Weather Machine
Dr. Richard Mercer Atkins digs through the deep pocket of the car’s center console.
“I swear it’s in- ah”
He rips a blue lanyard out from underneath a collection of CD cases, sending those, as well as a tube of chapstick and a few nickels, into the air. He extends the badge, dangling on the metal hook at the business end of the lanyard, to the guard. BEEP.
“Thank you Dr. Atkins. Go ahead in.”
“You’re welcome Stanley. Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“New orders, Mr. Atkins. That’s all.”
Richard looks love top of his glasses - rectangular and rimless.
“Stanley if I’m walking into some trouble I’d like a little warning”
“Sir.”
Pvt. Stanley Cardiff stands at attention, professionally avoiding eye contact with Richard.
“Thank you, Stanley”
As he rolls his Acura into the corridors of low buildings, radar dishes, solar panels, snaking pipeworks, and zig-zagging powerlines that make up the Center for Atmospheric and Meteorological Research and Development (CAMRAD), Richard experiences a bout of acid reflux. A yellow-green burning hits the back of his throat, working its way down into his chest cavity. Then comes the tightness - like someone tied a Monkey’s Fist and wedged it behind his sternum. “Jesus Christ” he says, nurses the pain in his chest with his left thumb knuckle. The right arm balances all his needed accessories - briefcase, banana for breakfast, silver-and-black-plastic thermos, and a jangling collection of keys, hooked around his pinky. He swings the drivers door closed with his knee.
On approach to the main facilities entrance, Richard sees two more guards - Pvt.s Wilson and Martinez - both assuming the same posture as Pvt. Cardiff, flanking the doors. This causes Richard to pat his chest, shirt pocket, back pocket, the classic tell of having forgotten something.
“Hey!”
Richard waits for a response. Both soldiers look in Richard’s direction.
“Do I need my badge up there!?” Richard throws his fairly thin voice as far as he can, hoping it gets the rest of the way across the parking lot.
Martinez replies - “Yes, Sir!”
Richard scuffs to a stop, and turns about.
<———>
The necessities Richard brought in from the car now cascade onto his desk. His core objective now is to get at the water cooler - his own private cooler, one of the only line items Rich felt entitled to negotiate into his contract following his promotion some five years ago - which sits behind the desk, for easy access throughout the workday. Hydration is very important to Richard. He goes for a Dixie cup, conveniently found in the metal holder on the side of the cooler (an accessory stipulated in the contract, down to the model number). He drops 2 Alka-Seltzers into the cup, swirls them around, and-
“Did you hear?”
Dr. Leonora Cotton, from down the hall, protrudes herself halfway into the office, anchored by one hand on each side of the doorway.
“what?”
The Dixie cup now sits only a few inches from Richard’s lips.
“Meeting in the lab. About whateverthefuck is going on.”
“What is going on?”
“I don’t know. Nothing good, I bet.” Richard nods okay and makes his way around his desk. “ep ep ep, you’re not taking that into the lab are you?” Leonora points at his Dixie cup.
“Course not.”
<———>
The scientists in building 4B of the Center for Meteorological Research and Development have been focusing their efforts for the last two years on the DCAC/MRM project - a 2-headed project which expands into Directional Condensation and Aeration Controller, and Meteorological Resource Management, respectively. DCAC is a technology based around close-orbiting satellite network designed to manipulate and control weather patterns, even capable of ‘venting’ the earth’s temperature - though currently only capable at a regional scale. MRM, on the other hand, is a global-scale study into weather patterns as a resource, to guide the users of DCAC it the appropriate utilization for the greater good of humanity. Together, this program was intended to synthetically reproduce weather patterns to stabilize the global climate.
Dr. Atkins, the senior researcher for the MRM’s Typhoon/Tropical Storm division, was responsible for collecting a disconcertingly wide array of data points for all the major coastal storms for the past 100 years. Factors he is considering in his studies include: flood height from sea-swell, average coastline damage (in dollar amount and in square footage lost), local and global economic impact ≤ 1 year after storm, vegetation changes, animal hunting habits (and other food chain related discrepancies).
Richard’s ultimate goal is to find the optimal points of frequency and intensity at which these storms should occur to maintain ideal living conditions. In conjunction with the other MRM teams, the ultimate goal is for complete control of the earth’s climate, so as to bring on If Atkins’ team could make more predictable and manageable storms, it can actually encourage ecological flourishing, especially in the aquatic wildlife sector. More fish means healthier birds, too. Another factor that excites Richard is the more predictable employment opportunities for the labor sectors in these tropical storm regions; knowing that an influx of work to reconstruct structures will be a more regular occurrence - bringing stability to both their financial and social lives.
“It’s not about eradicating these storms.” was how Richard began his address to the new members of his research team, after an injection from the NIS stimulated their research significantly. “It’s about timing. When and where and how hard and how long.”
You wouldn’t have called Dr. Atkins’ initial address to the MRM T/TS team a rousing one. You could liken it more to something along the lines of an airline steward’s safety protocol explanation. Highly technical, straight to the point, burdened by a few obligatory jokes that neither speaker nor listener cared for, and overall something that’s easily ignored. It didn’t help that Dr. Atkins was standing uncomfortably in a shiny, echoey, star trekkian chrome-and-fiberglass facility, which he’d first seen for himself only a few days prior. The project’s previous home had been the basement of MIT’s PAOC building (Programs in Atmospheres, Oceans, and Climates). This place Richard had come to love, with its concrete walls, low lights, and a near-zero distractions. But, like all good things involving money, the financial backing of the NIS came with stipulations. Most intrusively, in Dr. Atkins’ mind, was the imposition to move DCAC/MRM research to secure military facility near Rockland, ME. This new facility was a large a collection of buildings, the main testing area being a hangar-like space within Building 4B, filled to the brim with tubes, pipes, boxes with lights, multiple CR-441 Atmospheric Pressure Simulators (an upgrade from the one shared CR-441 at MIT). Despite the much needed improvements to the project’s quality of life, Rich has never been quick at adjusting to new spaces.
He now stands in that very, shiny, lab, shoulder to shoulder with the entire DCAC/MRM team, one hundred and forty four in total, quietly grunting away his heartburn episode and struggling to listen to Project Director Dr. Brace Westlake introduce two well decorated, apparently high-ranking military men, who flank either side of the short and squirrelly scientist. The team in its entirety maxed out the capacity of the lab - some resorting to the mezzanine walkway as overflow standing space. The three men of authority were crammed into the most-empty corner of the lab. Sat in front of them, atop a bench stool, is a medium-sized karaoke speaker, being used in this case as an improvised PA system. The LEDs that border the karaoke machine pulse and change color, in response to the men’s words.
The next to speak was the higher-ranking of the two soldiers - Captain Jeremiah Kirke. He chose to open his speech with a quip about his time stationed on the U.S.S. Empathy, insisting he “knows a thing or two about bad weather”.
“Now, listen. I’m a Navy man first and foremost. We can appreciate what’s happening to our climate here. Conditions are gettin dangerous, unpredictable, and there’s no signs of things slowin down. Now I think that what y’all are working on here is awfully exciting, it’s awfully compelling. Major Silver here-” he gestures to his fellow officer “-showed me the videos of your South Pacific test. That cloud pops up damnnear outta nowhere, I mean if that’s not just magic, I d’know what. Ain’t seen nothin like it. Major Silver, you seen anything like ‘at before?”
“No sir, nothin like it”
Captain Kirke spoke with a cowboy twang that seemed it’d be most effective for flirting with the young ladies at the Honkey Tonk. It was a focused beam of syllables, leaving minimal room for interruption or divergent thought. This was all helpfully demonstrated by the karaoke machine’s frantic strobing.
“Right. Damn near impossible what I was seeing. I had it check it wuddn’t AI”
A crackling laugh comes out of Kirke, he leans over and smacks Major Silver’s chest with the back of his hand - a hand which appears to be missing its pinky finger.
“All I can say is I’m impressed, and the top brass is impressed too. So much so, that we want to make sure there is nothing getting in the way of y’all finishing this thing off. Now, Mr. Westlake, d’you like cash?”
Dr. Westlake, awkwardly positioned behind the karaoke machine, lets out a sheepish nose-air laugh, a shrug, a nod, and a gesture back to Captain Kirke.
“I know you like cash! And in this game, the road to completion is paved by cash, isn’t it, Major Silver”
“yes, Sir.”
“Exactly right. So ladies and gentlemen, listen up. The Office of the Navy and Marine Corps, underneath the supervision of the United States Department of Defense, is prepared to contribute twenty billion dollars to continued developed and assured completion and implementation of the DCAC/MRM program.”
The crowd of scientists erupts. A cacophony of celebrations and disbeliefs bounce off the metal roof and the rafter struts. The stat-checkers in the room would have pointed out this is the single largest military contract ever to be awarded.
“Now this twenty billions is first and foremost yours, free to do with what you wish. We trust you, we trust you. But we do have a few special things on toppa that, just cause we know how hard y’all been workin at this. First thing we’re gonna do is give everyone in this room right now a bonus, we like to call this the Navy Bump-“ He bumps his own two fists together, “that’s gonna be fifty five thousand dollars straight to each an’ every one of you. That’s personal expenses, fix the car, fix the gutters, all those sacrifices you made for this project, well now you can do right on sumn-of-em. Now in addition to that we understand you folks been working near-non-stop for the last 3 years on minimal hiatus, so, we’re giving all y’all a ten thousand dollar travel stipend. take the misses to the bahamas - and while you’re going don’t forget to flick on your sunshine machine, make it nice and pretty while you’re there.”
Many of the scientists laugh at this. Richard tries to force a chuckle, but it only further agitated his gastrointestinal situation. As the acidic burp comes up his esophagus, Richard tilts his head down, and realizes he was right not to laugh, given that the DCAC Orbital System in no way functions as a ‘sunshine machine’. He sees, in the reflection of a CR-441’s chrome side panel, a scientist exiting out the back. He swings his head around to see a flash of Leonora’s purple scrunchie before the metal door wheezes shut. Richard goes after her.
If he’d stayed to mingle, he’d have probably seen the beads of sweat now populating his boss, Dr. Westlake’s, large forehead, becoming trapped amongst the ridge lines and deep crevasses of his furrowed brow. Despite his rosy-cheeked smile, everything above the nose indicates distress in the little man. The whole image gives the feel of a hostage succumbing to Stockholm syndrome in real time, more than of a man who just completed a record-breaking funding round.
“Now, who drinks champagne?” Captain Kirke barks.
<———>
Dr. Atkins’ New Balance sneakers squeak on down to Leonora’s office, only to find it empty. An elevator ding from further down the hall gives him the impression she’s already on her way home for the day. He shuffles back to his own office, one with a view of parking lot, and swings open the window. Leonora’s dark ponytail bounces its way through the shiny maze of cars, landing at a 2004 Toyota Corolla - identifiable in the crowd thanks to the delaminating clear-coat on the car’s roof.
“Leonora!”
“What?!” She responds, with impressive projection.
“Where are you going?!”
“Abe’s!”
Leonora swings open the driver’s door and fires up the engine. The accessory belt squeals.
Abe’s Tavern is the nearest off-base bar, known for it’s “Claw Shot” - a free shot of Appalachian moonshine taken out of a lobster’s hollowed out crusher claw, for which you have to qualify by ordering and finishing at least 3 drinks prior. The shack could be found off State Route 73, part of the standard commute for most of the DCAC/MRM scientists, just before you enter Rockland proper. A result of the DCAC/MRM relocation to Maine was that Abe’s demographic had grown comically diverse - the standard breed of salty fisher- and lobster-men were now joined by the best that North America’s experimental meteorological faculty had to offer. It was a motley group which, miraculously, had absolutely no difficulty in coexisting. An image of America many thought to be long disintegrated, the working class seamen and the lab coat stiffs managed to found common ground in the art of heavy drinking (as well as the clandestine sport of driving home afterwards).
“You know, I was going to be a physicist. Applied physics. I fucking love applied physics. But you know what jobs you get from applied physics?”
Richard had heard this one before. It usually came out around drink number 4, but today, it came while they waited on their first round - a double gin and tonic and a ginger ale.
“Bombs. You making fucking bombs with fucking applied physics. I don’t want to build bombs, Rich.”
“Well you’re not building bombs, Len, you’re… you’re-“
“I’m quitting, Richard.”
“Now hang on. This is- we are- uhhh- this is really a good thing for us. Leonora. Really. It’s, we can really move forward on this thing, I mean, $20 billion, that’s-”
“that’s bomb money. Richard. Don’t be naive.”
That day, it was about 12:30 when the two started drinking, was the drunkest Richard had ever been, and would ever be, in his entire life. Against his own wishes, Richard began partaking, believing it’d raise his chances of winning Leonora back over. After two Vodka Cranberries, for which he was mocked, Leonora took over his orders. Whiskey. Whiskey. Bourbon. Beer. Bourbon. Jaggerbomb. Another beer. Richard fought through the burning in his insides. Partly because Leonora was undeniably one of the smartest members of the MRM team - not just in their subdivision, but in the entire program. Much smarter than himself, he would admit if ever asked. Losing her, Richard was acutely aware, might knee-cap the entire program. The other part was that he was very fond of Leonora. She was one of the only scientists in the office that would work in their office with the door open. She would play music from her office - poppy, energetic, happy music that Richard, who’d be raised by his grandparents on the library of classical and white-man big band music, had never had any impetus to pursue on his own. Richard would hear it from across the hall, he even Shazam’ed a few of them (an app which he was deeply fascinated by for its technical capabilities, despite his relative disinterest in music).
He wondered if he had been a better drinker, could he’ve been more successful in getting her to stay. He was flat on his back by around 6pm, completely passed out before daily crop of men from the harbor had even shown up. Leonora kept on throwing back a broad range of drinks, including the periodic Claw Shot, long into the night.
Richard did not go in to work the next day. Leonora did, only to give her formal resignation to Dr. Westlake. Her office stayed unoccupied for the rest of the week. That Saturday, she came in to clean out her office. Hearing through the HR grapevine that this was the plan, Richard decided to “forget” a handheld anemometer at the office, having no choice but to “pop by” on Saturday.
Their conversation ended with an obviously upset Dr. Cotton saying:
“If anything, you should be doing this too.”
<———>
For the next three years he had not once felt reprieve from his heartburn. A score of doctor visits, specialists, scans, medicines both natural and synthetic, resulted in no progress towards a peaceful inside for Dr. Atkins. It felt as if two screwdrivers had been inserted into his sternum, and were rotated counterclockwise to each other. A pain vortex, he once described it to a military doctor on the Clam. The untreated medical anomaly led to incredible stress. Dr. Atkins rarely slept these days.
Major Silver, the younger officer at the presentation at the lab, turned out to be the Designated Oversight Officer, who stayed on-site full time to “facilitate progress” with DCAC/MRM from that day in the lab onwards. This first bit of “oversight” conducted by the major was a thorough filtering of the staff. Staffers on temporary visas were immediately dealt with. For those with over 6 months remaining, they were repurposed to other low-security military operations - mostly on-base weather monitoring positions. Those under 6, including people in the middle of the permit renewal process, were given a severance package, and were offered a “return stipend” to cover travel expenses for them to return to their countries of origin. The hiring process, necessary with the ballooning objectives of the project, went on like sand inside a Rolex. In the end, the vast majority of the new hires were general science young-bucks who had received the “SS Scholarship” (Scientist/Solder), a new initiative of the ROTC program.
One year into the Navy’s occupation marked the introduction of “Project Riptide”, a Navy-proprietary version of the DCAC Orbital System designed for “Tactical Traversal and Navigation” purposes. Major Silver put it very simply to Richard in a meeting once - “We need to move faster, and the bad guys need to move slower”. Using DCAC, the Navy’s goal was to create ideal weather conditions for their vessels, to ensure no environmental hazards, and in fact create environmental advantages (favorable winds, for example) aid operations like moving Aircraft Carriers to strategic positions, carrying out bombing missions, that sort of thing. However, about halfway through the project’s original 8 month timeline, it became clear to Dr. Atkins that the Naval Brass were perhaps more interested in the offensive opportunities it offered. Flash-flooding, targeted draughts, tornadoes, sandstorms, all prove effective in disabling enemy capabilities. The one flaw, which Atkins had tried to point out many times, is the relative impossibility of strategically dissipating these storms. When the goal is to create weather severe enough to damage environments and manmade structures, you will inevitably create something so powerful that it will carry itself across the landscape, often resulting in the weather equivalent impact on civilian areas as on the military target.
Most of the MRM scientists, whose work was focused on creating ideal climate scenarios for the DCAC system to implement, were transferred to Project Riptide. The DCAC Engineers obviously needed to remain on for hardware development, but with Riptide’s changing needs, they required much less data pertaining to stabilized ecosystem research. By this point, DCAC/MRM was fully operating on an off-shore blacksite called “The Clamshell”, for it’s unique design that you’d get if you saw it, and all public records of the project have since been scrubbed.
Sat in an Osprey on his way out to observe a super-hurricane test, which the Navy boys had been calling “Bertha”, Dr. Atkins rubs his chest.
Over the comms system he listens to the chatter between the two Osprey pilots.
“Two miles from epicenter on this one?”
“Mmmmm no, I think it’s just one. Right? Hey Doc! Two miles or one, how close you wanna be?”
Richard looks over to Major Silver, sitting next to him, smacking gum and looking out the adjacent window. Snaked underneath the overhead cans of the comm headset were two white wires, one to each ear. Major Silver had the habit of listening to music on these observation flights, which he didn’t care about all too much. In fact, Major Silver didn’t bother plugging his headset into the comms channel at all. Atkins stares at the 1/4” jack, bouncing around on the studded floor of the cockpit.
“Just one mile this time.”
While the Osprey navigated its way well within the danger zone of Bertha, Atkins couldn’t help but think of Leonora. He wondered if she knew that the typhoon that had recently hit the Philippines, which was the largest the country had scene in over 200 years, was their doing. He assumed she did. He hoped that what he was about to do, somehow she would figure that out too. He hoped no one would take his place. He wanted the entire project would crumble into ash.
The DCAC Satellites spooled up, altering their high and low pressure systems in series, generating a push-pull through the atmosphere. The hurricane built itself up from its center. If you watch the water, you can see the storm roll itself outwards. The surface of the water grows agitated, fuzzy. By the time the winds made contact with the Osprey, they were moving at about 115 miles per hour. The bird rolled and bucked. The pilots spewed expletives and wrestled with the stick but it was of little use. Major Silver flicked his tinted visor up, his eyes bulging. Each extremity was pressed to a different corner of the cabin, bracing himself as best he could. He looks over at Atkins, shrieking questions like “What the fuck?” and “What did you do?”.
He hoped she was alright, that she had found a better job, that she was happy. He was sad that it didn’t work out. He felt, that it was the least he could do.
Just before impact, at some 550 miles per hour, Atkins took one last breath in. For the first time in over three years, there was no more burning, no metallic taste, no monkey’s fist. It was such a good breath that he let it out, and took in another.