The Weatherman (3 page)

Meteorologist Dixon Bell angrily fastened the battery pack to his belt, clipped the microphone to his lapel, and plugged in the earpiece. He threw on his coat, straightened his tie, and shot a dirty scowl over at the control room, where producer Chris Mack was sitting. He stepped up to the weather podium, a big 7 pasted to the front. It was just a few feet from the anchor desk, and precious few feet from Andrea Labore. Even a storm couldn’t wash her from his mind. She was the most attractive woman he had ever known. He watched her take her place next to anchorman Ron Shea. In an awkward but necessary move she stuck her hand far down her blouse, exposing her bra strap. She pulled the little microphone through and clipped it above her breasts. She straightened her blouse and brushed back her hair. She smiled over at the Weatherman, a nervous smile. The floor director cued the talent They were on the air.

In the beginning one man could sit at a desk and read the news, the weather, and the sports. But in today’s high-tech world of rapid-fire television it takes three or four people of mixed gender just to tell one story. Video Ping-Pong.

When the music faded away and the red light came on, Ron Shea stared into the camera and read the headline. “Today the
FBI
released its national crime survey. It showed the number of Americans victimized by a violent crime rose last year … up three percent from the previous year.”

Next, Andrea Labore read a line. “While those statistics say the Twin Cities is still among the safest urban areas in the United States … they also say violent crime is up here … especially homicide.”

Then Ron Shea got to me point before going to the live shot. “That dire warning came too late for a thirty-two-year-old Minneapolis woman. Her body was discovered this morning in a parking ramp just a few feet from this very newsroom. Police believe she was strangled after leaving work yesterday. The newest member of our staff, Beth Knutson, is live at the murder scene. Beth?”

They were clear. Dixon Bell noted the bad weather on the monitor. He had three minutes. He turned back to the weather center.

Throughout the remodeling that took place after Clancy Communications bought the station, the weather department had begged for a southwest window. But the promotion department wanted the weather center visible from the set, so weather ended up on the opposite side of the newsroom with a window looking northeast, worthless for spotting oncoming storms. Still, Dixon Bell made sure what viewers saw on the set was not all facade. He laid out computers, radar screens, and a digital weather station so he could work while the anchors blabbed away. Though it was highly functional, it did get encased in glossy, painted plywood and mood lighting, yellow-orange, the hue of fire.

The Weatherman checked the digital weather station. The temperature had dropped six degrees. The barometric pressure was 29.55 inches and falling. The wind was gusting up to forty miles per hour.

Dixon Bell was disgusted. With the millions of dollars TV stations spend on weather equipment, you would think they and the National Weather Service would generously share information and happily coordinate their efforts. Doesn’t happen. The Weatherman picked up the phone, pushed the memory button, and the battle was on. “It is on Doppler,” he scolded through clenched teeth. “It is coming off the computers. And it is on your instruments. You’re just not reading them right.”

“Don’t pull that crap on me again, Bell,” came the bitter voice on the other end. “We’re in a watch, and I’m watching the same thing you’re watching, and the radar doesn’t indicate any kind of rotation, hook echo, or comma-shaped signal on the edge of the cloud. Nor have we had one single call about damaging winds. All we need is one spotter to call us.”

“I’m calling you.”

“Do you see a severe storm?”

“Yes! In my mind I see one hell of a storm!”

“In your mind? Oh, that’s wonderful. Let me tell you something, Bell. We don’t appreciate one bit your going on TV and contradicting our forecasts day in and day out. As for warnings, I’m going to warn you …”

That’s when he heard it, or thought he did. It was an electronic hum coming from the monitors-a frequency so low it was barely discernible. Dixon Bell gently hung up the phone. He looked into the studio. Nobody noticed anything wrong.

The Weatherman checked his barometer. Pressure was dropping dramatically-29.51, 29.48, 29.45. The temperature was down two more degrees. He stuck his face in the radar screen. Still nothing.

The Weatherman reached behind his monitor and yanked out the cable. He punched up Channel 13 and darkened the screen till it was black. Then he punched in Channel 2. It was flashing brightly, on and off. Lightning strikes nearby. Then it happened. The screen glowed bright white and stayed that way. Dixon Bell was out of his chair in a flash.

News was rolling tape. One of the murder victim’s co-workers was telling the reporter what a saint she had been. “She was the most caring person that you could imagine, always trying to make the world a better place for women. It’s inhuman that she would be victimized like this.”

The Weatherman ducked behind the camera operators, leaped down the stairs, and shot across the newsroom to the southwest window. The sky had blackened and a rain-free cloud base was showing its face-a scarred, tormented face with a tail cloud extending off to the north. Classic tornado storm structure. Then triple-flash lightning bolts set fire to the sky and Dixon Bell’s attention was drawn to the parking ramp roof, and for a split second he saw the spot where a woman had been murdered. Then it was dark again and thundering.

Reporter Beth Knutson signed off and threw it back to Ron Shea.

Shea thanked the new reporter for having braved the weather and welcomed her to Minnesota. He tossed it to Andrea.

Andrea read a line about the record homicide rate and threw it back to Shea.

“We’re going to have more on this very unusual murder a bit later in the broadcast, but now I understand we have some severe weather breaking out there. For that we’re going to turn to Weather Center 7 and meteorologist Dixon Bell. Dixon?”

The Weatherman was back on the set, thundering with certitude. “Ron, this is tornado season, and that’s what we’re talking about here-a tornado. The skies above us right now are screaming it, and the time to seek shelter is now, not later. Let’s quick go over the rules.”

“Just a minute, Dixon. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m confused. Is there a tornado warning? Has one been spotted?”

“No, Ron. Officially we’ve been in a severe thunderstorm watch for the past hour. That watch was issued by the Severe Storms Forecast Center in Kansas City, which is fine if you like your weather from Kansas City. But I was just out on the Nicollet Walk, where I saw thunderheads topping out at sixty thousand feet and the wind was wrapping around me like a blanket.”

“But the National Weather Service office at the airport has not issued a tornado warning?”

“No, they haven’t. But not to worry, I called out there and woke the guy up. It should be coming any minute.”

“So you’re predicting a tornado out of this?”

“I don’t predict the weather. I read the weather. This storm has tornado written all over it, and right now it’s over the metropolitan area.” Dixon Bell looked into the camera and spoke in measured southern tones that held viewers spellbound. “Tornadoes do not sweep you up and drop you in the land of Oz. They kill. Split-second decisions mean life or death. Real quick, what to do. At home, go to the basement immediately. If you can’t do that, get into a closet, or a bathroom. Get under something sturdy. If you’re watching this at school, go to an interior hallway on the lowest floor. Stay out of auditoriums and gymnasiums, or anything with a free-span roof. Same in office buildings. Stand in an interior hallway on a lower floor. Get away from windows. Remember, any shelter is better than being outside. We don’t know where this thing is going to drop. As you can see on the radar screen …”

As the Weatherman explained to viewers the storm cell passing over them, Chris Mack was talking in his ear. “Throw it to Andrea. Ten seconds.”

The Ping-Pong continued. Dixon Bell played along. He had done all that he could. He wrapped it up with a plea to take shelter, then turned to the woman he loved. “Andrea?”

“Dixon, one man who might give us a clue about a possible tornado is Skyhawk 7 pilot Bob Buckridge. Bucky, where are you, and what are you seeing up there?”

I’m up in the air in this real neat helicopter and I see a whole bunch of wind and rain and stuff like that. Any other questions, you ignorant … Bob Buckridge squeezed the microphone trigger on the control stick. “Yeah, Andrea, we’re over Bloomington now and we’re dogging a particularly nasty-looking cloud moving towards downtown. Dixon is right about the skies. As you can see on your monitors, this is an ugly storm approaching.” Rain and hail beat down on the chopper, assaulting the cockpit. Lightning shot across the Plexiglas. Anybody watching could see his color television set turn to black and white, raindrops splattering across the screen.

Now the producer was in Andrea’s ear. “Take it back, Andrea. He hasn’t got anything, goddammit.”

“Well, Bucky,” said Andrea, “I wouldn’t stay up there too much longer if I were you.”

Safer here than in that ejector seat you’re sitting in. Buckridge squeezed the trigger again. “Right, Andrea. It’s getting pretty bad up here. We’re coming home.” That was his signature line. Each weekday as a kicker to the five o’clock report the anchors would turn to the studio monitor. “Now let’s take one last look at traffic with Bob Buckridge. Bucky?” Buckridge would give the traffic report, then: “That’s it from Skyhawk 7. We’re coming home.” The anchors would turn to the camera. Big smiles. “And that’s it from Sky High News.” Cue schlocky music. Pull back camera two. Countdown to network. Fade. Clear.

But this day’s weather would write a script with a far different ending.

The tornado sprung from the sky over the southwest suburb of Eden Prairie, and so for the state history books the deadly twister took its name. It skipped over hilly grasslands and unfinished homes, at first doing little damage. Then it quickly found its bearings and bore down on the heavily populated suburb of Edina.

Witnesses caught in the storm’s path were stunned by the speed with which it struck. Edina was hit before the National Weather Service could sound the warning sirens. It touched ground first on fashionable France Avenue, known for its shopping and entertainment. There the funnel entertained shoppers by dancing past the Edina movie theater, grabbing the tall
EDINA
sign over the marquee and snapping it in two, sending the first three letters crashing to the sidewalk, where they ended upside down in an explosion of sparks. The clock in the movie theater stopped at 5:08 P.M. Storefront windows exploded next, some from flying debris, others from the pressure. Mannequins dressed in the latest Paris fashions were hurled into the street. A flower shop simply disintegrated. Rose petals settled on the ruins. Edina police would report the first casualties, shocked faces staring up into the blackness, fresh flowers sprinkled over them.

“Just about fifteen seconds of turmoil … of hell … unreal … I just can’t believe if… I’ve never seen anything like this before … and no warning … nothing … no warning at all .,. no sirens … no sirens until about ten minutes after it hit … unbelievable.”

Bob Buckridge spotted the tornado right after he threw it back to Andrea. It came swirling out of the southwest, heading northeast, an awesome cone of descending smoke with a counterclockwise spin. The vortex cloud was black, but as it began to close range it quickly turned muddy brown as dirt, debris, and the theater marquee got sucked into the whirl. The crafty pilot had his headset on, tuning out the unreal world spinning around him, but Kitt Karson could hear what sounded like the roar of F-16s taking off on another mission. Thoughts of heading home, thoughts of their own safety got sucked away. Instinct and adrenaline took command. Buckridge circled clockwise and snuck up behind the monster.

The tornado hopped like a stone skipping on water, sometimes skipping entire neighborhoods, sometimes cutting a swath three blocks wide as it roared northeast from Edina through South Minneapolis toward lakes dotted with sailboats and swimmers. Homes were shredded as if by an eggbeater, torn down to their foundations.

“We were looking out the window and we saw bricks flying through the air, pieces of houses, everything … and a rolling kind of a cloud in the sky … and I said, ‘Everybody down the basement, down the basement’ ... and the baby was upstairs sleeping, so I ran upstairs … I couldn’t get the door open … there was such suction… and I was really afraid… and the pressure was building up in the house … I pulled and pulled and finally it opened … I pulled the baby out and I ran down the stairs … and I could hear crashing … and everybody’s ears were popping … Then I heard this train noise, and then that woman screaming. It was terrifying.”

At times dust and debris obscured the funnel. At times Buckridge flew so close they could look up and down the shaft, which extended a thousand feet from cloud to ground and swayed gently. Kitt aimed his camera right down the spout to where it narrowed at the bottom rim and the tip ripped up everything on earth. Despite all the weapons of destruction he had seen unleashed on his native country, he’d never witnessed anything like this. And when they moved in close, the roar was deafening, and when they dropped back there was a high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream that made the photographer’s skin crawl.

Back in the Channel 7 control room producer Chris Mack could not believe the pictures Skyhawk 7 was beaming in. He grabbed the microphone in front of him. “Andrea, toss it to Bucky-now!” He grabbed the director next to him. “Go to it, goddammit!” He looked up at the small monitor where the Weatherman stood. ” ‘His own safety,’ ” he said mockingly. “He’s got the son of a bitch chasing a tornado.”

Bob Buckridge was on the air, not waiting for any cue, sounding the warning as dispassionately as he could. “We have a tornado on the ground causing extensive damage. This is a major twister doing major damage. It is moving northeast at about forty miles per hour in a line from Eden Prairie to Lake Harriet to downtown. Anybody in this path should seek shelter immediately. Again, we have a tornado on the ground in the metro area.”