Free Flood Plains by Mark Wheaton

it,” Erna retorted. “Throw it away. Give it to somebody who needs it or wants it because that’s not me.”
    “Mama,” Big Time sighed.
    But Erna had already ended the conversation by turning her back on her son to look out towards the driving rain.

Chapter 9
    J ohnson Space Center, twenty-five miles inland from Galveston, had been battered all evening by strong winds and heavy rain. All non-essential personnel were sent home, which meant a cancellation of training, tours, a pair of scheduled lectures, and maintenance work. Scientists and engineers, some accustomed to camping out in their offices for a couple of hours of sleep in between marathon laboratory sessions, were incredulous to find security officers directing them out of the buildings. Some had no idea a hurricane was approaching.
    At nearby Ellington Field, the familiar T-38 Talon trainer planes were taxied into their hangars. Delicate meteorological equipment was brought inside, while tanks were drained and vehicles parked underground.
    Though the storm was now being categorized as a Category 5, the administrators at both facilities were mostly concerned with the financial hit the destruction of the sites’ landscaping would entail. Primary communications with the International Space Station had already been transferred to the back-up facility at Cape Canaveral despite Johnson maintaining its own electrical grid that was backed up deep underground.
    Mission Control had been designed to withstand a lot. Few thought Eliza would fit into that category.
    “How’re we looking up there?” Flight Director Chuck Bartiromo, one of four members of the flight control team still at the Mission Control Center at midnight, radioed up to the International Space Station on a line bounced through Canaveral.
    “Can’t even see the Gulf, much less Galveston Bay,” came the voice of James Foster, a longtime friend of Bartiromo’s who was the ISS’s current science officer. “Thought we saw a piece of Anahuac, but not even that. Looks like the eye is going to cover everything from Port Arthur all the way down to Matagorda. You bring in your dogs?”
    Bartiromo chuckled.
    “Would you believe they’re up in Oklahoma with Susan and the girls? They’d been planning to be away this week for months..”
    “Lucky break. Pretty sure my pool’s going to be a total loss. Hope the roof doesn’t leak.”
    “Yeah, heard that. Want me to swing by tomorrow?”
    “Could you?”
    Bartiromo was about to reply in the affirmative when he heard the new FAO (flight activities director), a recent transfer from the air force named Simon, exhale in surprise.
    “Are you going to elaborate?” Bartiromo asked after the man kept staring at his monitor.
    “Something happened in Galveston,” Simon said. “We picked up a distress transmission from the tower at Scholes Airport. Either some kind of collapse or a crash. They’ve got casualties. Sounds like a lot of them.”
    “Any specifics?”
    “No, the transmission fuzzed out. It sounds like their relays are getting pounded anyway. Cell towers are down, phone lines, causeway’s fucked. Galveston’s cut off.”
    Bartiromo nodded. If the causeway was damaged, he knew repairs were hours away, particularly as first responders started dealing with the storm as it moved north. By the time it got past La Marque and up to Texas City, Galveston would be back-burnered. When Eliza reached Houston, anyone still needing assistance down on the island might be out of luck.
    Bartiromo was wondering if NASA had any resources he could divert to Galveston when the door to the MCC burst open. Two contractors hurried in, only to be caught up short when they recognized where they were.
    Bartiromo suppressed a smile. He loved the effect the control room had on civilians. Somebody had once compared it to stepping onto the pitcher’s mound at Fenway or walking into the Oval Office. The flight director, who had the rare privilege of having done the latter,