The Leviathan Effect

by James Lilliefors

  ON THE STREETS of Frederick, in western Maryland, the rain had softened to a drizzle, although the sky to the west was dark and lit with continuous veins of lightning.

  At 3:04, a series of nearly horizontal lightning bolts seemed to burst out of nowhere, striking trees, parking meters, and several points along the ground on Court Street, and sending an electric current down much of a city block, which instantly killed seven pedestrians and severely burned the legs of four others. An assistant city clerk named Deborah Wattingly, who was standing on the sidewalk in front of City Hall, captured the moment on her smart phone.

  Seventy miles away, in downtown Washington, D.C., cell phones and amateur video cameras recorded the freak, near-continuous lightning storms that now enveloped the Washington Monument and the National Cathedral, the two tallest structures in the nation’s capital. The lightning surrounding National Cathedral was flashing more than two hundred and fifty times per hour, according to Washington meteorologist Robin Vance, who was the first to show video of the phenomenon on local Washington television.

  By 4 P.M., Vance’s broadcast was the most popular YouTube video in the country, followed by Deborah Wattingly’s cell phone footage of the deadly strike in Frederick, Maryland.

  4:14 P.M.

  “Ninth series of pulses has been activated,” Dr. Clayton said, his voice resonating with an unwavering energy. He hunched forward over one of the desk monitors, legs bent, and typed in a sequence.

  “Nothing substantial yet,” said Dr. Wu, blinking numbly at the screens. He still felt disoriented from what had happened outside, his eyes unable to focus properly. The blinding flashes in the sky, the clouds morphing into images, the terrified face of Dr. Quinn looking down at him.

  “Well, it’s hard to say, actually,” Dr. Clayton said, his eyes not quite meeting Dr. Wu’s. He began to summarize changes in air pressure, wind speeds and wind field.

  None of which is of any significance.

  No longer listening, Dr. Wu could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He was relieved when the President finally interrupted, summoning him on his BlackBerry. As he strode into the hallway to the Oval Office, Wu saw Samuel Watson, the director of the Secret Service, and two agents stepping out of the President’s office into the narrow hallway. He nodded tersely, but they did not acknowledge him.

  Herring was on the other side of the Oval Office, by the windows, standing as erect and still as a statue, facing the South Lawn, talking on his phone.

  “Hi, Jim,” the President said.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Have a seat. The JOC just told me they want me out of here. How do you like that? They want me to fly to Bolling Air Force Base immediately. I told them to give me until six and they did everything they could not to roll their eyes. Am I being reckless?”

  “I can’t really answer that, sir.”

  “No?” The President studied him, his chin lifted, his face drained of emotion. Dr. Wu felt humbled and still shaken by the hallucinations. “But you can give me an update?”

  “I can. Yes, sir.”

  “All right.” The President gestured genially.

  Herring held up a finger, interrupting. “Sir? The Governor of Virginia?”

  “No.” The President flapped his hand. “Ten minutes. Go ahead,” he said, nodding to Dr. Wu. “What’s going on? What are we seeing over there? It’s all under way, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s all active. It’s been under way for several hours. As you know. The laser pulses for more than four hours now.”

  “Please. Have a seat. Can I get you some water? Tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Dr. Wu sat on the front edge of the rosewood chair. “Sir, I’m hesitant to tell you this. The latest tracking shows that the storm remains strong and has now taken a slight northwesterly turn.”

  “Okay.” There was a raised, expectant tone in his voice, as if somehow this were good news. “And? So what does that mean?”

  “Frankly, sir, not anything good, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay.” The President blinked. “Go ahead.”

  “The wind field hasn’t changed, the wind speed has actually ticked up slightly and the pressure has ticked down. We aren’t seeing quite the disorganization of the inner eye that we expected. The latest projections are putting it directly into the mouth of Chesapeake Bay.”

  The President reflexively glanced away. “Okay. But it’s early still, right?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Dammit, I don’t want to hear yes and no, Jim.” He caught himself. Dr. Wu understood what he was going through. “I want to hear one or the other. What does it mean, what you’re telling me? Bottom line.”

  “Bottom line: no, sir. It isn’t early. It’s late. And the bull’s-eye is still on Washington, I’m afraid.” Dr. Wu took a deep breath, looking at the presidential seal on the carpet, feeling his heart racing. “And after that, the most likely path has it skirting the coast up to New York City.”

  “What about this eye wall replacement business?”

  Dr. Wu shook his head. He wanted the President to know the truth. That was his job now. Politics was over. “Frankly, sir, Dr. Clayton’s efforts have not, so far, proven fruitful. We have not been able to disrupt it. It’s an experimental process, as he told you.”

  “Why? Why isn’t it working?”

  “Well, sir. I don’t know. This is such a large system that it’s highly unpredictable. And, to be honest, sir, it’s highly unlikely at this point that it will take any significant turn.” Dr. Wu looked away as he felt his eyes tear up.

  “Damnation!” the President muttered. “All right. So what are we looking at?”

  “Well, sir, I’m afraid we’re still looking at what you told us this morning. Scenario A. Worst case. I just wanted to warn you, sir. I want you to be fully informed.”

  The President looked as if he had just gotten a whiff of spoiled milk. “I know you do, Jim. So what about this thing Clayton’s doing over there? The laser pulses.”

  “The initial indications are showing no effects, sir. None. I’m sorry.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “Shit!” The President shook his head, looking across the great desk with his dark, tired eyes. This was the first time Dr. Wu had heard the President swear. “So, it’s not working.”

  “I’m afraid not. No, sir.” Dr. Wu felt a strange cocktail of emotions again. He watched the President glance at the photos on one side of his desk, knowing what they were: his wife, children, and grandchildren.

  “Okay.” The President exhaled dramatically, no longer making eye contact. “Okay, I appreciate your candor, Jim. And I want you out of here ASAP. We’re going to move downstairs to the Situation Room in a few minutes. I’ll be here until six and then I’ll be flying out of Washington.”

  “Sir? With all due respect? I’d like to ask to stay with you until six, also.”

  The President looked at him quickly, his eyes fluid with emotion, and then, nodding, he turned to the South Lawn, as if dismissing him.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Dr. Wu walked outside, and he glanced uneasily toward the Mall. Saw the cocoon of lightning surrounding the Washington Monument. The lightning again beginning to play tricks with his vision, trying to make him look, but this time he turned his eyes to the pavement and rapidly made his way back inside.

  VLADIMIR VOLKOV SIPPED a glass of 1945 Mouton Rothschild on the plush divan in the cabin of his private Challenger 604 jet as it quietly carried him away from France, east toward his homeland. On the high-definition video screen, he watched the concert footage of his beloved Anna Netrebko, as Marfa in Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsar’s Bride with the Kirov Opera Orchestra.

  But Volkov was finding it difficult to concentrate—to feel moved today by his favorite soprano. The update from Petrenko was overdue and the delay could only mean what he had feared: that there was no good news to relay.

  He glanced at
the clouds for several minutes, then switched to the clips of Anna receiving the State Prize of the Russian Federation from Putin. The anniversary celebration of the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg had been a marvelous event. But it was the same: He couldn’t keep his mind on it. He couldn’t enjoy her today.

  Svetlana, Volkov’s mistress, appeared at the front of the cabin and smiled tentatively at him; Vladimir Volkov shook his head. She could see that he was preoccupied by some business trouble and knew not to intrude.

  Volkov closed his eyes and waited, thinking, with sadness, about his son Victor. And then, finally, the bad news arrived.

  A simple report, conveyed from the United States, confirming that the operation was not succeeding. Would not succeed.

  Volkov felt a deep pang of regret over the now certain fate of Victor Zorn.

  It was the necessary cost. They had all known it might end this way. They had known that going in.

  Volkov then did what he had to do. He typed in the required instruction. One word. Unambiguous, non-negotiable. Pressed send.

  One word, five letters.

  ABORT.

  Dmitry Petrenko would know exactly what it meant.

  AS CATHERINE BLAINE drove through the rural Maryland countryside in the car Jamie had rented for her, she saw flashes of lightning and bizarre, unnerving images in the distant sky. Tricks of the storm—figures and faces burned into the clouds by sudden backlit bursts of lightning. Like drive-in movie screens in the sky, it seemed. Jagged lines and swirls joined together into sudden clear images, then muting back to darkness. The highway took a sudden turn and she saw a figure seeming to trot through the rain-soaked field toward the road, limping; a man who became Rorbach as he got closer, a larger version of him. Stopping and looking. His eyes dark and center-less, like pieces of coal. Stopping and smiling. No. It was her imagination, of course, the fact that she was tired; some trick of the rain. Stop thinking about it. But soon she saw another figure, beside the road, hitchhiking. And recognized him. Recognized her son, Kevin. Around another turn she saw him again. Disappearing each time she came close and began to pump her brakes. Another bolt of lightning and she saw him in a front yard, elevated this time, his body swaying in the wind-driven rain from a noose dangling below an oak branch. No, don’t think about it. It’s preying on your fears. Don’t think about it, Blaine told herself.

  We have dramatic new video. This is from the National Cathedral and the Washington Monument, and what is apparently a continuous lightning storm that has taken root at both locations for more than an hour now. Thousands have gathered in the pouring rain to witness these bizarre freaks of nature.

  Mallory watched in Room 321 as a dowdy-looking, short-sleeved scientist explained the phenomenon using a split screen that showed two live feeds.

  In fact, there are many documented atmospheric effects where we see near-continuous lightning. “The Catatumbo lightning in Venezuela is probably the most famous. Where the Catatumbo River meets Lake Maracaibo, there is an atmospheric convergence that creates continuous lightning for 10 hours every day, about 280 times per hour.

  Now, what would be causing this particular phenomenon in Washington is another question. Or phenomena, plural. We do think it is related in some fashion to this monster storm, Hurricane Alexander, which may well be affecting weather systems throughout the world. We’re getting reports now of similar lightning storms and atmospheric disturbances throughout Europe this afternoon.

  Mallory switched the channel. He watched footage of the storm’s outer bands ripping into the North Carolina and Virginia coasts, submerging coastal resorts. Power outages, downed trees. More than half of the traffic signals on the North Carolina coast not working. Record high tides of seven feet above mean low water reported.

  He heard a car door slam and looked out, saw Blaine running through the rain and felt a surge of adrenaline. He let her in and helped her out of her windbreaker. They held each other for a long time, Blaine breathing heavily, her hair wet against the side of his face. Mallory poured coffee into two motel water glasses. They sat on the bed and sipped coffee and looked at each other.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.” She shook her head unfamiliarly, staring at the carpet. “I don’t know. It was just … It was strange, when I was driving here.” Her voice trailed off. She looked at her coffee.

  “What.”

  “I was thinking about something Dr. Sanchez said to me. He said natural disasters were all adjustments. That if a severe weather event happened in one part of the world it would affect weather in other parts of the world.”

  “Like the Butterfly Effect.”

  “Kind of. I don’t know. I just feel something really scary is going on.”

  Mallory nodded. “I know,” he said. “Don’t think about it.”

  She turned to him and her eyes searched his.

  “Let’s go find your son,” he said.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  WHEN IT OPENED IN 1952, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was the world’s largest continuous over-water steel structure. A second, three-lane span was christened in 1973. Nearly thirty million vehicles cross the five lanes of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge every year now. But bridges are vulnerable to high winds and occasionally, during hurricanes, they are closed to traffic. At 1:30 P.M. on Friday, October 7, the State Transportation Administration closed both spans of the bridge indefinitely because of gusts attributed to Alexander—one of which had slammed a small car into a side rail of the bridge, seriously injuring two children.

  The White House had given Maryland State Police the location where Blaine’s son, Kevin, might be—a beachfront condominium owned by the parents of his girlfriend, Amanda. They were en route to checking it out. If they found him, they’d drive across the bridge and Blaine would meet him at the western terminus. Motion felt better than doing nothing. And Mallory wanted to be with her.

  “I know we shouldn’t be out in this,” she said, as they plowed through an empty, rain-soaked road in Anne Arundel County, toward Highway 50, the east-west route that spanned the Bay Bridge.

  “Well, no,” Mallory said. “But on the other hand, it’ll give us a chance to talk.”

  Blaine laughed. The wipers beat back and forth. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Everything I forgot to ask you.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not.”

  “All right. Go ahead,” she said “Ask.”

  “Your son’s father, for starters.”

  “Oh. He’s living in San Francisco. Remarried. He left me nine years ago. I was too career-oriented. I’m difficult to get along with, he said. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It is.”

  “What about you?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Why?”

  “Similar reasons, I suppose. I was living with someone. It became complicated.”

  They listened to the rain. “Although to be honest,” she said, “I think I’m becoming a little bit infatuated with you. I’m not sure that’s something I should have said.”

  “No. I’m glad you did.” He watched the wipers, beating manically.

  “How about you?”

  “I like career-oriented girls,” he said.

  Blaine smiled, he could tell. They talked about their pasts for a while, then, answering questions as Mallory plowed on toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Figuring it kept them from thinking about her son or from paying too much attention to the lightning that was illuminating the distant landscape. Nature was acting out, like a child having a temper tantrum, it seemed; or, perhaps, an animal in its final death throes, lashing out at what had killed it, nature’s revenge.

  A cluster of police cars had set up a roadblock in front of the Bay Bridge toll plaza, blue lights arcing through the rain over wet pavement. Blaine got out and identified herself. Mallory stood beside her. The troopers asked that they w
ait at a convenience store several miles down the road. They would bring them the news as soon as they had any. Blaine lowered her head and hurried back to the car. She was silent as they drove back against the rain.

  The store was the only place open for miles. Its front windows were boarded up. NO WATER and NO BEER signs taped on the front door. Five people sat on lawn chairs inside, wrapped in blankets: two women, three men. Everyone was watching the nineteen-inch television set mounted behind the check-out counter.

  “You should see this, son,” said the proprietor, a short, square-built man with a ruddy face and close-cropped white hair. “Did you see this? Seven people fried on the street.”

  The video of the lightning in Frederick.

  Mallory turned away. He took a quick inventory of the store. The shelves and coolers were nearly empty. He stood with Blaine by the screen door and held her, looking out toward the bay, rain glittering in the streetlights below the black sky.

  “We got beer, son,” the man said, a few minutes later. “We’re just not advertising that right now. Day like this, I won’t even charge you. Go ahead and get a cold one here, if you’d like.”

  He opened an ice chest behind the counter and showed them. Mallory looked at Blaine. She reached in and pulled out a Bud Light. Thanked him and returned to the front door, breathing the rain.

  “Planning to ride it out?” Mallory said to the proprietor.

  “Yep.”

  “Probably shouldn’t.”

  “Been through all kinds of storms, son.”

  “Not like this one you haven’t.”

  “Well.” He made a snorting sound and rubbed his crotch. “What can I tell you?”

  “Don’t know. Probably not a lot,” Mallory said. He stood beside Blaine, who passed him the beer. Waiting. Holding her from behind, watching the rain. Eventually, they saw a set of lights misting through the rain. Growing brighter. A state police trooper, returning with news. Mallory watched the car park, the man emerging, walking toward the store. Taking off his hat. Blaine going outside to meet him.