Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  Owen Michael followed his mother from room to room, watching as she emptied drawers and fished through pockets again. Then she dialed the cab company again, but got only busy tones. She tried again and again, and simply could not get through. She wanted to weep with frustration.

  “Mom, we’re obviously going to be here for a while,” Owen Michael said. “Why don’t we go back to bed for a couple of hours. We’ll make a move when it’s daylight.”

  Jo hesitated. But bed, if only for an hour, was what she wanted more than anything else in the world. She’d been up all night, she was cold and wet and clammy, and she was additionally exhausted by the nervous strain she’d been under for several days. She knew she was no longer thinking straight. If she could just put her head down for even five minutes, she’d probably be able to remember where the keys were. Just five minutes. And by then the traffic would have eased. The storm wasn’t going to hit before tomorrow morning. There was still ample time to get out of town.

  SATURDAY 29 JULY: Early Morning

  City Hall, Park Row And Broadway — 4.00 am

  The helicopter dropped out of the dawn murk, swirling in the near gale force gusts as it slowly settled on to the grass. Waiting staffers ran forward with umbrellas, promptly blown inside out, and with mackintoshes to hold over Mayor Bill Naseby as he jumped from the cabin out into the rain. People tried to shout information to him, but he shook his head and ran towards the building; talking out there was a waste of time.

  He got inside, shook water from his thinning hair. “You, you and you,” he snapped. “Come with me.”

  His aides fell in behind him, delighted to be under his aegis at last; if there was one thing Bill Naseby possessed, it was the ability to make decisions.

  He entered his office, where Police Commissioner Grundy and Assistant Commissioner McGrath were already waiting, and sat behind his desk. Water ran out of his hair and into the neck of his pullover; he wore an anorak — which he did not bother to remove — but no tie. He was a big man, and when sufficiently aroused, he could look formidable. He was certainly sufficiently aroused this morning. He pointed. “I’ve spoken with the Governor, and he’s turning out the National Guard. Tom…” he turned to Grundy. “We have to have every man on the streets. Do you know what’s going on out there?”

  “It’s a solid traffic jam the length and breadth of the city,” Grundy confessed. “Heck, Bill, there’s nothing my men can do without bulldozers. And you know what? They’re getting nasty. The populace, I mean.”

  “I can believe that,” Naseby agreed. “I saw some of it as I flew in.”

  “It’s all the fault of that mother fucker Connors,” growled Assistant Commissioner McGrath. “I sent a squad car out to bring him in, and the bastards haven’t got back yet. Christ, they must be snarled up in the traffic. But when I lay hands on that asshole I am going to…”

  “You’d better shake his hand and say, well done, boy, at least you tried to help.”

  McGrath scratched his head.

  Naseby pointed. “Because that’s what he did. Which is more than any of us, including myself, has done so far.”

  “Well, hell, how were we to know this goddamned thing was going to keep coming straight at us?” the Commissioner complained. “She should’ve veered off by now. They always have in the past.”

  “The past doesn’t always indicate the future, Tom. Connors maybe didn’t go about it the right way. He may even have made matters worse. But at least he knew something had to be done. And Dr Eisener from Coral Gables confirms that it is going to be every bit as bad as Connors has claimed. He’s just had a radio report from a navy plane flying into the eye, and there are sustained winds of 180 miles an hour, with gusts of over 200. You got that? 200 miles an hour. That storm is going to hit this city with the effect of an atomic explosion. And it’s quickening up. It’s now moving at 20 knots and it’s only 200 miles away. That means the eye could reach the mainland at two o’clock this afternoon. And that means we are going to have hurricane force winds here in a couple of hours, and the sea is going to start to rise around nine this morning. And you know something else? The tide is going to start rising around then too.”

  The aides and the policemen exchanged glances; they had never seen the Mayor so agitated.

  “Now you guys listen to me,” Naseby went on. “I’m trying to persuade the Governor to declare New York a disaster area and put in martial law, right now. He’s worried about doing this, because it’s before the event, so to speak, so he’s checking with his legal department. However, he has agreed to mobilize the National Guard. And I’m prepared to call the President if I have to. We’ll get that martial law. But we can’t wait for it; we have only five hours before all hell is going to bust loose. Tom, you and your men, and the guardsmen as soon as they arrive, are going to move straight in and clear those streets. Otherwise we could be looking at a massacre. Use bulldozers if you have to, but get people going: everyone who can, out of town. Everyone who can’t, by noon at the outside, on to high ground. And anyone who objects, we move him, or his automobile, by force. You got it?”

  “The tunnels and bridges are jammed solid,” McGrath said gloomily.

  “So concentrate on them first. There’s time, just, if we get moving right away. It’s the lower levels that have to be got out first. That means, if necessary, putting a ring of policemen and military round the areas safe from flooding, and keeping people in them until we have those most in danger cleared. I make that like taking a big loop, down West End Avenue to about 34th Street and then back up Park Avenue to say 62nd Street, and then right down to York Avenue. Anywhere south of that is liable to be flooded. By my reckoning that includes the Empire State Building, Penn Station, Madison Square Garden, Greenwich Village, Soho, Little Italy, and of course Wall Street and the UN Building.”

  “You really think that’ll happen, Bill?” the Commissioner asked. “Surely the Narrows…”

  “I’m told by Dr Eisener that the Narrows won’t keep this dame out,” Naseby said. “In fact, they might just act as a funnel and increase the volume and flow of water. With the rise of tide, he’s talking about a possible 40 feet of water coming through there, and racing across the harbor like a tidal wave.”

  “Holy Jesus Christ!” McGrath said.

  The Mayor gave a brief grin. “You guys will have noticed, I guess, that right here we’ll also be below the mark — well below it. And so is the telephone exchange. In fact, situated where that is, right on the waterfront, that’s going to be one of the first to go.”

  “Jesus,” commented one of the City Hall aides. “What do we do?”

  “We evacuate, Mitch,” Naseby told him. “After we have got every civilian to safety.”

  “But the files, the records, the computers…”

  “They go too, right away. Not the computers, just the discs. I’ve arranged for a helicopter fleet to lift them out. They should be here in another hour. So get packing. But no human being leaves this building until I say so. And that will be when Manhattan has been made safe.”

  “We’ll never do it in time,” Grundy said. “You’re talking about two days’ work.”

  “Sure we can.”

  “But where are we gonna put all these people?”

  “Requisition every hotel that’s above the 50-foot mark. And then use Central Park.”

  “You’re gonna send maybe a million people to Central Park, in a hurricane? In lightning, thunder, rain, and 180-mile-an-hour winds…”

  “So you come and tell me when you have any better ideas,” Naseby snapped. “We’ve been caught with our pants down, but good. Now we just have to pull them up as best we can.” He grabbed his phone as it buzzed. “Governor? Oh, hell. Sorry, Joe, I was expecting the Governor. Look, Joe, we have problems down here, as you know… You what? How the hell can you be running out of water when it’s acting like a cloudburst out there?… Oh, sure, I know this rain can’t help until it gets through the system. But what the hell
are people using water for in such quantity right now? I understood everyone was leaving town. You must have a massive mains fracture someplace… Filling bathtubs? Jesus… Everyone in New York is filling a bathtub at the same time?… Yes… Yes, I see what you mean, but you can’t turn anything off. Let them have it for as long as possible… We’ll worry about a shortage later.” He replaced the phone. “Joe Erskine wants immediate authority to institute water rationing. Would you believe it?” He glanced at his notepad. “Now, let’s get on with it. Kennedy! Kennedy is going to be under water. Keep the planes flying as long as you can, but only out. All incoming flights are to be diverted. And by nine o’clock every last aircraft must have gone and all personnel evacuated. Same thing for La Guardia; it’ll probably be flooded as well. The whole of Brooklyn looks like going…”

  “That’s another solid jam,” McGrath said. “I checked with Tommy Burns, just to see if we could route some of our problems through there. He’s threatening to shoot anyone coming over the bridge.”

  “But they’re already over the bridge,” Grundy commented. “As for Staten Island…”

  Two aides hurried in. “They’re reporting over 150-mile-per-hour winds in Atlantic City,” one gasped. “And 20-foot waves. The Boardwalk is just falling apart.”

  “There’s a guy on the phone from Prospect Park Zoo asking if he should turn the animals loose,” said the other.

  “Holy Jesus! Is he mad?” the Commissioner shouted. “That’s all we need, a bunch of lions and tigers running down the street.”

  “And snakes,” McGrath put in dolefully. “They got some big ones in there.”

  Naseby sighed. “I’m sorry, Lou, but people have to come before animals. Anyway, Prospect Park is way above the flood line. And why is he calling me? Isn’t there anyone awake down in Brooklyn? Now, shipping. All small craft should head up the rivers as far as possible.”

  “They’re doing it,” McGrath said. “The Harbor Police report there’s nearly as big a crush on the water as on the street.”

  “The big stuff will have to sit it out,” Naseby said.

  “Well… some of them are already putting to sea.”

  “Out into that?”

  “They reckon they have more chance riding it out at sea. They could be right. Those big ships are sitting ducks in harbor. A 40-foot tidal surge pushed by a 200-mile-an-hour wind could just land one of them in Times Square.”

  “Well… we’ll have to leave that to the judgment of individual masters, but they have to understand there’s going to be no coastguard assistance if they get themselves into trouble. Christ, I know we haven’t thought of everything. But first, we have to get those streets cleared, and get the evacuation under control. I want a comprehensive plan to handle the situation placed on my desk just as quickly as possible.”

  “You will have it,” promised Mitch. “By 8 am.”

  “8 am will be too late. I want it by 5.30. That gives you one hour.” The phone buzzed again. “Yes? Oh, Governor, thank God… yes, from all reports it’s sheer hell out there… Yes, everything you have… The President? Oh, that’s great… Okay, we’re moving into action, right now.” He replaced the phone. “The President has authorized the imposition of martial law; it takes effect at 6 am. The message is being put out over all TV and radio stations now. The National Guard is being assembled, and the army is being sent in to help. Seems there’s nothing legal about what we’re doing, but we’re going to sort that one out afterwards. Now we have to hustle.” He looked at his watch. “4.30. Mitch, arrange for me to make a broadcast at 6.00, telling people what we’re trying to do. Fix coverage on all networks, and on radio.”

  “How do we get them here?”

  “Use the helicopter. Starting now.” He pointed at the Commissioner and McGrath. “I want things under control when I go on the air.”

  Coney Island — 4.45 am

  The bedroom faced south, but the buildings opposite blocked out the sea view even without the rain, which was streaming down the window. Just their luck, Florence Bennett thought, to have weather like this for their annual Coney Island vacation.

  “Looks pretty horrible out there,” Bert mumbled through empty gums. “What’re you out of bed for, anyway? Not thinking of going for a swim, are you?”

  “It was the thunder woke me. Thought I’d take a look,” Florence replied. “I guess this is a bit of that hurricane that hit the Donnellys’ place in the Bahamas a few days ago. I wonder if it’ll come up here.”

  They hadn’t looked at a television or read a newspaper since coming to Coney Island: Bert’s idea of a vacation was to forget the world existed, and if there’d been considerable discussion and agitation about the weather amongst their fellow boarders the past few days, he had ignored it with great determination.

  “Hurricanes don’t come this far north, girl,” he pontificated. “They kick off into the Atlantic. Come on back to bed for a cuddle; it’s been a long time.”

  “Now then, Bert,” his wife scolded. “We can’t have any of that first thing in the morning. Emmie’s in the next room and the walls in this place are paper thin.”

  “So what? Don’t she think we do it any more? Huh, come to think of it, it’s been one hell of a long time,” he finished on a note of complaint.

  Florence sighed and started to remove the curling pins from her hair — but there was a smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

  Park Avenue — 5.00 am

  Washington Jones took his father’s silver pocket watch out of his fob pocket and peered at the Roman numerals, only vaguely readable without his spectacles. Five o’clock: Edwardes wasn’t due to relieve him for another hour — if he was coming at all. He returned the watch to its pocket, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. Boy, was he weary. Quite apart from the lack of sleep involved in night duty in any event, he had been on his feet for the better part of the past five hours, ever since Mrs Donnelly had told him about the emergency. He had called all the apartments, and then he’d gone up to each floor to knock on the doors of those who hadn’t answered the phone, just to check that everyone was warned about the possible dangers of this storm they called Faith. He hadn’t liked leaving the foyer unattended all that time — he’d had to leave the glass doors open so that anyone who wanted could get out… but that had meant anyone who wanted could also get in. Not that anyone had done that, apparently, and waking the tenants had been the more important. Strange the way different folk had reacted. Some had been terrified, effusively grateful to him for contacting them, and couldn’t get out fast enough, not even waiting to pack a bag, while others, like old Mr Jurgens, looked like they’d wanted to knock his head off his shoulders for waking them up, and just slammed the door in his face.

  Then there had been Miss Schmitt, who was deaf as well as elderly; he had spent damned near an hour in Miss Schmitt’s apartment, trying to explain exactly what was going on. Well, she had gone in the end, and so had everybody else… except for Mr Jurgens. If he wanted to stay that was his decision. Certainly no one, not even the agent, could expect him to hang about any longer. Mrs Donnelly had told him to get out of town, and he’d told the wife to pack. She’d be waiting.

  He frowned at the suitcase placed neatly in the corner, bent to examine it. The nametag said Donnelly, which didn’t make sense. Except that Mrs Donnelly must have forgotten it in the elevator when she and the children had left — they sure had been in a hurry — and some other tenant must have found it and put it where it could come to no harm. They were a real good crowd, his tenants — except for Mr Jurgens.

  But that Mrs Donnelly was the best. He was truly happy she and her kids had got out so early, before the traffic had built up. She was one nice lady — and the only tenant who had given a thought to his predicament. Well, he was going to start thinking about himself, right now. He was damned sure Edwardes wasn’t coming in. So the hell with it.

  He took off his green uniform jacket and hung it neatly on its hanger, slid his shirt sleeves into the c
rumpled black plastic raincoat, and picked up the zipper bag in which he had carried his dinner, before switching off the security screens and the office light and locking the door. It went against his instincts to leave the apartment building all but empty and unguarded, but the agents should have contacted him and told him what they wanted done. Instead, he had been entirely forgotten and those guys were probably fifty miles away by now. He had a responsibility to his family just as great as to his employers.

  He had turned off the automatic street doors as well, and had to push them open, to gasp in amazement. The wind was strong enough to make walking against it difficult, and the rain was slicing across the traffic in vicious, swishing gusts, carrying bits of plastic garbage into the air to hit windows several floors up. And what traffic! It was thick, and crawling, bumper to bumper, so slowly you could walk at twice the speed, while not even the howling gale could drown the noise of the horns and the shouted curses that were being hurled back and forth. There were policemen everywhere, and National Guardsmen as well, attempting to get cars to move this way or that, but they didn’t seem to be having much success. Well, it wasn’t his problem. He never brought his old Chevy to work, anyway; it wasn’t worth the hassle of sitting in ordinary traffic jams, and the exercise did him good. He locked the street doors, pulled a flat cap from his pocket and dragged it down over the tight grey curls, turned up his collar, and headed for home. Celestine would be packed and ready, and have the girl and the grandchild waiting at the house for him, and Robert as well, if she’d done what he told her and called the place where the boy worked nights — and she’d have a pot of coffee brewing. He looked forward to that.

  “Okay, Buster, hold it right there.”

  Washington obeyed. He wasn’t going to argue with any large young man wearing rain-soaked khaki and carrying an automatic weapon.