“Dispatch, I need a supervisor and county emergency management on this channel. We have an evacuation obstruction at Cypress Creek Bridge.”
That was when I understood how much time we were losing.
Miller wasn’t surrendering to Brenda’s legal arguments. He was trying to resolve the situation without making a bad emergency worse.
But a supervisor would take time.
A tow truck would take time.
The line of cars was growing.
And the weather was deteriorating.
I looked at the canal.
Fifty feet across, approximately.
The banks were grassy and relatively open.
Beyond the opposite bank, a maintenance strip connected to the county access road.
I knew that strip because Apex had once delivered equipment to a drainage project there.
Then I looked at the Beast.
And remembered what was sitting in our storage yard less than four miles away.
Last year, I’d purchased a modular emergency pontoon system at a government surplus auction.
P7 units.
Expensive, awkward, and utterly unnecessary for ninety-nine percent of the work we performed.
My accountant had described the purchase as financially irresponsible.
I had described it as an investment in future possibilities.
At that moment, future possibilities were looking extremely interesting.
I pulled out my phone.
Little Dave answered on the second ring.
“Boss?”
“Where are you?”
“At the yard. Big Dave’s securing the equipment.”
“Good. I need both of you at Cypress Creek Bridge.”
“Why?”
“Brenda’s blocking the evacuation.”
There was a pause.
“Of course she is.”
“Bring the P7 modules.”
Another pause.
“All of them?”
“Enough for a fifty-foot crossing. Bring the launch equipment and load-spreading mats.”
“Leo, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we need another way out.”
His voice changed.
The joking disappeared.
“Give me four minutes to get the truck moving.”
“Don’t rush the loading. Check every restraint.”
“Understood.”
I hung up.
Then I approached Sergeant Miller.
“Sergeant, I own an emergency logistics company. I’ve got equipment nearby that may provide an alternative crossing.”
He looked at me.
“What kind of equipment?”
“Temporary pontoon bridging.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re telling me you can build a bridge?”
“Under the right conditions.”
“In a hurricane?”
“Before the worst of it arrives, maybe. But I’m not putting anyone on it without an assessment.”
Miller glanced toward the canal.
“Do you have an engineer?”
“One’s on the way.”
“Is the equipment rated?”
“Yes. Documentation’s in the truck.”
He studied me for a moment.
“Show me.”
I opened the side compartment and retrieved the specifications, inspection records, and deployment manual.
Miller looked through them.
Then he radioed emergency management.
The conversation lasted several minutes.
He explained the blocked route, the proposed temporary crossing, and the need for an emergency authorization.
I listened carefully.
This was the part nobody puts in adventure movies.
The paperwork.
The permission.
The question of whether doing something impressive would actually make people safer.
Finally, Miller turned to me.
“County emergency management is sending an infrastructure officer. Until we get authorization, you can stage equipment on the county maintenance strip, but nobody crosses anything. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“And Mercer?”
“Yeah?”
“If this goes wrong, you’re not blaming me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He gave me a look suggesting he had serious doubts about my judgment.
Fair enough.
Four minutes after my phone call, a deep diesel rumble rolled down Cypress Drive.
People turned.
A massive flatbed truck appeared around the corner, its amber hazard lights flashing.
On the door, in faded white lettering, were the words:
IT’LL FIT HAULING.
Big Dave’s company.
The truck stopped near the canal approach.
Air brakes hissed.
Little Dave climbed down from the passenger side carrying a rugged tablet.
Big Dave stepped out of the driver’s side.
He looked at Brenda.
Then at the canal.
Then at me.
“Bridge?” he asked.
“Bridge.”
He nodded.
That was the entire discussion.
Brenda marched toward us.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Little Dave was already examining the bank.
“Fifty-foot water span. Saturated soil. Moderate current. Wind increasing.”
“Excuse me!” Brenda shouted.
He continued.
“We’ll need ground protection, proper anchoring, and a controlled launch. We can stage now, but the actual deployment depends on approval and conditions.”
“Young man!”
Little Dave finally looked up.
“Ma’am, please stay behind the cones. We’re establishing a work zone.”
“I am the president of this homeowners association.”
“Congratulations.”
He returned to his tablet.
I almost hugged him.
Brenda looked as though she’d been slapped with a wet fish.
“Leopold, you cannot conduct unauthorized construction on HOA property!”
“We’re on the county maintenance strip.”
“That strip borders community land!”
“Most things border something, Brenda.”
She pointed toward the flatbed.
“I demand that you remove that monstrosity immediately.”
Big Dave climbed onto the trailer and began checking the cargo restraints.
He did not acknowledge her.
Somehow, that upset her more than anything I’d said.
The equipment was impressive even before assembly.
Stacks of gray aluminum pontoon sections sat secured on the flatbed beside modular decking, connection hardware, anchors, ramps, and hydraulic equipment.
The P7 system had been designed for temporary access across calm waterways under controlled conditions.
It was not magic.
It was not indestructible.
And it certainly wasn’t something you deployed casually in hurricane winds.
But we knew the equipment.
We’d trained with it.
Little Dave had personally developed our inspection procedures, and Big Dave could assemble the system with a level of precision that made me question whether he was secretly part machine.
The county infrastructure officer arrived twelve minutes later in a white emergency-management pickup.
Her name was Dana Brooks.
She wore a hard hat, a reflective jacket, and an expression that suggested she had already dealt with more nonsense than any human should endure before lunch.
Miller briefed her.
Dana inspected the site, reviewed our equipment records, and studied the canal.
Then she looked at Brenda.
“Why is the existing bridge blocked?”
Brenda started explaining Article Seven.
Dana raised one hand.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“The association prohibits unauthorized commercial traffic.”
“During a mandatory evacuation?”
“Our bylaws—”
“Ma’am, move your golf cart.”
