Author's Note: This story is a result of the person in me who
likes weather. Lots of research went into this story. Hope you guys
enjoy!
Hurricane Jason
by Jackie
pixie7@gte.net
"It's not bushy enough."
"What?"
"My hair. It's not bushy enough."
"You hair is fine."
"I think I'm balding.
"You are not balding."
"See? Look at how much hair is in my comb."
"That's gross. Besides, you haven't cleaned your comb in a week. Of course it's going
to have hair in it."
"What on earth are you two talking about?"
"None of your business, Frannie. This is a guy thing."
"Yeah, I'm sure." Francesca walked back to her desk, leaving Ray and Stanley by
themselves.
"Hair is everything, Stanley. If I've told this to Fraser, I'm going to tell you: 'Your hair is
who you are. It makes a statement'."
"And I'm balding. That says I'm getting old, right?"
"You are *not* balding."
"Then what does it say?"
Ray stepped back and examined his partner's head. "It's short and slick, which says
'mess with me and you're dead'. Good for the job. And uh, the spikiness shows that you're not afraid to let loose. So, your hair says, 'look, I'm a nice guy, but don't get on my bad side or you're in big trouble'."
Stanley smiled. "Really?"
"Yeah, the chicks go for great hair."
"But most don't," Lynda smiled as she strolled into the Squad Room.
Ray looked at his wristwatch. Noon. "Right on time, as usual."
"Well, my dear Ray, you know I like to be punctual." She examined her father's hair.
"Hmmm . . . Ray is right, you're not balding, Dad."
"I told him he wasn't," Ray smiled.
"But I do see a few gray hairs. Twenty to be exact."
Stanley shuddered inwardly. Ever since Fraser started teaching her, she was really getting as bad as the Mountie; so precise and technical. But thankfully, unlike her predecessor, Lynda still acted somewhat human. "I do not have gray hairs, Lynda."
"Wanna bet? Just admit it, you're getting old. And it shows: you with your graying hair, and Ray with his male pattern baldness."
"Hey, now that's going below the belt, Lynda."
"I'm just kidding, Ray. Sheesh."
"So, how's the Academy?" Stanley asked as the three walked over to Lynda's desk.
"Fine, fine," Lynda answered as she dropped her book bag and purse by her desk. She
switched on her computer, letting it warm up. "Can't believe I'm going to be graduating in a little over two months." She took off her suede jacket and hung it up on the coatrack.
"I know," Stanley sighed. "My daughter, the cop." Lynda smiled, then sat at her
computer. She began typing while Ray and Stanley left her to start her work.
"It's weird," Stanley said as he sat down at his desk.
"What?"
"Lynda graduating in a couple of months. It's been, what, six months since we first met.
And now, she's leaving . . . and we're hardly ever going to see her again."
"Yeah," Ray agreed. "Lynda's definitely going to be hard to replace."
"No kidding. Not to mention the fact how I'm going to be worrying about her constantly.
She's taking on one of the most dangerous jobs in the city, and she's only nineteen."
"Are you having objections to her being a cop?"
"No, Ray, but she is my daughter."
"She can take care of herself, Stanley. She has a good heart and a good mind."
"But that won't stop a bullet . . . I just couldn't take it if anything to her."
"She knows the risks, just like we knew the risks when we decided to be cops. And look
how great we turned out. Imagine what will happen to Lynda once she becomes a cop."
"You know, you've been hanging around Fraser too long." Ray smiled. "But you have a
point."
"Oh, my gosh," Lynda whispered loudly. Ray and Stanley looked up to see Lynda staring
intently at her computer screen.
"What's wrong?" Stanley asked as the two Detectives returned to her desk.
"Jason," Lynda answered distractedly. "He's gotten stronger."
"Finally," Ray said. "She's dating again."
"What?!" Lynda jerked her head up. "I'm not dating anyone."
"Then who's Jason?" Stanley asked.
"The hurricane," Lynda answered. "Hurricane Jason. The one that's churning out in the
Atlantic." Lynda pulled up a computerized tracking chart, and pointed to a small blinking dot on it. "See, I just got the latest coordinates for the storm. It's at 22.5 degrees North by 71 degrees West. The National Hurricane Center said the sustained winds are clocking at 132 miles per hour. This morning it was at 21.6 degrees North by 65.4 degrees West, and only packing wind of 116 miles per hour."
"Meaning . . . what?" Ray asked.
"Meaning that Jason is now a Category 4 hurricane, and it's moving at a nice speed, even
for a storm of this size."
"I take it that's not a good thing."
"Not for the people of the Cuba," Lynda answered. "They're going to get nailed. The
eye of Jason is going to pass right over the center of the island. Those poor people."
"Lynda . . . just out of curiosity," Stanley said gently, "why are you so interested in
hurricanes?"
"Yeah, it's not like they hit Chicago," Ray agreed.
"True," Lynda agreed, "but I still find them interesting . . . I wonder what it would be like to be in one."
"Yeah, well, you can do *that* on your own," Stanley said.
Lynda smiled and continued on with her work. Ray and Stanley looked
at her, sighed, then left her alone to work on a case.
"Okay . . . yeah, thanks. I owe you." Lynda hung up her telephone and smiled
confidently. She jotted down a few notes on a pad of notebook before going to Welsh's office with it. She knocked on the office door.
"Come in." Lynda opened the door and walked in. Ray, Stanley, and Fraser were
standing in front of Welsh's desk. Welsh took off his reading glasses. "Yes, Lynda?"
"Sir, may I request a day off?"
"What for, may I ask?"
"I'd like to go down to Biloxi, Mississippi this Friday. I was just on the phone with Bill
Davenport from the 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron."
"Hey, I know him," Stanley said. "We went to high school together. He was a very nice
guy."
"Yes, he is. He's going to let me come down to fly into Jason this weekend."
"As in Jason, the hurricane?" Ray asked.
"No, Ray, Jason the brick wall," Lynda rolled her eyes. "Of course Jason, the hurricane."
"Lynda, what on earth is possessing you to fly in a plane that heads directly for the center of the largest storm on Earth?" Welsh asked.
"Excitement, something different," Lynda answered. "Besides, I want to know what a
hurricane is like. As Ray clearly pointed out yesterday, hurricanes very rarely hit the Chicago area."
"Then why not go to Florida?" Stanley asked.
"I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid."
"Like flying into a hurricane isn't stupid," Ray murmured. "You could get killed, Lynda."
"Oh, that's very unlikely, Ray," Fraser spoke up. "The 53rd Weather Reconnaissance
Squadron has flown over 120,000 hours without a single mis-hap. Although, there was that one time in September, 1995, when a Navy P2V, carrying nine crew members and two Canadian newsmen, was lost in the Carribean Sea while flying into Hurricane Janet, but that's hardly worth mentioning."
"Then don't mention it, Fraser."
"Understood."
"Lynda, how did you get permission to fly on one of those planes?" Welsh asked. "The
public usually isn't allowed on them because of liability technicalities."
"Quite true, sir, but I have connections. I also was armed with the knowledge that Mom and Bill were good friends in high school. When I called and learned he was working at Keesler Air Force Base, I just told him I was Diane Peterson's daughter, and that I was interested in seeing Jason. Within five minutes, he was scheduling me to go flying with him this weekend."
"Won't that interfere with your Academy classes?" Stanley asked.
"No," Lynda answered. "I'll leave Friday after my classes, take a flight from O'Hara to
Gulfport-Biloxi Regional, then take a taxi over to the base. I'll meet with Bill, and get ready for Saturday's flight. You know what, though? Something strange is going on in the Academy."
"How so?" Ray asked.
"Well, everyday for the past two weeks, we've had the Police Commissioner and the Mayor coming to our classes and watching us. I've noticed a few times during our defense and firearms classes that they've been watching me especially."
"I'm sure it's nothing, Lynda." Stanley patted her on the shoulder.
"Yeah, right. I bet it's because I was taken off probation recently. I cannot believe
everyone is still making a big deal about that."
"When will you be back?" Fraser tactfully changed the subject.
"Sunday," Lynda replied. "The flight itself is about ten to twelve hours long, and we're going to be leaving at twelve-thirty Zulu, which will be seven-thirty in the morning in CST, so that means we'll be getting back to the base - at the latest - at seven-thirty, provided everything goes accordingly."
Welsh sighed. "You may go, Lynda."
"Thank you, sir. I will -"
"But I except you to be here bright and early Monday afternoon at your regular time."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't go getting yourself killed. You'll be hard to replace."
Lynda smiled. "Thank you, sir."
"Now get back to work." Lynda nodded, then left the office quickly.
Friday finally rolled around. Ray looked at his wristwatch. Twelve oh five. He glanced over at Lynda's desk. It was empty. Her computer was turned off. Papers and folders were stacked and filed nicely in different drawers. Pencils were placed neatly in a holder. Every sign indicated she was not coming. "I don't believe it. She actually went through with it."
"Pardon, Ray?"
Ray looked up to see Fraser and Diefenbaker approaching his desk. "Oh, I was just
saying to myself that I can't believe that Lynda actually left."
"You knew she was, Ray."
"I know, but I thought maybe she'd finally get some common sense knocked into her
brain."
"Yeah, no kidding," Stanley agreed as he walked up to Ray's desk with a manila folder in
his hands. "Don't get me wrong; she is my daughter, and I love her to pieces, but sometimes she can be so . . ."
"Like you?" Ray suggested sweetly.
"Yeah," Stanley nodded. "I mean - hey, now just a minute, Ray. Lynda is not like me at
all."
"I beg to differ, Stanley," Fraser spoke up. "Lynda is *very* much like you."
Stanley grumbled. "Well . . . she may be, but *I'm* not dumb enough to go gallivanting
after a hurricane in a plane."
"Yeah, one thing you can say about Lynda is that she is definitely not your run-of-the-mill teenager." Ray smiled wryly.
"No doubt about that," Stanley agreed.
"So . . . you're not going to go after her?" Ray asked.
"Me?" Stanley raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah. Ever since we started working together, you've followed after Lynda every time you thought she would get into trouble."
"Not this time. I'd rather keep my feet on the ground. My philosophy is: if I was meant to fly, then I would grow wings."
"So, you're not at all worried about Lynda?" Fraser asked.
"Of course I'm worried about her. I don't want anything to happen to her. But she's in a plane."
"That's quite true," Fraser nodded slightly. "And I'm sure that the WC-130 is good to fly
in, despite its outward appearance."
"And what's that suppose to mean?" Stanley looked at the Mountie suspiciously.
"Well, from first glance, Stanley, the WC-130 doesn't look to be the safest thing to fly
into a hurricane. Then again, there hasn't been an accident in the past 24 years, so I'm sure you have nothing to worry about."
Stanley looked at Fraser, frowning. He had told himself three days ago that he wouldn't make a big deal about Lynda going down to Biloxi. Fraser, though, had to go and mention how unsafe the plane looked to fly into bad weather, then say don't worry about it. The Detective sighed. "Lieutenant!"
"What, Kowalski?" Welsh asked, coming out of his office.
"I want to go down to Biloxi."
"I thought you said you weren't going to get involved, Detective."
"I know, sir, but . . . I, uh, just want to make sure that Lynda doesn't cause any problems
for the crew. Someone needs to keep her in line."
Ray snorted. "Yeah right. He's just worried about Lynda."
Stanley turned, scowling at his partner. "I am *not* worried about her, okay?" He turned
back to Welsh. "So, can I go?"
Welsh fought hard to keep from smiling, knowing the Detective was lying through his
teeth. "Sure. Get out of here."
"Thanks." Stanley handed his file to Ray.
"Do you know where's she staying?" Fraser asked.
"Yeah, at the . . ." Stanley pulled a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket " . . . the Old
Santini Bed & Breakfast at . . . 964 Beach Blvd."
"You gonna call her?" Ray asked.
"Nah, I'll surprise her." He turned to leave, but stopped. "Uh, what time did she say she
was going out tomorrow morning?"
"Seven-thirty," Fraser answered. "Although, you'll want to get to the Base about one-
half to two hours prior to departure. I'm sure there's going to be some kind of briefing beforehand."
"'Kay." Stanley grabbed his sports jacket off the coat rack. "You two coming?"
"No way," Ray shook his head.
"I must decline as well," Fraser apologized. "I doubt Inspector Thatcher would allow me any free time off, especially on such short notice."
"Suit yourselves." Stanley quickly put on his coat and hurried out
of the Squad Room.
"My goodness," Bill Davenport looked up from his report and smiled as Lynda made her way into the Briefing Room. "You must be Lynda Peterson." He shook her hand. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were Diane."
Lynda smiled. "Everyone who knew her said I look exactly like her when she was my
age."
"I'm sorry about what happened to her," Bill's smile faded slightly. "She was a really nice
woman."
"Won't disagree with you there."
"So, you want to fly into a hurricane, huh?" Lynda nodded. "Well, I will warn you right
now, it's not going to be a smooth flight."
"I know," Lynda answered. "I did some research on the 53rd WRS while flying down here
from Chicago. Am I dressed right?"
Bill looked at her outfit. Jeans, white t-shirt, white tennis shoes, and a black windbreaker. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail away from her face. "Looks good to me. And I see you've brought some equipment." Bill eyed the small duffel bag Lynda was carrying.
"Yep. Plenty of spare batteries, a small remote microphone for my headset, a hand-held microphone, a wide-angle lens for the well-formed hurricane eye that you told me Jason has, a video camera, and plenty of tapes."
"Anything else . . . like clothes and food?"
"Everything I need is in this bag. Change of clothes, snacks, and equipment, along with
motion sickness pills, aspirin, decongestant pills, etc."
"How can you pack everything you need in that tiny bag efficiently?"
"Fraser taught me how."
"Who's Fraser?"
"He's a Mountie."
"In Chicago?"
"Yeah, he first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father, and for reasons that
don't need exploring at this juncture, he remained attached as Liaison with the Canadian Consulate."
Bill looked skeptical, then smiled. "I won't question that any further." He looked at his wristwatch. "Look, the briefing's going to start in about ten minutes, so why don't you take a seat in the back?"
"Okay." Lynda nodded. "Do you mind if I do some video recording? I sorta want to put
a video journal together of the trip for my friends back home, just so they can see hurricane hunting isn't as bad as it seems."
"Go right ahead." Bill left Lynda and took a seat in the front of the room. Lynda opened
up her bag and began to set up her equipment. While she was doing this, the rest of the crew - five other people, to be exact - and the Supervisor of Flying filed into the room. None of them paid much attention to Lynda as they took their seats. Lynda began recording just as the Supervisor stepped up to the podium.
"Good morning," his voice boomed in the quiet room. "I am Captain Tyler Fleece, your Supervisor of Flying for this mission. The time will be 0530 in five... four... three... two... one... hack. Your call sign is Teal 37. Your scheduled departure time is 0730 local, so please be out at the aircraft by 0645. Your primary aircraft is number 947 on parking spot 16 with 65,000 pounds of fuel on board. You are tasked for three fixes on Hurricane Jason. The crew that's out there right now just called and said they had a fairly bumpy ride all night, but the storm looks like its stabilizing. At the back of the room, we have a visitor from Chicago - Lynda Peterson - who will be flying along with you on this mission. And it looks like she's going to be documenting as much of this trip as possible." There was a smattering of chuckles from the six crew members. "Now, Miss Peterson -"
Fleece was interrupted as a man came into the room and ran down the aisle. "Sir, sir, we have a security problem!"
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"There's a fellow outside demanding to come in. He says he's from Chicago and that he's a police officer, but when we asked for identification, he said his name was Detective Stanley Kowalski, so we arrested him."
Lynda nearly dropped her camera when the Lieutenant mentioned that name. She quickly jumped from her chair, her video still rolling. "Captain Fleece, his name really *is* Stanley Kowalski. He's my father."
"'Father'?" Fleece looked perplexed. "Are you positive, Miss Peterson?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you have any idea why he would be barging onto a military base?"
"Not entirely, sir, but it may have something to do with the fact he's slightly over-
protective. I understand how his name may have given you reason to doubt his authenticity, but the only explanation I can give for that his that his father had a thing for Marlon Brando."
Fleece sighed and gave a slight smile. "Lieutenant, please show Detective Kowalski in
here." The Lieutenant nodded, then left the room, returning a few moments later with Stanley. "Detective Kowalski, I assume you have good reason for coming to this Base."
"Yeah, I wanted to see my daughter. Is there a problem with that?"
"None whatsoever. Please take a seat. The briefing's almost done." Lynda and Stanley both took seats in the back of the room as Fleece finished his briefing. "As I was saying, Miss Peterson . . . Detective. . . let me introduce you to the crew: Aircraft Commander John Lithe, Co-pilot Bryan Jones, Navigator Bill Davenport, Flight Engineer, Mark Young, Weather Officer
David Read, and Dropsonde System Operator Gene Allen. Hurricane Jason is slowing down his forward speed. The flight crew currently out there reported Jason's last coordinate's at 23 degrees North and 73 degrees West. That's about it. You have approximately forty-five minutes left until departure. Good luck, and have a safe flight!"
Everyone got ready to leave as Fleece left the podium. Lynda stopped recording and put her camera away. Then she turned to her father and smiled. "I thought you weren't going to get involved in this."
"Yeah, well, someone had to keep you out of trouble."
Lynda grinned. "Thanks for coming. I appreciate it. Where's Fraser and Ray?"
"Someone needed to stay behind and keep an eye on the city while we're gone."
"Stanley, it's been awhile," Bill approached the two Chicagoans.
Stanley stood up and shook his old friend's hand. "Good to see you, Bill."
"So, you're Lynda's father, huh? Want to tell me why after Diane died that everyone said it was Lynda's father, James Charleston, who had killed her?"
"Dad didn't know I existed until recently," Lynda explained. "And we couldn't tell
anyone who he really was because he was covering for another officer who was undercover in the Mob. This was five months old when I first showed up at the 27th, so I had to partake in this charade. It was only after the other officer returned that we could tell people he was my *real* father, not James."
Bill raised his eyebrows. "So, what's it like being a dad? Back in high school, it seemed all you cared about was . . . let's say, non-family related things."
"That's my past, Bill," Stanley smiled. "Leave it behind me, 'cause I've changed. I've
got a great job, great friends, and a great daughter. That's who I am, and I'm proud to admit it." Lynda smiled.
"I'm happy for you," Bill smiled. "I don't mean to sound rude, but we need to get out to the plane now. I have to get it ready for take-off. You coming, Stanley?"
"No, I -"
"Dad, please?"
"Lynda, no, I'm not going to. We've been through this before."
"Dad, look, I'm going to be in a plane for twelve hours. I won't be able to talk to Bill and
the others too much, since this is their job and they need to really concentrate." She gave her cutest Bambi-eyes. "Please?"
Stanley tried to glare at his daughter, but the soft spot he had
for Lynda that had been growing ever since he first met her wouldn't
allow it. He sighed, then smiled. "Sure. Let's go."
"Here, Dad, could you hold this? I want to get some shots of the outside of the 'Herk'." Lynda handed her father her video camera, then reached into her purse and pulled out a camera. Stanley couldn't tell what type it was, but it looked professional. Lynda snapped off a few shots of the exterior of the plane, then put her camera away. "Thanks."
"Sure, no problem." Stanley handed her back the video camera. "So, what exactly you have in that bag, Lynda?"
"Video and recording equipment, clothes, and snacks," Lynda answered as they walked toward the plane.
"Don't you think that's a little extreme for a little plane flight?"
"Remember, I told you we won't be back until about seven-thirty tonight. This is so I
don't have to worry about starving."
"Uh . . . how much food do you have?"
"Well, there's the two - wait." She stopped dead in her tracks. "Why do you want to
know?" She looked at him wearily. "Don't tell me you didn't bring anything." Stanley looked sheepish. "Dad! How could you not bring anything?"
"Because I didn't think I'd be going on this plane. Besides, they serve meals, don't they?"
"Well, only if you order it in advance." Lynda sighed, trying not to get angry. "Look, I
ordered one when I called Bill earlier this week. We can share that, plus the snacks in my bag." She glanced down at her father's attire: dark blue jeans, gray T-shirt, brown sports jacket, brown boots. "At least you're dressed appropriately." They started walking agin, but Lynda stopped her father. "Wait. I have one more question to ask you. Did you use -"
"Yes, I used the bathroom, Lynda. I'm not stupid."
"That could easily be debated," Lynda smiled. "Come on, let's get boarded."
Stanley and Lynda made their way over to the WC-130 and climbed on board. Gene Allen met them as they both got on the plane. "Come on, I'll show you to your seats." He led them to the back of the plane, with Lynda videotaping the entire time.
Stanley noticed all the bundles of wires, cables and ducts running the length of the ceiling. In the middle of the cargo compartment stood a giant tank of fuel. He touched it through the canvas web seats. "Interesting."
Allen led them to two seats in the back. "Please store all your stuff under your seats, unless you plane on videotaping." He left and returned a few minutes later with two sets of headsets. He handed one set to each of them. "The plane's interior noises can reach 110 decibels. These headsets provide us, not only with protection, but with the only way we can communicate with each other. If you need any help, just holler. And please remain seated and buckled in until the plane takes off and reaches it's cruising altitude." Gene left, leaving father and daughter alone.
Lynda pulled her remote microphone out of her bag and attached it to her headset before putting it on.
"Yo, Lynda, can you hear me?" Stanley's voice boomed into Lynda's ears.
"Who said 'yo'?"
Lynda smiled as she turned her head. "Copy that, Dad. I hear you loud and clear . . . as did the crew." She grabbed her camera and began recording after she switched on her headset recorder. She pointed the camera at her father. "Dad, how do you feel about doing this?"
"I'm cool. I mean, I'm with my daughter, and this is going to be a smooth ride." There
were some muffled laughs at the other ends of the headsets. Stanley frowned. "And what was that for? Did I say something that amused you?"
Lynda fought to keep a straight face as Allen returned with two airsick bags. "Here, you might want to have these, Detective." He handed them to Stanley before going back to his station.
Stanley turned to glare at the camera, which Lynda was still rolling. "So . . .?"
"So . . .?" Lynda asked innocently.
"Oh, now don't give me that big-eyed daughter look, Lynda."
"Dad, relax. It isn't as bad as you think."
"Oh, yeah? Then what are these bags for? The Easter egg hunt?" He threw them disgustedly across the cargo. He folded his arms across his chest and slumped in his chair.
"And this is Lynda, signing off." Lynda switched her video off, and put it away. "Uh, Dad, I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but did you eat something before coming to the Base?"
"No."
"Okay." Lynda reached into her bag and pulled out an unopened package of saltine crackers. "Eat these."
"Why?"
"Let me just put it this way: empty stomachs and turbulence don't exactly go together."
"Lynda!"
The crew settled in and did their pre-flight check. Soon, they were ready. With the engines going, there was only one thing left to do.
"Miss Peterson?" John Lithe's voice boomed into the headset.
"It's actually Kowalski," Lynda corrected him gently.
"Okay, Miss Kowalski. "You can give the okay for take-off."
"Roger that!" Lynda was glad she had turned her headset recorder back on. She had given her camera to Stanley, who showed an amazing knack for handling it. He had it pointed right at her. Lynda cleared her throat. "Keesler Tower, this is Lynda Kowalski of Teal three seven. Cleared for takeoff runway two one. Climb and maintain two thousand, runway heading." Applause erupted in the headset. Lynda grinned.
"Lynda, where in the world did you learn that?" Stanley asked.
"From watching too many airplane movies," Lynda answered. "Besides, it's in front of me on that little card."
Stanley looked where Lynda was pointing and could make out a small index card taped to a wall about five feet from Lynda. He couldn't make out the words - since he wasn't wearing his glasses - but knew what they were. "Oh."
"Brace yourselves," Lithe warned as the engines ran full speed. The noise was not heard, however, through the headsets.
"What does that mean?" Stanley asked.
"It means 'hold on'," Lynda said, gripping her chair.
Stanley gripped the camera tightly, while still filming. Lithe released the brakes. The plane went leaping forward, causing everyone to be thrown back into their chairs. Thankfully, they were all buckled in, although Stanley almost dropped the camera.
Rolling.... rolling... picking up speed... 100 mph... rotation...
the plane lifted smoothly into the air, heading east for the storm that
awaited their arrival.
After the plane was safely in the air and at its cruising altitude, Lynda unbuckled her seatbelt.
"What're you doing?" Stanley asked.
"It'll be awhile before we get to Jason," Lynda answered. "I'm going to go up to the
flight deck and get some shots of the crew. You want to come?"
"Not right now," Stanley said as he took the package of Saltines that Lynda gave him
earlier, opened it, and began eating the crackers.
"Okay," Lynda grabbed her video camera from under Stanley's seat and made sure it was ready to go. "Feel free to come up any time. Oh, and don't eat too much, okay? Don't want you to get sick."
Lynda took her video camera, along with her camera and rolls of film, and headed up to the flight deck. Along the way, she stopped by Allen's post. He was fiddling with some long tubes. He looks up and smiles.
"Like the trip so far?" he asked.
"Yep," Lynda answered. She turned on her video and began rolling. "Do you think you
could explain what exactly these things are?"
"These are dropsondes," Allen said, pointing to one of them. "Every time we penetrate
the eye, one of these will be dropped into the exact center of the storm. As you can see, there are four of them, which means we'll penetrate the storm four times before going back to Keesler."
"And what exactly is being measured by the dropsonde?"
"Barometric pressure in millibars. This is the main source for telling us whether Jason is intensifying or stabilizing."
Lynda switched off her video and took a few snapshots as Allen continued to prepare the tubes. While he continued Lynda went up to the flight deck. Bill looked up from his station and smiled.
"Hello, Lynda. Welcome to the flight deck." The other crew members - Lithe, Jones, Young, and Read - smiled and nodded to her. "Where's your father?"
"He's eating something so he doesn't get sick later on," Lynda answered. "Do you mind if I stick around for awhile?"
"Not at all. In fact, David is about ready to start checking the instruments."
Lynda quickly set up her video and began recording as Read began talking. "What I'm doing, Miss Kowalski, is comparing the weather instruments' readings with the latest forecast charts and data from weather balloons along the coast. This is to help us make sure the equipment is running smoothly before we fly through the storm."
Lynda finished recording Read, then glanced up to see out the front of the plane. The weather was gorgeous. Beautiful sky tinted with the early rays of the morning sun. She snapped off a few shots on her regular camera as the sun rose higher and higher above the horizon. "So beautiful."
"You've seen one sunrise, you've seen 'em all," Stanley remarked as he strolled onto the deck.
"Way to kill the mood, Dad," Lynda answered sarcastically. "And just how many sunrises have you seen?"
"Well . . . none, but - well, how many have *you* seen, Lynda?"
"To date, I've seen almost 1,500 sunrises. That equates to about 4.11 years of seeing the sun rise every morning."
"Only because you jog in the morning," Stanley replied.
"And *you* don't."
"Just out of curiosity," Bill intervened, "are you two always like this?"
"Yeah," Lynda answered just as Stanley said, "No."
"That really cleared things up," Young muttered.
"We're okay most of the time," Lynda explained. "It just that he gets upset every time he gets something wrong and I -"
"Niggle," Stanley finished.
"I do *not* niggle, Dad."
"Yes, you do. You're just as bad as Fraser."
"No one is *that* annoying."
"You come pretty close."
"I can't help it. Ever since he started teaching me everything I can't help but be precise. It helps prepare me for the Academy, and for after I graduate."
"'Academy'?" Lithe asked.
"Yeah, I'm going to be graduating from the Chicago Police Academy in a couple of months," Lynda said.
"A cop at the age of nineteen?" Jones looked skeptical. "I don't believe it."
"Hey, believe it," Stanley said slightly angry. "She's really good, okay?"
"Okay, okay," Jones backed off. "Sheesh." He leaned over to Lithe. "My, isn't he a little over-protective."
Lithe smiled, but said nothing. He was the only crew member who had children of his own - two to be exact - so, he understood Stanley's reaction because he's gone through it a couple of times himself; your kids can sure annoy the hell out of you, but don't even think about messing with them, or you'll have to deal with the father.
""Attention to storm briefing, crew," Lithe spoke into his headset. "Things are about to get busy, so please minimize chatter. Bill will be directing the aircraft until we get close to the eye, then David will take us in from there, with Bill backing him up. Bryan, guard the autopilot, and kick it off if we get into severe turbulence. Everyone, make sure all loose items are stowed. We're about to start our descent to 10,000 feet. Oh, make sure our passengers have burp bags!"
Lynda turned the video on again as the airplane descended to 10,000 feet. They were now 105 nautical miles from the predicted center of Hurricane Jason. Read switched on the High Density Data, which meant the airplane was now collecting position and weather data every 30 seconds.
Lynda looked over his shoulder at his computer screen, but it just looks like a bewildering mess of numbers--until he explained how to decode it. "Each page of numbers is zapped through a satellite link directly to the computers at the National Hurricane Center, and eagerly studied by the forecasters to see how large and how strong the storm is."
Now the real fun began.
Read looked down at the churning seas below, and estimated the strength of the wind by
how the water looked. White caps, patches of foam, spray: each hint at the power of the furious
winds spiraling around this dangerous hurricane. Bill asked Lithe and Jones to swerve around a
particularly nasty thunderstorm-- there was no need to tempt fate at this stage of the game. Young swept his eyes across the maze of gauges on the panels in front of him and over his
head, and assured himself - and everyone else - that this plane was working right, ready for the furious weather ahead. Meanwhile, Allen started making one final inspection around the cargo compartment, checking that everything was tied down tightly, and no leaks have sprung up from the hydraulic systems. Lithe and Jones reviewed their strategy to tackle this monster.
Read suddenly calls out that he sees the eye on radar. There were spiral bands of thunderstorms wrapping around a bright ring surrounding a clear spot on radar. The bright ring - the eyewall - was the solid ring of thunderstorms, containing the most violent weather in the storm. It looked so small on the scope to Stanley and Lynda, but Bill assured them the tiny clear spot is 15 miles across, and the eyewall was only 20 miles away!
"We're five miles from the eyewall." announced Bill. Heavy rain began to pelt the airplane, and sheets of water washed over the windows. It got darker, and turbulence began to rock the plane. It was hard for Lynda and Stanley to walk back to their seats, but Allen grinned and assured them, "You ain't seen nothing yet!"
"We're about to penetrate the eyewall; everyone strap in," commanded Lithe. Just as Lynda and Stanley buckled their seatbelts closed, they''re thrown violently against their straps as the plane free-falls 1000 feet, and they feel nearly weightless for a moment.
"Ooh," Stanley moaned suddenly.
"What's wrong?" Lynda asked, gripping the camera tightly while still recording.
"I think I'm going to be sick." Stanley's face was green.
"Oh dear," Lynda muttered.
"Everything okay back there?" Allen's voice asked over the headset.
"We're okay, but Dad's feeling a little woozy."
"We're almost through," Bill assured them. Through the deafening noise of surging propellers and pounding rain, Lynda thought she heard someone - Read it sounded like - yell "Yee-hah!"
Suddenly, the plane seemed to buck in every direction at once, and
a brief flash of lightning broke through the darkness.
After what seemed like an eternity - which was only just three minutes - the dark grey clouds outside the window began to brighten, and suddenly blinding white light stung the eyes of Lynda and Stanley. The hiss of heavy rain shut off in the same instant. One or two sharp bumps, and the plane's flying smoothly again. Both passengers are not sure they've ever felt their hearts pound so hard, but they survived...they were now in the eye!
As their eyes adjusted to the glare of sunlight, they gazed out at one of the most awesome scenes in nature: the "stadium effect" inside the eye.
"Whoa," Stanley gaped, his mouth slightly open. His motion sickness was instantly forgotten.
"Neat," Lynda said, pointing her video out one of the windows to get the most amazing shot she had ever taken.
A solid wall of clouds circled around the WC-130, as though they were floating in a giant football stadium made of clouds. The eye opened up miles above the plane into a bright, blue sky.
Lynda quickly grabbed the wide angle lense out of her bag and attached it to her camera. She snapped off shot after shot of the cloud wall. "These are going to be some great shots," she said excitedly. She looked quickly at her wristwatch, which was kept at CST time just so she could keep her time straight.
"Okay, it's almost fifteen hundred Zulu - ten o'clock CST," she spoke into her headset recorder, dictating what was going on. "We have just entered Jason's eye for the first time. The crew will now get started on their mission."
"We're almost there," declared Read.
"I see a calm spot ahead on the water," Lithe confirmed.
"Man, it's hot all of a sudden," Stanley replied as he took off his jacket.
"The air inside the hurricane's eye is always warmer," Lynda explained. "It's due to the high pressure."
"Wait a sec," Stanley held up a hand. "I thought that hurricanes has low pressures."
"They do, Detective," Lithe spoke up. "But they also have a high pressure. The low is near the ground, and the high is in the upper levels of the storm."
"That's why the air is so warm up here," Lynda replied. "Air inside a high pressure sinks and warms, but upper-level winds diverge in the top, which is why the eye is cloud-free. The air near the low pressure at the surface converges, drawing up air to fuel the thunderstorms. Once this process is repeated by the storm, it's called a feedback mechanism. That's why hurricanes can stay around for a long time. "
"Very good, Miss Kowalski," Lithe sounded impressed. You're absolutely right."
Meanwhile, Allen was busy loading the dropsonde into its launch tube, getting ready to drop the instrument into the exact center of Jason's eye.
From the flight deck, Read watched intently as the wind speed died off, then suddenly shifted; instead of coming from the left, it was now coming from the right. "Fix it here!" he shouted. Bill marked the precise position--the exact center of the eye.
From the back of the plane, Stanley and Lynda heard a 'ker-chunk' sound as Alan ejected from the plane with a push of a button. "Sonde away."
All the crew members work furiously as the ominous wall cloud loomed closer and closer to the 'tiny' airplane while Lynda and Stanley could only listen from their seats.
Bill plotted the position and compared it to the last fix from the Hurricane Hunter airplane that left Jason two and a half hours ago. "Jason is moving thirty degrees at seven knots," he informed the crew. Read finished typing up the last details on the Vortex Data Message, then in a few keystrokes, the critical information was sent via satellite to the National Hurricane Center.
The plane suddenly punched back into the eyewall and plunged immediately into the darkness, rain, and turbulent air that the plane's occupants had left only a few moments ago. The dropsonde finally hit the water, and Allen coded up the information. His report: the sea-level pressure is 932 millibars. This surprises the crew, since the last fix reported it as 939 millibars! Read explained to Lynda and Stanley over the headsets that a seven millibar drop can be significant...but this was amazing!!! The news electrifies the forecasters in Miami; Jason was really intensifying!
The plane flew another 105 nautical miles away from the eye to measure the extent of damaging winds in that quadrant of the storm, then turned to intercept the next inbound leg in the "Alpha pattern", which reminded Stanley and Lynda of a giant "X" crossing the storm. Less than two hours after the last time they penetrated the eye, they're there again! By the time they were out of the storm and on their way home, they had penetrated the eye a total of four times on that flight.
The plane landed safely at Keesler at seven-thirty CST, precisely what had been predicted. The crew parked the plane and everyone boarded. Lynda and Stanley said goodbye to the crew and left the Base, waiting to catch a taxi back to the Santini Bed & Breakfast.
"So . . .?" Lynda asked. "What did you think?"
"It was . . . interesting," Stanley answered, slightly tired. "But not as bad as I thought it would be."
"Told you so."
"Still, I'm glad to be back on terra firma."
Lynda nodded, then yawned and stretched. "Man, I can't wait to get
back to Chicago. I want to get this tape edited, and these pictures
developed. Then we can show everyone at work what we did. Don't you
think so, Dad? . . . Dad?" Lynda looked over to see her father sleeping
standing up, hi hands in the pockets of his jacket. She smiled. "Never
mind."
That following Monday, Jason struck the west coast of Florida, with sustained winds of 150 miles per hour. By the time the storm moved on, sixty-eight people were killed and there was over ten billion dollars in damage.
A week had past before the tape was finally edited, and Lynda showed it to everyone. Using a computer program at her apartment, she was able to add music, special effects, and the feedback from her headset recorder. Everyone agreed it was excellent footage, especially seeing the part in the briefing room right before Stanley showed up.
Hurricane Jason had long since moved north, becoming a mid-latitude cyclone, and hitting the entire state of Illinois. The city of Chicago was currently being pelted with its first major snowfall of the year. Already, two feet of snow had fallen and there was no sign of it letting up anytime soon.
The day after everyone saw the video, a package arrived for Lynda.
She was drinking a hot cup of cocoa when it was handed to her by a UPS
man. She put her mug down and read the return address on the large manila
envelope: Major Bill Davenport, 403rd Wing, 701 Fisher Street, Keesler
AFB, MS 39534-2572. She smiled as she opened the package. She had been
waiting for this ever since she sent Bill a copy of the tape for their
files. Inside was a hand-written letter. Lynda read it silently:
Dear Lynda,
First of all, I would like to thank you for sending the video to us.
Everyone watched it, and we were very impressed by your show of
computer expertise. The video is now with our others on file and will
remain there for future references. Needless to say, your will be one of
the most popular ones.
I'm sure the remnants of Jason have probably hit Chicago by the
time you read this letter. I won't go into exactly how much damage was
caused when Jason struck Florida last Monday, because I know you will
have been tracking it ever since you got back to Chicago.
I hope that you and your father enjoyed yourselves on the trip.
I can speak for the entire crew when I say that it was a pleasure having
both of you fly with us, and as a token of our gratitude, enclosed are two
hurricane hunter patches for you and your father. Display them with pride -
you've earned it!
I hope that you do well in the remaining weeks of your Academy
training, and that you help clean up the 'Windy City'. Who knows? Maybe
one day you and your father will work together. I know that you two would
make an excellent team, even if you get at each other's throats
occasionally.
Sincerely,
Major Bill Davenport
53 Weather Reconnaissance Squadron 403rd Wing
Keesler Air Force Base
PS - We got the list for next year's list of storms. You won't
believe me, but 'Lynda' and 'Stanley' are both on there!
Lynda pulled out two small patches from the envelope. "Hey, Dad, come here."
Stanley hurried over to her desk, with Fraser, Ray, and Dief close behind. "Yeah?"
Lynda held up the patches and letter. "Bill wrote back. He wants you to have this." She handed him one of the patches. "You're now a hurricane hunter."
"Oh gee, just what I've always wanted," Stanley rolled his eyes.
"Now, Stanley," Fraser reprimanded his partner. "You should be proud to own that patch. You've done something that very few people get to experience."
"Benny's right, ya know," Ray agreed. "Besides, it's kind of cool-looking.
Stanley smiled. I'll keep it. I just won't wear it, okay?"
The three went back to working on a case, leaving Lynda with Diefenbaker. Lynda admired her patch. "What do you think, Dief?" She put the patch next to the 'Civilian Aid' patch on her right sleeve. "You like it there?" Dief woofed. Lynda smiled. "Okay, then, tonight I'll sew it on."
She put the patch and the letter back in the envelope, put the envelope
in one of her desk drawers, then went back to work, the wind howling
outside, constantly reminding her that only a week ago she had experienced
that same storm in another form - the form of Hurricane Jason.
THE END