Dead Reckoning

by Tom Wright

  Towering coconut palms normally cast shadows that seemed to converge somehow at the center of the expanse like an ancient time dial. The rest of the area, including the rock wall where I liked to sit, was well shaded from the relentless tropical sun that normally baked the island. Given my Scandinavian heritage and low tolerance for the heat and humidity, shade was a luxury I did not take for granted. But this morning was comfortably cool and cloudy.

  The Pacific Ocean rumbled on the reef just behind the rock wall. Seas were a little higher than normal, five to seven feet or so. Even small waves like that packed a lot of energy, and they pounded the reef relentlessly, as they had done for millennia, and sent perceptible vibrations through the ground.

  As I climbed awkwardly to the top of the wall, a palm frond dislodged from a tree and crashed to the pavement behind me giving me a start. The wind had picked up. From atop the rock wall I could feel the vastness of the ocean. On Kwaj in general, and in that spot in particular, one’s own insignificance was palpable. I am but a tiny, insignificant organism on an immense, water-covered world.

  As I had on so many other mornings, I sat and stared out over the ocean, my mind adrift. In summers past, I sat in that exact spot and took comfort in the fact that this very body of water extended uninterrupted to where Kate and the kids were on Whidbey Island, WA, north of Seattle. I took comfort in that fact again that morning.

  I was surprised Kate hadn’t returned my call. She liked to talk and called me nearly every day whether she had anything to say or not. I had watched about ten minutes of news before I left. Deaths from The Red Plague continued to rise at an alarming rate, according to the news anyway. I continued to think it was all just hyperbole.

  Charlie had not wanted to leave on vacation at all, which was weird; normally he was bouncing off the walls weeks before going to Grandpa’s house. But he told me about a nightmare he had the night before they left. He couldn’t remember the specifics—people rarely can—but it scared him stiff. And then I remembered the nightmare I had before the last time I spoke to Kate.

  I wondered if our nightmares had been prescient. Of course, we sometimes have dreams that are bizarre and not necessarily reflective of anything that has ever happened or ever will. But I rarely ignore dreams, since I believe that they are often instances where we tap into what I call “the stream,” or the unconscious, sub-atomic current of intelligence that I believe is present everywhere and connects all things. The stream, I believe, is what nudges a person into consciousness just before she steps in front of a bus, cautions one not to accept a ride from that guy, and tells you that she is the one.

  I had awakened from many dreams where I felt as if I had actually interacted with other people. I came to believe that sometimes during dreams (whether we are asleep or not) we literally cross streams with other real people having similar dreams at the same moment. We interact on a subconscious level that is as real as if we’d bumped shoulders on the street. I believe this to be true whether it is simply thinking of a person you know just before they call, or a dreamed interaction with a complete stranger.

  My occasional connections to the stream were where I derived my notion that there is more to this world than meets the eye. I despise religions, but I am not an atheist. Rather, I believe that if God was to be found, it was almost certainly within the stream.

  Having procrastinated long enough, I peddled out to the weather station and spent the rest of the day deluged by data and slammed by a whirlwind of briefings. Everybody wanted a piece of me that day, and by the time Typhoon Ele got really close, I was glad to make the final deployment to the EOC to ride out the storm with the rest of the crisis management team.

  The weather station had been prepared as well as could be expected, my forecast staff manned their posts, and the rest of the island’s residents had evacuated to their designated shelters. All there was to do at that point was wait and hope for the best.

  7:45 PM – EMERGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER (EOC), KWAJALEIN

  Communications to the outside world had gone down hours before. I was no longer receiving any data on the storm other than radar. The Kwajalein radar was designed to withstand 120 knots, and the anemometer inside the EOC was still peaking below 100 knots. As long as the radar held, I had all the information I needed. The eye of Typhoon Ele was less than 20 miles to our southeast and would arrive within the hour. Unfortunately, my hunch was right and it looked as if Kwajalein Island was going to take a direct hit. The upper trough was going to arrive a little too late to suppress the storm.

  Pressures continued to fall, and the wind increased—now 75 mph gusting to around 90 mph. We would certainly see a spike in wind as the eye wall came ashore. Reports of damage streamed in around the island—windows blown in at base housing; barges and sailboats breaking loose; minor wash over on the north end of the island. All these things would increase, but so far all the shelters were safe.

  I ran to the little porthole of a window and looked out. I could see nothing but black. I jumped as something smacked into the window and cracked it. I thanked the little embedded wires for the fact I didn’t have to pick glass out of my eyes, or worse.

  8:33 PM – EMERGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER (EOC), KWAJALEIN

  Winds howled as I sat at my terminal and watched the dial. Northeast at 90 mph gusting as high as 115 mph—by far the highest winds I had ever observed in person. The building groaned, and a constant whistle echoed through the room as wind accelerated around an obstruction somewhere just outside. The radar stopped updating, most likely due to water infiltration into the fiber-optic lines crisscrossing the island. I looked at the barometer: 979.5 millibars. I had expected a lower pressure with such strong winds. Of course, the eye hadn’t reached us yet.

  Then suddenly the barometer went into free fall as I watched: 977, 975, 972, and then all went quiet. The wind speed dial on the anemometer dropped to almost nothing and the pressure bottomed at 970 millibars. The wind direction indicator spun around randomly. My ears popped as they tried to equalize with the free-falling atmospheric pressure. I looked around as others rubbed their ears.

  I jumped up and began to run to the door. I was stopped by LTC Polian.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s over!” someone exclaimed.

  “No it’s not, this is the eye,” I yelled. “We’ve still got the backside to go.”

  “Other people will think that it’s over,” someone shouted.

  LTC Polian jumped on the radio.

  “Everyone remain in shelter. The storm is not over. Repeat: REMAIN IN SHELTER!”

  The commander, now standing next to me, asked almost rhetorically: “The back side will be weaker, right?” I leaned in to hear as the pressure inside my ears built.

  The commander also leaned closer as I replied, “Should be. The forward motion of the storm adds to the winds on the north side and subtracts from them on the south side. Sir, have you ever been in the eye of a typhoon?”

  He shook his head.

  “Me either. I’ve got to see it. Let’s go.”

  “Sir, I don’t recommend…”

  The commander cut off LTC Polian: “Stand down, Sam. I’m with a professional.” The colonel winked at me, and we bolted out the door and down the stairs.

  I opened the main door to the EOC and stepped confidently outside into the calm. A single light flickering above the door provided the only illumination. Ankle-deep, debris-choked water covered the parking lot. Ripples fluttered through the pools as wisps of wind nudged at the water. We could hear the ocean churning violently just beyond the breakwater. I looked up, and stars were out. Lightning fractured the darkness and revealed one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

  “Oh my gosh, that was incredible,” said the Colonel. “Was that the eye wall?”

  I stood slack-jawed and unable to respond.

  The colonel laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  The wall of smooth, solid cloud extended up to the tr
opopause—the top of the layer of atmosphere in which weather occurred—ten miles, straight up. The wall enclosed a circle of twenty miles in diameter, and we saw the entire thing—a fleeting but magical glimpse inside of one of nature’s most powerful entities. It was as if we stood at the bottom of a white, five-gallon bucket.

  “Is this safe? Hello, Matt, are you still with me?”

  “Yes. Yes sir. It will be a few more minutes before the backside of the eye wall gets here. Let’s back up under the shelter, though. The wind will come from behind the building this time.”

  I walked slowly backwards, unable to avert my eyes from the darkness in the hope that lightning would flicker again. Suddenly, as the storm slid west, a sliver of moon appeared and faint, pale light poured into the hole in the center of the cyclone.

  “It’s far more incredible than I ever imagined,” I said. “I wish everyone could experience this.”

  The Colonel laughed loudly. “Most people would avoid this like the plague! No, I think this is just for you.”

  As suddenly as it abated, the storm roared to life again. The moon vanished in a wall of water and darkness. Torrents of rain poured over the roof above us and off into the distance. As the wind accelerated over and around the building, the ground water pulled away, leaving debris beached on the concrete. Even under shelter, a breeze tugged at us from behind as the air was sucked out of the structure.

  The light above us went out. We sensed the danger and felt our way back up the stairs toward the EOC, ears popping again.

  I rushed to my workstation and found the barometer rising quickly. When the pressure and wind finally stabilized a few minutes later, we had 988 millibars and south winds of 70 mph gusting to 85 mph—much lower than the front side of the storm.

  I let out a cautiously optimistic sigh of relief.

  The commander came over and looked at the instruments.

  “That’s it, right? That’s the worst of it?”

  “Yes, but…..”

  “But? What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. I have a feeling. Something isn’t right.”

  I sat back and stared at the stale data on my radar screen.

  Colonel Blaine walked to the center of the room and began directing his personnel.

  “I want security to begin checking on assets and survey the damage as soon as the wind drops below 50 mph. Get me the status of the shelters. And let’s find out how housing fared. Let’s see if we can get people back in their quarters when the winds subside, or if they will have to stay sheltered.”

  I anxiously tapped at my keyboard. I glanced at the wind again. The direction indicator wobbled between 190 and 200 degrees—slightly west of due south. The winds were coming around.

  Then it dawned on me.

  “Wait!” I exclaimed.

  Everyone turned.

  “The winds….they’re becoming more westerly.”

  “So?” Someone questioned.

  “A few more degrees and they’ll be blowing directly across the lagoon.”

  “Sir!”

  It was LTC Polian.

  “What is it Sam?”

  “I’m getting reports of water in town. The guard at the library says half a foot of water is coming in the door.”

  Everyone looked nervously in my direction again.

  “Storm surge,” I said nervously.

  “I thought you said we wouldn’t have much storm surge!” said Commander Blaine angrily.

  “It didn’t occur to me at the time, but if the wind is just right it comes through the southern passes and across the lagoon. Since the lagoon is much shallower and sloped, water could build up. I think that is what’s happening now.”

  There was nothing we could do at that point. It wasn’t safe for anyone to venture out into the storm. I reminded myself that all the shelters were on the second floor of concrete buildings, so as long as the buildings held and the surge remained below five or six feet (an almost unimaginable amount given the situation), everyone should be fine.

  Water made it most of the way across the island over the next hour. I listened carefully as reports came in from the shelters. Two feet of water entered the first floor of the library, but the building and all its inhabitants were fine. All the other shelters reported in safe as well.

  Winds quickly abated as the storm pulled away, and about three hours after Ele’s eye went across Kwajalein, security and safety personnel began to venture out. Indications were that the island fared well except for the flooding, but the decision was made to keep everyone in shelter until dawn. That meant a long night in the EOC for me.

  4

  5:13 AM, TUESDAY, MAY 29TH – EMERGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER (EOC)

  I awakened to the smell of burnt coffee and a commotion. I lifted my head off my arm and tried to gather my wits. The skin on my arm peeled away from the keyboard it had been resting on. My eyes focused just in time to see Jeff walking briskly in my direction.

  “Did you hear?” he said.

  “I’ve been asleep here for hours.”

  “The satellites have gone down. The commander’s having a briefing right now.”

  I wasn’t surprised. 100-mph winds could easily knock satellite dishes out of alignment, if not knock them over completely. I took a quick look at the radar and satellite images. Our data were flowing again. Satisfied that Ele was no longer a threat, I poured myself a cup of burnt coffee and headed to the conference room.

  As I approached the door to the conference room, Commander Blaine rounded the corner with a serious look on his face. He passed me without so much as a nod, entered the room, and yelled “At ease!”

  The commander sat in his chair and collected his thoughts. He looked at LTC Polian and said: “Sam, why don’t you bring us up to speed.”

  I sensed tension in the air; this seemed like more than just some askew satellite dishes.

  “At approximately zero-three-hundred, SATCOM went down. We assumed it had something to do with the typhoon, but tech control has evaluated the systems, and it’s not on our end. Uplink is solid, there’s just nothing coming from the other end.”

  Colonel Blaine broke in: “As many of you probably already know, we have a crisis developing, not only in our own country, but around the world. The Red Plague is erupting across the globe, and I am told the virus is extremely contagious and has a high probability of lethality once contracted. Before SATCOM went down, I was in contact with General Whitehead who has been receiving direction from the Joint Chiefs, and they directed us to prepare to raise our level of readiness to DEFCON 3. DEFCON 3 gives me the authority to act independently of and without direction from the Pentagon to protect my personnel and assets if it becomes necessary to do so.

  “We have no idea what is going on back in CONUS, but we have to assume the worst. Given the nature of this crisis, I have directed that there will be no inbound aircraft or watercraft allowed at this base until further notice. When Continental arrives this morning, only residents will be allowed off. And they will be quarantined. Until we get a handle on this situation, I’m not letting any outsiders onto this base. As of close-of-business tomorrow, that will also include Marshallese personnel from Ebeye.”

  A gasp went out across the room. The Marshallese workers provided all the basic services to the range: food, janitorial, mechanical, and grounds-keeping—you name it, they did it. The Americans performed the technical jobs, and the Marshallese did everything else.

  “I know, this won’t be easy,” continued the Commander, “but it’s necessary. We’ll all just have to chip in and do our part and hope this doesn’t last very long. We have enough Marshallese personnel here already who will be asked to stay to continue working. As an incentive, I have directed the logistics contractor to offer them pay for twenty-four hours a day as long as they remain. They are, of course, free to go back to Ebeye at any time, but they won’t be allowed to return until the threat condition is decreased to four or better. Are there any questions?”r />
  I raised my hand and was acknowledged by the Commander.

  “Sir, I know you said until further notice, but what is the worst-case scenario?”

  “I don’t have any idea. I’ve been told that if this evolves into a full-blow pandemic, it could be unsafe to allow anyone in for as long as three months. That doesn’t leave this room, understood?”

  My heart dropped.

  Finally, the Logistics Manager, Tom Delaney, broke the stunned silence: “We have emergency provisions for six months if needed. We collect our own water, and we have enough fuel for even longer than that. We’ll be just fine out here.”

  “Yes, but some of us have families back in the States right now,” someone interjected from the back of the room.

  “I am aware of the fact that it’s summer, and many of you have spouses and children back in the States. But I cannot allow any unnecessary aircraft or watercraft to come here at this time. It is simply too risky. There is no way to be sure it is not contaminated.”

  “Furthermore,” he continued after a short pause for effect. “Lest any of you think you’ll hop in those remaining seats out of here, I’m not letting anyone leave either. I have a base to run and you’re all an essential part of it.” He had obviously realized that no one would take their families off the island into a world that could be breaking down, and so the only people likely to try to leave were essential people, people like me.

  Several people began to object when Commander Blaine raised his hand to stop them. The room grew quiet. He was nearing the end of his tour on Kwaj, and after almost two years of dealing with a mostly civilian workforce, he had learned how to tend to our needs. A newer commander who had spent a career sternly ordering his troops around wouldn’t have taken any questions. He rubbed his clean shaven chin as he thought. I noticed the tremor in his left hand again.