Ark Storm (35 page)

She found Dan’s byline, read with a smile.

THE SAN FRANCISCO REPORTER

A Warm-up Act?

BY DAN JACOBSEN

The storm that has visited death and destruction upon California from Friday night through the weekend and at time of press is raging still is the first storm of the winter resulting from the atmospheric rivers that course through the sky like giant fire hoses. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, NOAA, issued a statement late yesterday saying that a landfalling AR caused the disastrous high winds and rains that have led to the deaths of 14 people. Two people were killed when a tree fell onto their car in Salinas, three more when two cars collided in treacherous road conditions in San Simeon and a total of nine more lost their lives when a landslide washed away five homes at the foot of the Coastal Ranges near San Miguel. The questions ordinary citizens, and the panel of experts at NOAA are asking themselves is:
Is this a warm-up act for the much feared Shake Out ARk Storm? Might it even be the beginning of the ARk Storm 1000 itself?

What is it about atmospheric rivers that makes the storms they can create so dangerous?

Most of the water vapor transported within the ARs (75%) takes place within the lowest 2.5 kilometers of the atmosphere, well below the highest altitudes of the Sierra Nevada. The combination of strong horizontal winds, large water vapor content, and what the scientists call lower-tropospheric-moist-neutrality all combine to create “ripe conditions” for heavy orographic rainfall. To the layman, that means heavy rainfall on the coastal side of the Sierra Nevada.

This occurs as a result of the Sierra Nevada mountain range and the Coastal Ranges forcing moisture-carrying air upward. Daytime heating of the mountain barrier surface forces the air farther upward. As the air rises it expands and cools. This cooling of a rising moist air parcel may lower its temperature to its dew point, causing the water vapor within it to condense and form a cloud. If enough water vapor condenses into cloud droplets, these droplets may become large enough to fall to the ground as rain.

The rain then slams down the mountains, causing landslides and flooding in the plains below.

ARs are laden with water vapor, some of them carrying as much water vapor as does the Amazon in liquid form. With the right preconditions, just one intense atmospheric river hitting the Sierra Nevada mountain range east of Sacramento could bring devastation to California. Expanding urban centers lie in floodplains where flooding could result in extensive loss of life and hundreds of billions of dollars in damages.

With what threatens to be a mega-Niño kicking off across the Pacific, meteorologists predict we are in for a season of wild weather. Niños typically bring a wetter-than-average winter season to California. The NOAA’s official advice is to stay tuned in to your local radio stations for weather alerts. They declined to comment when asked if they thought yesterday’s storm was “a warm-up act.”

“The storm we’ve just had occurs perhaps once a decade,” spokesperson Abby McVeil stated. But that may be premature given that it’s still raining.

“It’s like Texas Hold ’Em after the first four cards,” joked a research scientist who wished to remain anonymous. “We’re still waiting for the final cards to be dealt.”

92

Fair summary, thought Gwen, though she reckoned the cards for this storm had been dealt, and it wasn’t the big one. She folded the paper and placed it thoughtfully on her desk as Mandy teetered in on her four-inch heels.

Messenger’s PA swiveled her pencil-skirt-encased ass and perched on Gwen’s desk. Gwen had a fleeting desire to raise one booted leg and push her off.

“I just read that too!” exclaimed Mandy, nodding at the article.

“Whaddya reckon?” she asked, leaning across the desk conspiratorially. “It looks like it’s gonna keep raining forever. This the big one?”

Gwen looked over Mandy’s shoulder as Gabriel Messenger appeared. He paused in the doorway, tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Rain’ll stop soon,” announced Gwen. “This isn’t the big one. Call it a warm-up act if you like,” she added, eyes on Messenger as she spoke, almost by rote, knowing what he wanted to hear, giving it to him in the easy sound bites that allowed her to think other thoughts, to scrutinize him, to wonder why he was having Dan surveilled. If it was him who was responsible. She and Dan were still infuriatingly short of evidence.

“Why?” asked Messenger, taking a step closer. Mandy got up from the desk and moved to the side of the office, her scowl showing she was all too aware she was just a sideshow now. “What makes you so sure?” Messenger continued.

“Just wait. And watch,” added Gwen with a gnomic smile.

“For how long?” asked Messenger, glancing at his watch.

Gwen got up, walked to her window, peered out, studying the clouds.

“It’ll stop raining in an hour. Two max. That do you?”

Messenger barked out a laugh.

“Thousand dollars on it stopping by ten a.m.?”

Gwen turned to him, amused. “You and your metrics…” But she shook his outstretched hand.

“Done,” she said.

“Accepted!” declared Messenger. “So, now tell me why I’m going to lose.”

“OK. Those thick, gray nimbostratus that have set in over the past two days are breaking up,” said Gwen, pointing at the sky.

Messenger moved up to her, stood alongside her, peering out. Gwen could smell his citrus cologne, could feel his body heat. Mandy had come up on her other side, stopping her from inching away.

“The sky is lighter,” continued Gwen. “A pale gray. Not a slate gray. That’s ’cause the darker gray stratus fractus clouds, which often sit below the nimbostratus, they’re the result of falling rain, well they’ve blown away overnight. That tells the story you can see with your own eyes. The rain’s lessening.” Gwen took a breath, continued at a sharp clip. “The nimbostratus have dropped most of their load. They’re almost, but not quite, purged by the storm. They’re still moving at a good nick, so they’ll be over the mountains and out of our way soon.” Gwen gestured like a weather girl.

“Blue skies are coming.” She turned to Messenger, gave him a wry smile. “Meteorologically speaking.”

*   *   *

One hour and five minutes later, followed by Mandy, Gabriel Messenger appeared at Gwen’s office fighting a smile. He stood by Gwen’s window, staring out at the brightening sky. From which no rain fell on Carmel Valley.

“Well done, Miss Oracle,” Messenger announced, turning to Gwen, lips twitching. He reached into his pocket, removed a wad of notes. He counted out ten hundreds. Gwen watched Mandy’s eyes, narrow with avarice, as Messenger handed them over to her.

Gwen took the money. It was still warm, alive almost.

93

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, MONDAY

Pauline Southward sat in the library room of the NSA. She read and reread the article, feeling a mixture of excitement and anger. She grabbed up the paper, ignoring the P
ROPERTY OF
NSA stamped on it. She rolled it into a baton and squeezed it into her handbag, then she hurried down the stairs to the underground car park.

She called ahead on her cell as she drove from Fort Meade in her black Porsche 911. Ten years old and it still drove like a dream. It was her indulgence, her reward, her greatest love, she thought with a wry smile. It made all her brutal economies more than worthwhile. It made the commute from Fort Meade to Tyson’s Corner a pleasure. She knew where the speed cameras were and where they weren’t. She drove like a pro, accelerating into open space, feeling the car surge forward, hugging the road, cornering like it was Velcroed to the tarmac. She wove through the traffic, slowed just before she came into the camera’s range.

She got Chief Canning’s PA, Cooper. “Coop, I got something for the Chief and the Project Oscar team. I’ll be with you in twenty.”

She walked into Canning’s corner office twenty minutes later, exactly. They were all waiting for her, save Chris Furlong: Canning standing staring out of his window; Zucker sitting, hands folded primly in her red-trousered lap; Del Russo and Peters standing like sentries, gripping the backs of hastily pulled-up chairs, one to either side of Zucker. To Del Russo’s left, a chair stood empty.

“Chief Canning,” said Southward, addressing Canning’s back.

He turned. “Ms. Southward. Please, take a seat.”

Southward stayed standing. She threw down the copy of the
San Francisco Reporter
on the polished desk. Her normally pale face was flushed. She glared at Del Russo and Peters.

“Did none of you do the most basic check, the A part of the A to Z?” she asked. “Or were you all searching around the sexy end of the alphabet?”

Canning stared from the newspaper to Southward, then at the vacant seat. Southward sat. Del Russo and Peters stared at her. As if by common consent, they angled their chairs and sat, each facing Southward.

“All you needed to do was Google the guy!” Southward declared.

“ARk Storm!” she said, pointing at the newspaper. “He’s writing about an ARk Storm, a calamitous winter storm that sooner or later is predicted to hit the US West Coast, causing biblical flooding. Read the article!” She jumped up, reached forward, picked up the newspaper, still rolled, brandished it like a weapon. “Today’s
San Fran Reporter.
It’s the second article he’s written on ARk Storm. It’s the link we’ve been looking for. The method. The delivery system, if you like.”

Canning held up his hand. “Whoa, with the greatest respect, Ms. Southward, are you trying to tell us that somehow Sheikh Ali is plotting to produce an ARk Storm, that he can control the weather?”

Collegial male laughter bumped round the room. Zucker was frowning and regarding Southward speculatively.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” insisted Southward.

“Jihad by weather,” drawled Del Russo, leaning back in his chair, stretching out his long legs, inadvertently kicking Southward’s ankle. She kicked back, with a stilettoed heel.

“I don’t think so, Ms. Southward,” cautioned Canning. “Be careful,” he added. “Seems to me like you’ve got target fixation. Losing clarity. I know you want to get Sheikh Ali, have from the get-go, but pinning the absurd on him ain’t gonna work.”

Southward jumped to her feet. “Absurd is it? You’re all so pleased with yourselves, you can’t see what’s in front of your own noses. Sheikh Ali is planning jihad on the West Coast of the USA. Sheikh Ali sets up a ‘contingency kidnap’ of one Daniel Jacobsen, who just happens to be writing about a devastating event possibly hitting the West Coast, incidentally justifying the short sales and the put options on California real estate casualty insurance companies.” She shot a look at Zucker, who was watching her with a kind of hyper-alert fascination. “And you guys cannot connect the dots…” she added with quiet finality.

Zucker said nothing. She had never heard anyone talk to Canning in this immoderate, overly emotional way.

“Coincidence,” said Peters. “It does happen and it’s not always sinister or relevant when it does.” He spoke gently, as if trying to calm Southward.

Southward took the time to glower at each of the four occupants of the room.

“Go fiddle then!” She spun round and stalked from the room.

Canning watched Southward half amused, half annoyed. He winced as a shot of acid stabbed his guts. It was a long time since anyone had spoken to him like that. Maybe too long … everyone was so keen to tell him what they thought he wanted to hear.

He pursed his lips, wondering.… The woman was passionate, brilliant, thought outside the box … as did the Jihadis themselves. His stomach gave another squirm of disquiet. He leaned back in his chair, ran his hands over his bald pate, asked himself, just for intellectual completeness,
What if you could control the weather? Or worse, what if the wrong person could control the weather?

94

THE SECURITIES AND EXCHANGE COMMISSION REGIONAL OFFICE, NEW YORK CITY, TUESDAY MORNING

Manhattan had received its first somewhat unseasonably early snow that morning, a good two inches that freshened the city, at least for the few hours before it turned to slush, filling the air with its clean, crystalline smell. Rac Rodgers’ nose glowed red in tribute. He had taken to getting off a few subway stops early, speed marching the last twenty minutes of his commute, come rain, shine, or snow, in a desperate attempt to regain some of the fitness he had lost since his daughter had been born. Watching Ange Wilkie flex her muscles all day long, going out for lunchtime workouts or runs, got dispiriting. He wanted to level the scores, just a little. And his belt was already one notch tighter.

Ange, in deference to the snow, wore slim-legged black trousers, some kind of tough-girl combat boots with ridged soles, and what looked like a cashmere turtleneck in triumphal red. Bergers, by contrast, made no concession to the weather. He wore his white shirt with sleeves rolled up as always, as if ever ready for a fistfight. A downy parka did hang from his door hook, draped with a scarf that looked like it had been knitted by one of his children, but Rac imagined he wore it only because his wife insisted. The man seemed impervious to the elements.

Ange sat in the very self-contained way that Rac knew by now presaged news, big news. She had her excitement under lockdown. She glanced at him and Bergers, who was just finishing off an e-mail.

“I just love CTC,” she announced. “I get to listen to Ronnie and his shit all day long.”

Rac eyed her, wondering if she was being sarcastic, realized she wasn’t. She was on the hunt and she
did
love it.

“Something came in yesterday,” Wilkie added. “And about friggin’ time. Two weeks since the FISA warrant came out and Ronnie’s been the proverbial clean whistle.”

Rac raised his eyebrows. “Nothing clean about his whistle. He’s been blowing it round at least two women besides his wife,” he declared indignantly.