Chapter 1
Carolina bound.
A late model pickup barreled north on I-95,
just past Hardeeville and the South Carolina state line. Several tarp-covered
boxes filled the truck bed.
Jon Samuelson, the driver, glanced through a pair of wirerims into the
rearview mirror and motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “That’s
it, the last of my worldly belongings.”
Erik Reynard, the younger of the two, sat shotgun and nodded. He fidgeted
with the radio until the stray notes of an accordion crackled between
a John Deere commercial and an evangelist preaching about the end of the
world. “There’s something to be said for a minimalist lifestyle,
no entanglements.”
“Got a point there,” Samuelson said, staring out at the horizon.
“Hard to believe the drought’s still punishing the Midwest.
You’d never guess by the looks of those clouds.”
“Sshh!” said Erik. “I know this song.”
“You and your swamp pop.”
“The word’s zydeco,” Erik said. “Lord, what I’d
give for a cell phone that worked out here.”
“Even if you were the first caller, what in the world would you
do with a case of Cajun seasoning?”
“Give it to you, let you whip up some of those blackened sea bass
fillets you’re so famous for.”
“Never know, we might just get in some fishing before you have to
head back to Miami. Hurricane season doesn’t officially start for
a couple days yet. How’s the new director working out?”
Erik spit an empty sunflower shell out the window. “Let’s
just say you’re sorely missed.”
“If I’d known NOAA was going to be spun off by the Department
of Commerce, I might have done things differently.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Erik said. “Say, how ‘bout
I join you on the island?”
“You’d be wasting your talents out there, digging around in
the silt and mud. Doesn’t pay much, either—fifty percent of
nothing is nothing.”
“You don’t seem to mind.”
“I don’t need much to get by,” said Samuelson. “Some
mullet for bait, a pound of coffee now and then, and a little grant money
to pay the coring contractor.”
“I don’t need much, either,” Erik said, getting his
chin up.
“What you have is a nose for storms. It’s a God-given thing
and it’s best to use it.”
Erik studied Samuelson’s face, tanned and wrinkled. “Why do
I get the impression you’d say anything to discourage me from leaving
the Hurricane Center?”
“Because it’s in your best interest to stay there. If it hadn’t
been for my run-in with the Weather Czar, I’d probably still be
there myself.”
Erik turned his gaze out the side window. “Never know, I might be
an asset.”
“You’ve got more important things to do, protecting people
and property.”
Discouraged, Erik snapped a rubber band around a bag of sunflower seeds
and worked it into his pack. Most of his friends back home were using
the Memorial Day holiday as an excuse to head for the beach. Not him.
Nobody special was waiting in the wings, just an old friend needing a
hand.
He raised the binoculars and stared at a far-off curtain of rain. “Hell
of a microburst moving ashore. Look there, you can even see the toes.”
“If you really want to do me a favor, you’ll keep an eye on
the Atlantic Conveyor—let me know when the big one’s coming.”
“Nothing gets past NEXRAD,” Erik boasted. “Our Doppler’s
state of the art, remember?”
“It’s not the radar I’m talking about.”
Erik lowered the binoculars and watched the interstate snake by. “Come
to think of it, you’ve been pretty quiet about your research lately.
You’re on to something, I can feel it.”
Samuelson flipped the wipers to high and stared into the rain without
saying a word. Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a
pale white rock.
“Check this out,” he said, tossing the specimen to Erik.
“What is it?”
“A window into the past, ancient coral from a reef terrace in New
Guinea. My theory’s coming together like a Swiss watch.”
“More global warming?” Erik said. “Come on, this isn’t
the tabloids. Give me something I can use back in forecasting.”
“It’s all there in the geological record, laid down like dinosaur
bones.”
Erik tossed the coral in his hand. “Footprints in the sand, Jon.
This sample tells us where we’ve been, that’s all.”
“Perhaps, or maybe we’re entering a rare weather cycle seen
once every thousand millennia.”
“You’ve been out in the islands too long.”
Back in the truck bed, a tarp suddenly tore loose and flapped about wildly.
“My journals!” Samuelson yelled, pulling to the shoulder.
“My whole life’s wrapped up in those boxes.”
As soon as the pickup ground to a stop, the doors flew open. The wind
picked up, and the sky crackled with lightning.
Samuelson leaned inside the truck bed and tossed a tiedown rope to Erik.
“I’m dead serious about the weather,” he said. “It’s
changing.”
“Suppose it is, what do you expect me to do about it?”
“Just keep an eye out.”
End of Chapter One |