North Norfolk. The storm is hitting King's Lynn hard. Wind speeds are up to fifty knots with gusts of sixty knots and more. Rain and sleet are driving inland, interspersed with flurries of hail. The town of 43,000 inhabitants lies at the eastern corner of the Wash on the north bank of the Great Ouse River, a few miles from the sea. A centre of the medieval wool trade, it was the fourth largest town in England in Tudor times and retains many fine old merchants' houses.
King's Lynn's lengthy river frontage makes it highly vulnerable to surge tides and twice in living memory it has suffered the disastrous effects of flooding by the sea. The 1953 East Coast floods inundated a large part of the town, drowning fifteen people and making two thousand homeless. Twenty-five years later an even greater surge tide again breached the defences causing damage totalling millions of pounds.
The most difficult sector to protect is the South Quay between the Purfleet and the Millfleet, a designated conservation area of narrow alleys and passages containing many of the town's most important historic buildings, including the Customs House and two medieval guildhalls. Constructing a surge wall here would destroy the character of the area so, instead, buildings along the quay have been strengthened to take the force of a surge tide. Walls have been rebuilt with reinforced concrete cores and floodgates and damboards installed to seal off doorways and alleyways. All windows below the design level have either had their sills raised or been provided with damboard slots.
The town has been prepared for action since the First Alert early in the evening. News programs on radio and television carried warnings of Flood Alerts in force along the east coast. At one am the District EPO, Jack Bensusan, is woken by a phone call from the police, "The alert has been confirmed and we are at Yellow." He is getting dressed when the same message comes in, this time from the Environment Agency's headquarters in the town.
The District emergency call-out works on a cascade system. Jack has a list of key numbers by his phone. His first call is to the District General Manager who will join senior officers from the blue light services, police, fire and ambulance, at Gold Control in the Environment Agency operations room. Jack drives over to the Town Hall in King's Court and opens up the operations room there. At three am the alert level is raised to Amber, indicating that flooding is now a distinct possibility. The call-out cascade notches up a gear. The town's fifty-strong body of flood wardens are told to report for duty. Voluntary organisations like the Red Cross, St John's Ambulance and Raynet, the amateur short-wave radio network, are put on stand by. Social services and education authorities begin opening up schools to function as evacuation centres.
At Agency Headquarters engineers are monitoring the rising tide. The screen also shows the flow lines from the 1953 flood and the 1978, which was worse still in King's Lynn. By comparing the profiles, the engineers can spot a potentially dangerous tide in its early stages. The danger level for the town is five metres with a twenty-five-centimetre margin before overtopping takes place. Tonight the flow line is rising steeply. One of the engineers calls Jack at the Town Hall. "It's looking bad. It's well above the 1978 curve."
Radio and TV warnings are having an effect. People are dialling the council switchboard demanding sandbags. The council provides these free of charge. Detailed maps of flood zones are held at the operations room and regularly updated. Every property considered at risk will have received a leaflet in the past year listing the dates of spring tides and warning of the dangers. When stacking sandbags, residents are urged to place them against a sheet of polythene - it greatly increases their effectiveness. 'Please don't leave it till the last minute if you require sandbags!' the advice concludes. Now, just when the depot needs to conserve stocks to deal with any breach, people remember.
Jack's main concern is for the caravan sites and summer houses outside the town at Snettisham and in Heacham. These are supposed to be holiday homes but many owners live in them all the year round. The sites are right on the sea and they are taking a risk. Certainly it is not something Jack would want to do himself. Flooding in itself is not the danger. If water comes over the top of the defences normally it is gradual, there is plenty of time to react. 'It is a surge we worry about. It is like a battering ram. It will smash through doors, windows, wooden structures, even brick walls. That is when people get hurt or killed."
At five am the decision is taken to call an official Red Alert; flooding is now extremely likely. The sirens are sounded, not the rising and falling tone reserved for air raids but five thirty-second steady blasts. Warnings are broadcast on BBC Radio Norfolk and KLFM. 'Alert neighbours; switch off gas and electricity; fill a bath with water; collect food, blankets, torches and go upstairs. If you are badly flooded and need evacuation, hang a sheet out of a window to attract attention and wait for the emergency services.' The flood wardens and police start knocking on doors. Evacuations begin of people living in bungalows, the elderly and handicapped.
As the sirens wail along the coast, Environment Agency teams in white Land Rovers move on to South Quay to erect the defences. Heavy steel gates are swung out from recesses in walls and closed across roads and passages. Sets of damboards are brought out from storage behind the Customs House and fitted into slots across doorways and windows. Owners and key holders are contacted where admittance to properties is necessary. Vehicle owners are advised to remove cars from car parks or see them boarded in for the duration of the tide.
When the task is complete, two engineers together make a tour of the complete area with checklists to confirm that every opening is sealed against the water. Because of the sheer number of gates in this crowded sector they will remain on station throughout the emergency, patrolling the quay to ensure that no gate is opened again. Backing them up is a network of closed circuit camera surveillance linked to the emergency centre in the Town Hall. A failure here, any breach allowing water to break through into the cramped old town behind, will be disastrous.
High Water is predicted for seven am and The Met Office's original forecast of a tide twenty centimetres over the danger mark has been upgraded in the last few minutes to half a metre. That forecast, however, relates to Cromer, forty miles along the coast. Cromer is right on the sea whereas King's Lynn is five miles up the Great Ouse estuary. Tonight there is an awful lot of water coming down the river. Where the flow encounters the tide coming upstream the result is a pinch point with river levels rising very fast. The wind is driving the sea before it over the shallow sands of the Wash and into the estuary. Sleet and spray are blowing almost horizontally into the town and waves slap against the sides of the quay, sending bursts of spray at the buildings facing the river.
By five forty am, the engineers radio that the quay is flooded all along its length. Twenty-five minutes later they call in again. The river has launched itself over the side of the quay in a massive overtopping that is still continuing. The engineers are withdrawing with their vehicle behind the flood gates. "Water on the quay a foot deep and rising," the message concludes. There is some minor leakage in places but nothing to be concerned about.
The circumstances of the disaster here are still unclear. The Agency is adamant that the floodgate at the river end of College Lane was closed, as were all the others along South Quay. This was confirmed closed by the Inspectors at three am and checked again at hourly intervals thereafter. Both inspectors were experienced engineers with a clear understanding of the vital nature of their task. There is no reason to doubt their statements. Unfortunately, owing to the dark and the appalling weather conditions along the quay, the only camera covering the lane provides no useful record of what occurred.
At the borough emergency centre in the Town Hall at King's Court, Jack Bensusan is monitoring events from the CCTV room. Shortly after six fifteen, one of the staff notices with alarm that a camera in Nelson Street is showing a massive amount of water pouring down the roadway into the heart of the old town.

There has been a party in one of the premises on the quay earlier in the night. When it ended at around one am, one couple became detached from the rest of their group. They slipped away to find a quiet spot in the building, curling up together, cocooned in their own warmth while outside the storm grew.
With the approach of morning they awoke. It was cold. The old building in which they had been resting was creaking under the wind's onset and hail showers rattled against the roof tiles. The urge to get home was strong. Pulling on coats, they crept downstairs. Outside, rain and spray were gusting into the lane. Instead of turning northwards up the lane towards the town, for some reason they tried to reach the quay. At the bottom of the lane they found their way blocked by a pair of floodgates.
The surviving engineer is sure that the gates were locked and securely bolted. It is possible that the key was left in place by mistake. Even so, it must have required considerable effort to unfasten both gates and swing them back against the walls of the lane. The couple appears to have been making for one of the car parks that front onto the quay. It may be that they were frightened off by the amount of water pouring onto the quay and elected instead to escape on foot through one of the buildings behind into Queen Street. Whatever the motives for their actions, the consequences are catastrophic.
In the borough emergency centre, the officer who first notices the flooding initially puts it down to surcharging by drains unable to empty into the river. There is a lot of water in the streets anyway with the rain and spray and at night it is hard to say where it is all coming from. He radios the engineers to investigate. Approaching from the Customs House along Queen Street, the two men encounter a four-foot deep torrent pouring from the entrance to College Lane. The quayside end is comparatively wide but the lane then narrows sharply. The effect is to squeeze the flow, accelerating it downhill into the town with all the pressure of the pent up river behind it.
Stopping their car, the two men climb out to investigate on foot. It is immediately apparent that a gate must be down and that they have no chance of staunching the flow unaided. The best solution is to try to block the lane with some sort of heavy earthmoving vehicle.
Unknown to both men, the river has also flooded through the open side door into College lane and storm water has penetrated into the rear of buildings along Queen Street. All unseen, the front rooms are filling and pressure is rising against the street exits. As the two engineers hurry back to the car, the first warning trickles are beginning to jet from keyholes and hinges. A pair of double doors creaks under the strain of the river behind as the level inside rises inexorably.
Without warning first one set of doors then a second burst open, sending cascades of water spouting into the road. Within seconds a torrent is running down the street as other windows and entrances explode outwards. Hastily the men scramble into the car and start the engine but the water comes up too fast for them. Before the car can make a dozen yards water is surging over the bonnet. The engine stalls and cuts out. Twisting round to look back, the engineer in the passenger seat sees a solid wall of water bearing down upon them from the direction of the Customs House. Squeezed by the confines of the narrow street and pushing a mass of debris and rubbish before it, the flood overtakes the car and runs right over it. The windows go black as the water bubbles up over roof level. In the blackness inside the terrified men can feel the vehicle shuddering under the force of the current. If the car overturns, they know they will drown.
There is a terrific impact as some solid object strikes the car and a crash of glass and water pours in upon them. In a panic the men struggle to force open the doors but the pressure of the flood outside is too great. Ice cold water rises around the seats, gurgling about their chests, creeping towards their throats. Desperately they press mouths and noses against the roof for air.
No one who has not been trapped underwater can imagine the horror of those moments. The frantic gasping for air knowing that each breath may be the final one. The smothering tide climbing fraction by cruel fraction, touching the chin, stealing around the cheek. The desperate filling of the lungs against the awful moment when the air is no longer there to be breathed.
It is the driver who makes the break first. Dragging a last lungful of oxygen, he ducks under the water, scrabbling for the door catch with his fingers. With pressure equalised inside the car it should be possible to open the doors and the time to try is now before they pass out. Blind in the darkness, he locates the handle by touch and wrenches it back, bracing his feet against the seat for purchase as he shoves with all his strength.
As he does so, he senses the water draining away around him. Suddenly the level drops leaving the men able to breath freely again. Somewhere up ahead the wall of rubbish that the flood has built up, damming its path, has burst apart releasing the waters.
Gasping from their escape, the two men stumble out of the car. The flood has subsided to the level of the wheel arches. The streetlights have cut out, plunging the scene into darkness. They can still hear water pouring from doorways and windows but it no longer seems to be rushing at the same dreadful rate as before. Supporting one another, they wade clumsily up the street towards the Custom House.
What they do not realise is that all this while the tide continues to rise. Water has started to spill over the floodgates into the side streets and alleys all along the quays. Within minutes water in the street gathers itself and surges forward again in another lethal rush, engulfing the engineers chest deep. One man loses his balance. In an instant he is down. Terrified, he struggles to regain his feet but he is weaker now, less able to fight and the current has him, sweeping him down the slope. His head slams against a pillar-box and he goes under again. He swallows water and chokes, now he is fighting for breath and panic sets in. He flails desperately but the flow is too strong, he is being carried along on his back. There is a van parked further down, and before he can help himself he is sucked in under it. He tries frantically to pull himself out but he is pinned underneath, trapped fast.
His companion struggles to reach him, battling through the torrent now up to his neck. His last glimpse of his friend is of a hand clawing above the surface of the water.

At Norwich the call comes through to the county emergency centre. Help is required urgently in King's Lynn. A flood gate is down, one person has been drowned. The surge is overtopping the defences at several points and there is a risk of further fatalities. The fire brigade has received more than a hundred emergency calls from stricken families, businesses and shops. Police and ambulance service are also stretched to their limits. This is the kind of task the military can do best, sending in disciplined units who can work independently without supervision. The request is passed to 49th Brigade. The nearest troops are ten miles away at RAF Marham. Inside fifteen minutes a company of men are piling into high-wheel trucks and heading for the coast.
Hardly have they set off when a second call comes in. On the north coast near Blakeney a section of steel piling has given way. Heavy seas are pounding sand dunes and threatening homes in the vicinity. Again the request is for help with evacuation. This time it is the turn of the 9th/12th Lancers from Swanton Morley.

Corrosion of steel piling used in flood defences is a long-standing anxiety of Environment Agency engineers. Everyone knows it is there but it is hard to detect and expensive to put right. With budgets under pressure it is tempting not to go looking for trouble. The section at Blakeney is due for inspection next year. Now it has given way and by the time the first of the Lancers arrive an hour later the sea has chewed through thirty feet of dunes into the village. Twenty houses are flooded.
This is a sector that thought it was safe from the sea. The residents are unprepared for flooding and several are badly shaken. A fallen tree has cut power to one end of the village. Bronze control has been set up at the local police station. The unit works methodically through the floodwaters, checking houses and bringing residents out. They are taken to a primary school that has been turned into a reception centre. A team from the electricity company arrives with chain saws and sets about restoring the line.
At this point a further section of steel piling gives way and sea begins to pour into the other end of the village. Bronze commander on the scene, a police inspector, orders the evacuation of thirty more homes. Weather conditions are noted in the incident diary as 'Extremely difficult. High winds causing structural damage to roofs etc. Very cold, sleet and snow driving inland.' Troops are dispatched to check outlying properties and, if necessary, to bring out the occupants. Thirty minutes after official High Water, the northern half of the village is effectively abandoned with waves sweeping over the sea wall unchecked, ripping off large chunks of concrete. Evacuees are having to be sent to centres further inland.
Trooper Halloran of the 9th/12 Lancers is in a party of three men in charge of B Company's inflatable boat. They are working their way along Fakenham Road, wading in water three foot deep, more in places, towing the boat behind them. It is snowing and the wind lashes their faces and stings the eyes. They have been issued with waterproof trousers over their rubber boots but Halloran has ripped his walking into a submerged fence in the dark and now he is wet as well as cold. So far they have brought out six families; two more have moved upstairs and are refusing to budge. The soldiers leave them to it. If the stupid buggers want to stay that's their look out.
The last house in the road, it is more of a lane really, is set back in a garden. The top of a hedge pokes above the water in front. Halloran plays his flashlight on the windows. There is no sign of life but his orders are to make certain, there could be elderly or disabled inside. No one responds to his knocking but he thinks he can hear faint cries. He goes round to the back and shines the torch into the kitchen. The water is waist deep inside, at first he can see nothing. Then he spots a little old woman in nightclothes perched on top of the cooker.
He calls the others and together they force the door. The woman is barely coherent, too stiff and weak from cold to move her limbs. A few minutes more and she would have slid down into the water. Halloran lifts her carefully in his arms. Is there anyone else in the house? he asks her. Only my Shadow, she whispers. Her eyes cut away to the top of a cupboard where a cat regards them balefully. She must have been searching for it when the water rushed in.
They wrap her in a blanket and put her into the boat and Halloran radios for the medics to meet them. Later she is transferred by military ambulance to the hospital at Fakenham. The cat is taken to an RSPCA centre.

South, at The Met Office, it is data time for the Intermediate version of the Limited Atmospheric Model. Realistically, it takes around two hours for the mass of data arriving at the Met Office to be fed into a T3E computer. The model itself then takes approximately forty minutes to run, so the results will not be ready before a quarter to nine at the earliest. The Intermediate Model, as the name implies, is an updated version of the Midnight Model using the same base values with corrections. "Basically it is a tweaked version of the Midnight run as opposed to the Midday run which is a completely new set of predictions," as Doug Fisher explained to Mary when she first started work here.
The Interim model is important for the Storm Tide desk because it gives one last chance for correcting predictions of the surge's performance before it reaches the Thames estuary. As soon as it comes off the computer, Mary will use its atmospheric forecasts to re-run a workstation version of their own Surge Model and compare that with the previous run.
Mary's shift ends at eight am and she is due to go off duty. She is feeling restless and caged and increasingly worried. While she is waiting for the computer run she prowls Central Forecasting for clues as to how the weather patterns are developing or pesters the Tidal Observatory at Bidston for updates from their network of gauges in the North Sea. There is real anxiety now that the midnight tide model has underforecast levels for the southern sectors of the east coast. Tide heights at Cromer are creeping up and up.
Once again she calls on Doug Fisher for advice. Together they pore over the projections. The surge peak is now nearing two metres and the levels stretch way back as far as North Shields. A massive amount of water has been set in motion. Mary moves over to another workstation and begins rattling at the keys. This is an experimental project she has been working on which displays tide forecasts for varying wind strengths. The idea is to see what effect increasing wind speeds will have for given sectors of the coast. It is not a precise exercise because there is a lack of data on very high surges, but it gives an indication of the way events might develop.
Mary tinkers about, moving values up at different points to show Doug the result. At first the changes in tide levels are negligible. When she starts to bring in wind strengths of more than fifty knots the effect is more marked. Danger levels are exceeded by a wide margin.
"What happens if you increase the time values as well?" Doug asks. "Say Force eight persisting all the way up to midday?"
Mary does as he suggests. The screen flickers as the program redraws the graphs. They both stare in silence. If the storm continues at full strength right down as far as the Thames estuary, then the surge will be hitting three metres at Southend. More ominous still, the graph shows the peak running perilously close to high water. The deadly coincidence of events that is their worst nightmare.

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