“Next,” Chuck said, “let me lay out a few ground rules before we launch. First, safety. What we’re attempting to do is inherently dangerous: get close enough to tornadoes to get some great shots, but not so close as to be in jeopardy. I’ve been doing . . . well, did . . . this for a number of years. I know how to maneuver around supercells. I know how to get up close and personal with the greatest storms on earth without getting dismembered. Believe it or not, these things are predictable. Predictable but at times erratic. They can surprise me. Not often, but it happens.
“So you gotta listen to me. You gotta pay attention. Do what I tell you when I tell you. If I tell you to pull out, pull out. No questions. If I tell you to run, run like the wind. If I tell you to dive in a ditch, bury your face in it.”
He found himself staring at the camera trucks again. He tossed a question at Metcalf. “How long does it take you to set one of those things up? To be ready to shoot?”
“We can do it pretty fuckin’ fast—oops, sorry, missy.” Metcalf nodded at Gabi.
Gabi placed both hands over her ears and grinned. Ever the innocent young writer.
“We’re pretty damn fast,” Metcalf continued. “Been practicing. Got the drill down pat. Like marines storming a beach. The camera will be preassembled. So it’s a matter of attaching it, cranking up the generator, and extending the crane. We can do it in about 15 minutes, maybe less.”
Chuck hung his head in mock dismay. “Fifteen minutes? Fifteen minutes! Do you realize the average lifespan of a tornado is less than ten minutes?”
“Then find us tornadoes that aren’t average, Chaz. That’s why we hired you.”
Chuck drew a deep breath. Ignoring Metcalf’s gibe, he continued his briefing. “Despite what you may have seen in the movies or on TV, most chasers aren’t reckless. We’ll be abiding by speed limits, not using warning lights or flashing our headlights and honking to part traffic, even though chasing can get really congested at times.”
“Chuckie, Chuckie, Chuckie,” Metcalf said, as though admonishing a child. “We’re talking a million bucks here. I’ll bet you’ll move like you had a bottle rocket strapped to your ass if you have to.”
Chuck had to concede, at least silently, the guy from Hollywood might have a point. He concluded his briefing by addressing the plan for the first day’s chase. He spread out a roadmap on the hood of the Navigator. “It looks like there’ll be a well-defined dry line in western Kansas and the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandles tomorrow,” he said. He traced his finger southward from near Garden City, Kansas, to just west of Lubbock, Texas.
“Ahead of it—” he swept his hand northward from San Antonio to Wichita “—strong moisture advection. Now, a couple of terms you’ll hear me use a lot are CAPE and CIN.” He pronounced the last word “sin.”
“Whoa, hold on there, Chaz,” Metcalf interrupted, “the only sin I wanna hear about is from hardcore porno flicks. Spare me the eye-of-newt, toe-of-frog meteorological shit. Just tell me where the tornadoes are gonna be.”
Chuck squeezed his lips together and looked away from Metcalf. He tracked some birds in flight as they dipped and turned in the morning wind. He felt more comfortable talking about weather parameters, the elements that go into a forecast, than he did merely presenting what comes out: the prediction. At least a discussion of parameters gives visibility to the uncertainties that plague any and all weather forecasts.
But he understood the Golden Rule applied here. He who has the gold . . . “Sure,” he said, “tomorrow there’s a good chance there’ll be some supercells and a few tornadoes, maybe even a big boy or two, in western Kansas. So we’ll head north today toward Wichita and stage out there for day one of the chase.”
“Excuse me,” Metcalf said, “day one?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Today is day one, my friend. Tomorrow is two.”
“But—”
“Our corporate lawyers will back me up on this,” Metcalf snapped.
“Yeah. I know all about lawyers,” Chuck responded. He glared at Metcalf, but couldn’t think of a viable counterargument, just invective. He’d been out-finagled.
“Let’s get moving,” he said, and stalked toward the Expedition. Not off to a good start. Screwed out of a day right off the bat. And it’s going to take these clowns 15 minutes just to set up the cameras. A twister can come and go in that time. Yes, he conceded, he’d been blinded by the chance at a million bucks. Like or not, he was probably on a fool’s errand.
He reached the SUV and motioned for Gabi to get into the passenger seat. She hesitated, glanced at Ty.
“It’s okay,” Chuck said, “my son doesn’t talk to me.”
Ty nodded at Gabi and opened the door for her. “There’s a void in our relationship,” he explained, and shut the door after she was in. He climbed into the rear seat with Stormy.
“Oh, who’s this?” Gabi said, reaching for Stormy.
“That’s Stormy, the Weather Wonder Dog,” Chuck responded.
“She’s a she,” Ty said. “Just so there’s no confusion.”
Gabi glanced at Ty, a questioning look in her eyes, then ruffled Stormy’s fur. “So, are you a bomb sniffer or just a mascot?”
Chuck recalled Stormy’s actions the first night at the apartment. “Not a bomb sniffer,” he said, “but I think she might have some pointer blood in her . . . for storms.”
“Well, I can see why you’re on the trip then.” She scratched Stormy’s head, then turned and faced forward.
Chuck exited the parking lot and headed toward I-35 north. Metcalf’s team followed.
“Well, I’m interested,” Gabi said. “What’re cape and sin?”
“Ever the curious writer,” Chuck noted.
Gabi smiled and turned toward Ty. “I don’t have anything to do with a magazine,” she said, “I’m an FBI agent. But that’s just between you and me your dad. Not for public dissemination.”
Ty leaned forward. “I can keep a secret. Army. Special Ops. Seven years.”
“Iraq?” Gabi asked.
“Afghanistan. A couple of tours.”
“I’m impressed. Thanks for your service, Ty.” She turned toward Chuck. “You must be proud as hell.”
Chuck nodded, but didn’t say anything. He held his eyes on the road. How do I explain my ambivalence about my son to a virtual stranger? Yes, I’m proud, but I’m not proud.
“Okay,” Gabi said. She drew out the word and settled back into her seat.
“Tell me why we have an FBI agent, undercover, on a tornado chase,” Ty said.
Gabi explained.
“So your hunt could be a lot more dangerous than stalking tornadoes,” Ty said after Gabi had finished.
“Probably not. It’s a long shot.”
“No longer than mine,” Chuck interjected.
“We’re probably both pissing into the wind,” Gabi said.
“How does that work for a female, anyhow?” Ty asked.
Both Gabi and Ty laughed. Chuck flashed a smile at Gabi, but wondered if Ty’s riposte had really been meant for her. Or for me? Ty trying to make a connection? Probably not. He’s been hostile toward me from the get-go.
“Now then, back to cape and sin,” Gabi said. “Lay it on me.”
“It’s CAPE and CIN,” Chuck said, and spelled out the acronyms. “CAPE stands for Convective Available Potential Energy. It’s a measure of how much energy—fuel—there is in the atmosphere for thunderstorm development. The more energy there is, the bigger and nastier the storms are likely to be.”
“Energy? How do you calculate something like that?”
Gabi sounded interested, but Chuck wasn’t sure. A lot of people feigned interest in these things, but their eyes glazed over if you went into too much detail. He decided to keep it simple.
&nb
sp; “Easy. We examine vertical temperature and moisture profiles and from those determine how buoyant the atmosphere is, that is, how much energy or ‘lift’ is available. The greater the lift, the bigger any thunderstorms can get.”
Gabi appeared to dwell on the statement before speaking again. “You said ‘any storms,’ so I guess that means just because there’s a lot of CAPE, as you call it, doesn’t necessarily mean thunderstorms will form?”
Chuck took a quick peek in the rearview mirror to see if Ty was listening. Ty caught his glance and turned away to stare out the window at the flat landscape flashing by.
“That’s where CIN comes in,” Chuck said, responding to Gabi’s question. “Convective Inhibition. In laymen’s terms, it’s a warm layer, or lid, in the atmosphere that inhibits convection—thunderstorm development. Sometimes you’ll hear guys on TV refer to it as a ‘cap’.”
“So, if the atmosphere is capped, no thunderstorms, even if there’s a lot of that other stuff?”
“CAPE?”
“Yeah, CAPE.” Chuck could see why Gabi might be a good FBI agent. She paid attention, thought things through.
“And tomorrow?”
“A lot of CAPE, a lot of CIN.”
Ty spoke from the backseat. “So which wins, O Meteorological Maestro?”
So he had been listening. Still miffed by his son’s attitude, however, Chuck addressed his answer to Gabi. “I think there’ll be enough energy—surface heating—to bust through the cap by late afternoon. We should see a few supercells before sunset. I’ll just have to figure out where—but that’s always the challenge. Where.”
“And tornadoes,” Gabi said, “how do we get from supercells to tornadoes?”
“First the resident professor-driver-tour guide introduces another term: helicity,” Chuck responded.
“Should I be taking notes?” Gabi asked.
“I don’t know. Should you? You’re the magazine writer.”
Gabi chuckled. “Yes I am. And I have perfect recall. Tell me about helicity.”
“Allow me to use a football analogy. When a quarterback throws a pass, he’s usually got a tight spiral on the ball. That’s basically helicity. A twisting motion.”
“No quarterbacks in the outback,” Ty said, gesturing at the featureless farmland through which they drove.
“The helicity comes from wind shear, winds blowing in different directions, close to the ground. A parcel of air caught in the shear will start spinning like a thrown football. Helicity. But it’s horizontal helicity. If, however, the parcel gets lifted into a supercell, it becomes vertical helicity. And it’s that that provides the initial spin for a tornado. It’s a hell of a lot more complicated than that, but those are the CliffsNotes.”
“Helicity,” Chuck muttered, “So that’s what I felt going out the front door eight years ago. A nice tight spiral speeding my departure.”
After that, they rode in silence.
Chapter Eight
MONDAY, APRIL 29
CHUCK, UP BEFORE sunrise, sat at a desk in his room at the Digg Inn motel in Dodge City, Kansas. A desk lamp cast a dim circle of light over his computer while he studied the latest weather models and Stormy snoozed at his feet.
The models depicted an upper-air disturbance sweeping northeastward out of New Mexico over the High Plains. Chuck envisioned the disturbance, a little ripple in the wind flow aloft, as a tripwire that would ignite scattered supercells along a dryline running from western Kansas southward through the Texas Panhandle.
While the atmosphere appeared likely to remain capped much of the day, putting a lid on the strong upward air motion needed for storm development, Chuck judged the afternoon heating would take care of that. Then, boom! It would be like yanking the top off a pressure cooker. Only, it wouldn’t be steam and superheated water that erupt, but massive thunderstorms. Maybe not many, but all it takes is one. One fire-breathing, roaring, chest-thumping monster supercell to unleash a tornado.
Chuck drew his finger along the computer screen, tracing the dryline from near Colby, Kansas, to Plainview, Texas. Four hundred miles. The trick would be to strategically position the team in the right place along that 400-mile stretch. Once storms start to pop, you can make a tactical run of 50 or 60 miles, but not much more than that before the window of opportunity slams shut.
Two staging targets presented themselves: western Kansas, where the stronger helicity, the atmospheric twisting motion required for tornadoes, would be present; and West Texas, where the greater instability would be likely to occur, leading to more certain thunderstorm development. Pick the wrong place in which to wait and he could blow an early shot at his million-dollar payday. Chuck drummed his fingers on the desk. He looked down at Stormy. “What do I do, Storms?” he said. “Where do I position our team?”
Stormy sat up and cocked her head. She issued a soft doggy fart and flopped back down on her belly.
Chuck fanned the air with his hand. “Stormy the Wonder Dog. Yeah. I wonder why I kept you.”
He clicked through the array of models on his computer again. CAPE, CIN, helicity, wind shear, vorticity, cloud cover, surface pressures. After 45 minutes he stood. “I need a beer,” he announced. He walked to the door, opened it, and looked back at Stormy, who was still lying on the carpet. “If you’re interested, I’m following your lead—we’re staying put today. And yeah, I know I can’t get a beer at this time of morning, but it’s the thought that counts.”
He shut the door and walked down the hallway toward the lobby and the advertised continental breakfast. I may want a hell of a lot more than a beer by tonight if things go to crap today.
Metcalf, working on five hardboiled eggs, each with the yolk removed, greeted Chuck as he entered the breakfast area. “Grab some eggs, Chuckie. Great protein. Scoop out the yellow stuff, though. Too much cholesterol.”
I want a beer, not eggs. He said good morning to Metcalf and walked to the coffee dispenser. He drew a cup and sat down across from Metcalf.
“So,” Metcalf said, “think we can end this game in the first inning? I go home a hero, you go home a millionaire.”
Chuck sipped his coffee before responding. “You a gambling man, Mr. Metcalf?”
Metcalf popped an egg white into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and then answered, “Vegas is my second home.”
“Well, good. Cuz we’re gonna gamble today. If I’m right, we win. And yeah, we could end the game early. If I’m wrong, we lose and—”
“I get pissed off when I lose, Chaz. When I lose, the dealers don’t get tipped. The hookers don’t get laid. And I kick puppies if they walk in front of me. Don’t piss me off.”
Chuck studied the man, trying to take his measure. Was there really a streak of meanness interred beneath his gruff, teddy bear appearance and hail-fellow-well-met bonhomie, or were his words part of an act, a Hollywood shtick? “Maybe you shouldn’t gamble.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t gamble.” Metcalf crammed two more egg whites into his mouth.
“It’s a team effort.”
“You mean I can override your decision?” A piece of egg tumbled from Metcalf’s lower lip as he spoke.
“We can discuss it.”
“Tell me about it.”
Chuck explained the basis of his decision. In the meantime, more members of the expedition straggled into the eating area—Ziggy and Boomie and one of the women, Chuck thought her name was Dakota.
Metcalf, polishing off his eggs and downing a glass of cranberry juice, listened quietly to Chuck. After Chuck had finished, Metcalf said, “Well, quite the dilemma, bwana. Either our safari sits on its ass here and hopes for a big score. Or we beat south and catch some storms for sure, but maybe not the beast we’re after.”
“So?”
“So nothing. You’re the leader.” Metcalf wiped his
mouth, arose from his chair and walked to where Ziggy, Boomie, and Dakota sat.
Chuck looked after him. I guess that was our discussion.
By 4 p.m., the team, assembled in the parking lot, stood ready to move out. A few of Metcalf’s crew, smoking cigarettes and looking bored, leaned against the camera trucks. Metcalf paced up and down the lot carrying on a vociferous conversation with someone over his cell phone. Ty played with Stormy on a grassy medium strip. Gabi maintained a vigil near Chuck as he sat in the Expedition monitoring weather developments on his laptop.
“Shit,” he muttered silently. He stepped from the SUV and gazed west, toward the dryline. A few towering cumulus clouds had billowed skyward, but none of them looked remotely like an embryonic thunderstorm. They would blossom vertically, looking like little cauliflower explosions, then abruptly collapse and disappear. Cumulus collapsus in chaser vernacular.
“Trouble in paradise?” Gabi asked.
“Trouble in Kansas, at least.”
“Yes?”
“It looks like the cap isn’t breaking.”
“The models lied?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“What’s the other?”
“P-cubed.”
“What’s that?”
“Piss Poor Prognosticator Performance.”
She laughed.
“In the end,” Chuck said, “it’s up to the forecaster to make the call, to evaluate the models and know how much faith, if any, to invest in them. Sometimes, I think, we put too much credence in computers and mathematics at the expense of personal experience and old-fashioned manual analysis. It’s a lesson I obviously need to relearn.” He pointed at a map displayed on his laptop. “See that, all those little squares and circles with identifiers next to them?”
“Looks like they’re clustered in West Texas. What are they?”
“They represent other chasers, those with transponders. They’ve gathered near Lubbock. That’s where things are beginning to pop.” He clicked a key on his computer keyboard and overlaid a radar display on the map. “Couple of big cells down there. It’s just us and handful of other chasers stuck here in the Kansas outback—outta storms, outta hope, and shit outta luck.” The words came out edgy and brittle.
Supercell Page 7