us where to fly. I’m the pilot. Full authority to throw your ass out of the plane if you cause problems. Now, you coming, sir?"
No one else had said a word yet. Jack let out an exaggerated breath of exasperation and shook his head, then rolled his eyes and t
hrew up his hands in acquiescence.
“Copilot Duggan here will tell you what to expect during the flight.” Barnes pointed with his thumb at Duggan and walked briskly toward Hugo.
Duggan clearly had a memorized spiel designed for the benefit of the journalists and the stories they would be writing. “The WC-l30 here has 65,000 pounds of fuel on board, enough to be in the air safely for ten or twelve hours. It’s in the big tank you’ll see in the middle of the fuselage. We’ll ask you to remain seated and buckled in during takeoff and for much of the time while we’re in or near the hurricane, as we never know when it might get bumpy. Cap’n will let-you know when it’s safe to get up and walk around. In the eye, of course, you’ll all have a few minutes to enjoy the view. Now, safety. Laptop computers are fine unless Cap’n asks you to turn them off, then we request you do so immediately. Transmissions of any kind are not allowed. There are no parachutes on board. If we have any problems, which of course we don’t expect, we’ll ditch the plane. There’s a life preserver under your seat and a twenty-man life raft filled with survival supplies stowed in each wing. The dropsonde operator will show you how to get at all that stuff. Hopefully we won’t need it. Hugo here is a pretty trusty old plane. If there’s any mechanical problems, we usually spot them on the ground. We’ve got a couple of decommissioned WC-130s around back of the hangar that we strip for whatever parts we need to get the old bucket of bolts up in the air.”
Duggan grinned. Hurricane Hunter humor. Jack wasn’t amused.
Duggan reminded the guests there were no stewardesses on board, no dinners served. “You all board in five minutes,” he said.
Jack quickly tried to call Amanda on his cell phone, but she was not at the Hurricane Center and did not answer her cell phone. A long day for her, too. He had a brand new laptop with him. He sent her a quick email:
Luck runs out again. Flying into Irene instead. Due to take off at midnight. See you soon. Wear black.
Jack.
The dropsonde operator had strapped the other three journalists in. Barnes was shouting. “You coming or not, Corbin?”
“Shit,” Jack said under his breath. “I’m coming.”
~ ~ ~
EXCERPTED FROM HURRICANES: HISTORY AND DYNAMICS, BY DR. NICHOLAS K. GRAY, HUMBOLDT UNIVERSITY PRESS (1998)
On July 27, 1943, Colonel Joe Duckworth of the Army Air Corps bet a highball that he could fly his single engine AT-6 Trainer into a hurricane approaching Galveston. He did it with one navigator. He did it without official permission. Duckworth was the lead instructor at Bryan Field, training British pilots—many of whom were already World War II aces—in the nascent field of instrument flying.
Word spread that the AT-6 “Texan Trainers” might have to be moved out of the storm’s path. The British pilots scoffed at the implied frailty of the plane. Duckworth, tired of the ribbing, proposed the wager. He collected on his bet that night, becoming the first known person to fly into the eye of a hurricane, an adventure he described as similar to “being tossed about like a stick in a dog’s mouth.”
Duckworth’s mission eventually led to the creation of the 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron. The Hurricane Hunters.
~ ~ ~
Friday, August 27
CHAPTER 30
Aboard Hugo
6:57 a.m.
You never knew what a storm was like until you got inside. That was the only constant with hurricanes, Captain Glen Barnes believed. So far the flight was smooth and uneventful. But the pilot was nervous. Not only did he have his usual headache, but his jaw was sore from the furious chewing he gave the gum. Hugo and its crew were about to make another attempt at their first pass through the eyewall. Several previous tries from the south and west had been aborted because of strong thunderstorms. They were now taking a shot from the north.
“Control, Teal One-Niner. We’re about 200 miles out, right on progged position, everything smooth so far. Hope to be in the eye by 1200 Zulu.”
“Roger, Teal. Fate of the universe is in your hands. Stay in touch.”
“Everybody’s a fucking comedian,” Barnes said to his copilot.
Duggan smiled. “Lighten up, Cap’n. It’s just another storm. We’ve been here before.”
“I know. That’s why I won’t lighten up.”
It bothered Barnes whenever his copilot said anything without a joke or obscure reference. When Duggan sounded serious, it meant there was probably a real problem to consider. Barnes ran the whole mission through his head, ticked off the sequence of preflight checks, made sure nothing had been missed. His argument with the Times reporter was eating at him. Mission control’s holding Hugo on the ground for an hour while they made their minds up was eating at him. His superstitions were eating at him.
“New York fucking Times.”
***
They had been in the air since one in the morning. It was broad daylight now, but Jack Corbin wished it were still dark, for the view was one he did not enjoy: thick angry clouds and a frothy sea. Hugo’s giant rear end gaped open. The dropsonde operator pushed a button and with a loud click the small torpedo-looking metal canister slid out the back of the plane.
Jack had been forced to remain buckled in while the crew went about its work. He tried his best to interpret what they were doing and take notes. The weather officer made periodic visual observations of wave heights to estimate wind speed. The flight engineer kept his eyes on an array of gauges, monitoring Hugo’s health.
The navigator told Jack that Hugo would fly an Alpha pattern through the storm, crossing through the center several times in what from above would look like a giant X. Each leg of the X would be 100 to 200 miles long, plus a little extra now and then to avoid severe thunderstorms.
As they approached the eye, the navigator’s radar screen showed the characteristic spiral bands of thunderstorms wrapping around the bright red ring in the middle: the eyewall, a nearly solid circle of thunderstorms in which the crew was searching for holes.
As the large steel door at the back of the plane closed, Hugo hit a rising current of air. The dropsonde operator landed on his back, scrambled to his seat and strapped himself in. Jack looked out the window. Visibility dropped as they flew into another band of thunderstorms. Sheets of rain streamed across the windows.
“Sorry about the bump,” Barnes said over the intercom. “Everybody sit tight and hang on. We’re starting our descent now to 850 millibars—five thousand feet—prior to eyewall penetration in about thirty minutes. It’s going to be rough.”
Jack knew just enough about airplanes and flight dynamics to be scared. He knew the WC-130 had no special reinforcement, no structural enhancements to prepare it for the ferocious winds it tackled. Jack’s sweaty hands turned white. The roar of the four Allison engines penetrated his green headphones.
Jack’s stomach rose into his throat as a stiff downdraft dropped Hugo hundreds of feet in an instant. Hugo rose as quickly as it had fallen and Jack threw up on his brand new laptop.
CHAPTER 31
Manhattan
7:09 a.m.
Already it was like wearing clothes into a steam room. Amanda’s jeans still stuck to the back of her legs from the sweat produced while sitting on the vinyl seat during the taxi ride in from the airport.
Amanda had taken the first flight she could get out of Miami. She used the key she still had to let herself in to Juan Rico’s apartment. Rico was gone already. She called the newsroom, but he wasn’t there. Amanda had a million things on her mind: Harvey, Jack, Sarah, Ed Cole, even the mole people. And now Rico.
She was determined that things would be different this time. Hurricane Gert had fooled her as a forecaster and then nearly killed her and two people she loved.
Hurricane Harvey was far more dangerous. But Amanda would not be pushed around. She would not chase Harvey foolishly, but she would face the storm. And win.
As soon as she cleared some business away, she’d go fetch her father out on Coney Island. There had be
en a thread of a connection with him this last time, frayed as it was. She wanted to hang onto that, build on it. Anyway, she wasn’t comfortable leaving her father in the hands of Kim Butler. At last look, an hour ago from her laptop on the plane, the LORAX showed Harvey’s path nipping the eastern tip of Long Island. The damn forecast kept moving west.
Amanda had been so busy watching the storm she hadn’t checked her email. She downloaded it. There was a message from Jack:
Luck runs out again. Flying into Irene instead.
Due to take off at midnight. See you soon. Wear black.
Jack.
Amanda was relieved. Irene was less intense, and though that was no guarantee, it would probably mean a safer flight. One less person to worry about.
The eight o’clock bulletin would be going out from the Hurricane Center in less than an hour. Amanda set up her laptop and downloaded the latest.
Though she half expected it, Amanda couldn’t believe her eyes. While all of the other models still showed a curve out to sea, the LORAX was pointing due north, hitting Long Island dead center.
The LORAX’s forecast had marchedfarther west,toward Manhattan, each time she’d pulled it up. Why? Amanda typed in a command, downloaded the sea of data that went into the computer model’s algorithms. It could take her an hour or more just to catch up with the LORAX’s thinking. She glanced at her watch. Don’t have an hour. Get going.
But first she had to call Leonard Lassitor.
***
“You smug bastard.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Amanda.”
“What makes you think you can ignore the experts? We’re talking about thousands of lives. This isn’t a game anymore, it’s not about you and me. It’s not about whose job is what. It’s about life and death.”
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