Catastrophe 101

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HURRICANES AS WICKED AS ANdrew are thought to come along perhaps twice a century. Earthquakes shudder on and off, but the big, continent-cracking convulsions tend to space themselves out over generations. Biblical floods are rare, like killer tidal waves, volcanic eruptions and the other cyclical calls to humility in the face of nature's destructive power. But last week it somehow seemed that the clock was running fast: Typhoon Omar menaced Guam, a tornado attacked Wisconsin, fires burned out of control in California, a four- story tidal wave in Nicaragua dissolved whole neighborhoods, and the residents of South Florida spent Week Two picking up the pieces of their damaged homes and disrupted lives.

Catastrophes may come by surprise, but it is no surprise that they come. Their victims cannot expect the government to prevent them or even always predict them, only to know what to do when they arrive. But to many Floridians last week, it seemed as if each time the government has to learn all over again. The debris that Andrew left behind include a whole set of assumptions about how to handle a natural disaster, who should be giving the orders and who should pick up the bill.

"I'm sure people can take issue with the way we've acted," said Colonel Terrence ("Rock") Salt, tears welling up in his eyes after a week of frustration and sleepless nights. "These people have been rained on, they're hungry and they're thirsty. In terms of people without basic survival things, I've never seen anything like it in my life. But we're really trying, really we are." Ten days after Andrew struck, the army's tent cities finally opened and relief supplies were so plentiful that residents became choosy, disdaining cans of lentils and demanding Tide over Cheer. By then it was safe to launch the debate about what needs to change so that next time, the help is there as soon as the storm has passed.

One plump target was the tradition of civilian control of the military. If only the bureaucrats had stayed out of the way, victims complained, the soldiers might have got the job done. As upwards of 20,000 troops flooded into what Dade County officials call the war zone, the army had clearly won new allies -- unlike the haggard representatives of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Soldiers bivouacked on the ground, sharing prepackaged MRES (meals ready to eat) and carrying groceries for tired refugees. Day and night, they put up tents, folded linens and stuffed welcome packages of toiletries for tent cities that will eventually house 17,000 of the county's 250,000 homeless. They also helped channel the extraordinary outpouring of supplies sent south by churches, charities and countless concerned citizens.

The energy and efficiency of the troops were in such contrast to the first sluggish response that the idea was revived of automatically bypassing civil authorities in the case of big catastrophes and sending for the soldiers immediately. "Neither the locals nor FEMA has the capacity to deal with a major catastrophe like Andrew," argues Linda Lombard, the Charleston County councilwoman who battled FEMA for relief money after Hugo hit South Carolina in 1989. "A major disaster is a war. And the people who are in that business are the U.S. military. When is the lesson going to be learned?"