Around each barge, and stretching in all directions, the temperature of the water slowly dropped. The process was simple. Compressed air punched down into the water. The water that was driven downward displaced large amounts of very cold water from below and forced it up to the surface. Each barge was miles from the next, but the pumps were large. The cooling effect spread, and the further the water was cooled, the more this sped and aided the process of further cooling.
By the time the storm front arrived, the water temperature was a ragged, varied line directly in its path. The average temperature had dropped nearly twenty degrees, but there were pockets of warmer water along that length, and the water to the west was warmer still. There was no way this could have been seen from the air, and the simulation that Andrea had run had created the line with much greater symmetry. Like a broken, haphazardly gathered horde, the pumps held their ground and Hurricane Andrea, all disrespectful, fell on them in a fury.
At first it seemed that the storm wouldn’t even slow. It rolled up against the wall of cold water and the barges were swallowed. Waterspouts erupted along that strip and ripped up into the air, twisting like trapped serpents, held to the ocean by having their tails nailed in place, and furiously fighting to be free.
Then, as if someone had grabbed the winds and gripped them, giving them a good shake, the eye began to grow ragged. The storm shifted, listed to the south, and to the west, but instead of roaring off unchecked, it rolled more slowly, as if unraveling.
Phil saw it first. They banked in toward the center of the storm and skirted away from the band of waterspouts, though the DC-8 was safely above the altitude these reached. They turned toward the eye, and as they did so, Phil watched the side of it stretch. It elongated, leaving behind the near perfect circular shape, and breaks appeared. The winds washed in, quickly filling those gaps and driving into the symmetry of the storm’s heart.
“I’ll be damned,” he breathed. Matt didn’t hear him, he’d spoken too softly, but Matt saw it at almost the same time.
The two turned, met one another’s gaze, and shook their heads in amazement.
Lieutenant Penn had also spotted the shift in the storm, and he brought them about in a long, sweeping arc. By the time they roared back over the center of the hurricane, the eye was little more than a misshapen blotch on the roiling clouds below.
They continued on back toward the storm wall. The clouds were shifting away from Bermuda. The entire mass of the storm, ponderous and slow now, turned like an injured beast. It rolled along the wall of cooler water, breaking it up as it went, but being eaten at the same time. As more of the storm reached that point, the effect of the temperature shift rippled back through.
They shot past the storm and Lieutenant Penn turned to them. “I just heard from Mr. Scharf,” he reported. “He says we should watch it. He ran a simulation with the reduced number of barges. The storm’s eye reformed.”
Phil frowned. He glanced over his shoulder, out the window and back toward the hurricane, which seemed to be breaking up beyond recovery. He shook his head, but even as he did so, he felt the DC-8 slip into another long, arcing curve.
As they crossed the storm again, it was difficult to tell what was happening. There was not a very clear center, but the breadth of the thing was huge. It undulated to the southwest. When they curled around yet again and passed over it, however, it was clear. The eye was reforming. It had opened back into a vaguely circular shape, much smaller and tighter than before, but still there. The storm whirled and writhed about it as the entire mass shifted direction.
“Damn it,” Matt said, smacking his hand into his knee.
Phil just stared down at the storm. He watched it as it whirled and roared its fury, and then, looking up at Matt, he smiled. The other man stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, but Phil held up a hand before his old friend could speak. “Look at it closely.”
Matt did, but nothing clicked. He glanced back at Phil and shrugged, as if to say what, and Phil’s smile only widened.
“Look how small it is,” he said at last. “Matt, she didn’t stop it, but look at that storm. It’s no Category five, or even a four. I’d be surprised if it holds at a two. Even if this hits ground, this is a success. We didn’t have to stop it, just cripple it.”
Matt stared at him, still frowning. Then, as the implications of what he’d just heard sank in, he sat back and looked a little dazed. The storm they had first flown over had exceeded any cat five in history. The winds had been well over two hundred miles per hour, and the devastation predicted had been so catastrophic that most of the southern east coast had been evacuated to hundreds of miles inland.
Yes, there was still a storm, but no stronger than your average tropical depression. Powerful? Yes. Dangerous? Of course it was dangerous, all storms were, but this was manageable. Natural. Finally, shaking his head again, Matt started to laugh.
Lieutenant Penn stared back at them both as if they’d lost their minds, but they were too far gone to explain. It would have to wait.
At last, catching his breath, Matt managed to call out to the pilot. “See if you can get us clearance for Bermuda,” he gasped. “Get this thing on the ground. “Oh—and tell Mr. Scharf he has a Category one hurricane breathing down his neck—he should close the windows.”
~ * ~
The sun rose and the skies were washed in yellow, gold, and light lavender. There was no red in sight. Andrea lay curled in a coil of rope on the deck of the Daybreak, blinking her eyes and feeling as if her body was so stiff it might never move again. They slid smoothly through the water, and with an effort she managed to sit up and look over the side.
Another boat ran alongside, just a bit behind them, and beyond that was a third, smaller and sleeker craft. It took her a moment to realize the dark-haired woman waving to her from the deck of that boat was Gabrielle, and that it must be the “cruiser” she’d heard about.
Men and women lined the rails of all three boats, and all of them stood with their faces uplifted to the morning sun. All of them smiled. Andrea groaned and rolled out of the mooring line she’d slept in. She stayed on her hands and knees for a moment, getting her bearings, and then, very slowly, she got to her feet and turned toward the rail once more.
She returned Gabrielle’s wave, smiled feebly at those waving to her from the next boat, and turned toward the cabin. She needed coffee. She remembered vaguely that everyone was accounted for. They had gotten in, and the barges had been placed. The pumps had been lit. What happened after that was beyond their control now, but she needed to know.
And she needed to know about Phil.
As she entered, Captain Clayton smiled at her. She returned the smile bleakly, and he pointed her toward a large stainless steel coffee urn. Beside it was a stack of Styrofoam cups, and she took one gratefully, filling it with steaming black coffee.
Then she turned to the Captain. “Have we heard anything about the storm?”
He nodded, but at first he didn’t speak. Andrea saw he was trying to form his response carefully, and her heart sank. If the news were good, would he hesitate?
“The storm broke up when it hit the barges,” he said at last. “The bulk of the wind and rain kicked to the southwest, just like you thought it might. Then it reformed.”
The words hung in the air, and she stared at him, uncomprehending.
“The eye of the storm reformed,” he repeated. “They are all calling it Hurricane Andrea now—it’s a Category one storm, hovering off the coast of North Carolina.”
Andrea couldn’t process it.
“Category one,” she repeated numbly. “But.”
Captain Clayton’s smile returned, full force. “You did it,” he said. “The storm may not even make landfall, but even if it does, it won’t be much more than a tropical storm. You stopped it.”
She nearly dropped the coffee cup, and when her weak, trembling hands continued to refuse her order to grip more tightly, Andrea set it on the edge of
the chart table and fell back against the bulkhead, shaking like a leaf. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how worried she had been—how sure it would be just another failure.
“You . . . you’re sure?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’ve been on the radio with Mr. Scharf. We’ve been ordered into Bermuda.”
Andrea nodded numbly. “How long will it take us, do you think?”
“I figure we should be tied up no later than two o’clock this afternoon, if there isn’t a lot of damage to the piers. The winds hit the island pretty hard, and there was some flooding before the storm shifted toward the coast. No later than five.”
She nodded, barely hearing his answer as her mind raced back over all that had just happened, and at the same time tried to process what might come next.
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” the Captain interrupted her thoughts, “you don’t look very well, ma’am. There’s a cot in my cabin, just through there,” he pointed toward the single door exiting the bridge. “Maybe you should lie down for a while. We still have quite a while before we catch sight of land.”
Andrea nearly turned back toward the decks outside and declined, but as she pushed away from the bulkhead, her legs threatened to give way beneath her. He was right, she was in no condition to walk, let alone wander around the cutter’s deck. At a nod from his Captain, a young seaman escorted her through the door and down a short hall. He let her in the door, and she had no more seen the cot than she was on it, falling back with a heavy sigh. The moment her eyes closed, she slept. For the first time in years, no storms disturbed her dreams.
~ * ~
The cutter slipped in beside the pier without mishap. Andrea, feeling much more herself, stood at the rail and watched as men scurried about on the pier, tying off the mooring lines and lifting the bow into place. They would be ashore in moments, and she couldn’t remember when the thought of solid ground beneath her feet had sounded better.
Everywhere she looked there was debris. Pieces of buildings, roofing, trees, and plants that had been broken, bent, or uprooted, lay sprawled across the end of the pier. They had cleared enough of it away to let the boats tie up. Gabrielle had taken the cruiser along the beach to its usual berth. She said they’d clear a path if they needed to, but their pier was well sheltered, and she thought they’d be okay. There was plenty of time to catch up with her, and her crew, later. For now, dry land and some food were in order—food better than the U.S. Navy MRE she’d been fed on the cutter. They’d been purchased from surplus government stock, and had about as much taste as reconstituted dirt—though they had dulled the hunger.
As she waited she saw a flash of color on the road. At first she couldn’t make it out, but then she saw that it was a red Jeep. The vehicle was picking its way in and around fallen trees, and she saw it roll up and over at least one.
She didn’t know why the sight of that Jeep started her heart racing again, but it did. Maybe it was just the idea that the world was converging on them. First it would be whoever was in that Jeep, then Bermudan authorities, then the U.S. Government, and who knew what other agency, country, or interested party. She knew she’d be questioned until her head swam, and already it made her tired. She watched the Jeep’s approach in silence.
Then she heard the Captain’s deep baritone calling “all ashore,” and she turned from the rail. She had no luggage, so there was nothing to gather or carry. She stopped at the end of the bow, smiled at the Captain, then stepped forward and gave him a quick hug.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
Then she turned and walked down the short gangplank to the wooden pier. It was shaky, but solid enough and, after a few minutes, she managed to pick her way through the branches and leaves to the shore. As she did, the Jeep pulled to a stop about twenty yards away.
Andrea stopped and waited. No one got out—not at first. She could make out two figures inside, but no details.
Then, slowly, the passenger door opened, and a man climbed out. Andrea saw him—traced the lines of his face with her gaze—gasped—and fainted, falling to a heap in the damp sand.
~ * ~
Phil saw her the moment her foot hit the cutter’s bow, and his heart nearly stopped. She looked enough like the young woman he remembered to send a thrill through him. He watched her, and his eyes filled slowly with the warm tears he’d been holding back.
Matt drove the Jeep carefully, not glancing even once at his old friend, giving him the privacy of the moment. They pulled to a halt, and Andrea stood, watching them—waiting.
Phil stepped out of the Jeep, and he saw her eyes widen. He saw her jaw drop into a small round ‘o’—just for a second—and then he saw her fall.
Andrea had barely hit the sand when Phil was at her side, Matt right on his heels, the Jeep’s engine still running. Phil slid one hand under her shoulders and lifted her slightly. He studied her face, reached out with his free hand to stroke a stray, light gray hair from her eye. She trembled, and a second later, she opened her eyes.
They stared at one another for a long moment, as if their combined gazes could anchor them solidly in one place—one universe—one moment. Then she was in his arms, and he drew her tightly to his chest, breathing in the salty scent of her hair and feeling her slender form trembling against him. They stood that way for so long his back began to ache, and his legs trembled, and at last Matt cleared his throat, tugging them gently back into the world.
“You did it,” Phil said. “You stopped it.”
“We did it,” she replied.
He nodded and smiled, then hugged her again. As she laid her head on his shoulder, they heard the wail of sirens in the distance, and knew that the authorities were on their way.
Phil disentangled himself from her arms reluctantly. She frowned, and then smiled tentatively, seeing that he was only reaching for something.
From his pocket, Phil pulled free two short lengths of rope, joined in the center. They were frayed, nearly rotted from age, but in the center, holding them tightly together, the knot still held. “A sailor’s knot,” he whispered.
Andrea took the rope in her hand, rubbed gently at the knot, and trembled. When she looked up tears streamed down her cheeks, and she fell back into his arms.
They turned back toward the line of official vehicles converging on them, together.
“So it begins,” Andrea said wistfully, absently brushing her tears onto the collar of Phil’s shirt.
“What next?” Phil asked. “After this, what do you do next? More storms?”
Andrea shook her head and bit her lip. She smiled at him, but didn’t reply.
They turned and walked to the Jeep, where Matt stood waiting. Off the coast of North Carolina, Hurricane Andrea lost focus once again, twisting north and hooking back out to sea. A light storm surge lapped at the supports of some of the beach-side homes, and wind gusts rippled through the trees and off toward the Great Dismal Swamp, where they disappeared into the marsh and were lost forever.
The red Jeep did a quick U-turn and headed back down the road into the interior of the island.
Andrea, with her head on Phil’s shoulder, finally broke the silence. “Phil,” she said timidly.
He turned to her, his arms still wrapped tightly around her as if he thought one or both of them might dissolve into smoke. “Yes?”
“No more storms,” she said simply.
He nodded gravely. “I was hoping you’d say that. I was really hoping you’d say that very thing. But . . . what will we do?”
She snuggled more tightly against his side and laughed softly before replying.
“How do you feel about fish farming?”
About the Author
David Niall Wilson is the author of more than seventeen novels and over a hundred and fifty short stories. His books include Vintage Soul: Book I in the DeChance Chronicles, The Grails Covenant Trilogy, Deep Blue, This is My Blood, The Orffyreus Wheel, On the Third Day and Ancient Eyes. A retired US
Navy Electronics Technician, he now resides in the historic William R. White home in Hertford, NC, butted up against the side of the Great Dismal Swamp. There he lives and writes with the love of his life, author Patricia Lee Macomber, their children, Billy, Zach, Zane & Katie, and occasionally their daughter Stephanie home from college. Wilson is a columnist for the Internet magazine www.chizine.com, a former President of the Horror Writer’s Organization, and an Ordained Minister.
Website: http://www.davidniallwilson.com
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/david_n_wilson
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