Supercell

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “So how’d the rumor of your mythical millions and the mysterious Monty get started?” Gabi asked.

  Sam shrugged. “How does any rumor begin? An anecdote here, an anecdote there, a couple of iterations and pretty soon the stories get strung together into a legend that takes on a life of its own.”

  “Perhaps your roommate, Monty, is kind of a rough character. Could that be what trigged the tale?” Gabi said.

  Sam shook his head, a negative answer. “Monty’s a gentle soul,” he said, and paused briefly before continuing. “Still, I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He can be a tenacious son of a bitch. He’s not aggressive, but he can be fierce.”

  “You’ve known him for a while?”

  “Twenty years maybe. I knew one of his relatives—a cousin or uncle or something—in Vietnam.”

  Ty, who’d been following the conversation in silence, sat up from where he’d slumped into a corner of the booth and joined in. “When were you in ’Nam?” he asked.

  “Sixty-seven, sixty-eight. First Air Cav.”

  “You saw some heavy-duty shit then?”

  Sam nodded and fixed his gaze on Ty. “You were a soldier, too, weren’t you, son? I could tell from the instant I first saw you. The way you carried yourself. The memories hidden behind your eyes.”

  “Fifth Special Forces,” Ty said. “Afghanistan.”

  “Welcome home, brother,” Sam said. He leaned across the table and laid a hand on Ty’s shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Ty said, “but maybe I should be welcoming you home.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Do you ever get over it? The war, I mean.”

  The music changed again. The Stones now. Gimme Shelter. Sam’s gaze wandered and seemed to focus on something far away, invisible to others. “Just a shot away,” he said, his voice soft, barely audible over the edgy rock number. “Lyrics for a poisoned era.”

  Chuck, Gabi, and Ty remained silent, watching Sam.

  “Sometimes,” he said, his stare blank, “when the wind flattens the prairie grass just before a storm, I hear the whop-whop-whop of chopper blades, see Hueys flaring, coming in for landings through a curtain of automatic weapons fire.” He paused and looked around, though Gabi doubted he saw anything but what was locked inside his reminiscence.

  “The Gooks,” Sam said, speaking again, “sometimes they even shot up the Dustoffs. Red crosses and all—just come to ferry some poor kid home.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Some poor kid holding his intestines in with his hands, screaming for his mother cuz there wasn’t enough goddamn morphine to stem the pain. And he’s lying there in the mud, dying, 10,000 miles from home in a country we didn’t give a flying fuck about.”

  He flicked his eyes open and looked at Ty. “Not like your war,” he said. “At least you guys were volunteers, professional, older. That doesn’t mitigate the horror and brutality of what you went through, the sacrifices you made, but I think it was worse in ’Nam.”

  The Stones gave way to The Animals. “We Gotta Get out of This Place.”

  Sam smiled sadly and looked up at the speakers. “That was a theme for my generation,” he said. “That’s all we wanted, outta this place, outta ’Nam, outta the army.” He brought his gaze back to those in the booth. “Most of the grunts were just teenagers, you know—draftees barely out of high school. Shit, all they wanted was to be back in Wyoming or South Carolina or Pennsylvania or wherever the hell they came from, copping a feel at a drive-in movie, sneaking a fifth with the guys, dreaming of their first car. Not slogging through a stinking tropical jungle in Chinkland, fighting off malaria, wondering if a Bouncing Betty was going to blow their balls off.” He paused, then went on. “Just kids . . .” His voice trailed off. He removed his stovepipe hat and worked an indentation out of its brim, then slapped it back on his head. “Just kids,” he said again softly, “just lookin’ for somebody to love.”

  No one spoke for a while after Sam completed his emotional soliloquy. Even the music and background chatter seemed muted.

  Finally Ty said “Don’t you think that’s all anyone is ever looking for, even now?” The words came out subdued, but they carried a biting edge. Gabi wondered if they might be designed for his father.

  “You’re right, my friend, even now.” Sam sat up more erectly and looked around, as if suddenly discovering the bustling, noisy environment that surrounded him. His dark reverie fled into the present. Upbeat and robust once more, he clapped his hands together. “So, hi ho, hi ho, it’s off on the chase we go, is it?”

  Ty, seemingly lost in his own thoughts now, perhaps memories of something broken between him and his father, abruptly said, “Excuse me.” He stood and slipped from the booth, apologizing to Gabi for making her move.

  “Dinner’s on the way,” Sam reminded him.

  “Stormy’s hungry,” Ty responded, and stalked away.

  Sam, his face etched in puzzlement, looked at Chuck.

  Chuck flushed in what seemed a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “It’s a long frigging story,” he said.

  THE SETTING SUN, in broad strokes of gold, salmon, and rouge, tinted the evening sky in psychedelic pastels, as though the throwback lighting from within the Gust Front Grill had fled the outdoors.

  Chuck and Gabi strolled toward the rooms Sam had assigned them.

  “Well, you were right about the Land of Oz,” Gabi said. “That was a bit weird in there: the ’60s ambience, Sam’s Vietnam flashbacks, his maybe/maybe-not fortune, a mysterious roommate, Ty’s hissy fit.” When she said “Ty’s hissy fit,” she looked directly at Chuck, as though expecting an explanation.

  “Yeah,” was Chuck’s only response. He didn’t want to talk about Ty with Gabi—someone he barely knew—especially when he had no idea what to do about the situation. He did know he didn’t want the tension with Ty bubbling over into the open, staining the chase team. Perhaps he should just offer his son a bus ticket back to Ok City and write off the attempt to reconnect with him as a really bad idea. He kicked at an empty Coke can that lay crumpled on the walkway and changed the subject.

  “I was wondering,” he said, “when you were tossing questions at Sam in the restaurant, whether you thought he might somehow be involved in the killings?”

  “You aren’t going to talk about Ty, then?”

  “No. It’s a private matter.”

  “Fine. I’ll respect that. But if you ever need, shall we say, some feminine perspective or advice on the issue, I’m your gal.”

  “So noted.”

  “But to answer your question about Sam,” Gabi continued, “no. His plumb line is a bit off vertical, but he’s too much of a character to go unnoticed. I suspect the killer probably isn’t among the mainstream chasers. It would be someone who hangs around the periphery of the main corps. Someone who operates independently, who wouldn’t be noticed if he or she suddenly morphed into an EMT or some other persona and dashed into the middle of a wrecked town.”

  “So you probably won’t be eyeing any of the folks we saw today?” Chuck said. The long, melancholy hoot of a locomotive’s horn carried across the prairie and faded into the growing dusk. Bats, in determined pursuit of bugs, darted and dipped through the yellow-orange glow cast by a row of sodium vapor lamps.

  “No,” Gabi said. “Even though you pointed out a few people who might be considered points-off-the-curve: the chick chasing on a Harley Fat Boy, the guys driving an armadillo—they’re not exactly carrying low profiles. Whoever the hyena is that’s preying on storm victims doesn’t want that kind of attention. We’ll find him, or them, lurking somewhere in the shadows.”

  “Ah, then what about the enigmatic Monty? Any interest in him?”

  Gabi shrugged. “Do you think he’s even real?”

&
nbsp; “No. Considering I’ve never met him, I suspect he’s a manufactured boogeyman. People are afraid of boogeymen. What better way to ward off anyone interested in a hidden fortune.”

  “Alleged fortune.”

  “Good point. And more support for the theory that ol’ Monty may be just as mythical as the money.”

  Gabi stopped and pointed at a number on a door. “My room,” she said, then addressed Chuck’s comment. “I don’t know. There was real emotion, genuine anger in Sam’s little trip back into Vietnam at dinner in there.” She inclined her head toward the grill. “And the story about knowing Monty’s relatives in ’Nam. I sensed something dark, or maybe even malignant, if that’s the right word, connected to that.”

  “FBI intuition?”

  “No. More like a woman’s intuition, I think.” She fished for the room key in her purse.

  “So you think Monty exists?”

  “I believe it’s a good bet. But I also believe, if he does, he probably has nothing to do with the robbery-homicides. Sam never mentioned the guy was a chaser. He sounds more like a recluse. That doesn’t quite fit the ad hoc profile of who we’re looking for.” She twisted the key to open the door of her room.

  “And I’ll tell you one more thing,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to meet Monty in a dark alley.”

  “Woman’s intuition again?”

  “No, more law enforcement instinct this time.”

  “Then it’s a good thing our chase doesn’t lead into dark alleys.”

  “You never know,” Gabi responded evenly. “Good night.” She stepped into her room and shut the door.

  Chuck stared after her briefly, then moved out of the glow cast by the sodium lamps and gazed out over the prairie. Only the pinpoint twinkle of stars pierced the utter blackness that cloaked the landscape. You never know.

  Chapter Eleven

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 1

  CHUCK STOOD beside the Expedition, its engine idling, and waited while Metcalf herded his crew into the two camera trucks.

  Sam, his stovepipe hat tipped down over his forehead to shield against the morning sun, walked up to Chuck. The old man’s worn countenance folded into a gentle smile. “Should be a good day for hunting,” he said.

  “Native American wisdom?” Chuck asked.

  “Naw, I checked the models on the Internet when I got up this morning. Lots of instability, lots of wind shear.”

  “Modern Indian,” Chuck acknowledged.

  “Halfbreed.”

  “Whatever. Well, we’re headed north into eastern Kansas. You goin’ out today?”

  “No. Not today. Hate to miss the opportunity, but I got a lot of work to do around here.” Sam stepped closer to Chuck and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  “No, I mean . . . well, the Osage half of me had a dream last night.” He removed his hand from Chuck’s shoulder.

  Out on the prairie, a humid wind rippled through the grass, choreographing a sweeping ballet of swaying green stalks.

  Chuck dipped his head, squinted at Sam, a tacit question.

  “I was back in ’Nam,” Sam said. “A line of Hueys was dropping into an LZ in a rice paddy. No Charlie. Just water buffalo. It looked safe. We dismounted, fanned out. No fire. Quiet. Suddenly, thunder all around us. Boom, boom, boom. Continuous. Like a mortar barrage. But no explosions. You and your little film caravan were right in the middle of it. Then you were gone. Swallowed in a cloud of dust. Just like that.”

  “We’re not filming a war movie, Sam. We’re after tornadoes.”

  “I know. Just made me uneasy.”

  “Nightmares do that. I’ll be fine, partner. I think that wasn’t the Osage half of you dreaming, that was whatever part of you you left in ’Nam.” He stepped to Sam and embraced him. His old friend felt less substantial than he looked. A bit frail. The faint odor of liquor and old cigarette smoke leaked from his skin.

  “I’ll be careful,” Chuck said.

  “Sometimes the greatest danger comes from the threats we least expect.”

  Chuck stepped back from Sam. “Old Indian wisdom?”

  “Old soldier wisdom. See ya.”

  Chuck climbed into the Expedition and slipped it into gear. He rolled down the window and called to Sam. “Regards to Monty.”

  Sam smiled and tipped his hat. “Beware the thunder,” he said.

  CHUCK AND METCALF stood side by side on a deserted farm road in southeast Kansas near the town of Fall River. Sporadic rumbles of thunder rolled across the pastureland that stretched for miles in all directions. On the opposite side of the road, a few head of cattle, munching idly on whatever cattle munch on, watched the two men with seeming disinterest. A few yards away, the chase vehicles rested on a grassy shoulder while Ziggy and Boomie played with Stormy, and Gabi and Ty snapped photographs of the windswept landscape.

  Despite the fact a tornado watch had been issued, the afternoon so far had been devoid of anything remotely threatening. Although storm after storm had bubbled to life in the vast, flowing fields of towering cumulus, none had even scratched on the door of supercell status. They’d pop up, shoot out an anvil, and then collapse as though suffering from erectile dysfunction.

  Metcalf checked his watch. “Shit. Almost six. Damn, Charlie, you never told me chasin’ involved so much waitin’. We gonna get a twister, or are we gonna putz around here until the cows come home?”

  Chuck nodded at their watchers across the road. “A few apparently already have.”

  “Yeah, I know. Bad friggin’ sign.”

  Chuck scanned the horizon through a 360-degree arc, searching for a fragment of hope. Oddly, and suddenly, it was there, but a long way off. Far to the south, the corrugated crown of a massive cumulonimbus billowed heavenward like a mini-nuclear explosion. He stuck his head into the Expedition and checked the radar imagery on his computer.

  “We’re moving,” he said, more a command than a declaration. “Get the guys into the trucks.” He whistled for Stormy and motioned for Gabi and Ty to get into the SUV.

  “What’s up, bwana?” Metcalf asked.

  “Big storm.” He pointed at the mass of billowing clouds. “Down over Oklahoma. If we hustle, we can be there before dark.”

  “Tornado?”

  “No guarantees,” Chuck said. “But conditions are ripe and that thing’s the only game in town.” He performed another quick scan of the radar imagery and confirmed the storm, 60 miles distant, was already a supercell.

  Chuck, knowing nightfall was his enemy, broke speed limits barreling south out of Kansas, back into the Osage land of Oklahoma. Metcalf’s Navigator and the two camera trucks held tight on his tail. He silently and somewhat reluctantly had to acknowledge that Metcalf had been right when he’d said a few days earlier “I’ll bet you’ll move like you had a bottle rocket strapped to your ass if you have to.”

  The target supercell dominated the southern skyscape. The cell’s anvil, flattened against the underbelly of the stratosphere, fanned out toward Kansas. The mammoth torso of the storm, bulbous with towers of cumulus and illuminated by the setting sun, shimmered ivory in sharp contrast to the dead-of-night blackness cloaking its base.

  Lightning, still so distant from the chase team that individual strokes could not be discerned, sheeted from the lower half of the storm. It coursed through the growing dusk in brilliant waves that lent a strobe-light stop-motion to the wind-whipped grass of the prairie.

  Chuck’s cell phone rang, a Direct Connect call from Metcalf.

  “Answer it,” Chuck said to Gabi. “Put it on speaker.”

  She nodded, pressed the Talk button, and told Metcalf to go ahead.

  “Hey, Chaz,” Metcalf yelled, “what the fuck? These camera rigs weren’t designed to be raced. There’s a lot of
expensive shit on them.”

  Gabi held the phone for Chuck to respond.

  “Put a sock in it, Jerry. You’re the one who told me about bottle rockets. So suck it up.” He secretly reveled at the chance to verbally jump on Metcalf for a change. “We gotta get around the backside of this storm and approach it from the south before dark. That doesn’t leave a lotta time.”

  “Why the south?”

  “If a tornado is gonna spin up in a supercell, it’ll be near its right rear flank. That’s the southwest side of a storm moving toward the northeast, like this one.”

  “So why not just tear-ass straight through the damn thing and pop out on its southern edge? That’d be a hell of a lot quicker than playing ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ with it.”

  Three white-tailed deer bounded parallel to the speeding caravan for a few moments, then veered away from the road and knifed through knee-high grass flecked with vivid wildflowers.

  Chuck ducked his head to get a better view of the upper reaches of the storm through the SUV’s windshield. A huge, bubbling cloud, like an ascending white cauliflower, punched vertically through the cell’s flat anvil and jabbed into the stratosphere.

  “Look,” he said, “an overshooting top!”

  Gabi looked to where Chuck pointed. “Yeah?” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “What’s it overshooting?”

  Chuck had momentarily forgotten he wasn’t chasing with meteorologists. “The updrafts in big thunderstorms,” he answered, “get so powerful they force the cloud tops thousands of feet above where they normally would fizzle and flatten out in the anvil. If we see repeated overshooting tops, it’s pretty much money in the bank a storm’s gone tornadic.”

  “Hey, Chuckie,” Metcalf’s voice crackled through the phone Gabi still held, “you there? Quit feeling up the magazine chick and answer my question. Why can’t we just make a bee line through the storm to the other side?”

  Chuck shook his head in apology to Gabi for Metcalf’s crudeness. “Because,” he said to Metcalf, “as much as you’re a loud-mouthed pain in the ass, I’d like to keep you alive until I get my pay check.” If I get my paycheck. “You don’t wanna drive through a supercell because the rain and hail in the thing could be hiding a tornado. And you wouldn’t know it until you’re ass-over-teakettle in low-earth orbit.”