Stormy September Excerpt #2 –
Ruin and Renewal, by Jack Caldwell

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

Getting into the mood of our current theme—Stormy September—I have looked through my previous novels to find a suitable excerpt. Not a lot of rain in my books, but I have two great examples. So, I going to give you both.

The PEMBERLEY RANCH except may be found here

The second except is from my epic modern novel of New Orleans and Hurricane Katrina, RUIN AND RENEWAL: Volume Three of CRESCENT CITY.

We have three scenes. The first is at the satellite headquarters for the City of New Orleans government in the Hyatt Hotel, overlooking the Superdome. There we peak in on Anna Elliot, an assistant to the mayor. The second checks in with a certain reprobate named John Waguespack (who bears a striking resemblance to Sense and Sensibility’s Mr. Willoughby), living in Gulfport, Mississippi. The third follows the heroic work of the US Coast Guard Lt. Commander Fred Wentworth and his crew.

Of course, this is a story about a hurricane’s devastation. Don’t forget that the Bahamas suffered this year from a terrible one and will need help for some time. If you haven’t already done so, please donate to Americares here.

Monday, August 29, 2005
K minus two hours: Downtown New Orleans, Louisiana

Things were not going well in the New Orleans mayor’s headquarters at the Hyatt Hotel. They had power, thanks to generators, but laptops and phones, both land-based and cellular, were useless. Internet and television were down. The satellite phones were unreliable. The mayor and his staff were blind and deaf.

Anna Elliot realized it was a mistake not to be at the Emergency Center at City Hall. But, they were trapped for the time being. With hurricane winds blowing outside, nobody was going to travel even the half block. Fortunately, they weren’t completely out of touch. Two-way radio with the Office of Emergency Preparedness hadn’t failed, and someone brought a hand-cranked transistor radio.

Anna glanced at the windows overlooking the Superdome. The winds and rain, coming out of the north, lashed the side of the building full on. She forced herself to ignore the frightening roar. The Hyatt was built soon after the Superdome, and it had survived hurricanes before. Surely, it could stand up to the storm. She once again tried to reach Baton Rouge on the satellite phone.

Suddenly, glass and rain flew everywhere amidst a great explosion of noise. It was as though a bomb had gone off. Anna found herself screaming on the carpeted floor, gray rain and clouds where a pane of glass once stood. The storm had blown out the windows.

Once the initial shock had subsided, Anna took in her surroundings. Those who could move rushed to the door as a staffer struggled with it. Anna saw a young lady curled up on the floor in terror. She crawled to her, grasped the woman’s ankle, and pulled her co-worker towards the door. Her actions got the panicked woman’s attention, and the two crawled out of the devastated room.

Once they reached the corridor between the rooms and the atrium, they were caught up in the crowd of staffers and guests of the hotel. Many were in shock; apparently, windows were failing all over the place.

“Oh, my God!” screamed the woman she had helped. “You’re covered in blood! Help! Help!”

Feeling wetness, Anna touched her face. Sure enough, there was blood on her fingers. Nausea gripped Anna, and she fell to her knees. The police guard with a first aid kit was there in a moment. Sitting on the carpet, back against the wall, she looked around as the guard treated her. Other people had been cut by flying glass too. The injured and uninjured alike were wandering the halls, moaning and muttering and crying, unsure of what to do.

The government of the City of New Orleans had been completely knocked out.

***

K-Hour: Gulfport, Mississippi

John Waguespack opened his eyes, having the strangest feeling his world was moving. What the hell was that?

The first thing he realized, as he fought through the haze of alcohol and cocaine that still wrapped his brain, was the howling whine of winds buffeting the building. He threw his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with his hands.

He glanced behind him. Lucy was lying face-down, nude, and completely passed out. He was surprised at the amount of blow and booze she consumed last night. After the power failed, they spent the early hours of the morning trying to set a new record for screwing each other’s brains out. At the time, the sound of the winds had only spurred them on.

Now, the wailing excited him in a far different and unpleasant way.

Waguespack pulled on his navy shorts and padded into the den, tugging on a black Southern Miss T-shirt as he approached the window. At first, all he saw was gray rain. He couldn’t tell the sky from the land.

He blinked. Was the land moving?

The fog from last night washed away as an icy feeling took hold in his gut. Where the hell is the highway?

There was movement—something big and dark. Waguespack peered through the rain-swept window, focusing. It was a floating car. Waguespack’s eyes snapped wide open.

The storm surge is here. Holy hell, there’s no land! The surge is already over Highway 90, and it’s deep enough to float cars!

He had paid big bucks to get a condo with Gulf-facing windows. He had to go to the front door to see the parking lot. As he reached it, a massive shudder almost caused him to fall. With horror, he realized his building was moving. He pulled open the door, fighting the suction of the winds, and staggered to the breezeway. Looking down through the sideways-moving torrent, he saw waves.

The cars in the parking lot were already deep underwater. The Gulf of Mexico, driven by winds in excess of one hundred twenty miles an hour, was trying its best to tear down the condo complex. Already, the waves had reached the bottom of the second story, water going through holes gouged into the bricks.

Panic gripped Waguespack as he tried to process what was before his eyes. The storm was destroying his home. Katrina was trying to kill him.

Lucy! I gotta get Lucy!

Just then, he was thrown to the concrete floor of the breezeway. The whole building was shaking violently, tilting. The condo was collapsing. He had no time left.

He half-ran, half-crawled to the stairwell. Gusts tore at his body as he descended, needle-sharp rain stinging his skin. Pieces of roofing and the tops of trees became deadly missiles. He got halfway down when the building trembled again. Without another thought, Waguespack threw himself into the turbulent water.

Striking out with his arms, he swam towards a nearby tree, trying to get far away from the building as quickly as possible. The warm salt water drew him inland, waves crashed over his face, and the sea filled his mouth. Blindly, he reached out, stretching for all he was worth. At the last instant, his fingers touched the branches.

Waguespack, gasping and coughing, pulled himself into the limbs before he looked back at his condo. At first, he wondered whether he had been wrong—that the place might survive after all. Suddenly, the building shuddered and slowly collapsed into the maelstrom. Horrified, he knew he had just seen Lucy die.

He held on to the tree limb with an iron grip, thinking of his next move. The rain was agonizing. He feared the tree could fall victim to the waves at any time.

He thought back to what he knew about hurricanes. The storm pulled in the surge as it came ashore, but the waters would eventually recede. If he were going to live through the next few hours, he would have to get inland. The land rose, so it would be shallower. If he swam a couple of blocks, he would be able to walk onto dry land.

Should he wait for the calm of the eye? He peered at the other trees. No, the winds were straight out of the south. The winds of a hurricane are counter-clockwise. If the winds were from the south, the eye would pass to the west. No calm time for him. He would have to leave then if he was going to leave at all.

Waguespack took a few deep breaths and pushed himself out of the tree. As he hoped, the waves pushed him inland. At first, he tried to lower his legs, but after hitting his knee against something hard—a sunken car, maybe—he attempted a breaststroke as he moved with the gray waves.

Just keep going—focus on going on. The further I go, the shallower it will get. Just keep going.

***

K plus six hours: St. Bernard Parish

Cajun 101 was in the air again after refueling at NAS Joint Reserve Base Belle Chasse. The old naval air station was fully functional, having taken only minor damage from the storm. This was good news, for it was about to be one of the busiest airports in the world.

Lt. Commander Fredrick Wentworth turned his Dolphin due north and flew towards St. Bernard, beginning initialization of search and rescue operations. This was what Wentworth and his people had trained for years to do, and they would be called on to use all their experience, talent, and endurance in the days to come.

The team was larger this time out. Besides co-pilot LTJG Jeremy Price and PO3 Donald Lauck serving as AST, they were joined by Airman Marcus Randle. Randle was the rescue swimmer, the man lowered out of the aircraft by the AST to assist people in distress. His was the most dangerous job but not the most difficult. That fell to the pilot who had to fly the aircraft, taking acceptable risks in order to save people while not killing the crew.

The winds were still gusty as the Dolphin crossed the Mississippi River into Chalmette. The flight down prepared them for the sight of an entire parish underwater, but it was still disquieting. Fighting the gnawing horror in their guts, the crew scanned the scene below, looking for survivors. It took only a couple of minutes before Price sang out.

Wentworth dove towards the contact, the winds buffeting the helo. He made a slow pass over two people—a man and a woman, waving frantically on the roof of a flooded house—looking for trees, power lines, and other dangerous obstacles. He gained a bit of altitude while considering his approach. Only after Price agreed to his plan did Wentworth bring the copter around, pointing her into the wind.

Cajun 101 was placed into a hover before Randle, two life preservers hanging from his gear, leaned out of the door. Lauck checked his teammate’s harness one last time before slapping his crewmate on the back. He then lowered the rescue swimmer by a cable to the house below. He had stopped just above the roof when the male victim a made a move towards Randle. Randle shouted at the man, he backed off, and the airman gave the signal to continue. Once down, Randle immediately freed himself from the cable, and Lauck quickly retrieved it.

The winds were too much to hold position, and Wentworth was forced to go around. By then, Randle had life preservers on the civilians and cleared the way for the basket. Lauck lowered the basket by the cable, and once it was on the roof, Randle helped the woman into it. Safety line attached, he called the all clear, and Lauck raised it.

Wentworth was drifting again, so he pulled the Dolphin up. A minute later, Lauck got the frightened woman out of the basket. He waited for the helo to get in position again before lowering it to retrieve the man. Once the male survivor was secured in the aircraft, Lauck dropped the basketless cable to his teammate. Moments later, Cajun 101 was cleared to leave.

Wentworth made a beeline to New Orleans Armstrong International Airport and triage. On the way, the crew could not help but notice that there was water in more areas than just St. Bernard.

“Holy crap, skipper!” cried Price. “The whole f**kin’ city is flooding!”

Wentworth glanced at his right-seater. He knew Price owned a house in New Orleans East.

“Price!” Once he got the man’s attention, he barked, “Are you up for this? Are you in the game? Are. You. In. The. Game?”

Price paused a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Hang in there, Jeremy. I need you. We all need you.”

Price’s expression grew stony. “I’m good, skipper. Let’s get to work.”

Lauck patted the officer on the shoulder. “Damn right, sir.”

Until next time, this has been the Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles.

It takes a real man to write historical romance, so let me tell you a story…