Page 9 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

9.

Time Elapsed from Initial Collapse: 2 Hours

Olsen set up shop in the command post, opening a computer of her own—and powering up a jetpack. She was happy, though, to take advantage of the town’s generator.

Her phone hummed and she took a call. “Be a sec,” she whispered to Dorion and Tolifson and stepped aside.

Dorion regarded her own phone for texts. Nothing from Colter yet. Eduardo Gutiérrez reported that he had recruited twelve townspeople to root out residents from their homes. Per her instructions, he had given each of them her phone number with instructions to text with regular updates about the evacuation. The sweep was starting at the most dangerous area—directly under the levee, in front of the broad, flooding retention pond—and proceeding west.

She was troubled to learn that several scores of remainers were refusing to budge, ignoring or even firing snide comments toward the evac team. There was a bar near the levee, occupied even now, in this early hour, and people were making the monumentally bad choice to steel themselves up for disaster, rather than simply avoiding it.

TC McGuire’s text said he had threatened arrest, and a number of the patrons laughed at him.

She texted back:

Arrest the loudest. Use cuffs.

She judged he was not a smiley-face kind of guy. But the words “With Pleasure” were an equivalent.

Dorion eyed the levee and the soldiers across the valley on the south side of shattered Route 13. She knew a little about the Corps of Engineers, and had worked with them on several previous disasters. Their authority was far more extensive than most people thought. They supported troops in combat by building bridges and battlements and the like, but that was only a minor portion of their job. They also built and maintained all of the U.S. military installations around the world, and managed most of the country’s inland waterways and dams. The Corps was also one of the biggest providers of energy in the country, and the nation’s largest source of outdoor recreation, operating thousands of parks.

Given its jurisdiction over waterways, one of its specialties was flood control. A law from the 1930s gave them primacy over the subject. And she was encouraged that they were here. Their presence was far better than county responders who might be hardworking and diligent but who would have little, if any, expertise in water disasters.

Olsen disconnected and offered a smile to Dorion. “You’re civilian, I understand. Disaster response.”

“That’s right. Normally I’d have a full team on a situation like this. But it’s not an official job. I was nearby on a personal trip and our monitoring system picked up the incident. I got an alert from my office back home.”

“She’s doing it for free,” Tolifson said. “Bless her.”

Dorion was amused; there was a faintly uncertain element to his voice as if he wanted to remind her that that was the agreement.

Olsen lifted an impressed eyebrow. She would undoubtedly have had plenty of experience with contractors in the disaster relief business who milked the situation for every penny they could.

“Any injuries?”

Debi Starr said grimly, “Probably. An SUV went into the river.” The woman had appeared behind Dorion. She kept forgetting about the police officer, who seemed timid to the point of being invisible. Dorion thought, entirely unfairly, of “bring your child to work” days—when her own daughters would sit in an unoccupied office, organizing papers to be copied and untangling comms cords.

Dorion said, “We had a lead on the SUV about fifteen minutes ago. Downstream. Somebody’s gone to check it out.”

Tolifson said, “It’s a family inside.”

“Oh. That’s rough.”

It was.

But irrelevant.

As she gazed over the levee, Olsen glowered. “Don’t care how rare floods are around here. Whoever built the levee should’ve done a better job. They could’ve spent another week and added six extra feet. If so, we wouldn’t be here. But they never talk to us until afterward, do they?”

When Tolifson took a call, Olsen said to Dorion, “Let’s walk.”

The women climbed the incline to the north side of Route 13, where Dorion’s brother’s camper sat. Olsen examined the waterfall coursing over the levee. “I’ve ordered sand and bags. We’ll need a lot of them. Starting there.” She pointed to the far end of the levee, where the pickup truck sat. “I’ll need a half dozen volunteers for the bagging detail.”

“Hate to pull them off evac but I agree.”

“How’s that going? Evacuation?” She looked over the line of traffic.

“Too many remainers. They see a pretty waterfall. Let’s take selfies.”

“Always the way, isn’t it?” She placed a call and said, “ETA of the sand?…No. Sooner. Now…And Hydroseal? Okay…Yeah, the three of us. But there’s a civilian disaster response person here. She knows what she’s about.”

Dorion was the more extroverted of the siblings, the first to question, the first to push back when she had doubts, even when she was young. Oddly, though, compliments unsettled her.

After disconnecting, Olsen said, “My corporals’ll supervise the sandbag op and place the bags themselves. I don’t want civilians at risk.” She glanced at Dorion once more. “So you do what I do, only you get paid a lot more.”

“But you can retire after twenty years.”

A laugh. “Retire? And then what? Play pickleball and bake cupcakes on a YouTube channel?”

So true…

The sergeant added, “But doesn’t matter who writes your paycheck, right? It’s a pretty good gig.”

“None better.” Dorion was tempted to tell the woman about the survival training of the Shaw children’s youth. About their father too. There was certainly something of a drill sergeant in Ashton Shaw. Maybe the noncom standing beside her had had a similar upbringing. But that was a conversation for another time.

“What’s that you mentioned, Hydroseal?” Dorion asked.

“Amazing stuff. Underwater-drying sealant. Like the undercoat car dealers’re always trying to sell you. Only this works. We’ll pour it along the interior face of the levee. That’ll slow the erosion a fair amount.”

“I know underwater polymers work on wood and concrete.” A nod toward the levee. “But dirt too?”

“The way we apply it, yes.”

“That’s good to know. I’ll have to look into it.”

“Give me your email and I can get you the details.”

Dorion recited her contact information and the officer put it into her phone. “I’ll get one of my men underwater to check out the weakest spots and mark them. Where’re the evacuees going?”

“A college on high ground about a mile or so from here. I’ve got Safeway delivering water and a dozen fast-food places doing their thing. Sporting-goods chains providing tents and a porta-potty outfit bringing in two dozen. A mobile hospital too, and I’ve alerted all the local medical ops they may be seeing patients and better prepare for blunt trauma, electrical shock and water in lungs. Eye injuries too.”

One of the biggest problems in flooding was damage to eyes and mucus membranes from chemical substances released from service stations, car repair shops and other industrial operations in the flood’s path.

“A portable morgue too. Refrigerated.”

Olsen was nodding. “You are one on-top-of-it woman. Usually I fly solo in disasters. Good to have a partner.” She gave another warm smile.

They returned to Tolifson, who was still on his phone, and Debi Starr, looking over the map. The officer glanced up and she said, “Mr. Martinez called in. He got to Fort Pleasant. He didn’t see any sign of the SUV or the family. He’s turning around and going north to meet Mr. Shaw.”

Dorion squinted into the wind. “We need a half dozen volunteers for sandbag duty. Working with Sergeant Olsen here. Could you track some down?”

“You bet.” Starr pulled out her phone. “Got some in mind. They’ll hop to. Some fellows owe me for being on the lenient side with tickets.” She frowned. “Never DUI, mind you. But you’re twelve miles per hour over the limit, I’ll knock it down to five.” She began to place a call. “Or make it a warning.”

Olsen looked over at Dorion. “Mr. Shaw? Your husband?”

“My brother.”

“He works for your company too?”

“No.”

“But he’s in a related line of work?” the sergeant asked.

“You could say that.”

Olsen looked at her wristwatch, a big model, bulky. She sighed. “They have to be dead by now, wouldn’t you think? The family?”

“I don’t know. Colter gave us a formula about air in a vehicle underwater.”

She paused, processing this. “But…won’t it fill up?”

“You’d think so,” Dorion said, her face grim.

“But your brother doesn’t believe that?”

“No. He doesn’t think that way. To him, they’re still alive.”