The Deluge, page 91
Said Secretary Rathbone: “Tony. Easy.”
“Or are we just here to trade away the last of a habitable planet for a few concessions on light-duty vehicle standards?”
Ms. Li Song attempted: “Dr. Pietrus, I don’t know what I can do to assure you I’m here in good faith—”
“Nothing. There’s nothing you can do. We’re here to cut the heads off your members once and for all.”
Ms. Li Song spoke over him: “… But I represent industries vital to the functioning of the global economy. I also represent industries that know they have to change. That’s why I’m here. To help pave the way for a transition of their business models. Everyone can come away from this process having won.”
Tony stood, his face pink. He craned his neck forward and roared: “Get fucked, lady!”
Then he stormed out of the room. Alice McCowen glared at me like I was the one who’d erupted.
“Hasan, what are you—? Go fucking get him!”
I said: “Dr. Pietrus has a point, doesn’t he? With no offense intended toward Ms. Li Song, her presence does seem inappropriate. Industry is represented but homeowners who’ve lost everything are not.”
Rathbone pushed his hands through his silver hair, while McCowen simply stared at me in disbelief. Finally, she heaved her bulk up from the table and walked around to me, blinking rapidly. She stuck one enormous index finger in my face, and I could see she’d bitten the cuticle of the nail until it had bled.
“Listen to me, you fucking golem, we’re not starting with the optics disaster of a key scientist walking after thirty seconds. The point of having Pietrus and Song in a room together is to show a united front against the crisis.”
“If good press is the aim, perhaps it’s better to hire a PR firm than recruit a physical oceanographer anyway.”
“Hasan. If you don’t go get him back in here right now, so help me God—I am a dyke with a dick and I will fuck you with it until your colon prolapses.”
Upon the barking of the word fuck—so loud that Hani jumped in her chair—a good deal of spittle escaped Alice’s mouth and landed on my face. I wiped it away. “Colorful.”
I found Tony in his room, packing. He did not even look over his shoulder when I came in.
“Don’t try to talk me into going back in there. Not if she’s a part of this.”
“We don’t have a choice, Tony.”
“Yeah, we do. I’ll get on TV and scream bloody murder. Shame this fidgeting fuckwit Hamby until he takes her off the task force.”
“As usual, Tony, you’re thinking about this emotionally and not logically.”
Tony threw a pair of underwear across the room with the theatrics of an actor trying to shatter a glass in a film. Instead, the pair of boxers poofed against the wall and flopped to the carpet.
“Fuck logically. Don’t you get it? We’re the stage dressing, Ash. We’re here to give them cover, so they can put something together that’ll calm the markets just enough to restore order without changing anything.”
“Tony, if that’s the case, I’ll be there alongside you denouncing it.”
This reassurance produced a tic in his face, the opening I was looking for. Tony had spent seventeen months wrongfully imprisoned in a federal detention center from mid-2033 through 2034 and had nothing to say on the matter. When I’d asked him about it, he waved it away like a vacation gone poorly. He was clearly traumatized but would likely never acknowledge it, let alone seek out a mental health professional. Wounded people, I’ve noticed, tend to welcome camaraderie. It is a key component of getting them to agree to what you want. I continued:
“I will stand before the microphones and cogitate against anything less than what’s necessary. But we need to begin work right away. This crisis will either not go to waste or become a historical marker for the unraveling of our civilization. I’d prefer to make it the former, but that may require you to keep your cool, so to speak, over the next few weeks.”
Tony grunted and looked bashfully at the floor. “It’s definitely not appealing that the goddamned fate of the world relies on me keeping my cool.”
* * *
The next day, I set the agenda with a forthright holograph deck about the fundamental issue we faced. The thirty-minute presentation included ghostly blue animations demonstrating the retreat of the Thwaites Glacier and the rapidity with which global sea levels would rise. There was a bowl of Starburst in the center of the table, which got passed around with gusto. Soon a mess of waxy rainbow-colored paper littered the surface.
I concluded: “We’ve talked preliminarily about a solution that could restore confidence in the financial sector. Dr. Rathbone?”
He held his growing middle-aged belly, languidly swiveling to deliver an explanation he felt self-evident: “It’s pretty simple. We draw a line around the coast. Every square inch. It’s not a bathtub model. It’ll factor in topographical distinction and storm surge, but on one side of this line, we vow to defend by any means or cost necessary the property and infrastructure. On the other side, we initiate a managed retreat using a range of tools to draw homeowners, business, and communities back from the shores. We offer buyouts at pre-crisis rates for two years as the carrot. We reengineer the coasts to restore wetlands and plant mangrove forests—whatever we can do to create shock absorbers for storms and sea level.”
The magnitude of this policy had the room in silence.
Finally, Jane cleared her throat: “That sounds alarmingly top-down. We have to ask who this is landing on? Mostly communities of color and the poor. We’d need a near-bottomless slush fund to finance a transition.”
Said Alice to her former lover: “After all this time, gal, you’re about to get your way like Santa backed up the BRINKS truck.”
Tufariello shot her former partner a look. They had been steering very wide berths around each other since arriving in Idaho. I knew their relationship ended over a disagreement about when they would each retire. Alice had told Jane they’d have to cut her head off before she stopped working.
Rathbone went on: “Not to hand-wave at the relocation element of this, but that will be the relatively easy part. The hard part is generating rock-solid confidence in the line. We need to demonstrate clearly what homes, businesses, and infrastructure still have value.”
Admiral Dahms’s voice was the sound of raking gravel: “Exactly. I’m less concerned with the particulars of the retreat. Where do we draw this imaginary line?”
Because he did his homework, Joe Otero was ready with the Republican offer. “Our caucus is asking for something in line with the IPCC predictions: three feet by 2100.”
In her surprise, Haniya reached out and touched my elbow. “Three feet? The rate of rise is accelerating.”
“Keep in mind,” said Secretary Rathbone, “every inch we move that line back increases the cost of this project exponentially, not to mention displaces more people. We need to be careful about sparking a new wave of panic-selling. We want to solve the problem, not exacerbate it.”
Said Alice: “Isn’t that what you big-brained PhDs got the free flight for? What do your models say?”
Haniya: “I think it’s prudent to start talking about a minimum of six feet.”
Otero: “No—no way. Six feet, and you’re talking about buying out most of Miami and the Gulf Coast.”
Haniya: “It’s a reasonable estimate.”
Otero: “That’s a nonstarter.”
Rathbone: “I agree. We’re edging into furthering the panic instead of—”
Tony: “Fifty.”
Everyone looked at Tony, myself included. The remaining hair on the back of his head was sticking up, like he’d not bothered to comb it after getting out of bed. Secretary Rathbone looked incensed: “Excuse me?”
“We should draw the line at fifty feet of sea level rise.”
Otero snorted a laugh.
Rathbone chewed on a smile. “Sure, Tony. We’ll just relocate all the coastal states to South Dakota and call it a day. Could we return to a serious discussion?”
“I’m perfectly serious, Marty. You all worship the IPCC like a holy text. It’s been wrong consistently, and it’s wrong now. Like Haniya said, the rate of rise is accelerating. Doubling roughly every seven years, in fact. There’s no reason to think that’ll abate. And given what’s happening in West Antarctica, we have to assume that East Antarctica is not nearly as stable as we thought, nor Greenland. Trust me, fifty feet is not even the worst-case scenario. If all the ice on the planet melts, there’s two hundred and thirty feet of sea level rise in there.”
Said Admiral Dahms: “You’re proposing a decades-long refugee catastrophe, not a managed retreat.”
Rathbone shook his head. “It’s ridiculous. We choose a politically realistic line and build the policy around that.”
Tony’s irritation bloomed. “This isn’t some academic musing between economic Panglossians, Marty. The physics of marine ice cliff instability doesn’t give two fucks about what’s politically realistic.”
Secretary Rathbone looked to me. “Ashir, what is the most realistic line you can give us that is not fifty fucking feet of rise. One we can start building policy around?”
I pretended to stew for a moment. One must be careful in the handling of difficult realities. People cannot hear bad news all at once. “I’ll say fifteen feet by 2100, though I feel a great deal of hesitancy predicting that.” Though the truth was I did not.
Secretary Rathbone looked to the ceiling in frustration. “Fifteen feet by 2100.” He rubbed his eyes. “No way, no how can we use that number. Not without making everything worse.”
I continued: “We are talking about an ensemble of processes of enormous complexity. In all my work on social and economic consequences of warming, not one system dynamics model spat out The Pastor’s electoral victory or Victor Love’s abdication or the political crisis that ensued. We can only do our best with the information we have available.”
Rathbone regarded me wearily. “What the fuck are you talking about, Ash?”
Alice scolded him: “Rathbone, let the man have his say.”
“Sorry! It would just be nice to know if this guy has any fucking nerve endings is all.”
I went on: “Dynamic adaptive pathways planning can help us utilize the strategies that will work immediately. For instance, if we draw our coastal line too low, that may be okay, so long as aleatory uncertainty is priced in at certain topographical intervals.”
Otero: “What?”
Dahms: “You’re saying the solution—in regards to coastal retreat—is something low-end for now, but with a way of gradually moving people inland. Start with a line at three feet of rise and ratchet it up?”
Ms. Li Song finally spoke up: “Like a tax on homeowners, businesses, and renters living in the three- to ten-foot range. Then a smaller one in the ten- to fifteen-foot range.”
Haniya: “But at speed. Still offering buyouts for a window of time.”
Rathbone: “Call it a ‘Get the Fuck Out the Way’ tax.”
Of course, I’d already thought of all this, but after a long career in science and politics, I’ve learned it’s best to nudge people in the direction of the correct answer and allow them to think they’ve thought of it themselves. I told them: “Yes, that could arrest the present crisis while allowing room to maneuver in the future. What markets, media, and citizens need now is a sense that someone has command of the situation. Through many bizarre kinks and convolutions of history, that has fallen, at least for the moment, to us. Oh, and this is why I also think it would be best, Tony, if you, in place of Secretary Rathbone, addressed the media tomorrow.”
* * *
If optics were key, then my intuition proved correct. At the presser, Rathbone turned the podium over to Tony, who unfolded a piece of paper and began reading in a dull monotone:
“Currently, we are in a death spiral of escalating foreclosures, a crashing real estate market, and toxic securities leading to a wider paralysis of the financial system. But these mortgages are obviously not all worthless, and we are not all doomed. We are going to simultaneously deal with the financial crisis and the climate crisis. We in the president’s working group intend to draft legislation that will draw a defensible line around the coast of the United States and make people living on either side of that line secure so as to break the back of the panic. Then, through a program of economic stimulus, regulation, and adjustments to global trade we will finally speed the transition away from fossil fuels in order to stabilize planetary temperature rise below 2.5 degrees Celsius. Any questions?”
Thirty to fifty hands shot up, and a clamor for detail ensued. Tony remained impatient and irritated throughout. “Obviously, the devil will be in the details, and we don’t want to preempt ourselves here. You’ll see the full scope of our recommendations when we deliver it to the president and Congress.”
The questions came rapid-fire: “When will that be?”
“Soon.”
“Why are oil and gas companies represented in this process? How do you square that?”
“They are major stakeholders, but Earth’s nine billion people and their interests will come first.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“No.”
“But how can one piece of legislation avert the chaos sea level rise will cause? And how can one bill seemingly reverse decades of inaction on global warming?”
“Look, you want me to tell you we’re going to pass a bill and suddenly unicorns will start shooting out of my ass? Doubtful. But we’ll all still have a civilization to wake up to in the morning. Next question.”
“Will the country have to go deeply into debt to finance this plan? Will taxes go up?”
“You have an emergency, you called the lifeguard, now we’re swimming our asses out to you in choppy waters. But you know what the worst part is about trying to save someone from drowning? They’re panicking and trying to pull you down with them. Ask a better question next time.”
It went on like that for forty minutes with Tony more or less grousing the reporting pool to silence without saying much at all about the policy we had not yet agreed upon whatsoever. He was very convincing.
* * *
For a month we proceeded. The urgency was dire, but there were simply too many contingencies to consider. On July 2, Joe Otero asked if he could have a word with me in private.
“I have to leave.”
“For what reason?”
“The threats.”
This was about The Pastor. He’d declared his former running mate, President Hamby, the Antichrist and our task force the devil’s anti-Christian socialist takeover. In so many words, he was demanding violence to put a stop to whatever legislation we proposed. Because he represented congressional Republicans, Otero was being singled out by a collection of dangerous people with megaphones. Clearly, he was frightened even though the president had designated our meeting a Special National Security Event.
“Secret Service provides impeccable security, Joe. I’m sure they’ll agree to intensified procedures.”
“I can’t, Ash. I’m sorry. My family’s not ready for this. My parents, even cousins and old friends—they’re all getting death threats. Renaissance and Braden have painted a bull’s-eye on me.”
“I have to attempt to convey to you, Joe, just how important you are to this process. Your ability to broker with the Republican Party is crucial.”
“And I’ll do everything I can behind the scenes, but we both know I’m not the one who’s going to get the bill over the hump with our caucus.” Indeed, it was obvious that Emii Li Song would be the only person to speak for Republicans in the end, but I tried to press him further. He interrupted me, raising his hand. “Ash, someone sent my daughter a VR xpere of a woman being tortured. I’m sorry, but…”
He stood.
“I should also warn you, I heard two of the guest services people talking about a forest fire nearby.”
He walked away. I quickly took out my phone and saw the alert: a seven-thousand-acre fire burning south of Kent Peak. I went to the window, and I could see the smoke in the distance.
* * *
Before we convened the next day, the captain in charge of our Secret Service detail briefed us on the fire. Nine thousand acres and growing, moving southwest but still well clear of the Sun Valley resort and the nearby town of Ketchum. Firefighters and smoke jumpers had been dispatched, but the June heat wave was accompanied by over five hundred uncontained fires across the western states and provinces. The captain said they had planes on standby at the airport, and if it was necessary, they would evacuate the task force to another site. Joe Otero had left that morning, and it fell to me to report his resignation to the team. We went on to dither pointlessly about potential public works projects within each congressional district, clean energy pork that might secure votes. Tony had little to say, and during lunch I saw him looking worriedly at the haze cloaking the horizon.
When we concluded for the day, Haniya tugged my elbow. “I need a fucking drink, Ashir.”
The two of us drove into Ketchum, stopping at a liquor store. I was driving so I only had a few sips of the vodka, but Hani poured hers over tonic, crushed a slice of lime between thumb and forefinger, and quaffed thirstily. “When you left for college, this was my drink. Mumma and Papa never knew.”
“Where did you get the vodka?”
“Papa’s garage. Where else? He probably knew I was sneaking it from him.”
Hani pointed out the house, a quaint two-story with dark wood and a green wraparound porch overlooking a river and forest. I pulled in. When I turned off the engine, there was no sound but the trickle of the river below. Above the house reigned the soft blue of the smoky night.
Hani said: “That’s the door where he shot himself, I think. You ever read him?”
“My freshman year in college we were assigned The Old Man and the Sea. I found it pointless.”
