The Weathermakers (1967)

by Ben Bova

  “All right,” I said, trying to calm her. “All right. I’ll go with him. I’ll make sure he keeps his feet dry.”

  “But I don’t want either one of you in danger!”

  “I know. I’ll take care of him.”

  She looked at me with those misty, gray-green eyes. “Jerry . . . you won’t let him do anything foolish, will you?”

  “You know me; I’m no hero.”

  “Yes, you are,” she said. And I felt my insides do a handspring.

  I left her there with Tuli and hurried out to the parking lot. The bright sunshine outdoors was a painful surprise. It was hot and muggy, even though the day was only an hour or so old.

  Ted was getting into one of the Project staff cars when I caught up with him.

  “A landlubber like you shouldn’t be loose on the ocean by himself,” I said.

  He grinned. “Hop aboard, salt.”

  The day was sultry. The usual tempering sea breezes had died off. As we drove along the Miami bayfront, the air was oppressive, ominous. The sky was brazen, the water deathly calm. The old-timers along the fishing docks were squinting out at the horizon to the south and nodding to each other. It was coming.

  The color of the sea, the shape of the clouds, the sighting of a shark near the coast, the way the seabirds were perching—all these became omens.

  It was coming.

  We slept for most of the flight out to the sonar picket.

  The Navy jet landed smoothly in the softly billowing sea and a helicopter from the picket brought us aboard. The ship was similar in style to the deep-sea mining dredges of Thornton Pacific. For antisubmarine work, though, the dredging equipment was replaced by a fantastic array of radar and communications antennas.

  “Below decks are out of bounds to visitors, I’m afraid,” said the chunky lieutenant who welcomed us to his ship. As we walked from the helicopter landing pad on the fan-tail toward the bridge, he told us, “This bucket’s a floating sonar station. Everything below decks is classified except the galley, and the cook won’t let even me in there.”

  He laughed at his own joke. He was a pleasant-faced Yankee, about our own age, square-jawed, solidly built, the kind that stays in the Navy for life.

  We clambered up a ladder to the bridge.

  “We’re anchored here,” the lieutenant said, “with special bottom gear and arresting cables. So the bridge isn’t used for navigation as much as for communications.”

  Looking around, we could see what he meant. The bridge’s aft bulkhead was literally covered with viewscreens, autoplotters, and electronics controls.

  “I think you’ll be able to keep track of your hurricane without much trouble.” He nodded proudly toward the communications equipment.

  “If we can’t,” Ted said, “it won’t be your fault.”

  The lieutenant introduced us to his chief communications technician, a scrappy little sailor who had just received his engineering degree and was putting in two Navy years. Within minutes we were talking to Tuli back in THUNDER headquarters.

  “Omega seems to have slowed down quite a bit,” Tuli said, his impassive face framed by the viewscreen. “She’s about halfway between your position and Puerto Rico.”

  “Gathering strength,” Ted muttered.

  They fed the information from THUNDER’S computers to the picket’s autoplotter, and soon we had a miniature version of Ted’s giant map on one of the bridge’s screens.

  Ted studied the map, mumbling to himself. “If we could feed her some warm water. . . give her a shortcut to the outbound leg of the Gulf Stream . . . then maybe she’d bypass the coast.”

  The lieutenant was watching us from a jumpseat that folded out of the port bulkhead.

  “Just wishful thinking,” Ted muttered on. “Fastest way to move her is to set up a low-pressure cell to the north . . . make her swing more northerly . . .”

  He talked it over with Tuli for the better part of an hour, perching on a swivel stool set into the deck next to the chart table. The cook popped through the bridge’s starboard hatch with a tray of sandwiches and coffee. Ted absently took a sandwich and mug, still locked in talk with Tuli.

  Finally he said to the viewscreen image, “Okay, we deepen this trough off Long Island and try to make a real storm cell out of it.”

  Tuli nodded, but he was clearly unhappy.

  “Get Barney to run it through the computer as fast as she can, but you’d better get the planes out right now. Don’t wait for the computer run. Got to hit while she’s still sitting around. Otherwise . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “All right,” Tuli said. “But we’re striking blindly.”

  “I know. Got any better ideas?”

  Tuli shrugged.

  “Then let’s scramble the planes.” he turned to me. “Jerry, we Ye got a battle plan figured out. Tuli’ll give you the details.”

  Now it was my turn. I spent the better part of the afternoon getting the right planes with the right payloads off to the exact places where the work had to be done. Through it all, I was calling myself an idiot for tracking out to this mid-ocean exile. It took twice as long to process the orders as it would have back at headquarters.

  “Don’t bother saying it,” Ted said when I finished. “So it was kinky coming out here. Okay. Just had to get away from that place before I went over the hill.”

  “But what good are you going to do here?” I asked.

  He gripped the bridge’s rail and looked out past the ship’s prow, toward the horizon.

  “We can run the show from here just as well . . . maybe a little tougher than back in Miami, but we can do it. If everything goes okay, we’ll get brushed by the storm’s edge. I’d like to see that. Want to feel her, see what she can do. Never seen a hurricane from this close. And it’s better than sitting in that windowless cocoon back there.”

  “And if things don’t go well?” I asked. “If the storm doesn’t move the way you want it to?”

  He turned away. “Probably she won’t.”

  “Then we might miss the whole show.”

  “Maybe. Or she might march right down here and blow down our necks.”

  “Omega might . . . we could be caught in the middle of it?”

  “Could be,” he said easily. “Better get some sleep while you can. Going to be busy later on.”

  The exec showed us to a tiny stateroom with two bunks in it. Part of the picket’s crew was on shore leave, and they had a spare compartment for us. I tried to sleep, but spent most of the late-afternoon hours squirming uncomfortably. Around dusk, Ted got up and went to the bridge. I followed him.

  “See those clouds, off the southern horizon,” he was saying to the lieutenant. “That’s her. Just the outer fringes.” I checked back with THUNDER headquarters. The planes had seeded the low-pressure trough off Long Island without incident. Weather stations along the coast, and automated equipment on satellites and planes, were reporting a small storm cell developing.

  Barney’s face appeared on the viewscreen. She looked very worried. “Is Ted there?”

  “Right here.” He stepped into view.

  “The computer run just finished,” she said, pushing a strand of hair from her face. “Omega’s going to turn northward, but only temporarily. She’ll head inland again early tomorrow. In about forty-eight hours she’ll strike the coast somewhere between Cape Hatteras and Washington.” Ted let out a low whistle.

  “But that’s not all,” she continued. “The storm track crosses right over the ship you’re on. You’re going to be in the center of it!”

  “We’ll have to get off here right away,” I said.

  “No rush,” Ted replied. “We can spend the night here. I want to see her develop firsthand.”

  Barney said, “Ted, don’t be foolish. It’s going to be dangerous.”

  He grinned at her. “Jealous? Don’t worry, I just want to get a look at her, then I’ll come flying home to you.”

  “You stubborn . . .”


  The blonde curl popped back over her eyes again and she pushed it away angrily. “Ted, it’s time you stopped acting like a spoiled little boy! You bet I’m jealous. I’m tired of competing against the whole twirling atmosphere! You’ve got responsibilities, and if you don’t want to live up to them . . . well, you’d better, that’s all!”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll be back tomorrow morning. Be safer traveling in daylight anyway. Omega’s still moving slowly; we’ll have plenty time.”

  “Not if she starts to move faster. Tins computer run was only a first-order look at the problem. The storm could accelerate sooner than we think.”

  “We’ll get to Miami okay, don’t worry.”

  “No, why should I worry?” Barney said. “You’re only six hundred miles out at sea with a hurricane bearing down on you.”

  “Just an hour away from home. Get some sleep. We’ll fly over in the morning.”

  The wind was picking up as I went back to my bunk, and the ship was starting to rock in the deepening sea. I had sailed open boats through storms and slept in worse weather than this. It wasn’t the conditions of the moment that bothered me. It was the knowledge of what was coming.

  Ted stayed out on deck, watching the southern skies darken with the deathly fascination of a general observing the approach of a much stronger army. I dropped off to sleep telling myself that I’d get Ted off this ship as soon as a plane could pick us up, even if I had to get the sailors to wrap him in anchor chains.

  By morning, it was raining hard and the ship was bucking badly in the heavy waves. It was an effort to push through the narrow passageway to the bridge, with the deck bobbing beneath my feet and the ship tossing hard enough to slam me against the bulkheads.

  Up on the bridge, the wind was howling evilly as a sailor helped me into a slicker and life vest. When I turned to tug them on, I saw that the helicopter pad out on the stern was empty.

  “Chopper took most of the crew out about an hour ago,” the sailor hollered into my ear. “Went to meet the seaplane west of here, where it ain’t so rough. When it comes back we’re all pulling out.”

  I nodded and thanked him.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Ted shouted at me as I stepped onto the open section of the bridge. “Moving up a lot faster than we thought.”

  I grabbed a handhold between him and the lieutenant. To the south of us was a solid wall of black. Waves were breaking over the bows and the rain was a battering force against our faces.

  “Will the helicopter be able to get back to us?” I asked the lieutenant.

  “We’ve had worse blows than this,” he shouted back, “but I wouldn’t want to hang around for another hour or so.”

  The communications tech staggered across the bridge to us. “Chopper’s on the way, sir. Ought to be here in ten to fifteen minutes.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “I’ll have to go aft and see that the helicopter’s properly dogged down when she lands. You two be ready to hop on when the word goes out.”

  “We’ll be ready,” I said.

  As the lieutenant left the bridge, I asked Ted, “Well, is this doing you any good? Frankly, I would’ve been a lot happier in Miami . . .”

  “She’s a real brute,” he shouted. “This is a lot different from watching a map.”

  “But why . . .”

  “This is the enemy, Jerry. This is what we’re trying to kill. Think how much better you’re going to feel after we’ve learned how to stop hurricanes.”

  “If we live long enough to learn how!”

  The helicopter struggled into view, leaning heavily into the raging wind. I watched, equally fascinated and terrified, as it worked its way to the landing pad, tried to come down, got blown backwards by a terrific gust, fought toward the pad again, and finally touched down on the heaving deck. A team of sailors scrambled across the wet square to attach heavy lines to the landing gear, even before the rotor blades started to slow down. A wave smashed across the ship’s stern and one of the sailors went sprawling. Only then did I notice that each man had a stout lifeline around his middle. They finally got the “copter secured.

  I turned back to Ted. “Let’s go before it’s too late.”

  We started down the slippery ladder to the main deck. As we inched back toward the stern, a tremendous wave caught the picket amidships and sloughed her around broadside. The little ship shuddered violently and the deck dropped out from under us. I sagged to my knees.

  Ted pulled me up. “Come on, buddy, Omega’s here.”

  Another wave smashed across us. I grabbed for a handhold and as my eyes cleared, saw the helicopter pitching crazily over to one side, the moorings on her landing gear flapping loosely in the wind.

  “It’s broken away!”

  The deck heaved again and the ‘copter careened over on its side, rotors smashing against the pad. Another wave caught us. The ship bucked terribly. The helicopter slid backwards along its side and then, lifted by a solid wall of foaming green, smashed through the gunwale and into the sea.

  Groping senselessly on my hands and knees, soaking wet, battered like an overmatched prizefighter, I watched our only link to safety disappear into the furious sea.

  19. The Weathermakers

  I CLAMBERED to my feet on the slippery deck of the Navy picket. The ship shuddered again and slewed around. A wave hit the other side and washed across, putting us knee-deep in foaming water until the deck lurched upward again and cleared the waves temporarily.

  “Omega’s won,” Ted roared in my ear, over the screaming wind. “We’re trapped!”

  We stood there, hanging onto the handholds. The sea was impossible to describe—a tangled fury of waves, with no sense or pattern to them, their tops ripped off by the wind, spray mixing with blinding rain.

  The lieutenant groped by, edging hand-over-hand on the lifeline that ran along the superstructure bulkhead.

  “Are you two all right?”

  “No broken bones.”

  “You’d better come up to the bridge,” he shouted. We were face-to-face, nearly touching noses, yet we could hardly hear him. “I’ve given orders to cast off the anchors and get up steam. We’ve got to try to ride out this blow under power. If we just sit here we’ll be swamped.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  He shot me a grim look. “Next time you tinker with a hurricane, make it when I’m on shore!”

  We followed the lieutenant up to the bridge. I nearly fell off the rain-slicked ladder, but Ted grabbed me with one of his powerful paws.

  The bridge was sloshing from the monstrous waves and spray that were drenching the decks. The communications panels seemed to be intact, though. We could see the map that Ted had set up on the autoplotter screen; it was still alight. Omega spread across the screen like an engulfing demon. The tiny pinpoint of light marking the ship’s location was well inside the hurricane’s swirl.

  The lieutenant fought his way to the ship’s intercom while Ted and I grabbed for handholds.

  “All the horses you’ve got, Chief,” I heard the lieutenant bellow into the intercom mike. “I’ll get every available man on the pumps. Keep those engines going. If we lose power we’re sunk!”

  I realized he meant it literally.

  The lieutenant crossed over toward us and hung on to the chart table.

  “Is that map accurate?” he yelled at Ted.

  The big redhead nodded. “Up to the minute. Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure a course that’ll take us out of this blow. We can’t stand much more of this battering. She’s taking on more water than the pumps can handle. Engine room’s getting swamped.”

  “Head southwest then,” Ted said at the top of his lungs. “Get out of her quickest that way.”

  “We can’t! I’ve got to keep the sea on our bows or else we’ll capsize!”

  “What?”

  “He’s got to point her into the wind,” I yelled. “Just about straight into the waves.”

  “Right!�
� the lieutenant agreed.

  “But you’ll be riding along with the storm. Never get out that way. She’ll just carry us along all day!”

  “How do you know which way the storm’s going to go? She might change course.”

  “Not a chance.” Ted jabbed a finger toward the plotting screen. “She’s heading northwesterly now and she’ll stay on that course the rest of the day. Best bet is to head for the eye.”

  “Toward the center? We’d never make it!”

  Ted shook his head. “Never get out of it if you keep heading straight into the wind. But if you can make five knots or so, we can spiral into the eye. Calm there.”

  The lieutenant stared at the screen. “Are you sure? Do you know exactly where the storm’s moving and how fast she’s going to go?”

  “We can check it out.”

  Quickly, we called THUNDER headquarters, transmitting up to the Atlantic Station satellite for relay to Miami. Barney was nearly frantic, but we got her off the line fast. Tuli answered our questions and gave us the exact predictions for Omega’s direction and speed.

  Ted went inside with a soggy handful of notes to put the information into the ship’s course computer. Barney pushed her way onto the viewscreen.

  “Jerry . . . are you all right?”

  “I’ve been better, but we’ll get through it okay. The ship’s in no real trouble,” I lied.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Certainly. Ted’s working out a course with the skipper. We’ll be back in Miami in a few hours.”

  “It looks awful out there.”

  Another mammoth wave broke across the bow and drowned the bridge with spray.

  “It’s not picnic weather,” I admitted, “but we’re not worried, so don’t you go getting upset.” Not worried, I added silently, were scared white.

  Reluctantly, the lieutenant agreed to head for the storm’s eye. It was either that or face a battering that would split the ship in a few hours. We told Tuli to send a plane to the eye to try to pick us up.

  Time lost all meaning. We just hung on, drenched to the skin, plunging through a wild, watery inferno, the wind shrieking evilly at us, the seas absolutely chaotic. No one remained on the bridge except the lieutenant, Ted, and me. The rest of the ship’s skeleton crew were below decks, working every pump on board as hard as they could be run. The ship’s autopilot and computer-run guidance system kept us heading on the course Ted and the lieutenant had figured.