5 Days to Landfall

by Robert Roy Britt

  ***

  Bob Drucker called back, just as Amanda reached the other side of the bridge. She sat down against the railing and cupped her hand over her ear so she could hear.

  “Looks like we’ve got a story all right,” he said. “René Perez, same guy as before, made two short sells this morning on PrimeCo. First one was at 7:59, a pretty good chunk for after-hours trading. Second one was at 9:32, just after the market opened, and it was much bigger. Overall, he sold $10 million worth of PrimeCo.”

  “How much can he make on that?”

  “Depends on how much the stock drops,” Drucker said.

  “Let’s say it’s cut in half.”

  “Then he buys the shares back for $5 million and pockets a profit of $5 million.”

  “Thanks,” Amanda said. “That’s all I needed.”

  “Hey, what about our deal? Who else is involved? Who’s feeding Perez the info?”

  “I’m still sorting it out. I said the Times will get the story, and I’ll keep my word. Jack Corbin’s going to write it. I’ll make sure he has all the information he needs.”

  Amanda knew she had something now, but she still wasn’t sure exactly what. Somebody might still be hampering the evacuation somehow. She needed to get back to the City. But Sarah was first. Amanda got up and started off again in a crosswind that nearly lifted her off her feet.

  ***

  The cab driver cursed as traffic stopped on Route 495 in northern New Jersey. “You see that accident? We don’t get to the tunnel. They make everybody go to Weehawken. Tunnel closed. Shit. I fucking tell you.”

  He slipped the cabbie another twenty, the third he’d given him since leaving Penn Station in Newark an hour before. They hadn’t been able to get close to the ramp for the Holland Tunnel, so they took the Turnpike north to the Lincoln. “Use the shoulder. Get to that off-ramp. I’ll get out there.”

  “You crazy,” the cabbie said. “I can’t get over. Everybody want that off-ramp. We fucking stuck now. Maybe we spend the night here.”

  “Listen, pal. I started my day in Biloxi, Mississippi, sitting on the tarmac at an Air Force Base in a beat-up old airplane, waiting for some guy in Florida to decide which hurricane to send us into. Then after an hour in the plane I think I’m lucky when he changes his mind and diverts us from the sorry little excuse of a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico to Hurricane Harvey, where I puke all over myself, break my computer and practically shit my pants. Then we lose an engine. You hear me, pal? We lost a fucking engine in the middle of a hurricane 200 miles out in the middle of the Atlantic.”

  “I got problems too, mister. Right now, you my problem.”

  Jack ignored the cabbie. “Fucking plane diverts to McGuire. Some nice person—the only one I’ve met all day—gives me a lift to the train station. I paid him well, you hear me? Then Amtrak stops in fucking Newark and tells us to get off, all inbound traffic suspended. Now. I’ve got a woman—no, a wife—to find in New York. I’m going to get there come hell or high water. You’re going to help me.”

  “How many more bills you have?”

  “You get me to the off-ramp, I’ll find three more.”

  The driver to their right honked and cursed as the cabbie cut in front. Five minutes later, Jack got out of the cab in the middle of Route 495 right near the Palisade off-ramp, a half-mile from the large looping downgrade that fed the Lincoln Tunnel.

  The wind nearly tore the door off the cab. He gave the driver sixty dollars and ran through the driving rain, up the off-ramp, over a rise and down to a back-door approach to the tunnel.

  ***

  Amanda turned left on Broadway, which led straight to Point Pleasant Beach. To her left she could see Gull Island in the middle of the river, where the brown reeds danced in the surging wind. Remnants of an old wooden boat, submerged in the mud, jutted a foot above the water. She crossed the stalled outbound traffic on Broadway and broke into a run down the strip of motels. At the end of Broadway she crossed over the small wood-piling bridge that traversed the canal. She saw boats in the river. Curmudgeon, Forewinds, Deep Six. On the left was the brightly colored River Belle.

  They’ll find them all in Brielle tomorrow.

  If it were the Carolinas, these boats would have long since been sailed to safe havens. But there hadn’t been time.

  ***

  A broken patchwork of sidewalks led to the toll plaza, a battery of small grimy booths under a tall, simple roof. It wasn’t a place people usually walked into.

  All lanes were streaming outbound.

  Jack knew the security guards wouldn’t let him in. He also knew there was no way to slip in unnoticed. If he ran in, he might be viewed as a threat to security. But he was pretty sure they wouldn’t stop the evacuation to chase one crazy reporter. He walked casually up to the rightmost tollbooth, where a security guard was using the phone. He flashed his press card, slipped a $5 bill through the window—enough to cover the auto toll—then broke into a run. It was only thirty yards to the tunnel entrance. Any overzealous security guard who wanted to catch him would have to do so on foot. He was fairly confident they wouldn’t shoot.

  ***

  The stretch of sand in front of Joe Springer’s house was intact. The wide beach was nearly flat from the boardwalk out about a hundred yards, where it dropped steeply into the ocean. On a normal summer day, you couldn’t see the waves, which were hidden below the drop-off. Joe Springer had a great view of the beach, but his view of the ocean on a calm day started about fifty yards offshore.

  All that was changing. From the boardwalk Amanda could see the tops of the growing waves, their quick curls before they crashed down against the berm, out of sight. She looked north toward the dilapidated concrete-and-boulder jetty, a lip that defined the mouth of the Manasquan River, where normally there would be the bobbing masts of boats going in and out of the harbor. The waves punished the jetty, careened off at an oblique angle and funneled toward the beach.

  She jogged south on the boardwalk, noted how many people hadn’t evacuated: About every fourth or fifth home still had people in it. Idiots. They have no idea. This wasn’t going to be an iffy thing like Topsail Island, a house destroyed here and another surviving there. If Harvey stayed on his present course, the whole Jersey Shore was going to be reshaped.

  She spotted the American flag flying in front of Joe Springer’s house, flapping like a terrified bird. She hurried up the four steps to the deck, looking at the short, brown-shingle house. It was not built on pilings in the manner of coastal homes farther south, like Bill Leaderman’s house on Topsail Island. There was no pass-through for the storm surge. She walked across the deck and rapped on the sliding glass door, which hadn’t even been boarded up. Nobody answered, so she slid it open, walked in and stood dripping on the wood floor in the living room.

  “Mommy!”

  “Hi sweetheart. C’mere.”

  Sarah sprinted across the room and flew into her mother’s outstretched arms. “You’re all wet,” Sarah said.

  “It’s raining pretty hard.”

  “I know. Your hurricane is coming, Mommy. Just like you said. Aren’t you glad?”

  “No, honey, I’m not glad. It’s dangerous. Let’s go.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Joe Springer stepped into the room from the kitchen.

  “Shut up, Joe,” Amanda said. She pulled Sarah into her chest. “Don’t argue with me. No more. We’re leaving.”

  “Not for you to decide. Sarah’s with me. Harvey’s going to go out to sea just like all the other hurricanes that come this way.”

  “No, he’s not. Dammit, Joe. This is Sarah’s life we’re talking about. Not something to play the odds with.”

  “But I have…”

  She knew what he was going to say. She didn’t want to hear it. “I don’t care about any damn piece of paper you have. I don’t care what any judge thinks. I’m her mother. I know what’s best.”

  “What makes you t
hink you know what’s best? You’re always trying to make every goddamn decision.”

  Sarah had her hands over her ears, leaning into Amanda. “Stop it, Daddy. Stop it stop it stop it.”

  Amanda, calmer, teeth clenched, took one last shot at rationality: “It’s like a mother lion, Joe. I just know. I don’t even have to think about it. It comes from here.” She hit her chest with her fist.

  “Fine. Take control like you always do!”

  She was completely calm now, but ready to explode, scratch his eyes out if need be. “There’s a big storm coming. A really big storm. This house is not going to survive it. Anybody who is in this house is going to die. You seem to be content to wait and see what’ll happen, like the other idiots down here who haven’t left. I’m not ready to let anyone I love die. So I’m taking Sarah with me. I’m done with your irresponsible ass, Joe Springer. Done, you hear?”

  “But…”

  “Joe, you can stay. Whatever. Must be a guy thing, wanting to play he-man on this miserable little spit of sand. But you no longer have any say over this little girl. Come near me and you’ll regret it,” she said, never letting go of her daughter.

  I’ll do it. I‘ll scratch his goddamn eyes out to save Sarah.

  Joe Springer must have understood. His face boiled, looked ready to explode with all the hideous, hateful thoughts that he decided not to utter. He shook his head, threw up his hands and went back into the kitchen.

  Not even a goodbye for his daughter.

  “Mommy? Are we going to die?”

  “No, Sarah, we’re not going to die. C’mon.”

  “What about Daddy?”

  “Daddy’s a big boy. He’s going to make his own decision.”

  “Is Daddy going to die?”

  “C’mon honey, we have to go.”

  Sarah was confused, terrified. “Daddy, come on!”

  Amanda carried her daughter through the open sliding glass door and out into the rain. She didn’t bother to close the door. It wouldn’t make any difference.

  CHAPTER 45

  Manhattan

  4:07 p.m.

  Even a one-armed photojournalist could get the shot if he were in the right spot at the right time. Adjust for the light, aim, focus, click. Any good photographer could do it with one arm if he knew what his target was, if it weren’t moving. If it were news. Juan Rico had been scouting the City all day, looking for the spot. He hadn’t gone home. He’d even skipped lunch. He ended up right where he figured he would, at the Holland Tunnel. It wasn’t going anywhere, except under water. Juan Rico wanted the shot.

  The wind was whipping outside and the rain was heavy, as it sometimes was during a summer thunderstorm, but steadier. The sky had become gloomy, the way it gets toward twilight in winter. Inside Chez Henri a few nervous patrons with nowhere else to go sipped drinks at the bar. Lunchtime was over. Business had been slow, and the only people left now were the customers who usually drank more than they ate anyway.

  Rico sat in a dark corner with the owner, drinking a cola, not much in the mood to talk.

  “Have a beer?” said Henri Mouchet.

  “Nope.”

  “You always have a beer.”

  “This isn’t always.” Rico stared out the window.

  “What is it, Juan?”

  “This fucker ain’t jokin’ around. I know. I been in two.” He told Henri Mouchet briefly about his experience in Hurricane Andrew in 1992. He recounted his tale of Gert, told him how he had looked up from under the sea and saw nothing but more blackness, thought he was good as dead, fighting with one arm to find something to grab onto. “Same thing comin’ here.”

  “But this is New York City,” said the owner. “It’s not like we’re on an island or something.”

  “No?”

  “Well, not like in North Carolina. The ocean is, like, ten, fifteen miles from here.”

  “And the river’s two blocks away,” Rico said. “Harbor and the river make it worse, push the water up or something. You have to ask Jack or Amanda ’bout it.”

  “I saw Amanda leave earlier, in your car.”

  “Yeah? Shit, I missed her. Been out running around the City all day.”

  “I see you have your gear,” Henri said. “You planning on going out in this?”

  “Got a score to settle with these storms, know just how to do it. What about you, Henri? You stayin’ here?”

  “What else? We’ll be open as long as someone needs us. Some of these people need me tonight, maybe more than normal.”

  “You take care, my friend. Keep an ear to the radio.” Rico grabbed his equipment, all of it replaced since Gert. He slung his camera bag over one shoulder, a laptop computer for transmitting pictures over the other, then put his rain poncho on. “Henri?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be afraid to be afraid.”

  Henri Mouchet smiled and inclined his head, then stuck out his hand. “Here’s your bill.”

  ***

  The rain blew sideways down Ninth Avenue, did the same at the intersection and threatened to flip the few cars that braved the streets, mostly cabs now. One of them had a wide black gouge down the side, a wreck that might have happened today. The cab stopped. Jack held the door open as another passenger got out, then he stuck his head in. The heavyset driver, dark skin, bushy eyebrows, looked to be part of the cab, as though he hadn’t got out of the driver’s seat in months.

  “Tribeca?” Jack said.

  “No way, pal,” said the cabbie. “I got another fare to pick up. Reserved. Out you go.”

  “Sixty bucks,” Jack said.

  “Hop in.”

  The driver was listening to the radio. Jack leaned forward to hear meteorologist John Turner.

  “Hurricane Harvey is moving north-northwest at forty-five miles an hour. The storm is now centered about 190 miles south of New York City. Hurricane-force winds extend outward from the center roughly 120 miles and should be arriving within the next two hours. Atlantic City has already reported sustained seventy-five mile per hour winds. That’s hurricane force. As the storm’s far-flung bands of strong thunderstorm activity move into our area, conditions will change rapidly.”

  The cabbie cursed and honked as the traffic stopped at 23rd Street. Ahead, Jack saw the reason. The road was flooded and several cars had stalled in the intersection.

  Jack fished for his money, asked the driver: “You going home now?”

  “Naw. Brooklyn. Too far in this storm.”

  “Not safe here, either,” Jack said.

  “Maybe I’ll get out of town.”

  “How?”

  “Dunno. Seems like a good idea, though.”

  Jack handed the cabbie his unearned sixty dollars and jumped out.

  ***

  The subway line was just two blocks east. Jack ran, dodging umbrellas that unfolded helplessly. He rounded a building at the intersection near the subway station and the wind blew him sideways into the street. He bent his knees, got low, and made it back to the sidewalk, then pushed his way down the stairs and into the subway.

  The southbound train arrived, brakes squealing, and Jack got in. The rattle of the train seemed peaceful compared to what was going on outside. He thought about what was actually going to happen to New York City. The unthinkable. “The Storm of the Century,” the Times would call it. Maybe “The Storm of the Millennium.” He had been so focused on getting to Amanda that he hadn’t been thinking about what the Times would be doing. Here he was, the weather beat reporter, not even on the job.

  Jack wondered how many other reporters around New York City had abandoned their jobs today. No, not many. That’s not the way reporters think. This is it. The storm.

  Every reporter in New York and New Jersey will write something about it. Analysis, opinion, sweeping conclusions and minute detail, the gamut. Editors will work overtime, assigning hundreds of stories, from the how and why to human interest stories about little old ladies who got trapped in the subway and sur
vived. The vast resources of the Times would be scrambled like infantry to question and dig and shove and push, to inform, to fill every available column-inch in the paper.

  The scratchy speaker broke his concentration. “Ladies and Gentlemen. The New York City subway system will be shutting down in thirty minutes due to anticipated flooding problems. All lines. Repeat, all lines will be shutting down in thirty minutes. This train will continue on to South Ferry Station with no northbound service. The last northbound train will arrive in about two minutes.”

  The train stopped at the Canal Street station and Jack ran to the exit.

  But something deep inside called him to the newsroom. It was the same urge that got him into reporting in the first place. He was the weather beat reporter. And now his turf was finally getting nailed, and he was running away from his job. There was one more northbound train, arriving in two minutes.

  Jack could no longer stand upright in the wind. He leaned into it. A steel garbage can rolled past him as he crossed the nearly empty street. Jack’s mind flip-flopped between his life as a reporter and his potential life with Amanda. An aluminum can whirred by at head level, narrowly missing him as he made his decision.

  CHAPTER 46

  New Jersey

  4:20 p.m.

  The emergency vehicle was just as trapped as all the other cars and trucks. Amanda and Sarah had walked, run and finally hitched a ride with this fireman, trying to get to the bridge over the Manasquan River. Amanda had avoided the main evacuation route out of town, Route 88, which was jammed with traffic and ran much farther before reaching high ground. Amanda knew it was a good three- or four-mile drive before they’d be out of reach of the surge, whereas if they could get across the bridge they could take the Dodge the remaining quarter-mile to high ground.