Before they could go on a thin, nervous young man rushed into the room. He had a Teletype readout in his hand, the yellow paper flowing back over his shoulder giving the impression he was flying, his disheveled hair adding to the image.
He skidded to a stop when he saw that Andrea wasn’t alone, and stood there, his jaw working nervously.
“What is it, Jon?” Andrea asked, biting back the laughter that nearly erupted. “You can speak in front of Mr. Scharf—Keith—I think he’ll be working with us. What’s that you’ve got?”
Jon Kotz handed the readout to Phil without even glancing at him and stepped closer to the desk. “It’s happening,” he said breathlessly. “The first of the storms has developed a solid eye, and is moving north, northeast pretty quickly. The winds aren’t very strong yet, but it’s a big storm, and very well formed. I think this one is going to be important.”
Phil was up immediately and moving toward the door. “I’ll get the radar up and running and see if I can contact the boys down in the islands. We should be able to get an HF link and see what they are seeing pretty quickly.”
Andrea nodded, her eyes bright. Turning to Scharf, she said, “Well, Keith, you wanted to be a part of things. Are you ready to go to work?”
The young man rose, as Phil had done, and nodded eagerly. He moved so quickly that his charts and graphs tumbled from the desk, along with his briefcase.
“Yes, of course,” he replied. “What can I do?”
“Get out there,” Andrea said with a fierce grin, “and see if you can locate me two or three tanker trucks full of peanut oil.”
Scharf goggled at her for a moment, and then, when he saw that she wasn’t kidding, he gathered his papers quickly, fumbling with them like a nervous schoolboy.
Then Andrea did laugh. “Calm down, Keith. We have time. You can use the next office down—there’s a phone there. Welcome aboard.”
Without another word, Scharf clutched the mass of papers to his chest, gripped the briefcase in one hand, and headed for the door.
Jon, who had no idea what had just happened, stared after the retreating figure, and then looked back at Andrea in confusion.
“I think this is the one,” she told him. “Let’s go out and stop us a hurricane.”
Chapter Eleven
The air was crisp and still cool in the pre-dawn hours. Phil Wicks stood just inside the door of the main hangar, watching for the sun to rise over the horizon. He half expected it to be red, like the sun Andrea had described to him so many times before, but when it finally came it was in trails of lavender and deep yellow, streaked colors washed over a pale blue sky. Phil stretched and grinned. It was a good sign. If he’d seen the red sky, he might have lost his nerve, but everything seemed as normal as it had the day before.
The storm had reached Category two status the night before. It wiped out several small islands, leaving dozens of dead in its wake, but the crossing of land, even such a small surface as the islands had presented, had slowed its progress. Back over the open sea, the eye had formed more tightly, and Andrea expected that it could be as large as a Category three by nightfall. They still had time. It would take days for such a storm to make landfall in the United States, and Phil expected to provide some problems for the storm before that was allowed to happen.
Keith Scharf had been as good as he seemed to be. He’d located the oil they needed quickly, and the trucks had arrived the previous day. The three of them, Phil, Keith, and Andrea, had met with their engineers and the brightest of their consultants, eating pizza and drinking black coffee late into the night, trying to finalize the how, where, and when of what was to come.
They had spared no expense; there wasn’t time for it. Phil hoped they wouldn’t regret the rashness of the decision over time, but it was too late to worry. He’d worked with several of the other pilots on a scheme for delivering the peanut oil. What they had devised was untested, but he saw no reason that it shouldn’t work.
The oil had been transferred from the trucks into large rubber weather balloons. These were loaded carefully onto cargo planes and set to drop once the aircraft were in position. The impact of the balloons striking the water would be sufficient to rupture them and spread the oil over the surface, and if the pilots did their jobs, this would distribute the oil in a long strip about a quarter of a mile wide.
Phil hated the idea of going into an operation like this with an untested method, but then, how did you test something like this? Giant water balloons filled with peanut oil weren’t run-of-the-mill equipment. The oil wasn’t cheap, and the chartering of the aircraft on such short notice, and for such an oddball mission, had been difficult and extremely expensive. They could afford a one-time shot. If they failed, it would take them years to build up the funds to try again, assuming nothing went wrong, no one got hurt, and the government didn’t shut them down.
The hardest part of it all was the timing. He knew the men he’d be flying with, and he knew what they were capable of. The others, though, the charter pilots who would be in charge of the oil, he knew little about. Would they hold their position in the face of the oncoming storm? They wouldn’t be in any real danger—he’d explained this at length, and they seemed to accept it readily enough, but it was one thing to hear from someone that a thing is safe, and quite another to face it down and prove it.
Phil and the other “seed planes” would have to hold their positions much longer. The path of the hurricane could only be predicted with a certain degree of accuracy. Once they were airborne, the cargo planes would have to fly out ahead of the storm wall. Phil and his pilots would take their position well above the storm, and the two groups would establish communications to fine-tune timing and delivery.
The slick had to be in place much sooner than the silver iodide could be dropped. The cargo planes had to be in and out prior to arrival of hurricane force winds, and that was the tricky part. How long would the slick remain in place on the water? Would it stick, or would the waves just spread it and wash it away? They had gone way over the initial estimate, providing what Scharf believed would spread to a slick at least two inches deep on the surface. It should hold together for a time, but would it be long enough?
They were counting on the fact that even if it wasn’t as complete and all-encompassing as they hoped it would be, the effect of what remained by the time the storm wall reached it would be enough to significantly impact evaporation.
There was a lot of speculation involved. It was going to be a long flight, and Phil knew he should have slept in and rested for the hours to come. The aircraft they’d purchased were specially equipped for the drop—a better setup than they’d had with the C-130s in Operation Stormfury—but they didn’t require a co-pilot. He would be on his own up there, and it wouldn’t do to get sleepy and lose his concentration.
The others arrived slowly and made their way past him and into the lockers beyond. The flight crews had been working since daybreak. It had taken a lot of finagling of local authorities, and then a lot of hard, backbreaking work, but the old runway stretching out from the back of the main building had been cleared and the proper communications and radar equipment put into place, so that they could fly right out of the complex.
Originally he’d thought they would have to have everything moved and delivered to a local airfield, or to the military base above Elizabeth City, but Andrea had urged him to find another way if he could. She didn’t want anyone catching wind of what they were doing before they had a chance to get off the ground. The media would be all over them, and likely as not the government would step in and either try to take control of the operation, or shut it down completely.
She was right, of course. Phil knew it as well as she did, maybe better. The last thing he wanted was for their operation, which had been a quiet, relaxed haven compared to the hectic world of a navy pilot, to be shattered by a lot of media attention. It would be inevitable if they succeeded, but there was plenty of time to worry about that after th
e flight.
He turned away from the sunrise and into the interior of the hangar. He smelled the scent of fresh, hot coffee, and he wanted to see Andrea—maybe get some breakfast. It wasn’t like he was going to be gone for days, but the two of them had seldom been apart for as much as a day since he’d retired and moved back to North Carolina. She was his anchor, and as the moment of truth arrived, he felt the need of a little anchoring.
They had scheduled a brief for all the pilots at ten AM. That was when they would get their final look at what was coming in over the weather facsimile and plan their most logical route to head the storm off. It would also be their last indication of how big the thing was likely to be when they finally reached it. Phil knew from experience this wasn’t reliable, but they had planned for the worst. The amount of silver iodide he carried, and the amount of peanut oil being delivered, was calculated to be enough for a Category five hurricane. If they ended up with only a Category two, they should handle it easily, but if the thing shot through the roof and grew into a monster, they wouldn’t be caught a second time with their pants down. Secretly, he hoped it would be about a Category four—something significant enough to catch the world’s attention, but not so large that the limits of their own planning were put to the test.
With the sound of ground equipment towing aircraft and the whirring of pneumatic drills ringing in his ears, he grabbed a cup of coffee from the mess and headed across the big inner lot toward the main building.
~ * ~
By the time all the pilots were seated, Phil and his boys on one side of the table and the three commercial pilots across from them, looking excited but a bit confused, it was nearly ten thirty. Andrea, looking tired, ran her hand back through her hopelessly disheveled hair, glanced around at them all before she began, studying their faces.
“We have the latest reports on the storm,” she said at last. “It’s a strong Category three hurricane, at present, right on the verge of reaching Category four. Sustained winds are around a hundred and twenty-nine miles per hour with gusts up into the hundred forty miles per hour range. The storm is moving north, northeast at about eighteen miles per hour.”
“Where does that put it?” one of the commercial pilots asked.
Andrea smiled at him and held up a hand. “I’m getting to that. We’ve calculated it several times, and I believe that our best bet is to try and meet the storm about seventy-five miles off the coast of Bermuda. There are several reasons for this. One is that we have time to get there ahead of the storm, and for you three,” she nodded at the cargo pilots, “that is very important. The other thing is that we believe this area will act as somewhat of a pocket—that it might help us to hold the continuity of the slick for a longer period of time. It’s critical that we hit it just right, from the front and from above. If we drop the crystals too soon and the storm is able to draw up new moisture from the surface, we’ll be wasting a lot of our strength, and the same thing is true of the oil. If we drop that too soon, the storm may hit it before the seeding has a chance to work. If that happens, we aren’t sure what the effect might be, but it will almost certainly be very bad.
“One theory,” she continued, “is that the storm will take the path of least resistance to try and get around the slick. That would mean it would go in the direction of the warmer water. I’m afraid that at this point in time it might divert the storm directly at the U.S. coastline. The very last thing we want to do, gentlemen,” she placed her hands on the tabletop and leaned forward for emphasis, “is to send that thing this way. We are trying to prevent the loss of life and property. Equally bad would be sending it jumping off toward Bermuda. This is a tricky operation, and we have to be sure we’re all on the same page when it goes down.”
One of the cargo pilots, the one who’d spoken up, whistled. The others sat back and stared at Andrea, as if the importance of what they were about to attempt had just hit home.
“Now would be the time to back out, if you’re going to do it,” Phil said. “I can’t ask any of you to take a risk like this unless you are certain it’s what you want to do. I also can’t risk the operation, or the safety of others, unless I am certain you’re ready.”
“Let’s do it,” the first guy said without hesitation. “I’ve seen what one of these things can do firsthand. I was lucky to get out alive.” He glanced around at the rest of them with new energy. “If we have a chance at keeping one of them away, or stopping it completely, then I’m up for it.”
The others nodded in quick agreement. Phil smiled. One thing he had found over the years was that most pilots tended to be a breed apart. They were as varied as any other group you might run across in life, but their hearts were strong, and they loved a challenge.
“All right, then,” he said. “You three get out there and get airborne. Your loads are heavier, and you’ll be longer getting across. We’ll follow not too far behind, then veer slightly south and rise above the storm. Once we’re ready I’ll radio you my position. Give yourself about an hour’s difference between your position and that of the storm when you start your run. That should give you plenty of time to get some altitude and get out of there, and at the same time it shouldn’t leave too long of a time for the slick to hold. Once we hear from you that you’re clear, we’ll track as close as we can to the line and drop our loads.”
The pilots stood and turned almost like a trained unit, and Phil smiled again. He called after them, “Good luck.”
A few moments later he stood beside the table, watching the last of his own pilots file out the door and down toward the hangars and the airstrip. Andrea stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around him tightly, laying her head on his shoulder.
“Are we doing the right thing, Phil?” she asked quietly. “Are we really?”
He laid his hand across her arm where it lay against his chest and nodded. “Yes ma’am,” he said. Then he turned, hugged her tightly and gave her a deep, lingering kiss. “We’ll be back before you know it. You still owe me a steak.”
She laughed and swatted at him, but he’d already spun away toward the door. The sun had risen high in the sky, and it was a beautiful day to fly.
Without a backward glance he left the briefing room and hit the stairs at a slow trot.
Andrea glanced over at the charts on her desk, and out the large window toward the sky and the ocean beyond. Then, with a quick cry, she dashed out the door.
“Phil!” she cried.
At first it seemed as if she’d missed him. She didn’t slow when she hit the stairs, and she was halfway down, in danger of tumbling forward or crashing into one of the walls, when she saw that he’d stopped on the next landing to wait for her. He was smiling, but his brow had knit into lines of concern.
“What is it, princess?” he asked. He held his arms wide, and Andrea half ran, half fell into his embrace. Her jaw dropped at the sudden use of the pet name—a name no one but her father had ever used. Her mind shifted back over the years, and she saw that far-off porch. Heard the groan as boards released. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she was surprised to find she was shaking.
“Andrea,” Phil said, “tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said. She hugged him, leaned up, and kissed him again. “I had something I wanted to give you—for luck. I forgot, and then you were out the door so fast . . .”
He grinned at her, waiting.
Andrea pulled a short length of nylon rope from her pocket. It was actually two short lengths tied together in the center. The knot looked a bit like a pretzel, and was carefully tied.
Andrea took the two ends in her hands, stared into his eyes, and yanked as hard as she could. The knot held, becoming tighter, but not slipping at all.
“What is it?” Phil asked.
“It’s a sailor’s knot,” she said. “My father used this knot when he tied the line together for the arrow he shot . . . I . . . I had one of the other pilots show me how to tie it.”
; She held the rope out to him, and Phil took it. “What’s it for?”
“This,” Andrea touched one half of the rope, “is you. The other piece is me.”
Phil stared at the rope, turned it over in his hands to examine it from all sides. “I know this knot,” he said at last. “It won’t slip. Unless someone cuts it, or unties it, these two pieces will never part.”
Andrea felt hot tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, and she buried her face in Phil’s chest to conceal it. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Come back in one piece?”
“I promise,” Phil said. He tucked the rope into his pocket carefully, and they stood on the stairs, holding one another close. The door below opened and closed with a loud bang and Phil pulled back. He leaned in, pecked her on the cheek, and turned toward the stairs again.
Andrea watched his retreating back, and smiled. The tears she’d fought moments before filled her eyes, and she brushed at them in irritation. “Steak it is, flyboy,” she whispered. “Just come back ready to eat.”
Chapter Twelve
The flight was smooth and uneventful. There was some light banter back and forth between Phil and the other pilots, but it was minimal. They all knew the seriousness of what they faced, and each man had his own way of readying for the trial to come. Of the four seed plane pilots, the only one who had been over a full-force hurricane was Phil himself. It wasn’t the sort of experience you could prepare for by hearing stories over a beer in the evening.
They were good men. Phil had spent some time on their selection, finding ex-military pilots who showed a certain spark beyond the natural ability to fly a plane. It wasn’t a cargo-hop job, or a guided tour flight they were embarked on. The danger was as real, and potentially more deadly than any campaign they had flown against enemy forces. The level of skill necessary to drop the aircraft down into the incredibly high-velocity winds of the storm and maintain that course without panicking had not been easily come by. The group he’d chosen was made up of seasoned veterans with thousands of flight hours under a variety of conditions.
Mote in Andrea's Eye Page 11