Mariner's Ark

by Peter Tonkin

  Looking straight ahead out of the bridge windows, Richard could see nothing but the concrete wall of the bridge’s side, even though he was more than sixty feet above the dockside. He could see little more from the port-bridge wing which overhung the concrete sixty feet below and was hard up against the concrete of the road bridge, which was close enough to touch. The starboard wing, however, gave a view beneath the rising span, and from here it was possible to see the bustle of the foredeck as, under the ship’s deck lights, men and women from Guerrero’s command were working on the relief containers. They were sheltered from the rain by a combination of the bridge’s broad span and Sulu Queen’s tall bridge house. In spite of the fact that the underside of the span rose over one hundred feet above the deck at its highest point, only the most occasional gust came anywhere near pushing the precipitation past the six-deck-high white wall of Sulu Queen’s accommodation and command areas or in from the far side of the road bridge, in spite of the fact that the span was high above – especially near the centre of the arch. But in fact, things beneath the span of the bridge were relatively calm as well as being warm and dry. The wind was coming out of the west, in from the ocean. And between Sulu Queen and the main force of the storm stood wall after wall. Tall, strong-sided warehouses standing along the western dockside. Wide, solid, skyscraper hotels beyond them that lined the land-side of the beach. Richard was just stepping back in from this vantage point, thoroughly satisfied with the way things were progressing, when the radio operator called to him. ‘I have someone on the radio who wants to speak to you.’ And that was how he learned that Dragon Dream had arrived.

  Ten minutes later, Richard was running along the gangplank on to the wide, sheltered walkway between two of the bollards to which Sulu Queen was secured. He ran back along the great ship’s length and out into the stormy afternoon, slowing beneath the shelter of the port-bridge wing to watch as the dirigible’s pilot brought the massive silver craft to rest on the top of the dockside. Guerrero’s team exploring the warehouses crowded the door, looking on. Massive though she was, Dragon Dream sat sedately outside the hangar-sized warehouses, sheltered from the worst of the wind if not the rain. With hardly a pause, Richard was running forward again through the downpour and across the dock towards the beautiful craft. Stooping beneath its overhanging side, he carried on in until he reached the low-hanging cabin which housed the two pilots. Richard opened the door in the side of the cabin and stepped into the future. The cabin was small but roomy enough for the three people occupying it. There were windows all round it, giving a clear view of the four big motors – two in front and two behind – that gave Dragon Dream her vertical take-off capacity. Above the forward-facing windows a bank of instruments led round to a big screen in the centre of the pilot’s view. Below the windows there were square touch screens for both pilot and co-pilot, who occupied two big seats that could have come from a jet fighter. Between them there were more instruments and controls convenient to the pilot’s right hand.

  The pilot stood up and turned towards him, a tall, slim, dynamic-looking man with short, greying hair and rimless glasses. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You must be Captain Mariner. I’m the guy you just talked to – Erwin Creech. This is Gene Rogers. How can we help?’ he asked as the co-pilot also stood.

  They shook hands. ‘I’ll know more about that when I’ve had a quick look over your dirigible,’ answered Richard.

  ‘We can do that from here,’ said Creech. ‘All the main areas aboard have cameras fitted.’ He crossed to the big screen. ‘Video feeds show up here. You’ll be most interested in the cargo bays, I guess. The plan is to put passenger facilities in some of the bigger craft that are in production now. But we just have the basics.’ As he spoke he tapped the screen, which was showing a video of large, empty spaces that looked like the insides of Boeing C17 transport aircraft. ‘Of course, people can go in there in emergencies,’ Creech continued. ‘It just won’t be so comfortable. But I guess you could easily get a hundred people in there.’

  Richard opened his mouth to answer but he was interrupted by the walkie-talkie. ‘Excuse me a second,’ he said and put it to his lips. ‘Mariner?’

  ‘This is Biddy. As you have your heavy lifter in place now, Nic wants me to hop him and Liberty up to Dahlia Blanca for a quick look-see. Won’t be long.’

  ‘OK,’ said Richard. ‘Take care. And get ready to see a grown man cry.’

  Richard, Gene Rogers and Erwin Creech were still discussing how Dragon Dream could be of best use when the Bell lifted off the helipad behind Sulu Queen’s bridge and powered away through the storm. ‘I can place her with absolute precision and hold her absolutely still,’ Creech explained. ‘That’s part of how we got here. The weathermen at Durango warned us the really big winds were up at the tops of the sierras, so we followed the river valleys up one side then down the other. Stayed a couple of metres above the flow. We had lots of protection from the valley sides – interlocking spurs and what have you. Even this side, where the bad floods are. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘The only bad moments we had were up at the watershed,’ added Gene Rogers. ‘But once we managed to squeeze over we just sat on top of the Rio Cortez and down we came.’

  ‘She’s what, fifty feet high? Maybe sixty counting the turbofans?’

  ‘Fifty’s nearer the mark,’ said Creech. ‘What have you in mind?’

  ‘Still follow the river. She could fit beneath the bridge. Maybe even hover over Sulu Queen’s foredeck and load or unload directly from there.’

  ‘We could certainly try,’ nodded Creech. ‘She’d fit under the centre of the arch above the water easily. It must be more than a hundred feet high. It’s certainly more than ninety-five feet wide – and Dragon Dream’s ninety-three, including the propellers. We’ve – what – five hundred metres to play with? It’d be easy as long as there’s no very gusty winds under there.’

  And that was as far as discussions had reached before Biddy was back on the walkie-talkie. ‘Richard, we’re at Dahlia Blanca and you got bad, bad trouble.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  Miguel-Angel arrived with a harassed-looking young doctor just as the Bell clattered overhead. The medic pulled Señor Guerrero’s bedding back impatiently and reached for the hem of his gown. Robin turned away and went to the window, watching the helicopter soaring up the drenched hillside. She could think of only one reason for the flight: Nic was going to look at his beautiful estate. She shook her head, empathizing with the shock and sadness he would feel. To have lost Katapult8, to have all but destroyed Maxima, and now this. Talk about a bad day, she thought. On the other hand, he still had a daughter snatched from the jaws of death – almost literally. So there was a silver lining even to these black clouds. Idly, she watched the chopper as it slowed, hovering above the long white wall that was currently acting as a kind of dam at the edge of the flooded garden.

  As she watched with growing horror and incredulity, the overstressed structure finally yielded to the relentless pressures of holding back all that water. As though Biddy and the Bell were somehow members of Guy Gibson’s Dambuster squadron, the wall immediately beneath them abruptly sagged forward, hundreds of gallons of water spilling over its lip. Robin watched, frozen; scarcely able to believe what she was seeing. In an instant, the whole wall was gone and the hundreds of gallons were thousands. Hundreds of thousands. And the hospital was standing directly in their path.

  Robin pulled out the walkie-talkie and pressed transmit. But she couldn’t connect to Richard. Someone else was talking to him, she realized. With any luck it would be Biddy. Her mind raced. There were streets and houses – hopefully empty – upslope from the hospital. Then the car park that Biddy used as a landing field. Would all this be enough to turn the tide? Probably not, she thought. And now that the wall was gone and what looked like an entire lake was on its way down, she reckoned that there would soon be more than water. Mudslides. That was what they had been worried about in those suburbs of Los Angeles,
she remembered numbly. Glendora, Azusa. Oso in Washington state, where between forty and ninety people had died. And the one in Collbran, Colorado. How many had that killed back in May 2014?

  Suddenly the line to Richard was open. ‘Richard—’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he interrupted. ‘You’ll be hit by water. Then probably mud. Are the lifts working?’

  ‘Just about—’

  ‘Get everyone you can up on the roof.’

  ‘Is that the best plan? Most are on the ground floor already. There’s a car park. Biddy can land there. She’s used it already.’

  ‘The water will be moving at more than fifty miles an hour. Mud the same. The car park will be underwater in a couple of minutes and buried soon after. Get them up on the roof and pray the mudslide’s not strong enough to make the place collapse. It’s their only chance. And for God’s sake, get up there yourself.’

  Robin turned. Señor Guerrero was exposed from the waist down, his hip swollen and dark. But she didn’t even notice. She was running for the door at the far end of the ward, switching the walkie-talkie to the major’s channel and sorting out priorities in her mind as she went.

  ‘Guerrero.’ The major answered Robin’s call immediately.

  ‘Major, there’s a flood and a mudslide heading towards us. The lower floors, at least, are at imminent risk. Can you ask Doctor Potosi to get everyone there to move up as fast as possible? And move the generator too if you can, so we can keep the lifts running for as long as possible.’

  The major wasted no time on pointless questions. ‘Move up how far?’

  ‘Richard says to the roof, but I guess to the top floor and stay in the dry until we know precisely what he’s planning. Are the generators on the roof working yet?’

  ‘Barely. Doctor Potosi is here. How long have we got?’

  ‘Before the flood, no time at all. Before the mudslide, who knows?’

  She reached the door, only to be stopped by Miguel-Angel’s cry. ‘Señora! There is a wall of water … It is coming over the car park … Madre de Dios!’

  The whole building shook as the water hit. The sound of breaking glass echoed up the stairwell. My God, thought Robin as she span through the door and went racing down the stairs. If that’s how it reacts to a flood, what’s it going to do when a mudslide hits? But when she reached the ground floor, things were not quite as bad as she had feared. The steps up from the car park had saved them from complete inundation for the time being, but a glance through the shattered doors showed only a sea of brown water that seemed hardly less threatening than the huge waves which had nearly destroyed Maxima. Then, as she looked through the wreckage and up the hill, she realized that one of the houses a couple of streets up, in the forefront of the flood, was beginning to collapse. The mudslide was on its way, she reckoned. And the only thing stopping it moving as fast as the water was the resistance being put up by the buildings upslope of the hospital. But behind the tinkling of the glass still falling out of the doorframe, the rumble of the flood and the hissing of the downpour she heard the welcome wheeze of the lift coming into operation. And, nearer, the chime that announced that the lift car had arrived. She followed the sound and found Dr Potosi in charge of several hospital staff who were wheeling beds into a sizeable lift car as fast as they were able to. There was a crowd of walking wounded behind them, waiting to squeeze in round the beds. Robin opened her mouth but her words were cut short by another chime as the car in the second shaft arrived. The fact that it was working made Robin think Guerrero’s men on the roof were getting the generators back online. The walking wounded crowded into this. ‘Top floor,’ called Robin, and Dr Potosi translated, ‘Al ultimo piso,’ then stepped back to join Robin as both sets of doors hissed shut.

  ‘My husband says we may have to go out on the roof soon,’ said Robin.

  ‘That is al azotea in Spanish. Have you any idea why he wants us there?’

  ‘No. But it’d be good to get away from this.’ Robin looked down. The muddy water was already around her ankles. There was a roaring sound as it went pouring down the lift shaft. ‘It is fortunate,’ observed Dr Potosi, ‘that the lift motors are in watertight housings with the back-up generators on the roof.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘Are there many more people on this level?’

  ‘We need only worry about the bedridden, I think. Those on crutches and frames are willing enough to attempt the stairs. I have sent everyone I can spare down here to bring the beds to this place. We should get them all in two lifts. Could you start organizing the same thing on the next level up?’

  ‘Yes. And don’t forget the third level. That’s where the major’s father and brother are. How many levels are there above that?’

  ‘Seven. But they are all empty.’

  As Dr Potosi spoke, the first of the lifts returned. The doors opened. The water, which was now well over the women’s ankles, washed over the lift car’s floor, forming little whirlpools and rapids as it continued to cascade into the shaft. ‘I am glad this is the last set of patients from this floor,’ said Dr Potosi. ‘This water is becoming unnerving.’

  ‘And there’s worse on the way,’ warned Robin. ‘I’ll go upstairs and see how things are proceeding.’

  ‘And check with Major Guerrero as to how long we are likely to be able to run the lifts,’ advised the doctor as Robin turned to dash up stairs. But as she passed the rear of the reception area on her way to the staircase, she couldn’t resist another look outside. The water was deep enough to be forming waves now, and they were washing in through the shattered door. It was also deep enough to begin to carry rubbish and worse down the hill. As Robin paused, she saw the first tree trunk coming across the drowned car park. And, beside it, what looked like an entire A-frame roof – terracotta tiles and all. She looked up. The furthest line of houses had vanished now. Only one flimsy street stood between the hospital and the mudslide. She turned, slopped across to the staircase and ran on upwards, thanking heaven for her all but indestructible footwear. At the same moment as the tree trunk hit the front of the hospital like a medieval battering ram, the walkie-talkie sounded. She jammed it to her mouth as she dashed out on to the next floor. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Richard. How are things going?’ The question was almost lost beneath the pandemonium of the A-frame roof tearing itself apart against the front wall of the hospital.

  ‘Bad to worse. We’re moving everyone up like you asked. I’m just about to find out how much longer we can keep the lifts running. Even if they can handle the flood, it’s a hundred to one that the mudslide will screw them.’

  ‘Biddy’s on her way back down. Anyone she can pick up? The boy?’

  ‘His father’s here. Badly broken leg. The boy’s waiting with him.’

  ‘Can she take both, maybe? Or if not, is there anyone else?’

  ‘No. She won’t be able to land anyway. I’ll get back in contact when we have people on the roof. She might be able to take some from there. Two of Nic’s men are ex-storm swimmers. They might be able to help or advise.’

  ‘I’ll check. Good luck in the meantime. And for God’s sake, take care.’

  She broke contact. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she said to herself.

  She found Guerrero and the hospital’s electricians at the junction box nearest to the lifts. ‘How long can we keep these running? Doctor Potosi needs to know.’

  ‘For a while. We gave lifts priority both here and on the roof as we fixed the generators up there. She should be using both shafts to get as many people up as possible.’

  ‘That’s what she’s doing. They’ll clear this floor next then the one above. Everyone’s going up to the tenth level, then out on the roof when Richard says. He’s talking about getting Biddy McKinney there with the chopper.’

  ‘Fine. I estimate that we can keep things moving from here for a while, then. I don’t think the flood water will reach this high. The hospital’s on too much of a slope. It’ll flood the lower floor and r
un on down the hill.’

  ‘True. But we’re just about to be hit by a million tons of mud. And that, more than likely, will take the hospital and all of us within it straight down the hill as well. It will probably smash up the lifts one way or another.’

  ‘Then we need to get everyone upstairs as quickly as possible!’

  The major had no sooner said this than Dr Potosi arrived with her helpers and the next set of wheeled beds from the wards on level two. The familiar chimes announced the arrival of the lifts and Robin left them to it. She ran on upstairs. Richard’s suggestion put Miguel-Angel and his father at the forefront of her mind and of her conscience, as she had refused the help he had offered them. She ran into the ward and found little had changed. The young doctor was gone and Señor Guerrero’s leg was covered. The other three occupants were sitting and lying exactly as they had been when she left. Miguel-Angel was by the window, staring down at the water with horrified fascination. ‘How is your leg feeling, Señor Guerrero?’ she asked as she came up to his bed.

  ‘A little easier. The doctor gave me an injection. He has gone now.’

  ‘Good. We’ll be moving you soon. You may have to climb some stairs from the top floor on to the roof. Could you do this if you had support?’

  ‘I could try …’

  ‘Excellent.’ No sooner had Robin finished speaking than the major arrived with several of his men. ‘You take those three,’ he ordered. ‘My brother and I will see to my father. Be quick. Time may be short. Don’t wait for us.’

  Dutifully the others took the three beds and wheeled them out in the direction of the lifts as fast as they could. ‘Miguel-Angel,’ ordered the major, ‘come along. It is time to take Papa to the roof.’ He clicked the brakes off the bed’s wheels with the toe of his army boot and eased the bed gently away from the wall. Miguel-Angel came at once, and Robin turned to follow him out of the ward. As they entered the passage she saw the other three beds being pushed into a lift at the far end. ‘Send the lift back for us, please,’ called the major, and one of the men raised a hand to show he had heard. It was precisely at this point that Robin realized she could hear a distant rumbling, as though a massive freight train was approaching or a jumbo jet was revving up for take-off. Her mouth went dry and her heart fluttered. ‘Here it comes,’ she called. ‘We’ll need to get a move on or we’ll be too late – if we’re not too late already.’