The Directives (37 page)

Corky laughed, an honest chuckle coming up from his belly. “So what I’ve heard is true,” he replied, grinning widely. “I want to invite your men and you to my captain’s brunch. I have a good idea why you’re here, and think we should talk sooner rather than later. Please be my honored guest.”

“Forgive me, sir. While I have heard of a ‘shotgun wedding,’ I have never received a brunch invite at gunpoint. I suppose I
can concede that social protocols changed some two years ago, but call me old fashioned, I would just prefer to bypass these strong arm tactics in our future dealings,” the Alliance leader announced, lowering her weapon. “Lucky for you,” she continued, “I
do
have a weakness for those little cocktail shrimp. Now, more importantly, what would a guest of honor wear to such a soiree? I left my heels back in Meraton.”

Terri was just changing into some dry clothes when the coach’s door flew open, a grumbling, drenched Betty cursing the world for a lack of umbrellas.

After towel drying her waterlogged locks
, she asked, “When is Bishop supposed to arrive?”

“He should be here today or tomorrow,” Terri answered. “But you never know with him. Trouble seems to find my husband.”

Brushing more of the liquid humidity out of her hair, Betty smirked at the remark. “He’s not the only one in your family that seems to be a magnet for drama. What’s up with you guys, anyway?”

Terri laughed, checking her own tresses in the mirror. It took Betty a moment before she realized Terri was dressing a little more formally than normal. “Are you getting gussied up for Bishop?”

“Don’t be silly,” Terri replied waving off her friend. “Bishop will probably waltz in here smelling like a goat, wanting to sleep for two days straight. I have a lunch date.”

“Oh really,” came the response, Betty’s curiosity now pegged. “Some muscular, blonde-headed surfer you met at the beach? A well-tanned, cabana boy-type you bumped into while strolling along the sand?”

“No, and no. I’m meeting with Captain Landreneau, aboard his private yacht.”

Betty didn’t buy it, but wanted to play along. “My, my, what a forward young lady you’ve become. Your husband is due in town any moment no
w, and you’re being whisked off to share caviar with some mystery man on his yacht? Given Bishop’s history, I hope this gentleman has a private army in his employ.”

Terri snorted at the remark, her outburst completely destroying any attempt at playing coy. “Actually, this captain’s name is Corky, and he’s at least 60 years old. While the man is quite charming, he is hardly my prime candidate for a fling. Besides, his yacht is actually a tow boat
, and lunch is more apt to be oyster stew.”

Betty, now having fun, decided to reverse their little game. “Not that I would whisper a word to Bishop, mind you, but I must ask why you are meeting this man. He must be extremely wealthy.
Did he promise you lavish gifts? I wonder if diamonds are still a girl’s best friend? Are you turning into a gold digger right before my very eyes?”

Putting a finger to her lips and striking a pose, Terri did her best to imitate a bimbo. “Could be,” she squeaked.

“Okay,” Betty frowned, tired of the diversion. “Let’s have it…. Why are you meeting with some strange man?”

“Because he runs the island we’re standing on, and he requested I meet with him. He said please. I thought it only polite to attend, and besides, he promised me the best grilled shrimp on the Gulf Coast. How could a girl say no to that?”

“I was, as the old song says, truly born on the Bayou,” Corky stated, the pronouncement causing his guest’s eyebrows to peak.

“My parents had been staying at a remote fishing camp when my mothe
r had announced that I was about to make an early debut. My father made a heroic effort, tirelessly rowing an old pirogue across the black waters of Bayou Boeuf in the middle of the night. It was 21 miles to the doctor in Morgan City, Louisiana. They didn’t make it.”

“Amazing,” responded Terri.

“I guess I decided to enter the world while afloat, and it was a telling sign. Since that day, over 61 years ago, I’ve rarely seen fit to leave the water.”

There was a polite chuckle around the table, the gathered men having never seen their leader so open and talkative. No one was quite sure what to make of the conversation, with the maj
ority of the men deciding the beautiful lady visiting with their leader had loosened his tongue.

“While other children were learning to ride bicycles and skateboards, I was docking boats,” Corky continued. “My driver’s education class consisted of piloting a 20,000-ton tow boat through the Mississippi locks outside New Orleans. The captain of that old rust-bucket had taken a liking to me, and gave me an unprecedented turn at the wheel.”

A steward appeared from the galley, a fresh plate of grilled shrimp delivered onto the middle of the table. A few of the seated guests immediately reached to refill their plates, others remained fixed on their boss at the head of the table.

It was the weekly captain’s meeting, a tradition Corky had initiated over 30 years ago. Despite the apocalypse, regardless of the circumstances just outside the docked tug’s superstructure, he had d
emanded that tradition be maintained whenever possible.

Every man seated around the dining table had attended these gatherings since coming into Corky’s employ. Some had been doing so for decades, others just a few years. But none of them had ever heard
the boss carrying on with personal stories and details like he was now.
Women and their wily ways
, they all thought.
Perhaps the old man is smitten
.

A small man in statue, Corky held the respect of everyone in his employ, but none more so than the actual captains who commanded his fleet of towboats.

His skills in pushing a barge through the brown waters of the Gulf Coast waterways were legendary. Most of those seated today had witnessed Corky’s capabilities first hand, events which elevated their appreciation of his nautical skillset to the level of awe-struck.

No one could handle a towboat like Corky. It was said he could stop a 70,000-ton barge on a barrel without using any reverse thrust. Others claimed to have seen him keep an explosive load of butane off the rocks after a hitch line had failed. He was the only man in history to ever push a side-by-side load up the narrow Bayou Mardi, a stump-lined, propeller bending, hull breaching passage that few men would attempt with a single load. He was, as the old timers say, a natural.

Before he was 20, Corky knew every eddy, silt bank, foul, and shoal on the Intercostal Waterway from Brownsville, Texas to Pensacola, Florida. He could decipher a river’s surface tensions as well as captains three times his age and experience.

But there was more to him than just extraordinary seamanship and piloting skills. Like most successful waterborne entrepreneurs – Corky had a natural affiliation with things mechanical.

“I purchased my first tow boat at the tender age of 25, that old, rusting hulk’s diesel motor smoking like a coal-fired boiler. My pappy and I rebuilt the cranky, old machine using a cypress tree as a winch and buying parts from salvage dealers. Those were the days, gentlemen… those were the days.”

Raising his glass in a toast, Corky brought the foaming head of homemade beer to his lips. It was cold; it was being served with the best food he could find for his guests. That’s all that mattered.

Pushing barges full of commodities ranging from soybeans to cement mix, Corky quickly developed a reputation as a trustworthy captain and savvy businessman. His loads arrived on time, at the right destination, and for a fair price.

He purchased his second boat before he turned 30. By the end of the next decade, his growing company owned seven such vessels. The number in his fleet had doubled ten years later.

There had never been a Mrs. Landreneau. Corky spent most of his days on the water, pushing loads from Houston to Mobile, running the great river north as far as Chicago.

Like most men of the sea, he’d had his
share of queenies, the French Quarter in New Orleans his favorite place to eat, drink, and make merry during the rare break from the helm. Bankers, brokers, and freight forwarders didn’t like meeting on the bridge of his tow. They required his presence ashore to sign papers, negotiate agreements, and execute contracts. New Orleans was the place to conduct business… including monkey business.

There just hadn’t been time for romance or courting. Besides, Corky knew his true love – the water.

By the time the terrorists attacked the United States, the aging Cajun was a millionaire several times over. The pressing needs of a growing empire allowed for fewer and fewer trips at the helm, a frustrating fact of life for a man who felt an ever-growing sense of isolation and loneliness.

It was pure coincidence that Corky was experiencing a mid-life crisis when
society fell. The dawning realization that he was in the last third of his life and claimed no family, friends or children fueled a rather radical change in his outlook.

Still occupying an expanded, heavily modified, captain’s quarters on one of his towboats, C
orky had purchased his first car at 58 years of age. A 1956 Ford Thunderbird convertible, it was vintage just like the captain. He’d met a pretty woman during a shipper’s conference in Galveston and took to wooing her with his generosity. He’d even approached a real estate agent about buying a home… on land… with a garage to house his luxury vehicle… as long as it was a beach property.

And then everything had gone to hell.

Not one to follow the national news, Corky’s first sense that something was really, really wrong occurred when one of his best captains had called in, reporting that there wasn’t anyone at the Port of Houston to unload the 30,000 metric tons of natural gas he’d just docked.

An hour later, another of his tows reported in from Corpus Christi, stranded at a fuel pier that seemed to be closed. No attendants, no staff… it was like a ghost town.

When he and his office staff started making calls, they found the phone systems across half the gulf were down, the attempts that did manage to ring through were rarely answered. Over the next few days, the size of the disaster became apparent. All up and down the Gulf Coast, his boats were arriving full of cargo, only to encounter empty docks, burning cities, and downed communications systems.

Sophisticated radio equipment, powered by onboard diesel generators, allowed some measure of command and control over his fleet. Not knowing what else to do, he began ordering his captains back to Galveston.

He’d gone into the city proper, trying to find information, help, or advice. He soon learned the local government was overwhelmed. It seemed as though there was a statewide lack of electrical power. Houston was suffering from an out-of-control fire, and Austin had already experienced the first food riots.

There hadn’t been anything else left to do but ride it out, hunkering down on his boat and drinking coffee with his frightened captains, crew and office staff.

“I told someone recently that the apocalypse had passed me by,” Corky stated. “I had everything I needed right here aboard the
Morgan City Queen
. A freezer full of food, 5,000 gallons of diesel fuel, and a yard full of barges, all filled with grain and other valuable cargo. What apocalypse? I didn’t see any such end of the world.”