Flash Flood

by Chris Ryan

  The Agnetha was a big ship, about the length of a football pitch from bow to stern. She was also old and took some careful handling. Particularly with several hundred tonnes of aggregates in the hold, which slowed down the responsiveness of the controls so much it was as if the ship had gone to sleep. Henrik had piloted her before, but that was only on the return journey, when she was empty. Today he was taking her all the way from the port of Hango, on the southernmost tip of Finland, to the deep-water terminals at Greenwich docks.

  What a day he’d picked. This weather was terrible; he could hardly see a thing. At least it wasn’t far now to their destination.

  He looked to the shores of the Thames on either side of him. They were virtually invisible. There were lights on the banks but they were blurred, as though the windows had been smeared with Vaseline. His own masthead light, the length of a football pitch away at the front of the boat, had disappeared into the murk. Even the sound of the engines, usually a low throbbing hum, was drowned out by the relentless quantities of rain drumming on the metal roof of the bridge.

  ‘Watch out! Hard right!’ Henrik saw a pinprick of light right at the very corner on the radar display. Instantly the captain was standing over him, pulling the steering column hard to the right. The boat outside looked as if it was still some distance away. On the radar, it blipped slowly to the edge of the display and disappeared as the Agnetha turned. The captain stepped back again but he watched the radar closely for a few more anxious moments. Then he sank back into his chair.

  ‘You need to give her far more time to turn when she’s loaded like this,’ he said.

  Henrik nodded, chastened. ‘But we didn’t hear the collision alarm.’

  ‘If we hear the alarm when we’re fully laden it’s too late,’ was the acerbic reply.

  The captain was looking tired, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, his forehead resting on his hand. The cigarette lay forgotten, its smoke curling into a grey column in the air while the captain recovered from the shock. Henrik felt ashamed. They must have had a close call.

  Henrik turned back, checked the instruments, looked at the radar very closely. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. The river was still wide at this point, almost like a big lake. But the closer they got to Greenwich, the more it narrowed and the more hazards there were to navigate. This journey would only get more tricky.

  When he next looked round at the captain, he got a shock. The captain was slumped in the chair, his right arm dangling on the ground like an ape’s. He was twitching as though he was trying to get up but had no control over his body.

  The cigarette fell from the fingers of his left hand. He didn’t move to pick it up.

  Henrik moved quickly over to him. ‘Sir? Sir, are you all right?’

  The captain tried to move. Again he only managed a fitful jerk, as if the swinging arm was a lead weight keeping him down.

  ‘Sir, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I can’t move. I can’t see. Help me.’

  Henrik wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right. The captain’s voice was slurred, as if he’d just been to the dentist. ‘You can’t see?’

  The captain was staring ahead. He blinked as if he was trying to clear his vision. ‘I can’t see.’ He tried to shake his head but he only managed another twitch. One side of his mouth didn’t seem to be working.

  Henrik suddenly realized that the captain’s strange behaviour reminded him of his grandmother after she had had a stroke.

  He reached towards a big button on the console. ‘Emergency, emergency, first aider needed on the bridge! Hello?’

  And then he heard a sound he didn’t want to hear. A wail like a siren.

  The collision alarm.

  Henrik looked at the radar. A big glowing blob showed at the top of the screen.

  A voice answered him. ‘Henrik? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Captain needs help. I think he’s having a stroke.’ Henrik steered hard right. It didn’t stop the collision alarm. Maybe it would stop in a moment. He peered out of the window but could see nothing – just the grey rain and the far-off twinkle of lights through Vaseline.

  ‘Keep his airway open,’ said the medical officer. ‘I’m on my way up.’

  Henrik dropped down on one knee beside the captain. The captain stared at him, his watery blue eyes big and scared. He was breathing fast, like he’d run a race. But he was still breathing.

  Henrik patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘They’re on their way, sir.’ He went back to the radar again. The big glowing blob looked closer.

  Another voice came out of the console. ‘Henrik? What’s going on up there? The collision alarm’s going off. That’s the Thames Barrier out there.’ It was the guys in the radio room.

  ‘Can you get me a helmsman?’ said Henrik. ‘We’re in trouble up here.’

  The hatch from the stairwell opened. ‘Where is he?’ It was the medical officer.

  Just as he was starting to examine the captain, they heard a great grinding crash. Henrik was thrown to the floor and rolled into a corner. He stopped when he hit the wall and looked up groggily. The floor was at a crazy angle and the control panel was alive with red lights like a Christmas tree. The captain had tumbled out of the chair and was lying on the floor, mumbling. The medical officer had been thrown into the wall. His head was gushing blood. Alarms and sirens wailed around him like wounded animals.

  In the Thames Barrier control centre on the south bank of the Thames, the air was also wailing with alarms. Looking through the window, the engineer could scarcely believe what he had seen. Everything had been normal, the row of silver metal shells containing the machinery that raised the flood gates stretching across the river like a chain of silver hoods. A large container ship had been coming towards them, but these vessels usually judged the width of the navigation channels just right.

  However, this one had rammed into the concrete plinth at the waterline, ridden up it like a car mounting a pavement, and penetrated the barrier like a spear.

  The engineer was so stunned that for a few moments he stood looking at it, at the metallic hood buckled like tinfoil, the sparks spewing like fireworks into the rain and the hulk of the ship still shuddering from the impact.

  Then he snatched up the telephone. ‘Code Red! Code Red! The Barrier is out of action!’

  Chapter Three

  The rain was still coming down hard, making the roofs look glossy and grim. The guard’s voice came over the tannoy. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are arriving at Milton Keynes. Thank you for travelling with us today. Please be careful on the wet platforms.’

  The train stopped. Rachel got to her feet and went to the door. The window had never properly closed again after the youths had kicked it. Rain was trickling down the inside, making a puddle on the floor and streaking paths through the graffiti they had left.

  Rachel gave Ben a hug. ‘Try to stay out of trouble.’ She put up her hood and stepped down. The platform was swimming with water.

  Ben handed her her bag. ‘Good luck with the interview.’

  ‘Have a lovely day with your mum.’ Rachel slammed the door and splashed away on tiptoe.

  As the train pulled away, Ben looked at his watch. Another three-quarters of an hour and he should be in Euston, then he would get a Tube to meet Bel. He got out his phone. He’d better let his mum know how long he would be.

  He got her message service: ‘Life’s too short for regrets. This is Bel. Say what you need to say.’

  Typical Bel: a bit abrasive, a bit embarrassing. He wished she’d change that message.

  ‘I can see your eyes are starting to glaze over. Yeah, you know all about global warming. People have been talking about it for years. Everyone in this room knows all that stuff. We’ve burned too much fossil fuel over the years so now we’re getting floods, severe storms and all that. Silly us … blah blah blah … global warming, the same old record. When I was at school in the seventies people were talking about it. And still it seems
nothing has changed.’

  In the conference centre in Whitehall, Bel stood at the lectern. Her speech was on notes in front of her, but she didn’t refer to them. Auburn hair fell in a neat straight curtain to her shoulders; her clear blue eyes searched the faces in front of her. She was wearing a dark purple suit that was slightly crumpled, as if looking smart didn’t come easily to her. Her audience was made up of industry leaders, government representatives and journalists. Some of them were taking notes, others were looking at her patiently. A good half of them had detached expressions – they looked as if they were thinking about something else: possibly the buffet lunch that waited under clingfilm on the platters at the back of the room.

  Rain splashed against the big windows of the conference centre, forming a constant hiss behind Bel’s voice, like interference on a radio. Outside, the traffic rumbled to and from Trafalgar Square, a blur of red brake lights and white headlights. It was lunch time but it was dark enough to be dusk.

  Bel continued. ‘We talk about terrorism being the biggest threat facing us today. We put millions of pounds into making our airport security safer, putting more police on the streets, upgrading surveillance in our cities. About three thousand people died in the Twin Towers, less than a hundred died in the bombing attempts on London. But thirty thousand people died in the earthquake in Iran and two hundred and eighty-three thousand died in the tsunami in South East Asia.’ She paused and searched the faces of the people in the front row. ‘These are the casualties nature can inflict in a war. And it is a war.’

  The journalists had woken up and were scribbling again. Nature at war: that was a good quote. That would go in the headlines this evening.

  One of the journalists put his hand up. ‘Should the government have more green policies?’

  Bel looked at him incredulously. ‘That has to be the dumbest question of the day. What do you think?’ She waved her hand at the rainy street outside. ‘Look at it out there. It’s more like the tropics than London. Of course they should have more green policies. They should have had them twenty years ago. Look, we shouldn’t have called it global warming – it sounds too nice. Warm is comfortable, warm is cuddly. Well, global warming isn’t comfortable or cuddly; it isn’t even warm. The polar ice caps start melting. Then the Gulf Stream no longer protects us. You know what it’s like in New York in winter? Freezing. Miserable. You know what it’s like in Siberia in winter? Don’t even go there. That’s what this country will be like if the Gulf Stream stops coming our way. The last thing it will be is warm.’

  An official wearing a conference organizer’s badge stepped forward from the wings. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, that was Dr Bel Kelland from the environmental organization Fragile Planet. Now we’ll break for lunch.’

  Bel picked up her papers and moved away from the lectern. The audience were already on their feet, heading resolutely for lunch. Bel could feel their relief as they were finally released, like school children waiting for the lesson to end. She felt irritated with them, but didn’t have time to indulge it. She had to be somewhere else. Ben would be arriving soon.

  She hurried off the stage and started to make her way towards the doors at the back of the room. She zipped along a row of seats, trying to get ahead of the lunch crowd, and ran into a journalist with a scraped-back ponytail who was holding out a Dictaphone.

  ‘Dr Kelland, would now be a good time for our interview?’ Her manicured finger was hovering over the record button.

  Bel looked at her watch. ‘Not really. I’m rushing to meet my son. Send me an e-mail at the office.’ She pressed a business card into the journalist’s hand, pushed aside some chairs and nipped through to another row.

  She was nearly at the door when a man in a baggy dark suit intercepted her. His greying hair stuck up like a backcombed badger.

  ‘Hi, Clive,’ she said. Clive Brooks worked in the Department of the Environment.

  ‘Bel. Terrific speech.’ He folded his arms across his chest and stroked his chin, as if he had all the time in the world.

  Bel looked at her watch irritably. She knew he wouldn’t have liked her speech at all. ‘Sorry, Clive, I’ve got to rush.’

  ‘We’re just on our way to a briefing with the Prime Minister of Canada. He’s asked to meet you.’

  Bel was genuinely surprised. ‘I’d love to, Clive. Can you arrange it? Only I’ve got an appointment.’

  ‘He’s flying out tomorrow. It’ll have to be now. A car’s taking us to the Cabinet Office. You can hitch a ride with us if you want.’

  That stopped Bel in her tracks. She didn’t get offers like that very often. The decision was made in an instant. She got out her phone. ‘Give me five minutes. I’ve just got to rearrange something.’

  Bel walked out to the foyer, found a quiet corner and dialled. ‘Cally? Can you do me a favour? Ben’s coming down and I’m stuck in a meeting. Can you amuse him for a while?’

  A few minutes later, she turned and made her way back towards Clive Brooks. As she did so, she noticed that the floor was becoming ever more wet and slippery. It was as if the rain was slowly coming in, on people’s shoes, on their umbrellas, on their dripping coats. Like a tide slowly creeping into the building.

  The Thames Barrier was a huge structure. The gap between each of the silver-coloured hoods was as wide as the central deck of Tower Bridge, to allow ships to pass through. The hoods themselves stood on solid concrete islands. Each was as tall as a five-storey building and was coated with steel. But the crashed container ship was also a giant. Its living quarters were even taller than the steel shells and its prow had crushed the metal like a car running over a drinks can.

  Two rescue boats were making their way away from the crash site. They looked like tiny specks tossing about on the rough water.

  Inside the control room, the engineers were trying to handle the emergency. Warning lights blinked on the operating console. On the wall was a Perspex diagram of the barrier; it was covered in lights and every one of them was winking red.

  The duty controller was getting a radio update from the rescue boats outside. ‘We’ve got the crew off and the captain’s on his way to hospital but we can’t move the ship. She was carrying a full load. It’s going to take about ten tugs to pull her away. Over.’

  ‘Well, get started,’ replied the controller, exasperated. ‘What are you waiting for? Over.’

  ‘We’ve only got four tugs,’ came the reply. ‘We’ll have to get in extra from Canvey Island. Over.’

  ‘Get them as fast as you can. It’s high tide in less than an hour. Over.’

  An engineer in a yellow site hat and reflective safety vest was talking to the Meteorological Office on a mobile. With his other hand he was gesturing at the Thames Barrier controller.

  The controller understood. He spoke to the team in the rescue boats. ‘Mind out of the way, we’re going to try raising the gates again.’

  ‘Roger. Over and out.’

  The controller nodded to the chief engineer at the control console, who hit the switch again. A great noise came from outside, like a giant machine starting. Outside on the river, in three of the four navigation channels, the giant steel gates began to rise out of the water. One by one they locked into position, in a carefully planned order so that they wouldn’t disrupt the fast-flowing current and cause problems for shipping further up the river.

  In the fourth navigation channel, next to the wreckage, there was a harsh grinding sound, like metal tearing.

  The chief engineer shook his head and pressed another switch. The gates began to lower again. He turned to the controller. ‘It’s no use. Gate One doesn’t move.’

  ‘Can’t we raise it manually?’

  ‘No. The whole mechanism is smashed. It’s just not responding.’

  The engineer in the yellow reflective vest told the liaison officer at the Met. Office what had happened. ‘The mechanism is completely crushed … No, not all the gates, just one of them.’ A little pause, then he put his hand ove
r the mouthpiece again and spoke to the room. ‘They say, can’t we just raise the other gates?’

  The controller’s response was instant. ‘No. Give me the phone … Hi … Yes, this is the controller. We can’t raise the gates if one of them doesn’t work.’

  The man at the Met. Office sounded frustrated and worried. ‘We’ve had eight inches of rainfall in the past twenty-four hours. The same amount as fell in Boscastle before the floods there. We need the barrier. You’d better raise as much of it as you can.’

  ‘Listen, I’m an engineer and I’m telling you it won’t help – it will make it worse. It will force the water through the smaller opening, making it run faster – like putting it through a funnel. It also means that if we did – heaven forbid – get a flood, it would be even more destructive. We’re better keeping the whole thing open and trying to get the repairs done as soon as possible.’

  The Met. Office man made an exasperated noise. ‘Can’t we get a crane to raise the barrier? It’s high tide in less than an hour.’

  ‘There isn’t a crane that can lift it.’

  ‘There must be. There are marinas up the Thames with boat yards. They have cranes for lifting boats into dry docks.’

  ‘A normal pleasure boat weighs a couple of tonnes. The Thames Barrier gates weigh three thousand seven hundred tonnes each. That’s the weight of more than twenty double-decker buses. They’re so heavy they had to be built in situ.’

  The liaison officer tutted again. ‘In that case, I’m calling the Department of the Environment to tell them we’ve got an emergency – a Code Red situation.’ He rang off.

  ‘That’s what we told you fifteen minutes ago,’ said the controller as he put down the phone.

  Chapter Four

  Ben got off the Tube train at Waterloo. Behind him a plump girl in trainers and short, spiky dark hair was struggling to get her case off. It didn’t look heavy but one of its wheels had got stuck in the grooves of the carriage floor, and she was trying to balance a large shoulder bag on the other arm, which slipped every time she tried to move the case. People were pushing past her and glaring at her, as if she was obstructing them on purpose.