Category 7

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  “A lot of fairly credible scientists think the same thing.”

  Tom glanced up. His brown eyes were dark and devoid of expression. “And they’re right. There were too many projects under way to stop everything. Some things had to be abandoned, but others simply went—I suppose I can’t really say they went underground, can I?”

  It was an effort not to cringe. But the bad joke served one purpose. With a flash of belated insight, Jake realized that the man across the table was no kid but what he’d always called a vampire: an ops guy who had stayed on the dark side so long he couldn’t function in the light anymore. At least not without scaring the hell out of people.

  “Money was allocated from special project funds.”

  As Tom stopped to let his words sink in, Jake felt a menacing twist in his gut. Special project funding meant money from the “black budget,” the billion-dollar slush fund that Congress handed the Agency every year without an expectation of progress reports or accountability.

  “The Soviets had already dropped out of the race. Their deep research stopped in the seventies,” Jake pointed out, “other than agricultural research and efforts to keep Moscow skies clear for parades.”

  The vampire smiled. “And you believe that? How disappointing. On the contrary, there have been incredible strides made in benign climate management in the last several decades and these files”—he patted the stack in front of him—“will detail that for you in case you want the background. What we’re more interested in at the moment are the less benign activities.”

  Benign climate management. Coming out of that mouth, the words made the hair on Jake’s neck stand at attention.

  Anyone who had studied weather for more than five minutes knew that nothing about it was benign. Meteorologists knew it wasn’t the final frontier and that it wasn’t anyone’s tool. It was the most powerful engine on earth. It could start up anywhere at any time and do just about anything. Very few things could interfere with a developing weather system, and there wasn’t a force on earth that could stop a storm once it got going. Anyone who thought otherwise was either a fool or a madman.

  Jake unclenched his jaw. “Who’s doing what?”

  “A lot of people are trying lots of things, Jake—may I call you Jake?—but the important thing is we think someone is succeeding. We need to find out who, why, and how, and then take their toys away.”

  Jake shifted his weight to lean back in his chair, his relaxed attitude belying the adrenaline bubble that had just burst near his heart. As Fang Boy had stated, manipulating the weather for economic or political gain had been tried for centuries to very small success. Developing the technological means to make the weather an offensive weapon had been tried for only a few decades, resulting in no significant advances. That, in Jake’s opinion, was a good thing. Achieving success would render all other weapons pointless, which would be a bad thing no matter who got there first. He cleared his throat. “Could you be a little less vague?”

  “No.” His pause reinforced Jake’s opinion that he was an asshole. “You don’t need to know more than that. Not now anyway. What we want from you is an analysis of the data you’ve been given. We need the history of the weather patterns and trends within those patterns, and the scientific explanations as to why they are what they are. We need you to identify points at which predictions failed. Identify the anomalies and explain them.”

  “Identify the point at which whose predictions failed?” When Tom only raised an eyebrow, Jake let a few seconds tick by before he added, “Are we looking at a credible threat?”

  “We’ve got a task force mobilized, don’t we?” Tom replied. “But, while credible, the threat is not considered imminent. We need to know more about it before we take things to the next level. But we need intelligence and certain circumstances are constraining us.”

  In other words, experiments were being run inside U.S. borders, where the Agency wasn’t allowed to operate. Openly.

  Holy shit. Jake shifted his posture again and made a point of staying calm. “Eco-terrorism isn’t exactly breaking news.”

  Tom smiled that creepy, bland smile again, as if he was actually enjoying the discussion. “Actually, it depends on what sort of eco-terrorism we’re talking about, and the information you come up with is going to help us identify and define those talking points. If something’s happening, and we’re pretty sure it is, it’s going to become public sooner rather than later.”

  “Are you talking about the jet stream—”

  “No. We did that,” he said bluntly. “We parked it over the Plains to force the bad guys into the open, and they complied, but barely. Weather isn’t easy to hide, and neither are the fuckups that inevitably follow it. And I’m not talking about e-mails discussing who’s going to be drinking what on Trent Lott’s new front porch after the waters recede.” He began winding the pen through his fingers with tight, controlled movements.

  “Any bad storm gives the lunatics a fresh platform and Katrina was Christmas come early for them,” he continued. “Between them seeing faces in the clouds, accusing FEMA of staying away because of government-activated plasma fields and particle beams, accusing the Army Corps of Engineers of dynamiting the levees, accusing the Agency of using steering mechanisms to decimate a Democratic stronghold—” He stopped and looked Jake in the eye. “I’m sure there are more theories, but you get the idea. By the time the hearings on Katrina rolled around, the lunatics might as well have been tap-dancing naked down Pennsylvania Avenue, because they were getting as much press coverage as if they were. We don’t want that to happen again.”

  “How do I fit into this?”

  “You’re going to give us what we need to stop what is already happening and to own the discussion when it happens. Public discussion of anything related to weather manipulation or control inevitably turns into a PR nightmare. You so much as mention cloud seeding and you’ve got the environmentalists coming at you from one side, the water use, land use, and agricultural lobbies from at least six other directions, the real estate developers, and then there’s the tourism industry. Politicians start doing vocal warm-up exercises and the intelligence community gets to bend over one more time. The only happy people are the scientists, because somebody’s finally going to ask their opinions.”

  Tom straightened abruptly and leaned toward Jake, his face grim and angry. “But I really don’t give a rat’s ass about any of them. Katrina, Rita, and Wilma stirred up enough shit in the public pot that even people who know better started looking nervous. And not just on the Weather Channel. They were out there sweating and looking nervous on CNN, and FOX, and God-damned MTV. So keep this in mind as you’re crunching your numbers, Jake. Next to finding out who’s doing what, why, and how, my highest priority is to make sure that we own this discussion.” He paused and leaned back in his chair again, his stilled fingers a good inch away from the pen. “Any questions?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom pushed a hand through his hair, reasserting his control. “Now would be a good time to ask them.”

  Jake knew better than to expect a promise of any answers. “What am I supposed to be looking for? Specifically.”

  “Local weather patterns and the reasons they exist.”

  “With all due respect, most weather patterns in the world have been documented for decades, if not—”

  “Which makes your job that much easier,” Tom snapped. “Obviously, we’re not interested in El Niño or the Siberian Express. We want local patterns. Very local, in some instances, and we need to know what differentiates one from the norm or one from another. For example, what are the parameters that influence the way the Santa Ana winds affect one locality as opposed to another one nearby or across the state? And, of course, we need to know what the anomalies are and what causes them, and if they repeat elsewhere under similar conditions.”

  Of course. “In other words, you identify the microclimates and I fingerprint them?”

  Fang Boy allowed a hi
nt of a real smile to flick at one corner of his face. “Yes, that’s what we want you to do.” He paused. “Other questions?”

  It was less an invitation than a change of subject.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Excellent.” He slid the stack of manila folders across the table. “Here are a few more coordinates and the background material. You can send your reports to Candy when they’re complete. Thanks very much for your time.”

  Jake glanced at Candy, whose face was uncharacteristically expressionless, and felt a coldness settle in his gut.

  “Thanks, Jake,” she murmured.

  “My pleasure,” he replied easily, then stood up, nodded to both of them, and left the room.

  Back at his desk three minutes later, he glanced at the new data points he’d been handed. Two were map coordinates somewhere off the west-central coast of Africa, one was in Death Valley, and the fourth was off the coast of Barbados. He shook his head as he plugged his network cables back into his laptop, then sat down to add the information into the multi-level database he’d created.

  It was well after eight o’clock when he felt someone’s eyes on his back. Secure workspace or not, it was still an uncomfortable sensation. Without so much as a telltale stiffening of his back, he swiveled in his chair to face the opening of his cubicle.

  “It only took you five seconds. Not bad. Of course, if I were a bad guy, you’d be dead.”

  He frowned at her small fairy face surrounded by a cloud of bottle-blond curls. “You have the weirdest sense of humor of anyone I know.”

  “I save it all for you, Jake.” Candy’s twang was back in full force, its easiness betrayed by the dark circles that were emerging from underneath her ubiquitous girly eye makeup. “I was hoping you’d still be here. You got a minute?”

  He nodded. She straightened and bobbed her head in the direction of the bank of conference rooms across the Cube Highway, the wide central aisle that bisected the myriad featureless cubicles that the DS and T called home.

  A minute later they were in one of the nicer conference rooms, one that had chairs that didn’t squeak when you sat in them and an under-counter refrigerator in the corner. She opened it and took out a Diet Coke for each of them.

  “Tom isn’t always that much of a prick,” she said, handing Jake his soda across the table.

  “Seemed like he knew what he was doing,” Jake replied easily, which made Candy laugh.

  “Well, I did say ‘isn’t always,’ didn’t I?” She sat down at one end of the table, popped the flip top of her can, and poured the contents into a glass tumbler. “I’m not allowed to give you a complete brief yet, Jake, but I will be soon. I did, however, squeeze him enough that he’s allowing me to fill you in on a few things he neglected to mention.”

  “I’ll be sure to write him a thank-you note.”

  She met his eyes. “Got it. Now can we move on?”

  Drinking straight from the can, Jake nodded with a grin. “As long as we’re clear.”

  “You were going to be brought on in about a month anyway, when the project entered the next phase. When Wayne died, though, I fought to bring you on now. That’s why you’re doing all of Wayne’s work. I know it’s outside your usual tasking, but I’m going for continuity here.” She fought off a yawn. “Sorry about that. Late night. This project is interdisciplinary, as you know. Everyone is involved at some level, but its home is Counter-Terrorism and we’re on a fast track. We’re shifting gears shortly.”

  “Shifting into what?”

  “Ops. You’ll be front and center.”

  He blinked at her.

  “You okay?” she asked over the rim of her glass.

  “I’m a meteorologist.”

  “I meant your health. You look a little funny.”

  “I’m fine, just surprised you’re putting me in the field.”

  “I could have phrased it better, couldn’t I? Still want it? You’re ex-military, aren’t you?”

  “Semper Fi. And hell, yes, I still want it.”

  “Thought so.” She took another sip. “You won’t be covert, if that’s what gave you that funny look. Just involved in things in the field. Techie things.”

  “Hey, it hasn’t been that long. I can still—”

  “You won’t be covert,” she repeated softly.

  The very lack of emphasis on any particular word made it clear that her statement was non-negotiable, and the part of him that had already begun to smell cordite wafting through humid jungle air returned to acknowledge the filtered air of Langley.

  Candy sat forward, hands folded primly on the table in front of her. “Like I said, I can’t tell you everything, Jake, but I can tell you that we’re scoping wide right now. Intelligence and Operations are involved, naturally, and DS and T is bringing up the rear. We’ve had to go outside for some of the talent, but it’s a crack team so far. Homeland Security and the military are represented, obviously, but we also have vulcanologists and seismic guys, avalanche gurus, a whole slew of atmospheric physicists with specialties ranging from cloud structure to solar flares—we’re even tapping into those conspiracy whack-jobs who keep mawing over plasma fields and electromagnetic mind control. What’s that Tommy Lee Jones movie where he’s bitchin’ about looking for someone in every henhouse, doghouse, and outhouse?”

  “The Fugitive.”

  “That’s it. Love that man.” She kicked off her pink high-heeled shoes and shifted in her chair, bringing her feet up underneath her. “We’re looking for subtle, non-specific weather anomalies, which makes finding the old needle in a haystack sound like a much easier task. You’re on first string, Jake. We need everything you can pull together as soon as you can pull it together. For all Tom seems like a jerk—and he is one—he has an open mind. No theory will be rejected flat out. My daddy used to say that you should never wrestle with a pig in the mud because you’ll both get dirty, but the pig will enjoy it, and sometimes that’s the only way you can win.”

  Jake kept his eyes on her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked after a minute, and she laughed in response.

  “My daddy was a hog farmer, so he liked his pig references. He was also a barnyard philosopher, and was fond of saying that it doesn’t matter a damn if hindsight is twenty-twenty if you don’t learn from it. Well, to my way of thinking, part of the reason the September 11th attacks were possible was the incredulity factor. The idea of using an airplane as a weapon had been raised a couple of years before the attacks, but not enough people took the idea seriously because it was just so wild-ass crazy. People said the logistics, training, and what-all needed to carry off an attack like that were too complex, too numerous, et cetera, but then someone did it. And not just one attack, but four coordinated attacks. That’s when people realized we’re fighting a deranged army who are willing to take all the time in the world to kill us.” She shrugged. “Well, devising the means to use weather as a weapon would be even more time-consuming and expensive, and is even more ludicrous to imagine being successful, but guess what? It’s happening.” She paused and gave him a tight smile. “The kind of people who think up this stuff measure time against the backdrop of eternity, Jake, while too many of us measure it against traffic on the GW Parkway or the closing bell of the New York Stock Exchange. We gotta fight crazy with crazy, Jake. Like I said, no idea, crazy or otherwise, will be dismissed without discussion.”

  He nodded grimly. “And the locations?”

  “Some are places of interest and some are potential targets that we want to assess.”

  “Who are we looking at?”

  She let a minute pass before letting out a slow breath. “I’m supposed to tell you that I can’t tell you, but the truth is that we don’t know. This whole topic is one that has been kicked around for decades, like you were discussing earlier. I’m not even sure why somebody finally started taking it seriously, but the threat level on this one recently passed ‘Oh shit’ and is now firmly at the ‘Holy shit’ stage.
I’m not sure what the next level is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s ‘Duck and cover.’” She smothered another yawn and sent him an apologetic look. “Sorry to make you stay up past your bedtime, honey, but you need to get over to the archives. Bring a dust mask and a miner’s lamp. You’re cleared for things that probably haven’t been looked at in decades. I don’t know if any of it is going to help you, but it might give you some context. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Like what? More information?” Sarcasm wasn’t the best route to take with Candy, but she understood it.

  She stood and slipped into her shoes. “I’ve told you as much as I can. As soon as I can tell you more, I will. In the meantime, go get dusty. It’ll do you good.”

  She left the conference room with a forced smile, leaving Jake to rehash once again everything he’d learned in the last few hours.

  The bottom line was that someone was manipulating the weather, and if the CIA didn’t already know who it was or how they were doing it, then it wasn’t any of the usual suspects. Which meant that no one knew what their motivation was, or their timetable. And that was the most unnerving thing of all.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tuesday, July 10, 11:30 P.M., Campbelltown, Iowa

  Carter was ending the long day exactly where he’d begun it. The moon, edging its way toward full, shone down from a brilliantly clear, starlit sky, illuminating the fields and the pond beyond them and flooding his home office with soft silvery light.

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  He looked up to see his wife, Iris, standing in the doorway, smiling at him. Her hair was brushed out and loose around her shoulders, the way he liked it when they were alone. It had once been blond, but now it was a mixture of gray and silver. It still looked good against her dark blue bathrobe. He’d told her that on their honeymoon, and every bathrobe she’d owned since then had been dark blue. He smiled back. “My work is never done.”