The Storm

Chapter Three

Major Peterson

M y driver pulled up in front of one of the larger motor homes with FEMA in large block letters painted on the side. An older, stately man in uniform with perfect snow-white hair emerged and beckoned me to come in. As I entered the mobile office, he pointed to a chair, and I settled in. “My name is Captain Peterson and I’m head of the emergency relief with FEMA. I am assuming that you are Zachary Taylor?” “Yes Sir, I am,” I answered. “With the Brooklyn Free Press, right?” “Yes sir,” I replied. “You’re not some left wing, commie, hippie, radical, so called free-the-people press, are you?” “Noooo Sir!”, I replied quickly. “We are as American as Mom, Pop, God, apple pie, and baby sister, and we don’t march, rally, or whine and complain about the right ideals and conservative politics. My boss bleeds red, white, and blue when he gets cut. He was a decorated Vietnam war hero, Sir, and tears up when the National Anthem is played. His own son just finished two tours of duty in Iraq.” “Vietnam, you say? “ Major Peterson perked up. “Good to know, Son. I had my days in “Nam” too.” I squared my shoulders and said, “Thank you for your service, Sir,” and with a thanks he replied, “Glad to have done it, Son. Now, how can I help you with your mission?” he continued. “I need to know the safest route inland. I know that many of the lowland roads are underwater, and I don’t care to drown down here or be washed inland by some quirk of nature.

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