Tarnished Image (3 page)

Osborn’s office, a twenty-by-twenty room with a teak desk and credenza and floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls was in the corner of the tower and overlooked the dense cluster of buildings of urban San Diego. From fifty-two floors up it was a captivating view. Osborn, a stately, middle-aged, African American, was not looking at the view. Instead, his eyes were fixed on his computer screen, peering through small, wire-rimmed glasses.

“I’m sorry to have taken so long, Oz,” David began, “but I had to work a little diplomacy with Timmy.”

“No problem,” Osborn answered without looking up from his screen. “Let me show you something.”

David walked over and stood behind him. On the large color monitor was a photo of the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea. The picture was detailed, showing mountains, valleys, rivers, and overhead clouds.

“What am I looking for?” David asked.

Osborn picked up a pencil and pointed at the monitor. The sharpened end touched the glass screen with a discernable tap. “Here, fifteen degrees north by about seventy degrees west.”

David leaned forward and squinted. “That clump of clouds?”

“Yeah,” Osborn leaned back and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Except it’s more than a clump of clouds. It’s a tropical storm, a big one, and I’m sure it’s on its way to being a hurricane.”

“Hurricanes happen every year,” David replied. “I don’t think you called me here to show me a new one.”

“We’ve already had two this year,” Osborn said as he leaned forward and tapped a key on the keyboard. Instantly, the map zoomed out to reveal more of the area. Osborn clicked the key once more and the map shrank. David could now see the entire eastern seaboard. “The first two started well out in the Atlantic and moved toward the coast, but each turned north and never made landfall.” As he spoke, Osborn traced the paths of the previous storms. “No harm, no foul. This one, however, is sure to hit something.”

“Like what?”

“Too early to tell. It’s not even a proper hurricane yet, but it will be. And I think it’s going to be a monster.”

“How can you tell?”

“Gut feeling, right now, but this is what I do. This is why you hired me last January. I study catastrophes; it’s my science, my passion.”

That was true enough. Barringston Relief had been heavily involved in fighting world hunger. Its considerable resources were aimed at meeting immediate and long-term needs. David had added another dimension to the work: emergency aid to victims of cataclysm. Each year millions of people were killed, injured, or left homeless by natural disaster. It was David’s dream to abate that pain. That’s when he hired Dr. Osborn Scott, one of the highest acclaimed students of catastrophe. His reputation was global.

“So you think it’s going to be a problem?”

“It’s going to be a problem all right. I just don’t know how big a problem.” They studied the map for a few moments. “I’m sure the news media will be broadcasting word about the storm, but until more data is in, they will be guessing where it will make landfall. We know a storm is out there and that it’s going to be a problem for somebody. That’s about all we know right now. I’ll give you my best guess though.”

“OK.”

“If I were a betting man,” Osborn began, “I’d wager that this fellow will reach hurricane status tonight or early tomorrow and that it will take a northwesterly track.” Once again he pointed at the screen. “Worst-case scenario: It grows to a four or five, plows across Cuba, picks up steam in the Gulf of Mexico, and makes landfall again somewhere around here.” He pointed to New Orleans.

“That would be bad,” David said seriously.

“That would be
very
bad,” Osborn corrected. “In the next
three days, David, people will die and homes will be destroyed. You can bet the farm on it.”

David reached for the telephone on Osborn’s desk and quickly punched in the number of his personal assistant on the keypad. A second later, he spoke. “Ava, I need you to set up a meeting with the RRT. Make it for—” he looked at his watch, “four-thirty. That’ll give everybody a couple of hours to rearrange their schedules.”

David listened for a moment then said, “No, better put us in the big conference room. I’m not sure how long we’ll be meeting, so you’d better arrange for some coffee, water, that sort of thing. Thanks, Ava.” He hung up.

“I think convening the rapid response team is wise,” Osborn said.

“It can’t hurt. Besides, I’d rather be ahead of the game than behind. I’m going to clean up while you prepare to make a presentation. Bring whatever information you can and be ready to answer questions. You’re the authority on this, and the team will need all the info you can give them.”

“I’ll be ready,” Osborn said resolutely.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Oz,” David said, “but I hope you’re wrong.”

“Me too,” Osborn answered. He paused then continued, “But I’m not.”

Indian Ocean
Depth: 21,645 feet

Slowly … steadily … unfailingly … the jigsaw pieces of the Earth’s crust moved, not by feet, but by meager inches each
year. The plates expanded as the fluid rock beneath the pieces purposefully produced new crust while other plates patiently gobbled down the existing shell, melting and blending it with the mantle beneath. Not a day passed, not a minute ticked by without the ancient ballet continuing.

Overhead rested a four-mile-thick blanket of salt water and fluid, always in motion. It was a concert conducted since creation, a dance of endless movement.

With almost intelligent tenacity, the Indo-Australian plate slowly twisted clockwise, creating pressures, magnifying stress, subducting with a plate eight hundred miles east and diverging with its sister plate fifteen hundred miles west. In its center a portion of crust sixty miles thick fractured, elevating a slab of rock the size of California in a titanic eruption of power. With it rose six hundred twenty-five thousand cubic miles of ocean.

Two minutes after it began, the eons of stress relieved, the ocean floor resumed its sluggish dance only slightly altered, gliding in restful moderation.

Not so the ocean.

The conference room was a large trapezoid, wider near the double entry doors and narrower by ten feet at its head. David stood with his hands clasped behind him and faced the gathered executives of Barringston Relief. Ten pairs of eyes returned his gaze. Behind him was a large and technically sophisticated projection screen. To his right was a computer terminal.

The room itself had no windows, the result of purposeful design meant to decrease distractions. The walnut-paneled walls were adorned with pictures taken of Barringston Relief work around the world.

A large walnut table dominated the center of the room. Seated around the table was the rapid response team—the RRT—comprising the ten department leaders, each an expert in his or her field.

“First, let me thank each of you for rearranging your schedules to be here,” David said. “I believe this is the first time we’ve met like this since the inception of the team six months ago. Two hours ago, Dr. Osborn Scott brought a serious matter to my attention. I’ve asked him to bring us up to date. Oz, if you would, please.” David stepped back and took a seat.

Osborn stood and took his place at the head of the table. He carried no notes. Before he began, he paused at the computer terminal next to him and tapped in a command. On the floor-to-ceiling screen behind him a satellite photo appeared in bright colors. He stepped to the side to avoid impairing anyone’s view.

“This is the latest satellite photo from the NOAA. As you can see, it is of the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean.” Facing the image, he pulled a penlike device from his pocket and clicked on a small switch. A low-power laser emitted a thin beam that appeared as a small red dot on the satellite image. Aiming the pointing device at a smear of clouds, he continued. “This accumulation of clouds is a massive tropical storm that is quickly growing in power and size. The National Hurricane Center has named the storm Claudia. While it’s too early to say with certainty, I estimate that there is a better than 90 percent chance that this storm will grow to hurricane status and do so quickly, perhaps as early as tomorrow morning. When it does, it is sure to cause severe damage.

“It’s impossible to predict the track a hurricane will take,” Osborn continued. “But because of its present position with Venezuela to the south, several Central American countries to the west, Cuba and the Caribbean Islands to the north, we can safely say that some country, most likely several countries, will be adversely impacted by this storm. Someone is going to take a beating.”

“How strong a storm do you anticipate?” Kristen LaCroix asked. Kristen was the director of public relations. She was a bright woman with deep red, shoulder-length hair. She was also David’s closest friend.

“Prognostication is a tricky business,” Osborn answered, “but I think it’s going to be a four, possibly a five.”

“You had better explain that, Oz,” David said, wanting to be sure that everyone understood.

Osborn nodded. “Hurricanes are rated on a scale of one to five, with category five being the most severe. Wind speed and barometric pressure determine a hurricane’s category. For example, Hurricane Andrew devastated Florida, annihilating several towns and cutting a swath of destruction thirty-five miles wide and creating severe damage over a much wider area than that. It had sustained winds of one hundred forty-five miles per hour with gusts up to one hundred seventy-five. Before it was done, it left forty dead and caused twenty-five billion dollars in damage.”

“That was a category five?” Kristen asked.

“No,” Osborn replied. “That was a category four. A five is described as catastrophic and maintains winds of one hundred fifty-six miles per hour or greater with gusts that top two hundred miles an hour. In addition, it brings a storm surge of eighteen feet or more.”

“Storm surge?” asked Tom Templeton, director of inner-agency relations. His department maintained communications with other relief organizations worldwide as well as with governmental agencies.

“Yes,” Osborn answered. “Most people think that a hurricane’s winds are the most dangerous part of the storm, but the wind is just one segment of the problem. The storm brings a water surge with it. This surge is like a mound of water that is pushed along by the winds. When the hurricane strikes the shore, this mound of water, which may rise twenty feet above its normal level, instantly floods the surrounding land, taking everything—cars, houses, and people—with it.”

“I take it that category-five hurricanes are unusual,” Kristen said.

“The U.S. has only endured two in its history. A four is bad enough.”

“How bad is bad?” Bob Connick, Barringston Relief’s chief financial officer asked.

“Factors vary,” Osborn answered. “Much depends on where the hurricane strikes. Developed countries, where sophisticated warning systems exist, fare far better than undeveloped countries. Those systems, however, are wonderful when it comes to saving lives, but they can do nothing to diminish property damage. To give you an idea of what a hurricane can do, I’ll share a few examples.

“On October 7, 1737,” Osborn continued, “a typhoon—which is the same thing as a hurricane but occurs in the western Pacific or Indian Ocean—struck near Calcutta and sank twenty thousand ships and killed three hundred thousand people. On October 1, 1893, a hurricane similar to this one originated in the Gulf of Mexico,” he motioned to the satellite
image, “and moved ashore near Port Eads and the Mississippi coastal region. It took eighteen hundred lives. In 1900 a hurricane came ashore at Galveston, Texas, and killed six thousand people. The city was largely destroyed and was later rebuilt—seventeen feet higher than the high tide level.”

“But those all occurred a century or more ago,” Bob Connick protested.

“True. Today we can evacuate many of the people, but there is still a horrible price to pay. In September 1989, not all that long ago, Hurricane Hugo blasted through the Caribbean islands from Guadeloupe to Puerto Rico before ripping through North and South Carolina. Hugo killed five hundred people and left several billion dollars worth of damage. And as I said earlier, Hurricane Andrew did over twenty-five billion dollars worth of damage in Florida in 1992 but took only forty lives, thanks to technology.