Dead Reckoning, Page 2

  “Well, the gusts will be well out ahead of the actual storm, and we frequently see forward-building convection that moves faster than the complex.”

  “Was there an E.T.A. in there somewhere, Einstein?” Jeff retorted.

  The guys laughed.

  “If radar indicated ninety minutes, and they’ve been trying us for fifteen, I’d say conditions will be going to shit in forty-five to sixty.”

  Jeff clicked the transmit button on the radio and said: “Harbor Control, this is Kilo-six-five, over.”

  “Kilo-six-five, Harbor Control, go.”

  “It’s too dangerous, and we don’t agree on the timing. We’re going to shelter in place. Over.”

  “Roger that Kilo-six-five. Recommend return to port as soon as the weather clears. Over.”

  “Roger, wilco. Kilo-six-five clear,” Jeff said as he hung up the radio microphone.

  There was no argument from Harbor Control. Local boating regulations made the captain of the boat truly the man in charge. The captain was under no obligation to follow any order that he felt endangered his boat or crew. Harbor Control also knew that we were in a spot that was relatively protected from the wind. We were on the lagoon side, or lee of Bigej Island, which was about as good a place as there was to stay out of the wind. That is why it was a favorite spot among divers and snorkelers—little wind to jostle unattended boats from their anchorage and little wave action to stir up visibility-reducing sediment from the bottom.

  We weighed anchor and moved in closer to shore and hunkered down to wait out the storm. It would not have been unusual for the storm to miss us altogether. Convection over the open ocean is so susceptible to random processes that it seems to undergo a build, collapse, and reform cycle almost constantly and never holds together on one course for long. But this storm had an angry look to it.

  Worry about Kate and our kids crept into my mind. Kate and I had the two daughters she wanted right off the bat. Elaine came first and was followed about as quickly as humanly possible by Kelly. Elaine and Kelly were less than a year apart and looked so similar that most people mistook them for twins. But, despite being nothing of the sort, they definitely acted like it.

  Then one of us dried up. We worked at the boy I wanted for over two years, and while I enjoyed the effort, we grew worried by the lack of production. We were about ready to consult a doctor when Charlie finally happened.

  I’m told that the fact that newborns usually resemble the father is nature’s way of assuring him that it’s his and to get him to stick around. I think that’s ridiculous. Nevertheless, Charlie looked like me from the day he was born and still does.

  He was like me in many other ways too. He was the only ten-year-old I had ever heard of that actually listened to the news. I had to be careful when I watched TV around him, since he absorbed nearly everything. Due to his curious nature he would almost certainly be aware of the plague, and I was sure he’d be scared.

  “What do you guys think of the plague?” I asked no one in particular.

  “I think it’s all overblown,” Bill said as instantly as if he’d been watching my thoughts unfold.

  There was a general nod of agreement from the group, except Jeff.

  As the sky darkened, everyone grew quiet, and Jeff fidgeted at the helm. Even normally cool Sonny stared at the clouds. We’d all seen storms like this before, but not in a boat with nowhere to hide.

  Out in the middle of the ocean, you could check a stop watch by the time in between the onset of the wind and the torrential downpour that followed—five minutes was the norm. The wind came up like a runaway truck. We were less than fifty yards from the beach, and our first sign of the wind was the disturbance in the tree tops on the island. Palm fronds bent and twisted and flapped like the wings of a bird as the gale set in. Entire canopies of palm trees, normally shaped like mushrooms, suddenly folded inside out like a cheap umbrellas and pointed downwind. Debris began breaking off from the trees and flew in our direction. We still only felt a muted version of the wind in our protected little alcove. But there was no doubt the wind had gone from near calm to a fresh breeze to a strong gale in just a few minutes.

  We heard the rain before we saw it—the light sound of distant static as the first drops found their way into the forest canopy and then it opened up into a roar as millions of gallons of water poured onto the island.

  Then it swept over us.

  We were in the boat as a preventative measure against the threat of lightning, and while the boat offered some protection from electrocution, it offered no shield against the driving rain. We were drenched in seconds, and our beer bottles began to fill with water, like miniature rain gauges. Raindrops the size of nickels roughened the surface of the water, each one creating a brief dimple in the water as it stretched the surface tension to breaking, until the entire lagoon looked like the face of a golf ball.

  Then we saw the first flash—just a general flood of light from no particular direction at all. It illuminated the entire scene, but with visibility down to a few meters at best, it seemed to come from everywhere. I started counting but did not even reach two before the thunder barreled into us, shaking the boat violently. We felt the concussion in our organs, and our skin tingled, either from the actual electric field in the air, or merely the thought of it.

  “Jesus!” yelled Bill. “That was close.”

  Born an Inuit Eskimo, Bill grew up above the Arctic Circle, spent time in the Marines, and eventually landed on Kwaj after a medical discharge. He stayed in the shape of a Marine and was a six-foot-three, two-hundred and forty pound block of muscle. With shoulder length black hair, a full beard and mustache, and a permanent scowl on his darkly complected face, he looked frightening. Bill had one weakness, though: lightning. He had never seen it growing up, and when he found out that I was a meteorologist, he confided in me that it scared him to death.

  “About a fifth of a mile,” I replied after a quick mental calculation involving the difference in the speeds of light and sound.

  “Maybe we should head back,” said Bill.

  Jeff ignored him, his attention focused at the helm.

  “It’s ok, Bill,” I said. “The odds of it striking us are low.”

  “Low is a lot higher than zero,” Bill said with a sigh. He searched nervously through his pockets as a smoker might search for a cigarette. “And I don’t have any toothpicks,” he said. Bill was rarely seen without a toothpick in his mouth.

  The torrents of rain began to pull the wind down from above, over the tree tops and onto us. The boat rocked and swayed violently as it fought against the anchor. Lightning flashed again, but this time we saw the bolt just to our north. I counted to two, and then the thunder rattled us again. Someone’s sunglasses skidded across the deck.

  My eyes trained on the storm for some time, but I glanced down and saw Sonny sitting on the deck, back against the gunwale, arms draped over his knees. A half-empty beer dangled from his right hand, and he looked as content as a man could be.

  Water ran down his face and dripped from his chin and the crook of his nose. He took a drink and looked up at me. His lips pursed to contain the liquid, but he gave me a cheery little smile and an upward head nod as if to hint at both some enjoyment on his part and ambivalence to any danger. The water ran into his eyes, so he put his head back down and stared at his beer bottle, fearless and seemingly unfazed by the whole thing.

  Then the radio crackled to life: “Kilo-six…do…copy?” static breaking the sentence into fragments.

  “This is Kilo-six five, please repeat,” Jeff said, microphone already in hand.

  The static cleared for a second.

  “Kilo-six-five. Be advised that weather says the storm now extends back twenty-five clicks and…that…forty to fifty knots…” and then static.

  “Harbor Control, please repeat last. Forty to fifty knots, what?”

  “Repeat…..knots….clicks. Is….Anderssen….?”

  The radio traffic was
garbled and broken. Jeff looked at me, and we both shrugged.

  “Yes, he’s here. Please repeat last.”

  “….needed…..station.”

  “Sounds like they need you back at the weather station,” Jeff said.

  Since we all technically worked for the government, it was fairly easy for them to find us when necessary. I couldn’t imagine what was wrong. It was May—near the end of the quiet, dry season. Maybe one of my employees was sick or hurt.

  We heard only static in reply after Jeff repeated his request for clarification several more times. Lightning lit up the scene again, and nearly simultaneous thunder broke through the roar of the rain.

  “Ok, that’s it. Let’s go!” Jeff said, barely audible over the sounds of the weather.

  “Finally!” exclaimed Bill to no one in particular.

  “But Jeff, we’re protected right here,” said Ed nervously. “If we go out into the pass, it will be ten times worse.”

  “I know, but I don’t like the sound of forty to fifty knots. And I’m not going to sit here and get struck by lightning. It’s going to be dark in another hour, and the only thing worse than slogging through this shit in the daylight is doing it in the dark. Trust me.”

  I trusted Jeff. With decades of sailing under his belt, if anyone knew what to do in that situation, it was Jeff. Ed wasn’t so sure though, and he looked to Sonny knowing that he and Jeff were occasionally at odds about boating techniques.

  Sonny didn’t respond, but he did take another pull from his beer.

  “I think we’re safer right here is all,” said Ed.

  “I’ll take my chances with waves over lightning,” inserted Bill, as if to tip the scales.

  “We’re leaving,” reiterated Jeff. “Weigh anchor.”

  I could barely see the surface of the water as I struggled to pull the boat toward the anchor. Ed sat behind me and coiled the rope into the hold. Jeff revved the engine and powered forward to just above the anchor. That freed the anchor from the bottom, and since I no longer had to fight the pull of the boat against the wind and current, it was an effortless dead-weight pull up and over the bow and into the boat.

  Lightning continued to flash, and the wind howled at about thirty knots, driving the rain into every nook and cranny of our persons. The only bright spot was that even in stormy weather it was still relatively warm—even in the heaviest rainstorm, it rarely dropped below seventy-five degrees.

  After about fifty feet of nylon rope, I came to the chain and then the anchor. I was barely able to maintain my balance with the rocking of the boat, but I hauled the whole thing up and slammed it down into the hold as Ed closed the hatch. I sat down, and Ed fell on top of me.

  “Fresh!” I yelled.

  Ed laughed.

  “How long do you think this is going to last?” Ed asked nervously while trying to pull himself off of my lap.

  I shrugged.

  As we motored slowly forward, each of us could sense the impending pass by the incrementally increasing height of the swells. The moment we came clear of the protection of the island was unmistakable. The wind suddenly sent the boat lurching to starboard, and it felt as if we were going over. We all instinctively leaned to port. The canvas on the bimini top flapped in the wind, and Jeff’s backwards baseball hat broke free and flew off into the squall.

  Jeff turned hard to port to put the nose into the wind and then gunned the engine. The largest wave we had seen roiled up and came toward us. It was at least ten feet from trough to crest. The bow of the boat pitched upward hard, and the rest of the boat followed. We quickly shot over the top of the wave, slid down the backside, and plowed head on into the subsequent trough, which sent a river of water through the boat. Designed for rough conditions, the boat was capable of ridding itself of water, but it was being bogged down by the immense amount of rainwater and seawater in its bilge.

  Sensing the danger and the shifting of weight, Jeff took advantage of a lull between waves and gunned the engine. The boat struggled forward and then picked up speed as the water poured from the stern drains. Bill stood next to Jeff, and because of the sudden lurch forward, he lost his balance. It appeared as if he might right himself, but just then he lost his hold on the slippery rail and tumbled over the side into the frothing water of the pass. His head hit the gunwale with a dull thud on the way over.

  Before I could even think of what to do, there was a flash of orange in front of me. Sonny had grabbed the life ring and was already in the water. As he swam toward Bill, it occurred to me that Sonny could have been an action hero but for a societal size bias.

  Also without hesitation, Jeff swung the stern away from both the overboard men so as not to endanger them with the propeller. For an instant, we were abeam to the wind and waves, and the boat lurched to starboard again. We all braced for a flip, but none came. Instead, Jeff brought the boat around, and in one continuous motion guided the craft in, just downwind of Bill and Sonny. Clinging to the life ring and each other, the men bobbed in the water like corks. Bill was conscious but dazed, and Sonny wore his optimistic grin.

  Sonny held onto Bill and churned through the remaining few feet to the boat. I grabbed Bill’s arm and pulled, but his massive frame barely moved. Ed took hold of Bill’s other arm and Jeff stepped to the opposite side to provide counter weight. We heaved with everything we had as Sonny pushed from below. The greater part of Bill’s weight finally came over the gunwale and he slipped the rest of the way in and flopped to the deck like a seal.

  Bill stared up at the sky. A drop of blood broke free from a small cut on his forehead and entered a rivulet of water running down his scalp and disappeared.

  “I found one,” said Ed as he placed a toothpick in Bill’s mouth. Bill closed his eyes and exhaled.

  The maelstrom had abated slightly, but only enough to allow us to get the rest of the way through the channel without any more trouble. Once in the shelter of the islands on the other side, we plowed roughly but safely through the chaotic sea toward home, the ominous clouds hot on our tail all the way.

  3

  5:30 PM – KWAJALEIN

  By the time we got back to the marina, Bill seemed fine. I left Sonny, Jeff and Ed to take Bill to the hospital to be checked out (forcibly, if necessary) and peddled through the driving rain toward the weather station.

  It was always warm on Kwaj, so the fact that personal vehicles were not allowed on the island generally didn’t bother me. But the policy was a real bummer during the downpours. The phone at the marina had been out—probably another casualty of the salty air—but I fully expected to have to pull the swing shift in lieu of a sick employee. I couldn’t imagine what else I would be needed for on a Sunday.

  I burst through the door and stood, trying to wipe some of the water from my clothes. I overheard one of my forecasters, Chris, on the phone and immediately knew something was wrong.

  “It’s hard to say right now, sir.”

  He poked his head through the door of the forecast office. He cocked his head and widened his eyes as if to say: Help!

  “He just walked in. Let me bring him up to speed, and I’ll have him call you back.” The bells in the old rotary phone tinged as Chris slammed down the receiver.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “T.D. zero one.”

  “Tropical depression?” I asked. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Look.”

  He sent the signal from his computer to the overhead monitor with a key stroke. A zoomed-in visible satellite image of the storm appeared.

  “Nice circulation,” I said as stepped closer and finally realized what I was seeing. “How long is that loop?”

  “Four hours.”

  “Shit. That developed fast.”

  “Where is it?” I asked, fully expecting it to be forming to our west or south of Hawaii as usual.

  “Eight, one-seventy-two.”

  “One-seventy-two….east?” I asked nervously.

  “Yep.”


  He spun the wheel on his mouse and the image zoomed out one level. The unmistakable outline of Kwajalein Atoll appeared just west of the circulation. My heart jumped. The storm was about 300 miles to our southeast and not moving much.

  “What does JTWC think?” I asked.

  “Just got off the phone with them about fifteen minutes ago. High water temps; low shear; rapid spin-up. Models blow it into a typhoon within twenty-four. They blew off the models earlier today. So did I. But now they can’t find a reason to doubt them.”

  “What do you think, Chris?”

  This wasn’t Chris’ first tropical storm. As a tropical meteorologist for over ten years and a former navy weather officer, he’d seen his share of foul weather. I valued his opinion.

  Chris lowered his glasses and peered over them at the monitor. He flopped down in the chair, and his ample belly folded over his belt and rested on his lap. He let out a sigh.

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  Many thoughts streamed through my mind seemingly at once—thoughts of storm surges, overreactions, wind damage, and missed forecasts. I was paid to make decisions in the face of uncertainty, and a developing tropical cyclone is inherently one of the most uncertain things in meteorology. It doesn’t matter if you have good data, bad data, conflicting data, or no data at all. Forecasters must make a forecast with what they’ve got. I knew what Chris and the JTWC thought. I knew what season it was and what that meant. I knew what I saw and what my experience told me. In a split second, I weighed it all, judged the uncertainty, assessed the risk, and calculated odds. But sometimes the best forecast comes from the gut.

  “Ok, I’m declaring TCCOR 2,” I said.

  “I’ll call someone in,” Chris offered, knowing that Tropical Cyclone Condition of Readiness 2 required double forecaster coverage around the clock and automatically set in motion numerous standard operating procedures.

  “Thanks. And re-work the schedule for the next three days, would you? All days off are canceled.”

  Chris agreed, so I telephoned the twenty-four hour operations center for Reagan Test Site and asked them to round up the crisis management team. I then telephoned Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) Sam Polian, the Range Operations Officer, to ask him to activate the Emergency Operations Center, or EOC.