No Ordinary Heroes:. Demaree Inglese
move!” Verret’s words were buried in the hurricane’s roar, but Skyles understood. Fighting the wind, they struggled to pull the loaded cart along the front of the building. Verret’s muscles screamed with each step.
Across the street, the top of a tall pine snapped off and careened into the darkness. The tall sweet olive trees that flanked the front steps of the Correctional Center had been ripped from the ground. Saplings and bushes inside a cement planter that skirted the building had been shredded.
The screech of tortured metal rose above the storm’s howl. Verret glanced back as the wind ripped tin roof panels off the police mechanic shop and spiraled them high into the air. Whole sections of the roof hovered for a moment before riding the next squall. On the corner, a utility pole snapped at the base and toppled into the water.
“My God!” Skyles exclaimed.
Verret suppressed the same fear he heard in his deputy’s voice.
Sheets of water washed across the porch, and Verret urged Skyles to keep going. When they reached the front doors, the captain grabbed a door handle to steady himself. Holding on to it with one hand, he pulled a sandbag off the cart with the other. Soaked by the rain, the two-foot-long bag was even heavier than normal. Like a soggy brick, Verret thought, pushing the sandbag against the door with his foot. Skyles used a similar method, dragging bags off the cart and shoving them into position.
They worked slowly but without breaking rhythm, until the last bag was jammed in place against the doors.
“That’s all we can do!” Skyles hollered.
I just hope it’s enough, Verret thought as they began retracing their steps, both of them holding on to the empty cart as they made their way toward the side of the building.
The wind slammed into their backs, pushing them relentlessly, forcing them to speed up. Without the sandbags, the cart was at the mercy of the hurricane. Halfway to the corner, a powerful gust viciously yanked it forward, dragging the men along. Verret lost his footing on the slippery porch and fell to his knees. Skyles, still holding the handle, was flung into the air. The cart and the deputy crashed down onto Verret, savagely twisting his arm. Trapped underneath, Verret swore, certain he had broken a bone. His arm hurt like hell, and the pain intensified as the wind swept the men and the cart into the Center’s wrought-iron railing.
When Skyles rolled off him, Verret pulled his arm free and crawled away from the cart. Grabbing the railing with his good arm, he tried to stand. Another brutal blast hammered him back to his knees.
Suddenly, hands gripped him from behind.
“Are you all right?” Mike Higgins shouted, pulling Verret to his feet.
Verret glanced at the psychiatrist and nodded as Brady Richard helped Skyles to stand. He didn’t know why the two men from Medical were outside, but they all risked being swept off the porch if they remained.
“Let’s get out of here!” Yelling, Verret stumbled to the back of the Correctional Center. No one spoke further until they were safely inside.
“Don’t think I’m not grateful,” Verret said, “but what the hell were you two doing out there?”
Brady shrugged. “Just taking a look.”
“Good thing for you,” Mike added.
Brady agreed with an exaggerated nod. “I thought for sure that railing was gonna give.”
I’m lucky it didn’t, Verret thought, rubbing his arm.
Mike frowned. “Is your arm okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Verret grumbled. He hoped it wasn’t broken. Katrina had just made landfall. The worst was yet to come.
Chapter 11
Morning:
At 8 a.m. Katrina’s storm surge causes the Industrial Canal to overflow.
Flooding in the lower Ninth Ward is six to eight feet deep.
Katrina’s eye passes east of New Orleans at 9 a.m., with 125-mph winds.
At 11 a.m., ten feet of water flood St. Bernard Parish.
Captain Verret was exhausted. He’d changed his clothes, and his arm still throbbed, but he couldn’t sleep with the hurricane raging. He looked into the dining area near the back doors, where Skyles was watching storm reports on television with Captain Danny Boersma, another of his deputies.
“It’s bad, but the eye’s passing east of the river,” said Boersma, who carried his muscular five-foot-eleven-inch frame with the cocky confidence of a member of the sheriff’s motorcycle division. “They’re saying it could have been worse.”
“The wind’s still 125 miles an hour. That’s as strong as an F2 tornado,” Skyles said.
“But it’s almost over.” Boersma shrugged. “Still, it might be days before we get city power back.”
It really could have been worse, Verret thought as he walked outside. His eyelids felt heavy, and he hoped a blast of air would revitalize his weary mind and body. With all the windblown leaves, trash, and other debris it was difficult to see. Something struck his ear. Wincing at the sting, he turned his back to the storm just as something exploded in the sallyport.
Verret rushed to the edge of the porch overlooking the sunken driveway. “Oh, my God…” His breath caught in his throat when he realized the sallyport dam had ruptured. One of the steel plates was gone, and water from the street was surging through the breach. It hadn’t reached the basement doors yet, but it was rising fast.
Verret ran, bursting through the back doors straight to the dining area. “Skyles! Boersma! The sallyport’s flooding!”
Skyles jumped up, knocking over his chair. The blood drained from his face.
“Round up as many big guys as you can find and meet me back here in five minutes.” Verret didn’t wait for a response.
He raced out to notify Sheriff Gusman, who was sleeping in his office in the Correction Center. He alerted him to the emergency. When Verret returned, Skyles and Boersma were waiting with five other deputies.
Verret said bluntly, “We’ve got to repair the dam before water gets into the basement.”
Seven solemn faces nodded. They knew the generators would shut down if the electrical room flooded: no generator, no power—no control over the jail.
“The sheriff doesn’t want us to go. He thinks it’s too dangerous”—Verret paused—“and it is. But I don’t have a choice. I could use some help, but this is strictly a volunteer operation.”
Not one man opted out.
The deputies’ courage inspired Verret as he led them outside. It wasn’t in his nature to defy authority, but he had been at the Correctional Center in 1995 when a bad storm flooded the basement and the building lost all power. If that happened again with the Center full of wives, kids, and elderly family members, it would be troublesome at best. If 800 inmates with nothing to lose escaped, it could be deadly. He really didn’t have a choice.
Though it was well after dawn, a gray darkness hung over Verret and his men as they battled the wind on the side porch. When they neared the front corner, he shouted a warning. At the turn, the storm attacked with a deluge of rain. The gale lancing across the front porch was strong enough to send even a heavy deputy flying. Clasping hands, the men formed a human chain to keep from being carried off.
With Verret in the lead, the linked squad descended the front steps. Verret halted at the water’s edge, fifteen feet from the submerged sidewalk. The deputies crouched and clung to the banister.
Verret scanned the intersection to the left. The road was the most logical route to the sallyport, but the flood was nearly three feet deep. It was impossible to see through the water to the asphalt. Verret remembered