A beat of half a second’s silence followed his speech before the media pack erupted again, firing questions and demands for information at him. He was just about to wave them away when a booming Southern accent cut through the pandemonium.
‘That’ll be all for now, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You heard the admiral – he does have a very important meeting to get to. Governor Lingle will address you all live right after it. And no, I can’t say for sure when that will be, but you’ve definitely got a couple of hours to go get your horses fed and watered.’
The man’s voice was so powerful, his delivery so sure, it quelled the incipient press riot almost immediately. Ritchie was grateful, but bemused. As a resident of the islands, he was familiar with some of the public faces of the state administration, even though Governor Linda Lingle had not long been in office. But this massive, roaring bear of a man was new to him, and Ritchie didn’t see how he could have missed such a figure – or a voice.
He was impeccably, if heavily, dressed in a three-piece, blue pinstriped suit and he took Ritchie gently but firmly by the elbow and propelled him through the ruck of journalists. ‘Keep smiling,’ the man muttered. ‘Don’t let your fingers get anywhere near their mouths. And check to see if you still have your wallet and watch on the other side.’
His self-appointed guardian operated as a gentle but unstoppable battering ram, carving a path not just through the crush of reporters and cameramen, but on through the throngs of civil servants beyond them, many of whom stood and gawped at Ritchie when he passed by, almost as if he were some kind of celebrity.
‘Guess I’ve had my fifteen seconds of fame,’ the admiral said.
‘Not if you got any more performances like that up your sleeve,’ his companion replied somewhat grimly. ‘Wish I could get a few others to turn it on like that. Jed Culver, by the way. Of the Louisiana Bar. Originally – I run a consultancy out of DC of late.’
Ritchie awkwardly swapped his briefcase from one hand to the other and they shook. ‘Admiral James Ritchie, Mr Culver. You didn’t sound like a local boy.’
Culver steered him around a corner and past a couple of security guards. The two uniforms were doing a good job of pissing off a dozen or more staffers who insisted they had good reason to be admitted to the inner sanctum. That’s what this part of the building felt like. It was less crowded, much quieter, and events didn’t seem to be spinning out of control quite so badly here.
‘I was lucky enough to be on holiday with my family,’ Culver explained. ‘My immediate family at least, thank God. Anyways, I saw the news this morning and figured I would lend a hand if they wanted. Lingle’s main press handler was Stateside.’
‘You’ve done a lot of press management then?’
‘Oh yes. Real press too. Hard men like Jimmy Breslin and Chip Brown, not like these pussies. That was a great speech before, you know. Really nailed a few heads to the wall. That’s what we need right now – a big goddamn hammer and a whole bucket o’ nails to get things secured ‘fore they start flying off all over.’
They pulled up outside a closed office door. There was an indefatigable energy to Culver that one couldn’t help liking. A lot of spare mass was expensively hidden away under that designer suit, but he looked like a man who could plough on for days at a time without a break. The island was probably lucky to have him. The heavy-set lawyer rapped on the door and waited half a beat before pushing on into an anteroom furnished with two desks, behind which sat a couple of very stressed-out young women. One had three phones clamped to her ears and was writing notes on multiple pads. The other woman was stabbing at her telephone’s keypad, listening for a second, slamming down the receiver, and repeating the process all over again.
‘Governor ready?’ asked Culver. ‘I got the admiral. Pulled him from the mouths of the lions by my own hand.’
The second receptionist, the one having so much trouble making her call, nodded at them. ‘Go on through, Mr Culver,’ she said tersely. ‘They’re waiting.’
As the big man led him through, a thought occurred to Ritchie. ‘Why pack the suit, if you’re on holidays, Mr Culver?’
The lawyer smiled back over his shoulder. ‘Ah, you’re a man who thinks like my good wife, sir,’ he replied. ‘Come on, meet the Governor.’
Culver seemed unnaturally assured of his place, given that he was little more than an interloper, but he’d obviously been of some help to the administration through the madness of the last twelve hours. There was any number of legitimate government officers trapped behind the velvet rope down the corridor who had more claim to be here than him. But here he was, and there they were, frozen out by a couple of state-sponsored bouncers. In a way, it gave Ritchie some hope. Perhaps things weren’t as shambolic as they seemed.
Governor Linda Lingle was waiting for them just inside the office, flanked by a couple of suits. Her eyes were framed by the same haunted appearance he was beginning to recognise on everyone. If he looked in the mirror he’d doubtless see the same expression staring back.
‘Admiral, thank you for coming down,’ said Lingle, sounding very tired. ‘I understand you must be very busy. Please, sit down. We’ll get on with this as quickly as we can.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Ritchie, shaking her hand and then those of the other people in the room, whom the governor introduced as heads of various departments.
‘How did the city look to you, Admiral, on your drive down here?’ she asked.
Ritchie didn’t see any point in using weasel words. ‘Your curfew isn’t holding, ma’am. It’s being widely ignored. The state troopers and police are using a very light hand. I wouldn’t say there was panic on the streets, but the shops will run empty very soon, and then you’ll see some real fear and probably some violence. There’s a lot of people trying to get out, tourists, I suppose – although, who knows. If you want my advice, do everything you can to get them on a plane with all dispatch.’
Lingle nodded and pursed her lips. Her staffers’ reactions were mixed. One bristled, two others nodded vigorously. Jed Culver remained impassive.
‘I don’t want to see any more troops on my streets. In fact, I’d prefer not to see any out there at all, Admiral, and I’m sure you’d rather not have to employ your people here either, but it might not be a bad idea to prepare for the worst anyway. I’m sure you must have a plan in some bottom drawer somewhere for this sort of thing.’
‘Not really,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘But there’ll be something somewhere about aid to the civil power in situations of extreme crisis – such as a mega-tsunami or super-volcano, or similar catastrophes. It shouldn’t be beyond our abilities to adapt. But, Madam Governor, if I may, there is a related issue I’d like to raise very briefly, that of executive authority.’
Culver and Lingle did an odd, unrehearsed double act. The lawyer leaned forward keenly on his chair, while the governor rubbed her eyes and sat back in her own.