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  Julia turned back to the line and moved towards the serving area as the commander stepped in behind her and grabbed his own tray.

  “The magazine is just an outgrowth of the group,” she said. “I’m doing a story on military machinery like the aircraft carrier and its accompanying air wing and its overall impact on the environment.”

  “Gee, that sounds very intriguing. It also sounds like bullshit.”

  Julia suddenly wheeled on her shadow, staring daggers at him. “The slow and steady destruction of the planet is not bullshit. But leave it to you to make a mockery of anything that doesn’t fit your political ideology.”

  As she turned back to the line, Mac rolled his eyes. He stared at Julia’s platinum blonde head and wondered what exactly was really going on inside of it and what her real reason was for being on board the Ford.

  Whatever it was, he knew it was trouble—big trouble.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about this hurricane, do you?”

  Julia glanced back at him and Mac thought he saw a twinkle in her eyes.

  He didn’t like the looks of that.

  CHAPTER 20

  Hunter knocked on the door of the meteorological room and heard a masculine voice say “enter” from the other side. He pushed the gray door open and stepped in, looking around at all the equipment. When Hunter was in the Navy, there had been no such room on his ship, an old tank landing ship that spent most of its time hauling Marines from one place to the next either for training or for combat ops. Several computer stations sat lined up against one wall, while a large, rectangular monitor that was suspended from the ceiling showed the angry looking infra-red graphics of what appeared to be the hurricane that was dogging their heels. There were racks with servers in the middle of the room and a couple of big color laser printers next to them. The temperature in the room was about sixty degrees, probably to keep all the electronics cooled off, Hunter figured. There were a lot of buzzing and whirring sounds and he caught a faint whiff of burning electrical wiring but figured it probably smelled like that naturally or an alarm would have been set off.

  An officer in a khaki uniform sitting at a metal desk stood and offered a hand.

  “Hi, I’m Lieutenant Anderson. What can I do for you?”

  The man had a firm handshake and a pleasant demeanor that immediately put Hunter at ease. The lieutenant was tall and lanky with jet-black hair and seemed easygoing, like he had just returned from vacation. Maybe he had.

  Hunter cleared his throat. “I’m Hunter Singleton, a newspaper reporter—part of the media group that’s on board—and I was hoping to learn a little bit about how you track hurricanes.”

  Anderson smiled. “Oh, yeah, I heard about you guys.”

  The lieutenant turned and glanced back at the giant screen with the swirling mass of reds and blues.

  “Well, what do you want to know?” he said. “We’ve been tracking it for a couple of days. It’s officially been named Hurricane Alex and as you can see, it’s already a monster, with hurricane force winds reaching over one hundred miles from the eye.”

  Hunter furrowed his brow. “One hundred miles? That’s a pretty long way, isn’t it?”

  Anderson nodded, then turned and walked over to the screen and pointed to the center of the storm with a pen. “It’s got deep convection in the center and the eye wall is very well defined. It’s already a cat three…”

  “A cat three in only two days?”

  Anderson nodded and kept on talking. “It’ll soon be a cat four and probably a cat five in the next couple of days. To be honest with you, Mr. Singleton, I’ve never seen a storm grow this strong this fast. Even with the warm ocean currents in this part of the Atlantic, it takes days for a storm to reach maximum intensity, but this monster’s not wasting any time.”

  “What kind of capabilities do you guys have for tracking storms?”

  “We can pretty much do anything the National Weather Service can do—forecast weather in our location as well as at the target location, ingress and egress routes and at all levels from the surface up to the altitudes that the carrier wing’s aircraft can fly. We even have our own radiosondes, or what you call weather balloons.”

  “Impressive. So do we know where Alex is headed right now?”

  Anderson frowned. Hunter had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “Right now, Mr. Singleton, landfall appears to be New York City.”

  CHAPTER 21

  New York City, the Office of the Mayor

  City Hall was a blur of activity—TV news camera crews from every station in the city, the three major networks, Fox News, CNN and MSNBC as well as newspaper reporters and photographers were running every which way and crowding the door of the mayor’s office trying to get somebody, anybody, to give them a lead on what they planned to do in preparation for Hurricane Alex. This would be the storm of the century and it was about to hit one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world. Two stoic New York City detectives stood security detail outside the mayor’s office, effectively discouraging any would-be party-crashers.

  Don Jacobs, the commissioner of the Office of Emergency Management, could hear the cacophony of voices outside the door and thanked God he didn’t have to deal with it. He knew that Mayor Geoffrey Washington was determined not to let this thing run over him and be remembered as the mayor who presided over an administration that didn’t have a clue about handling an emergency situation. The trouble was: New York City hadn’t been hit by a cyclone of this magnitude since the New England hurricane of 1938 known as the “Long Island Express,” a category three that killed sixty people and caused nearly five billion dollars in damages. But Alex was probably going to be much, much worse. The storm surge alone could exceed twenty feet with winds topping one-hundred and fifty miles per hour. Not a good day in the Big Apple. The whole New England region would probably be affected, as well.

  “Yes, senator, I have the commissioner in my office right now,” the mayor said, speaking into the phone while simultaneously glancing at Jacobs, who was squirming in his seat and resisting the urge to loosen his tie. It was hot in the mayor’s office and he was in the hot seat. The combination was causing flop sweat and his heart was racing just a little too fast for his liking. Jacobs looked past the mayor, temporarily blocking out the conversation and staring out the window at City Hall Park, admiring the greenery and imagining how serene it must have been compared to where he was right now.

  Representatives of the local police, fire departments and the mayor’s staff members sat on couches and chairs and talked quietly among themselves while the mayor finished his phone call. Jacobs preferred to spend the time organizing his thoughts. He had been on the phone since five o’clock that morning, talking to the weather service, his staff, and most of the people that were now in the mayor’s office. He was used to stress, but he hadn’t seen anything like this since the 9-11 massacre. This could potentially be one of the worst disasters in recorded history. But the commissioner was determined to evacuate and protect as many people as was humanly possible—including his own family—or die trying.

  Mayor Washington hung up the phone then sighed heavily. Perspiration beaded on his dark forehead, and the look on his jowly face indicated he had not enjoyed the previous conversation.

  “That was Senator Hinton. I don’t think I have to tell anyone that she is extremely concerned over our situation and wants immediate action. So please tell me, Mr. Commissioner, that we have some kind of plan in place to get these people out of the city, or at least to some kind of evacuation center.”

  Jacobs cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, my office is working with police and emergency services to get as many people as possible out of flood zones and into evac centers or out of the city altogether. We’ve already begun evacuating Coney Island, Brighton Beach, Manhattan Beach, Sea Gate, Breezy Point, Rockaway Beach, Belle Harbor and several other areas.”

  The mayor nodded, knitting his brow tightly.
“First of all, tell me what we’re looking at as far as the storm is concerned. What can we expect?”

  Jacobs ran a hand through his silver hair and crossed his left ankle over his right knee, as if preparing for a long interview. God, how he wished he could have a cigarette. He missed the days when he could just light one up anytime or anywhere and not worry about someone bringing a lawsuit.

  “Well, Mr. Mayor,” Jacobs said, “a category five hurricane basically means devastation. Many of our major bridges, like the George Washington, will experience hurricane force winds long before the rest of the city, so that’s going to play havoc with our evacuations. The ferry services will have to be shut down, as well, because of the threat of storm surge, so that’s not going to help. The Holland tunnel, Brooklyn-Battery and subway tunnels in lower Manhattan are all probably going to be underwater. The JFK Airport will end being hit by twenty or thirty feet of water, as well. The storm is currently less than a day away and evacuation of the entire city in that amount of time is just not feasible. The jet stream will carry the hurricane up to speeds of sixty miles per hour, which is good in that it will pass through quickly, but also bad, because that gives us so little time to prepare. The best we can do at this point is to get everyone away from the areas most susceptible to flooding and into the center of the boroughs where the evac stations are set up. But no matter how you look at it, there is going to be some loss of life.”

  The room remained ominously quiet as everyone digested the information. After what seemed like an eternity, the mayor spoke.

  “I appreciate your efforts and I know this is not going to be easy,” he said as he looked at each person in the room. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot of patience and perseverance, but I know you will give it your all because you always do.”

  The mayor sat back in his leather chair and gazed at the office door. “Alright,” he said, “Might as well let the press in.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Jessica Blount sat at the computer terminal in the crypto room of the Ford, searching through classified e-mails for any hint that there may be CIA aboard. So far, she hadn’t found a thing. If there was anyone on board, they were well-hidden among either the crew or the media group. But who could it be?

  For the last couple of days, Jessica had been feeling strange, as if she wasn’t herself, as if there was someone—something—inside her brain, directing her every move. But she had managed to shake the feeling off. And that strange dent in the top of her skull…she couldn’t for the life of her think where it could have come from. Had she banged her head coming through a door somewhere? Bits and pieces came to her like the fleeting shadows of a dream, memories of things she thought she may have done, but couldn’t quite remember. It was maddening. Jessica prided herself on her excellent memory, but now it was as if her brain was deteriorating, maybe an early onset of Alzheimer’s.

  Jessica searched through one e-mail after another, like looking for a grain of sand on an endless beach, but there wasn’t anything other than typical communications between the Ford and Fleet Forces Command. If she didn’t find anything, she may have to have a little “talk” with the ship’s NCIS agent.

  She stopped typing and just sat, staring at the computer monitor. What the hell was she doing searching through classified files? She looked around at the gray walls of the room—filing cabinets, radio equipment, computers—as if seeing everything for the first time. Jessica could feel the great ship rocking on the waves, side to side, bow to stern, and suddenly began to feel ill. She hadn’t been seasick since the first day she had come aboard the Ford, so why now?

  The seaman quickly clicked “tools” on the browser and erased her tracks, although she knew if someone searched hard enough they would find out what she had done. She logged out of the computer and stood, running her hands through her hair, trying to think, hoping to jar some kind of memory loose inside the old gray matter.

  A flash came into her mind suddenly, like a single frame from a movie, of a man standing over her, caressing her cheek and looking down at her as she…Jessica’s eyes bulged and she wanted to retch as the scene hit her full force. She stumbled backwards, nearly falling over the desk chair, but caught herself in time. She had given oral sex to someone, one of her superiors. She remembered it distinctly now. They were in the anchor windlass room of all places. She remembered the sex, but after that it was fuzzy, like there was some kind of interference blocking it out. What the hell was going on?

  Jessica pushed the chair out of the way and pulled open the compartment door, making her way to the female head down the passageway. A couple of her shipmates gave her odd looks on the way by, but she didn’t care. Seaman Blount simply wanted to make it to a toilet before she blew breakfast all over the floor.

  She made it to the female head and stopped at one of the stainless steel sinks to look in the mirror. She leaned over with both hands on the sink and stared into the glass.

  She looked like shit. Her eyes had dark circles underneath and her black hair was matted to her head. Had she even showered in the past two days? She couldn’t remember. In fact, she couldn’t recall much of anything she had done in that time. What was happening to her? Was she going crazy? Was she sick? Jessica was considering going to sickbay when she caught a glimpse of what she thought was perspiration on the side of her face, but it was whitish in color. She leaned in closer to the mirror.

  A drop of liquid, which should have been trickling down her face, was instead moving sideways, where it merged with another drop of liquid, then another and another. More drops began oozing from her face as the skin tightened and turned a bright crimson.

  She felt something on her arm and looked down. More whitish liquid exuded from her flesh, like she was suddenly perspiring milk, and began to collect at her wrist. Oh, sweet Jesus, what was happening to her?

  Jessica shook the wetness from her arm onto the floor and watched dumbfounded as the drops quickly rolled towards one another like magnets with opposite poles, forming a small puddle. She could feel the liquid as it seemed to be coming out of every pore of her body now and she tore off her BDU shirt and pants, tossing them across the room. The seaman looked at her body and saw that it was covered in white sweat, as if all the milk she had consumed in her life was now suddenly leaking out of her.

  Then her eyes began to water and burn. She ran to the mirror and stared at herself through a haze of tears. But they weren’t tears—it was the white liquid and it was leaking out of her eye sockets.

  Then Jessica did something she hadn’t done since she was eight years old.

  She screamed.

  CHAPTER 23

  Joey Paducci’s grandparents had emigrated from Italy back in the days when America was in its prime during the roaring twenties. His grandfather had started a restaurant in Manhattan that had done quite well, even lasting through the depression. His own father, Joey Sr., had worked in that restaurant as a kid and later took it over when his grandfather had passed away. Joey had expected to be the next in line and in fact, had been next in line, to take over the family business—then the seventies happened—recession, inflation, gas shortages, even toilet paper shortages. Joey had never seen anything like it. People just didn’t have the money to spend on eating out or doing anything else, for that matter.

  Joey Sr. eventually drank himself to death, leaving behind a wife and three kids, including Joey. But as the oldest sibling and the most experienced at running the restaurant, he was determined to keep the business afloat. His brother and sister and even his mother pitched in and worked weekends and nights trying to keep the place going. They started offering food to go and several new menu items, but nothing they did seemed to be enough.

  Then, the bank bailouts began and another recession loomed over them like the shadow of death. His brother and sister finally called it quits and got jobs at other restaurants and his mother started collecting social security. It wasn’t much, but it kept her going along with the money she made from
cleaning rich people’s apartments.

  Joey eventually declared bankruptcy on the restaurant, nearly in tears as he paid the last of his money to the lawyer that was keeping his creditors at bay. He felt like jumping off the Empire State Building, like a complete failure, having to sell the place to someone else who would start a new restaurant that would probably end up in bankruptcy as well.

  Now here he was, sitting in Battery Park, feeling sorry for himself and wondering what his next move would be. He didn’t even seem to notice the wind that nearly peeled him out of the park bench as his coat flapped around him and the rain pelted his dark hair and face. What’s a little hurricane on top of everything else that’s happened, he figured.

  Joey knew that he wasn’t going to give up. That just wasn’t the Paducci way. They were go-getters, and Joey was determined to find another means of support. He was still relatively young and this was America, damn it—land of the free, home of the brave and all that. His grandparents had come here ninety years ago without a cent to their name and he wasn’t going to let their life’s work go to waste. He would start again; somehow, somewhere, he would start again.

  Joey wiped his nose with the back of his hand and decided it was probably time to get off the streets, though he didn’t feel much like moving. He was completely drenched from head to foot, but he didn’t care. It made him feel alive and that’s exactly what he needed right now—to feel alive.

  Joey shook the rain out of his hair and looked at his watch. Four p.m., time to hit the road.

  He looked up just in time to see a twenty-foot wall of water coming straight at him across Battery Park and Joey felt his heart suddenly begin to hammer against his rib cage. He reflexively grabbed the rosary beads around his neck that his mother always insisted he wear and squeezed them like a drowning man desperately clinging to a lifeline.