*
The Old Man’s voice sounded faintly in Jessica’s headphones. “Have you been able to contact the St. Louis District or the Memphis District?”
“No, sir,” Jessica said.
“How ’bout Rock Island?”
Jessica took a breath. “Not so far, sir.”
“And your own headquarters has suffered considerable damage, especially in regard to its communications.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause as Jessica’s superior considered his next step. Jessica bit her lip. She had a suspicion that right in the middle of the worst natural disaster the United States had ever faced, she might find herself taken out of the loop.
Communications with other military and Corps of Engineer units had finally been restored through use of Jessica’s lone satellite radio. But no word had come from the Corps of Engineers’ St. Louis and Memphis district, those closest to the New Madrid fault system. It had been anticipated that these districts might fall victim to a major quake, unable to carry out their assigned tasks, and the Kansas City and Vicksburg districts were the selected backups. But Vicksburg itself had been hard hit, and no one had expected the Rock Island Division, north of St. Louis, to fall victim as well.
With all four of USACE’s Mississippi Valley districts either victims or potential victims, the earthquake had seriously compromised the Corps of Engineers’ ability to respond effectively in the crisis.
“General Frazetta,” Jessica’s superior said at last. “I am declaring St. Louis and Memphis to be victim districts.”
“Yes, sir,” Jessica said. “I concur.”
“Should I declare Rock Island a victim as well?”
Well. It was nice of the Old Man to let Jessica express an opinion.
“With respect, sir,” she said, “I think that may be premature.”
“What’s Rock Island’s backup district?”
“Chicago, sir.”
“Chicago’s been hit, too,” the Old Man mused.
Jessica was shocked. Chicago? No one had imagined that Chicago would suffer in a New Madrid shock. How big was this quake? She had told her officers that this might be a three-hundred-year event. A thousand-year event, more like. Or five thousand.
“Very well,” the Old Man said. “I will reserve judgment on Rock Island, but I will tell Chicago they may have to assume Rock Island’s responsibilities.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Now. Vicksburg.”
Jessica’s heart gave an anxious little throb. If the Old Man decided that Vicksburg was a victim district as well, then she might well find herself and her command handed over to their backup in Mobile. The Mississippi Valley was hers, damn it. She wanted to keep it.
“Sir,” she said, “we won’t be able to do anything till dawn, anyway. I think we will be back on line by then. We are doing a good job of recovery here. I see no reason to declare Vicksburg a victim district at this time.”
A voice yammered faintly on the radio channel, then faded. Whoever it was, he sounded panicked.
“You’re certain of that, Jessica?” the Old Man said. “You know that you’ll have to take on the Memphis District’s responsibilities, too.”
“Yes, sir,” Jessica said. “It will take us some hours before we will be able to respond with efficiency, but once we’ve sorted ourselves out, I think we’re admirably placed for running the Joint Division Team.”
“Very well,” the Old Man said. “If you’re that positive.”
“I am, sir,” Jessica said, and hoped she wasn’t deluding herself.
“What can I do for you,” he said, “to make your job easier?”
Jessica had been waiting for this. “Communications, sir,” she said. “And Prime Power.”
Jessica’s subordinates were almost entirely civilians, and her Prime Power— the actual military units under her command— consisted of only the 249th Engineer Battalion. If she was going to have to rebuild or reinforce most of the flood control structures between Rock Island and St. Louis, along with reconstructing roads, railroads, and airfields, getting power stations, communications, and waste treatment plants back online, the one battalion was clearly inadequate.
“General Shortland has put the entire U.S. military on alert,” the Old Man said. “You can have your pick.”
“Yes, sir!” Jessica said.
Well now. That’s what she considered an adequate response.
*
By midnight Omar began to feel that he had things in hand. Wilona had called their son David and heard that he and the city of Baton Rouge had been shaken up, but that both David and the city had got through the quake all right. In Spottswood Parish, the courthouse and many of the larger buildings had come through the earthquake well enough, with just windows and fixtures broken, and sometimes doors jammed. But in the semitropical climate many of the buildings in the parish, including Omar’s own, were lightly built, and many of them suffered. Homes and trailers fell off their pier foundations, and clapboards and roof shingles had been shaken off.
It could have been worse, Omar thought thankfully. And according to the radio, it was worse north of there, with whole cities flattened.
In Omar’s jurisdiction, all that might be necessary was some carpentry, a few jacks to get the houses back on their foundations, and most of the parish would be back in business.
And tomorrow, Omar thought, he was going to get his own house fixed. The poor neighborhoods in Hardee were going to get repaired as well as the well-off areas in Shelburne City. And sooner, because the poor people were the ones living in the most heavily damaged buildings.
No one had been killed, so far as Omar knew, but there were broken legs and heads, and scores of minor injuries. Dr. Patel, whose office was soon overwhelmed, set up a clinic in the Presbyterian church. Other churches— those built sturdily enough to survive the quake, anyway— offered space for those unable to sleep in their homes.
Electricity and phones were still working in most parts of the parish. Between phones and the radio, Omar was able to get ahold of all his deputies. The local National Guard unit mobilized, and was able to help Omar’s deputies in checking the parts of the parish that were out of communication, looking for damage and seeing if people needed medical attention.
The roads were in bad shape, with dropoffs and crevasses everywhere, but then the roads here were normally in sorry condition, and the parish road crews would work long shifts until they were all driveable again.
Wilona worked the night as an assistant, making sure there was coffee for the deputies and that messages got passed to the right people. And the Crusader Micah Knox had put himself to work, helping to direct traffic, volunteering to ride with the deputies and help bring people to the infirmary.
At least the kid had energy. Omar, who was soon yawning and keeping himself fueled with Wilona’s coffee, had to admire that.
And then Knox came into Omar’s office, a puzzled look in his green eyes. “I don’t get it, Omar,” he said. “Is your doctor here a nigger?”
“Dr. Patel?” Omar looked up at him. “He’s from India.”
Knox’s mouth dropped open. “God-damn, Omar! I thought those wogs were only in the cities!” He shook his head. “They’re everywhere!”
“Indians are Aryans, I think.” Omar frowned. “Aren’t they?”
Knox paced back and forth in front of Omar’s desk. “What the hell is he doing here in Liberated America? Jesus— that man’s putting his hands on white women!”
“Patel’s all right,” Omar said. “And if you can find a white doctor willing to move to Shelburne City, Louisiana, you just tell me, okay? We went without a doctor for two long years till Judge Moseley got us Patel.”
“I wanted to bust his damn hands after I saw him touch some of your women,” Knox said. “I wouldn’t want him to touch me, that’s for sure.”
“Well, he’s not going to try to touch you, I guess. Patel’s all right for setting busted legs, and that’s what we’ve got mostly.”
He and Wilona went to a white doctor in Vicksburg for their checkups, a habit they’d got into when the parish was without an MD. But Omar, as a deputy, had brought enough injuries into Patel’s office to have seen that the man seemed to know what he was doing.
“So—” Knox stepped closer, lowered his voice. He kept jiggling in place, though, bouncing on his heels. “Shall we start calling? Get some paramilitaries here? Some of my boys, some of your Klan people?”
Omar thought of a couple dozen Knoxes running around his parish, and slowly shook his head. “I don’t think we need ’em,” he said. “We’re in good shape. We’ve got the Guard out. We haven’t had any reports of looting. Once we get the roads fixed, the power and phone lines repaired, we’re back in business.” He looked at Knox. “I reckon your people would be more useful farther north, where there’s looting and such.”
Knox thought about this for a moment, still bouncing on his heels. “Yeah,” he said. “Looting.” His strange eyes glittered. “I guess you’re right, Omar.” He dug in the pocket of his jeans. “I got a phone card ... I’ll just make some calls from that pay phone out in the lobby, if it’s working.”
“Fine,” Omar said. Knox bounced out of the room. Omar gazed after him thoughtfully.
Knox, planning who knew what with his buddies, made him uneasy, but whatever it was that Knox was planning, he looked to be doing it elsewhere.
A Micah Knox elsewhere was a Micah Knox that Omar didn’t have to worry about. And Omar figured he had enough worries as it was.