by Bobby Akart
“Let me explain it this way. Hurricanes are like machines whose job is to move heat from the warm ocean below to the cooler atmosphere above. Under present conditions, the water temperatures have dropped well below eighty degrees, which is considered ideal to form a hurricane.
“Nuclear winter puts us in uncharted waters, sir. What we’ve learned is that this storm is acting much like a polar low. As the name suggests, this is a low-pressure system that forms over the Arctic ocean in winter where the ocean water temperatures are cold, but the atmosphere above it is much more frigid.
“In the Caribbean Sea right now, and I’ll go ahead and include the Gulf of Mexico in this analysis, we have a situation where the water is, shall I say, lukewarm. However, the air above it is much, much colder, especially for the region. The result has become the tropical equivalent of a polar low. A hurricane like no other. May I give you an example?”
“Please do.” The president leaned back in his chair and motioned for the NOAA representative to continue.
“In mid-January 2016, Hurricane Alex was the first storm to occur in the winter since Alice sixty years prior. Because of the cold wintertime temperatures, it originated as a nontropical low near the Bahamas. At first, its path took it northeast toward the open waters near Bermuda.
“Then a high-pressure system turned it back to the southeast. The storm deepened and strengthened. Now, the path is not the issue. What I’m trying to illustrate is this phenomenon has happened before, at least twice. It’s happening for a third time.”
The president sat forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table. “What can you tell me about this storm’s path, strength, and timing?”
“Sir, the eye of the storm will be moving between Cuba and the Dominican Republic hours from now. We expect it to maintain its strength as it travels over open waters before turning slightly on a northwesterly track to the south of The Bahamas.”
“U.S. landfall?” asked the president.
“The storm will pass over the Florida Keys and enter the Gulf of Mexico. Our buoys indicate the surface waters in the Gulf are warmer than the Caribbean Sea, oddly. In any event, the storm may strengthen as it enters Florida Bay and the Gulf. We’re unable to state this with certainty at this time.”
President Helton leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together behind his head. He studied the information scribbled across the whiteboards, which included the computer model’s indicated track for the storm.
He set his jaw and allowed a barely perceptible smirk. That’ll teach ya.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday, November 7
Tarpon Springs, Florida
It was only a few weeks ago that fishing boats of all types would be making their way back to the docks, easing their way past Anclote Key before entering the protective inlet at Tarpon Springs. Located thirty miles north of Tampa, Tarpon Springs was known as the Sponge Capital of the World or, in some cases, the Venice of the South because the mouth of the Anclote River ran through the middle of the small coastal town.
Like the fishing villages of the Mediterranean, Tarpon Springs was replete with whitewashed buildings spread out along narrow streets, where Greek food, culture, and traditions were on full display. No more so than along the waterfront, where working commercial fishing and sponging operations were comingled with tourist activities, including diving trips and eco-tours.
Now, the boats were tied off at the docks, devoid of human activity unless their owners lived aboard them. Gone were the throngs of tourists who spent their days wandering the shops, filling their bellies, and emptying their wallets in order to bring a piece of this way of life to their homes.
Andino slept a few hours before returning to the helm to guide the boat into Anclote River, navigating his way past Chesapeake Point toward the historic sponge docks. Boats were everywhere, as fuel was scarce and the need to conduct commercial fishing had ceased.
To be sure, food was an absolute necessity, but the cost of harvesting it from Florida’s fertile coastal waters was excessive. At this point the value of the American currency had become virtually nothing. Barter markets were growing in popularity, and very few merchants were willing to accept greenbacks. Anyone willing to accept the almighty dollar as payment demanded an exorbitant sum for the simplest of items. To say the inflation rate had skyrocketed would not do justice to the diminished value of the dollar.
Those who did trade in currency were speculators. Their belief, or hope, in any case, was that the U.S. government would take corrective measures and the U.S. currency would once again become of value. For now, it was practically worthless, and a box of cereal, for example, was selling for nearly two hundred dollars.
Everyone was huddled around the helm as Andino gave Lacey and Tucker the nickel tour. He directed their attention to points of interest while he and his family gasped as they spotted several familiar landmarks that had been looted or even destroyed by fire. The once-bustling fishing village had become somewhat of a ghost town, and only a few curiosity seekers hustled to the water’s edge to view the new arrival.
After the boat passed the Spongeorama Sponge Factory on the south side of the river, Andino made a wide sweeping left turn to point the boat toward a large building with another fishing boat of a similar size parked inside. The corrugated steel building had survived hurricanes and years of corrosion. The galvanized steel panels that were the oldest were a dark rust color. Those that had been replaced in recent years due to wear and tear or hurricane-force winds were a grayish silver.
“Here we are,” he said as he pulled the throttle back and began to slowly drift toward the dock. Suddenly, three young men came rushing into the building through an opening in the chain-link fence surrounding their sponging operation. Like Andino, the young teens were stocky with jet-black hair. A couple sported a hint of a mustache as they grew into men. Their appearance was the total opposite of the tall, athletic Tucker, who looked more surfer dude than Greek fisherman.
“They’re my cousins,” Katerina said as a smile broke out across her face. Being home from their own perilous journey and seeing familiar faces changed her demeanor substantially. She immediately sprang into action. Katerina, the meek, shy young girl, suddenly became an experienced deckhand.
Without hesitation, she ran along the port side of the fishing vessel and waved to her cousins, who stood patiently along the dock. The oldest of the three teens was prepared to place buoys to buffer the boat against the fixed dock. The other two boys waited with rubber-tipped grappling hooks to reach for the vessel’s railings or cleats to pull it flush with the dock. The group of kids expertly brought the fishing boat into position and secured it in just a few minutes.
Tucker leaned into his mother. “Grandpa would be proud of these guys, but don’t tell him. Okay?”
“Why not?” she asked.
“He’d spend the entire day teaching me the ins and outs of docking boats. I wanna hang with Jimmy and go fishing.”
“Jimmy will teach you the same thing,” said Lacey with a laugh.
“Yeah, true. The thing is, Jimmy won’t tell me a bunch of stories like the time so-and-so tried to dock at Driftwood Key or when such-and-such happened this other time.”
Lacey took the taller Tucker in a playful headlock before mussing his hair further. “Your grandpa is gonna be thrilled that you’re back. Please indulge him for a while. Besides, he’s got a lot to teach someone, especially under these circumstances.”
Andino checked the teens’ work and then returned to the McDowells. “Our homes are a short walk from here. We have three in a row, across from the docks, that have been in the family since, well, the day the first of my ancestors arrived here.”
“We don’t want to be a bother,” began Lacey. “I would appreciate it if we could fill up our water jugs.” The boat had stored water in its hold, but it had a funky taste, as Lacey put it. There were also eight five-gallon stackable water containers in the galley. The group had consumed te
n gallons of fresh water en route from Bay St. Louis.
“I’ll see what my sister has in mind for dinner. While we eat and relax, we’ll talk about what is next.”
Lacey and Tucker exchanged glances. A home-cooked meal, regardless of what it consisted of, sounded like heaven at the moment.
“Lead the way,” said Lacey as she pointed toward the cube-shaped water containers. Tucker snatched them up, and they were off to the Andino family compound.
Like most of the simple, wood-framed homes interspersed with sponge packinghouses around the docks, their one-story homes were lined up in a row and were almost identical to one another. A white picket fence surrounded the three lots with a single gated entry in front of the middle home. All were white with a galvanized metal roof. The only remarkable feature that separated the three was the color of the front doors—blue, white, and blue-white striped, all intended to honor the colors of the national flag of Greece.
The center home with the blue-and-white-striped paint job belonged to Andino and his family. Katerina broke away from the group and raced up the sidewalk. She rushed onto the covered porch and opened the unlocked front door in a flash before disappearing inside.
“Do you think she’s glad to be home?” Andino asked his wife.
“The difference between me and our daughter is I’m trying to show restraint in the presence of our guests. I wanna run and jump into our bed!”
Andino wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her tight. He planted a kiss on her cheek and whispered in her ear, “Music to my ears, erastis.”
She giggled, slapped him on the chest, and began to walk across the overgrown yard to the home next door.
“I’ll deal with you later, lover,” she said with emphasis. “Let me speak to Sophia and tell her about our new friends. It may not be much, but the family should come together for dinner.”
Seconds later, every member of the Andino family came pouring out of the adjacent houses to greet their loved ones’ return from New Orleans. Everyone was talking loudly and over one another. Some spoke Greek and others spoke English even in the same conversation. For Lacey and Tucker, it was a heartwarming reunion to watch although confusing because of the language barrier.
After the joyful reunion, the group turned to welcome Lacey and Tucker. As before, questions were flying around, and the McDowells could barely keep up with their responses. Finally, it was Andino who reminded everyone that they’d been on a long, treacherous journey and that there would be plenty of time to talk later.
It was his brother, Sandros, who made a comment that included a word that sent chills through Lacey. During the hectic conversations between the Andino families and the McDowells, he learned they planned to continue their journey to the Keys first thing in the morning. That was when he revealed a rumor he’d heard.
Hurricane.
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday, November 7
National Guard Encampment
Homestead-Miami Speedway
Homestead, Florida
“Roll it up, Albright! You’re being released.”
Peter jerked himself awake after he’d succumbed to the weeks of mental and physical exhaustion. The jail cell might have taken away his freedom, but it certainly provided him a place to recharge his batteries, albeit an uncomfortable one. He sat there for a brief moment to gather his wits and to stretch his upper body. The concrete slab of a bed was unforgiving on his sore body.
The loud clank of the cell door being unlocked lifted his spirits. He jumped up and forgot about what he’d been through for the last couple of days. Now he could focus his efforts on finding Jimmy.
“Let’s go, pal. Everybody’s bugging out.”
“Whadya mean?”
“I mean we’re evacuating this outpost, and that means you’ve gotta go. Now!”
Peter glanced at the toilet but was afraid to relieve himself for fear of remaining locked up. Besides, he turned his attention to Jimmy.
“Um, what about the guy I was brought in with. Jimmy? I think?” This guard was different from the others he’d dealt with, so he felt comfortable in directly broaching the subject. He added, “He kinda saved my life, and I wanted to thank him.”
The guard stood back a couple of paces and motioned toward the door. He rested his hand on his sidearm as he studied Peter’s demeanor and movements.
“I think he’s in the infirmary,” he replied. “He suffered some injuries that needed to be attended to.”
Peter screamed the words in his head. Injuries? What injuries? He was fine when we got here.
“Wow. Okay. I’d still like to look in on him. Would you point me in the right direction?”
“Look, Albright,” the guard began in response. “You don’t get it. This is not social hour. We’re movin’ out, and most likely anyone in the infirmary will be medevacked out.”
Geez. What did you do to him?
The guard escorted Peter out of the police substation and into the tunnel underneath the grandstand seating that faced the Start/Finish line at the track. The first thing that struck him was a cold, howling wind that entered through the open portals leading up into the grandstands. A familiar whistling sound was made by the steady winds that were reminiscent of tropical storm activity he’d endured while growing up at Driftwood Key.
“Which way?” Peter asked.
The guard pointed ahead of them. “Up ahead about a hundred yards will be an open area leading to the parking lot.”
“And where’s the infirmary?” he asked, knowing he risked being rebuked by the guard.
The guard pointed toward a long corridor that ran perpendicular to the tunnel. “Out there. It’s the Infield Care Center near the entrance to pit road. But I’m tellin’ ya, he’s probably gone already.”
Peter nodded and began walking toward the exit of the speedway. He glanced over his shoulder after he passed the corridor leading to the heart of the racetrack to see if the guard was still watching him. When he saw the door to the substation closing behind the guard as he returned to his post, Peter darted back toward the corridor and ran toward a chain-link gate. Seconds later, he was standing at the gate overlooking the racetrack. He shook his head in disbelief as a gust of wind smacked him in the face.
Despite the late time of year and the unusually cool conditions for South Florida, a tropical depression must’ve formed somewhere in either the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. The Florida Keys and the southern tip of the state were visited frequently by hurricanes. Some formed in the Atlantic, like Hurricane Irma in 2017 that resulted in eighty-four deaths, while others grazed the island chain from the west, like Hurricane Donna in 1960 that nearly destroyed Marathon and Driftwood Key.
In Peter’s memory, the worst storm to hit the Keys was Hurricane Wilma in October of 2005. That had been considered a late-season storm. It was early November, although Peter had no idea what today’s date was. Somehow, dates and times didn’t matter much when you were constantly fighting for your life.
He pushed open the gate and fought the wind that struck him in the chest. The open speedway, filled with concrete and infield grass, allowed the gusts to blow unimpeded. Peter slowly walked down the slight, three-degree banking near the Start/Finish line. Darkness was settling in that allowed him only limited visibility. Once he hit the infield, he ran across the grass toward the entrance to pit road, where the guard said the Infield Care Center was located. He caught a glimpse of light emanating from the gray trailer adjacent to a building that resembled a small fire hall. There were several tan-colored Humvees parked haphazardly between the two.
Using blue and yellow stacks of painted tires as cover, he ran at a low crouch until he was only forty feet away from the entrance to a building identified as Motorsports Complex EMS. He also had a direct view of the Infield Care Center, which was nothing more than a gray office trailer. Peter had watched enough racing to know that after a wreck of any kind on the track, the drivers had to report to medic
al to get checked out.
He knew he couldn’t waltz into either building, introduce himself, and ask to see Jimmy. His friend might not even be there if the substation guard was correct. Peter sighed as he considered his options. As his eyes darted back and forth between the two buildings in search of activity, wind-blown raindrops began to pelt his face.
If Jimmy was there, the coming storm might provide just the distraction he needed to free his friend.
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday, November 7
National Guard Encampment
Homestead-Miami Speedway
Homestead, Florida
In those first few moments, Peter got antsy. Then he settled in to wait despite the worsening conditions. He was cold and wet but determined to help Jimmy. If his friend had already been medevacked out of Homestead, then there was nothing he could do. If he hadn’t, Peter would take every risk to free him of this wrongful imprisonment.
After forty-five minutes, two uniformed National Guardsmen left the gray trailer and climbed into the driver’s seat of two separate Humvees. They quickly turned around and began driving directly for the gate where he was positioned. He scrambled into the corner of the stacked tires that acted as barriers to protect race cars from further damage in case they ran off the track. As the Humvees sped out of the Infield Care Center, they didn’t notice him hiding away. Peter rose slightly to remain unseen. He wanted to follow the Humvees to determine where the exit to the speedway was located. Then he turned his attention back to the buildings.
The remaining two Humvees were sitting off to the side near the roll-up doors to the EMS building. Peter imagined the garage portion of the structure contained the fire trucks used during accidents. A hedgerow of sweet viburnum shrubs lined the administration building around the corner from the roll-up doors. If he could get to them undetected, he’d only be a few feet away from the Humvees, with sufficient cover under the darkened conditions to avoid recapture.