Dead Reckoning (2 page)

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.

6:30 PM – EMERGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER (EOC), KWAJALEIN

              When I entered the EOC, the crisis management team was already assembled.

             
In contrast to the sleek, high-tech missile control center on the range, the EOC on Kwaj looked like an afterthought, which probably was not too far from the truth, since that room was rarely ever used. It had a communications console, a short-wave radio set-up, a small external weather station with wind and temperature information, a few computers, and a single, small window which was above the eye level of most people and contained the distinctive crisscrossed wire of reinforced glass. The conference table was nothing more than four brown, fold-up tables, like you might find at a church potluck, pushed together. The chairs around the tables were all the leftovers from the range—some with torn cushions, others leaning badly, and still others with missing parts—the chairs that nobody wanted to sit in on a daily basis but that the range did not want to throw out. A small alcove off one side held a coffee maker, microwave oven, and sink.

             
“Well, let’s get this started,” said LTC Polian. He introduced me, and I relayed what I knew to the team:

             
“Tropical depression 01-W formed earlier this afternoon approximately 300 miles east-southeast of Kwaj. It is already well on its way to becoming Tropical Storm ‘Ele.’ The storms we are already seeing today are likely the beginnings of a feeder band which indicates the storm is quickly gathering strength. It will likely reach T.S. strength within the next 12 hours, and within 24 hours, Ele will be near Typhoon strength.

             
“Isn’t May a little early for this sort of thing?” asked one of the other contractors on the island.

             
“Yes, but it is not unheard of. The El Nino we’ve had going on for the last year has kept the very warm water parked over the central Pacific, and it is just an unfortunate set of meteorological circumstances that came together in the wrong place. Best guess movement right now is west at 5 knots. Steering flow is not very strong, but her general movement will be west-northwest around a sub-tropical ridge positioned between Johnston and Hawaii.”

             
“So, it’s going to go right over us?” asked Sam.

             
“Forecasting the exact track of tropical storms in the first 24-48 hours after development is very difficult….”

             
“Cut the bullshit,” ordered Range Commander Blaine. “It sounds like we have less than 24 hours to ready this installation for a typhoon. Now is not the time for waffling. You know what happened on Wake!”

             
He was referring to Super Typhoon Ioke, which struck Wake Atoll, just 500 miles due north of Kwajalein Atoll. Ioke devastated Wake Atoll, and if not for a very fortuitous jog to the north just before landfall, the atoll likely would have been turned into a sand bar.

“Of course I do, sir. But the good news is that all the buildings are still standing. People could have survived there.”

He looked at me skeptically over the top of his glasses.

“They had time to evacuate, and you and I both know that they were lucky, Matt. That was a hell of a forecast by the JTWC which gave them five days to get everything ready and then bug out. We don’t have th
at luxury. Give us your no-bullshit best answer.”

It was rare for anyone to contradict Colonel Blaine, primarily because he was the Commander, but also because he was a large, black man and quite imposing despite his pronounced limp. His clean-shaven head, crooked nose, penetrating eyes, and deep voice only added to his bad-ass image. He played football at the United States Military Academy at West Point—linebacker. The rumor was that he blew out his knee in the first quarter of the first game of his junior year, and the team didn’t find out about it until half time. He made two tackles and one interception in the second quarter with a blown knee. Because of his knee, he never started another game for Army, but he was already legendary. I knew him casually but never dared ask if the rumor was true. The fact that it was within his power
to throw anyone off the island for no good reason, didn’t put people at ease around him either. But I knew my business.

             
“Sir. I’m not bullshitting you. I just don’t want to give you an inflated sense of the confidence I have in the going forecast. Obviously, we didn’t see this coming, and it really is very difficult to predict the exact motion of developing storms. It is hard enough to determine the exact strength and position of a storm at this stage, much less forecast the movement of a storm that is hardly moving at the moment. My best estimate is that it will go very near Kwajalein and that we should prepare as if a direct hit is imminent, because it might be.”

It felt as if the air had gone out of the room. I noticed the ticking of the wall clock as we stared at the commander.

“My apologies. I was out of order,” he said.

I noticed a few surprised looks around the table.

“Timing?” he questioned, apparently unfazed by the turn of events.

“As I was saying before, steering flow is weak, but I expect it to pick up as the subtropical ridge strengthens and moves further west. Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

“You sure we don’t have more time to prepare? That would be helpful,” he asked.

“Actually, we don’t want that, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The longer it takes to get here, the more time it will have to strengthen. There is little to inhibit its development at this point. The faster it gets here, the better.”

“What should we expect?”

With the momentum on my side, I launched into the specifics. “Best estimate: winds: 70 gusting to 85 knots; seas: 20-30 feet;
overwash with severe flooding likely north of the storm track. Much worse if it takes longer.”

I heard a few murmured swear words around the table.

“How high will the storm surge be north of the track? I’ve heard it can be 10-15 feet. ”

“We won’t see anything like that here. The bathymetry of the atoll isn’t conducive to large storm surge. The
oceanside parts of the atoll essentially go straight down into the abyss. There is no sloping undersea floor for the surge to build up on. It’s essentially the same reason that we don’t worry much about tsunamis here. Our surge, if any, will be almost entirely from wind loading.”

“So how high?”

“I think we will probably just see some of the larger waves washing onto the island. Maybe a foot at most and that will be north of the track. Even Wake wasn’t substantially over-washed with Ioke. But even this amount of water will cause significant flooding.”

“Any idea where it will cross the atoll—you know, which assets might be at most risk?”

“Sir, like I….”

“Never mind, I know,” he said waving me off.

The commander stared at his hands for a few moments, a noticeable tremor developing in his left.

“Very well then. This base is officially in warning status,” said the Commander.

Typhoon warning status was the Range’s equivalent to TCCOR 2 and set in motion the entire range to prepare for the onset of damaging winds within 24 hours. A few minutes after this meeting, hundreds of people’s quiet weekend would come to an abrupt end.

Commander Blaine looked at LTC Polian.

“Secure assets a.s.a.p. and begin personnel evacuation preparations immediately. And inform SMDC.”

SMDC stood for Space and Missile Defense Command, the next agency in the chain of command. SMDC answered to the Department of the Army who reported to the Department of Defense who reported to the President—all of whom had some interest when one of their “assets” was threatened.

Commander Blaine turned to the Public Affairs Officer.

“Prepare a statement for the roller highlighting the need to begin personal preparations immediately. Now I know word travels fast on this rock, but let’s sound the sirens, just to get people off the beach and let them know something is going on.”