With a promise to hustle back, Hank was off as he followed the same route Jessica had taken previously. During the hour and a half ride, he encountered more unexpected gusts of wind. By the time he arrived at Sunset Marina in Key West, which was located in the vicinity of the hospital, the gusty winds became more frequent.
He craned his neck to find a place to dock the boat. He was not surprised at what he saw as he idled through the No-Wake Zone. Armed men strolled along the floating docks nestled in the protective cove within Stock Island. Despite its proximity to the sheriff’s station, the operators of the marina—and the boat owners, Hank presumed—felt compelled to protect their boats and fuel. He couldn’t blame them.
After seeing a familiar face and making small talk, he found an available slip and was then given a ride over to the hospital in a solar-powered golf cart, one of many on the island. Despite the cloudy skies, the small batteries necessary to run the vehicles were able to be charged although it took an extraordinarily long time.
Hank entered the hospital and was thrilled to find Mike sitting upright and eating solid food. Jessica was standing by his side, stretching after another cramped night of sleep in the chair. Not that it bothered him, but Hank got the distinct impression she was happier to see the duffel bag of clothes and personal hygiene products than she was to see him. A minute after his arrival, she hustled off with the duffel, leaving Hank alone with his brother.
“How’re ya doin’?” Hank asked.
“It only hurts when I breathe,” Mike replied. He winced and swallowed hard before turning back to his Jell-O.
“Well, you’re looking good,” he began. “But hey, Rocky Balboa was handsome in a punch-drunk, beat-all-to-hell sort of way.”
Mike laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. Have you looked in the mirror? What’s your excuse?”
Hank hadn’t looked in the mirror although he imagined the lack of sleep and worry about his family had taken its toll. He felt like he’d aged a decade or two.
He sighed before responding, “I’m glad you’re okay. Mike, I’m really sorry. I should’ve never let that guy on the key.”
“Nobody knew,” said Mike. “Jess and I started to notice how squirrely he was. When you spend your days around criminals, you start to pick up on things they all have in common. You can tell they have something to hide. Some, like Patrick, play the game better than others. We compared notes, and it started to make sense.”
Hank hung his head. So much was weighing on him. He grimaced and nodded before making eye contact with his brother. He hesitated before broaching the subject.
“There’s something else…” His voice trailed off, giving Mike time to anticipate what Hank was going to bring up.
“I heard they blew the bridges. A few of the guys came by to check on me when the word got out. I understand it’s a pretty contentious subject between the commissioners and Lindsey.”
“Yeah, I heard, too. I hope to corner Lindsey after I leave the hospital. But that’s not what I was referring to.”
“Did something happen at Driftwood Key? I told Jess to go home and that I was in good hands.”
Hank glanced into the hallway and then explained, “As you know, Jimmy has been assigned to man the checkpoint at Gilbert’s Resort. His shift was supposed to end yesterday morning.” Hank gulped.
“What is it?” asked Mike, wincing as he pushed himself up in bed.
“He’s twenty-four hours past due for coming home. Sonny and Phoebe are freaking out, and frankly, so am I.”
“None of the detectives have said anything about Jimmy although most of them aren’t assigned to the sheriff’s border detail,” he said. He shook his head. “This had to be Lindsey’s idea to blow up the bridges. Now she can be Queen of the Keys.”
“Well, I promised to get some answers. I think I’ll start with the sheriff.”
Mike chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that. The guys tell me he stays holed up in his office. He meets with his undersheriff and his aide. That’s about it. He won’t even sit down with our two majors or the chief. It’s really bizarre.”
“I have to try,” said Hank.
Mike agreed but had a suggestion. “You might have better luck with Lindsey.”
“Why?”
“We have something she wants access to—food production.”
“I’m not giving it up, Mike. And I’m damn sure not offering up the bungalows for people to sleep in. Been there, done that.”
Mike felt compelled to caution his brother, who was in a difficult emotional place. “Tread lightly with Lindsey. She’s on a helluva power trip right now and couldn’t care less about what we’ve been through or where Jimmy is.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thursday, November 7
U.S. Army War College
Carlisle Barracks
Carlisle, Pennsylvania
Despite the fact the five-hundred-acre campus of the U.S. Army War College was nowhere near completion to house all of the major departments required to run the government, President Carter Helton insisted upon his administration making the transition above ground, as he liked to put it. Operating within the confines of the bunker at Mount Weather had been taxing on the president’s emotional state. He was ready for a fresh start and eager to tackle the nationwide recovery effort.
For days, the Army had diverted considerable resources to securing Carlisle Barracks and the entire campus. The roads and highways leading into the small town of twenty thousand had been cordoned off during the preparations.
At first, their activities were shrouded in mystery, especially to those who resided in nearby Harrisburg, Pennsylvania’s state capital. Many presumed, rightfully so, that the native Pennsylvanian would choose Philadelphia as the nation’s capital following the devastating war. Even if on a temporary basis. The activity at Carlisle Barracks surprised everyone.
In the predawn hours that morning, the president had surreptitiously departed Mount Weather and was whisked away by Marine One to the temporary White House. By the time he was given a tour of his new offices and touched base with the members of his cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Chief of Staff Harrison Chandler was alerted by FEMA that a massive hurricane had formed in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Venezuela. He would be briefed on its path within the hour.
President Helton spoke with his military advisors regarding the actions of the Florida Keys officials who’d ordered the destruction of the bridges. There had to be repercussions, but he was advised the only way to remove the government officials responsible for the destruction was to initiate some form of air and sea assault. Even as angry as the president was, he couldn’t imagine bringing the might of the United States military against the insubordinate inhabitants of the Florida Keys.
He settled into a classroom within the complex that had been assigned to FEMA because its walls were completely covered in whiteboards. One of them provided data on the coming storm he’d been told about.
HURRICANE MOVING NORTHWESTERLY AND ACCELERATING.
DEVELOPING AND STRENGHTENING. WINDS SUSTAINED 55 KNOTS.
SEAS 12 TO 22 FEET WITHIN 300 NAUTICAL MILES.
982 MILLIBARS.
The president furrowed his brow, and he read through it twice. He imagined it was the type of weather forecast no fisherman wanted to hear. An aide to the NOAA representative distributed printed reports detailing the storm. The president studied the satellite imagery.
This monster appeared as a huge swirl stretching from Caracas on the northern coast of Venezuela to just below Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. A second page provided a computer model of the storm’s track and intensity. Under the circumstances, the National Hurricane Center did not have the multiple assets available to them to chart the hurricane’s path. Ordinarily, as many as forty computer models would be at their disposal to advise the president. Today, there was only one.