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By Daniel Raasch
7:13 p.m. - Somewhere, thunder is echoing off of big red barns and rattly glass windows, and that means another late night for this TV weatherman. I'm on again at 10, and / might happily give up a kidney if / could just go out and get a nice dinner with Judy instead of cuddling up the NexRad3, barely keeping ahead of the storms tonight But there's a lot of trust inherent in being a meteorologist.
"Any evidence of funnel cloud activity in Northern Heights yet?"
That's Jim. He could handle it nicely if I wasn't here and a tornado touched down in Awachahee County, but his Hawaiian shirt couldn't. "No, I haven't seen anything yet, but IW let you know.
Jim's a good guy. He's been my right hand man since I started at WTGN. He's skilled enough to be chief meteorologist anywhere, but he's got a personality like a bee trapped in a jar, which is why he's in the lab and not on TV
"You get so much as a blip, and you holler, okay Richie?"
"Will do."
As I was saying, there's a lot of trust inherent in being a meteorologist, and that's why I love the job. I considered being a lawyer or a mechanical engineer, but I wanted an honest job in a world where the honesty and philanthropy departments seem to have been eliminated due to a lack of funding. It's a lawyer's job to lie sometimes; a mechanical engineer has to design something cheap and shabby if he wants to keep his job. It's that way for nearly anything. And it used to be so for weathermen, too.
Hmmm.
"Jim, come take a look at this." I point out a jagged, multicolored bull's-eye shape the size of a quarter on the computer screen.
"Riot dot," says Jim through a mouthful of Subway.
"When did you go out for food? And where's mine?"
"This is lunch. I never got a chance to eat it. You want half a 7-hour old sub? Mighty temptin'!" He grins like the damned.
"I take it back. So what about the dot? I was running a microscan of the last Beaumont pass to check on that possible funnel cloud activity we saw earlier, and I got this. Can't be a funnel cloud; color's all wrong. Can't be aircraft because it's stationary. "
Jim takes it in like a jeweler. "I'd say it's a Hadley system, ionized particles from a lightning strike held in place by heat and humidity. Nothing big. We should probably focus on Northern Heights."
"A Hadley system? You've got to be kidding. The winds up there are 30 to 40 miles per hour right now."
"Must be in the eye of a cyclonic air mass, I guess. Why ask me if you don't want my opinion?"
"Jim..
"If I'm right, it couldn't last for very long. Take a look now. Is it still there?"
The new wipe swept around the circle, and sure enough, it swept over the dot like a magic wand, and suddenly it was gone.
7:55 p.m. - For most of TV history, the weatherman's been a clown. In the 50's, there wasn't much science to meteorology; the technology to make accurate long-term predictions simply wasn't there. Today we make literally millions of measurements of every sort: air pressure, temperature, humidity, and wind speed, across every continent, every minute of the day. These are fed into sophisticated multi-layer computer models, and each day that goes by, we actually get a tiny bit better at predicting the weather. But in the 50's, you could flip a coin and be as right as your 72-hour forecast.
So meteorology has changed a lot. And in that time, there have been those few diligent folks who were agile enough to make the switch from clown to scientist. It's an incredibly difficult feat, and those who have done it are deservedly legends. One of the best happens to be my main competitor, Donald Fraunshue at WORD, Channel 6.
Donald is a tall, lanky son-of-a-gun, 68 years old. I met him at a charity function a couple years ago, and he regaled me with anecdotes about his term in the Navy. We hit it off well, despite the competitive edge, or maybe even because of it. Now, every so often, we get together and try to outbrag each other. He's a colleague I trust.
Which is why I need to call him. Because the spot came back. And now there's three of them.
8:23 p.m. - Donald was silent.
"There's no aircraft in existence that could do that, Donald. 37 miles in 30 seconds - from a dead stop? Forget wind shear, the forces involved in acceleration alone would snap your neck."
"There's no aircraft in existence that could do that, Donald. 37 miles in 30 seconds - from a dead stop? Forget wind shear, the forces involved in acceleration alone would snap your neck."
"And you think these weather anomalies are . . . ?" His words came out in a quiet drawl.
"I can't say what they are, only what they aren't: They aren't clouds, or any sort of precipitation. They don't seem to be an atmospheric phenomenon and the don't behave like any aircraft I know of. I had Jim check with our local military liaisons, and they all deny having any exercises or any planes in the air - experimental or otherwise. Which leads me to this phone call, Donald. You've been in this business a long time, and I want to know if you've seen anything like this before. Help me out here. I've got to report on this, somehow."
There was a pause, and when he next spoke his voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
"Richard, what I'm going to say to you may sound very brusque and unreal, but I want you to put that out of your mind and I want you to listen very carefully to the next three words I'm going to say to you: LEAVE THIS ALONE. Crumple up this thought and throw it away. Do you understand, Richard?"
"Donald?"
"You don't know what you're getting into, but I'm going to tell you. I'm going to tell you so no one else gets hurt."
8:39 p.m. - "In 1959, 1 was hired to do the 6 p.m. forecast here. I'd just been discharged, and the combination of my military service and goofy smile, with some serious work in weather for the Navy, made me by far the best choice for the job. I was young, handsome, and a new family man, which made for great PR. Very much like yourself.
"Now, WORD's ratings had gone up substantially in that first year I was on, and I don't deny that I felt a little heady. I was putting a new level of professionalism and discipline into the job, and it was paying off. I'd often stay up late and try and make predictions for tomorrow. Nothing I had to do, I just wanted to increase my accuracy, become more in tune with the tiny cues that Nature gives. And one night, at about I 1, someone called the station.
"'Strange lights in the sky!' he said. 'I live right outside Marillion, and it's like Judgment Day out here!' I had to tell him I didn't know anything about it, and ask him to describe them to me. 'Red flashes in the clouds,' he said, 'like Hell itself.' I didn't ask how he knew.
He said the lights were dashing back and forth between his house and the horizon.
I said I'd look into it, although I thought to myself that what the fellow was seeing were kids shooting off fireworks, and that maybe he'd had a couple of shots of something himself. Still, half an hour later, I went to the radarscope.
"We still used vacuum tubes then, so what I saw was a dull haze that grew brighter and sharper until it all coalesced into a picture. Do you know what that picture was? In an other wise clear black sky, there was a cluster of dots up by Marillion. Bright green, like a cat's eye. For a cluster like that to show up, there had to be 30 tons of metal in the sky. Standing still. Unbelievable.
"I slowly reached out and put my finger right on top of them.
"And then they moved. All of those whatever-they-were in the sky moved at once, like a flock of sparrows taking off from a tree.
"For hours, I watched. Fascinated. I tried to time their movements, figure out some sort of pattern from what I was seeing, when, at around 2 a.m., they vanished off the screen, and didn't come back.
"In the morning, I went straight to Louis DuPree, the station managel I told him what I'd seen and what I wanted to do: report it on tonight's newscast. There was quiet in the room for what must have been a full minute. A minute of silence is a long, long time. When he finally spoke, he said softly, 'Donald, you do this and you'll never work again. Here, or anyplace else.'"
"'Yes sir,' I intoned as I stood up and walked out.
"It was then that I did my stupid thing.
"It was such a small thing that I hardly thought anything of it.
"I walked over to my desk, and began drafting a memo. In it, I described what I had seen that night, using my notes as reference, and included a paraphrase of the conversation I'd had with Louis. I concluded the memo with a statement to my co-workers: reporters, anchors, cameramen. 'A station with the public trust of broadcasting on such a vital resource as our airwaves should have a higher commitment to the truth. Now you know exactly how committed your station is.'
"I mimeographed it myself, 30 copies, and put one in each of the wooden staff mailboxes reserved for this sort of thing, and went smartly back to work.
"I didn't say anything about the experience for the rest of the day, and soon enough it was time for the 6 o'clock. I began to stroll down the hall to the studio when one of the secretaries shouted my name down the hall. She said there was a call for me. From my wife. Urgent. I should pick it up now.
"Hesitantly, I walked back to my desk and picked up the receiver.
"In 1959, my family lived in a small suburb, surrounded by other neighbors with young children. Ours had been playing in the front yard, with our dog, Royal. A smart dog. Springer Spaniel. My wife told me that she'd been making dinner when she heard a screech of tires outside, and then the children screaming. She ran to the door, only to see a sedan speeding away. Our youngest, Denice, lay crumpled by a tire track that veered up onto our lawn, and Royal lay in the driveway, whimpering and bleeding. Michael stood crying by the side of the house.
"The ambulance had just come moments before. They said Denice had only a broken arm and would be fine. Royal was injured internally, however, and would die before I could get home. I told my wife I would meet her at the hospital as soon as I could.
"I replaced the receiver. I then walked over to the wooden staff mailboxes, and removed each of my memos, one by one. I tore them all. I placed them in my wastebasket. I took out a book of matches. Struck one. Lit the entire book, and dropped it in. I understood."
9:03 p.m. - I couldn't speak. "Donald, what you're trying to make me believe ... what you're saying, it's - well I don't know what you saw, but it isn't rational, what you say. Agents placed on every two-bit weatherman in the States, just in case one of them uncovers, what, UFOS? Aliens? Secret government war machines? What exactly? You're implying a near-omniscient secret government of anti-Constitutional conspirators. Isn't it more likely that ... that perhaps a drunk driver hit your kids and didn't wait for the consequences? That your boss was simply trying to exercise responsible journalism? I just can't see the evidence for your conclusion."
"I'm not trying to make you believe anything; I just don't want to have my conscience washed in the blood of your family. And I believe you can see the evidence. You're just afraid to. The first misconception you have is the notion of 'conspiracy.' Let me ask you this: What causes weather, Richard? What causes clouds? Is it a conspiracy between water molecules and dust? A totalitarian droplet of water that enlists others in some vast army? No. It's simply the result of their natural properties. A cloud is another way of describing the natural properties of the constituents of the atmosphere. Now tell me: What is the defining natural property of life?"
"To survive. Life exists to survive."
"Does life survive by giving up power? Does anyone or anything choose to be weak?"
"No. it
"And do you become more powerful by fighting the strong, or by adapting to them?"
"Adapting."
"So, power becomes its own conspiracy. There's no mastermind planning it all, no evil genius behind the curtain. There is only one thing: self-interest. Certain choices provide advantage for more than one party, and those are the choices that become acts. There's no collusion, no coercion. Just people with similar, mutually reinforcing, dangerous interests."
"But that would take so much planning!
"Have you ever been to a sale? You saw something in the Sunday paper you wanted. A great deal. You spent Sunday morning gardening, and when you got to the store, they were all out. Was that a conspiracy? How do you explain the co-operation it would take to implement such a scheme to deprive you of your refrigerator or toaster or shiny new bangle? It's all inherent in the system. There didn't need to be a leader of soldiers marching down the streets because there only needed to be a class of people with the same power as you that could benefit from it."
"And you think those things in the sky are?"
"They're precisely what you said, Richard. Unidentified Flying Objects. Are they aliens? Spy ships with corporate mind-control beams? How about ghosts? Science doesn't know everything, and I don't either. But I do know that it's important to the interests of the powerful that they stay unidentified. Louis understands the same truths that I do - that if you probe the status quo in certain sensitive areas, you will be silenced. It's always been that way in human society, from cavemen to Caesar. Power has never dissipated. Never! It has only changed hands. That's why I told you my story. I want you to be very, very careful in what you do next, because they're watching you now - they're aware of you. You're being listed to because it's in someone's interest to listen to you. And you've already started the trouble by asking questions tonight. I suspect something will happen. What and to whom will depend on what you do in the next ... 40 minutes?"
9:20 p.m. - "If I go on the air, if I say that there are unexplained aircraft, non-commercial unknown aircraft, surveying Beaumont and the surrounding areas, and that the military denies their presence . . . what do you think will happen? You think they'll come after my wife? My kids?"
"They may anyway, Richard. You're going to have to choose between two values tonight: your family, or the truth. And do you know what I've learned in my 30 years of broadcasting? The truth isn't as important as you think. It's bigger than you, and you can't change it. The truth will eat you alive. I chose family. Hah ha! You see, Richard? Am I part of the conspiracy now? Am I? You see how it spreads?"
I had to stop and think. "I've got to make a call."
"Call your wife, Richard. Call her. But be careful what you say. They're listening."
"Thank you Donald. I'll call you again when this whole thing blows over, and maybe then we can find a pub where we can really talk about conspiracies."
"I look forward to it. I mean that, Richard."
I hung up and speed dialed Judy with no idea what I would say.
9:27 p.m. - "Hello?"
"Judy, it's me. I'm at the station. How're the kids?"
"They're already asleep. How come? Is something wrong?"
"No, no. Nothing's wrong. I just thought I should call."
Think, think, think.
"Jude, are you gonna watch the broadcast tonight?"
"Sure, I thought I would. How come?"
"Well, I was just thinking of those times in college. I guess I just missed you a lot. You remember watching me train in front of the Chroma-Key for the first time? The blue screen?"
"I remember it perfectly."
"Well, remember it tonight. I miss you lots. I gotta run; we're on the air in less than 30 minutes, okay sweetie?"
"Okay. I love you, Rick."
"I love you too, Jude. Watch me tonight.
9:38 p.m. - Jim's giving me the eye. I think maybe he's feeling stung that I went over his head.
"So what'd the old man say? 'Bout the dot. Hadley system, am I right?"
I trust Jim. And I've got to tell someone.
"Jim, it's my opinion that what we're seeing on NexRad3 are some sort of aircraft."
"Negatory, Ricardo. I already called on that, remember? And they don't move like planes."
"That may be. Which means something else is going on."
Jim stopped and licked his lips.
"What are you saying? You're seeing a UFO? Let me guess: the old man fed you that one. Have you forgotten he's your competition? He's probably just stringing you along, hoping you'll look stupid, and he can finish his career in a blaze of ratings. Come on, Rich, snap out of it. You know better."
"Well, I know something. The question is: who else should know?"
"You're on your own on this one, then. It's your funeral."
What a strange choice of words.
9:53 p.m. - This is where I make or break my career.
Donald was wrong. It's not a matter of truth versus family; how can I live with my family if I don't tell the truth? How can I tell my children it's wrong to lie when I've done it to half a million people? Truth and family aren't separable; they're just one thing. Which means there's only one thing to do.
10:00 p.m. - Voiceover: You're watching the state's fastest growing newscast! Channel 10 at 10! With Stephen Ridley ... Keisha Williams . . . Don Bauer on sports! And Richard Stein's weather! Tonight's top story:
Keisha Williams: Heavy storms have knocked down trees and knocked out power to almost 10,000 people in northern Awachahee County. Stephen Ridley will have more with a live report from Beaumont in just a moment.
Richard Stein: And I'll have an update of storm conditions and the damage it's left behind at 10:13.
Keisha Williams: But first out to Stephen, live in Beaumont, where the storm has hit the hardest.
Stephen Ridley: That's right, Keisha ...
10:10 p.m. - Judy's smart; that's why I married her.
When I had some of my first college classes in broadcasting, I'd practice my mannerisms in front of the blue screen in the evenings, watch myself on tape, and then Judy and I would go out and get a bite. She got so bored watching me, she eventually suggested inviting some friends to watch and give me pointers - and, not coincidentally, to give her something more to do than listen to the same imaginary forecast two dozen times over. And so, while all her friends watched, I used to spell out secret messages to her in the gestures I made - the sort of things you might find on valentine hearts: I LUV U, U R SWEET, KISS ME. And she would laugh hysterically.
Her friends never caught on, and they were always telling her not to be so hard on me.
Funny times.
10:13 p.m. - Richard?"
It's time.
"Thanks, Stephen. Well, as you can see . . ." Make a G-shape over Beaumont.
Beaumont's not the only town in the path of these fall stonns." An E-shape for the path. "A front of cold air from the north is colliding with" - make a T - "some unseasonably warm air from the south. The entire mass" - an 0, then a U - "as you can see on NexRad3, is being swept" - a T-shape - "to the west . . ."
Look straight into the camera. "NOW . . ." C'mon, Jude. I'm gonna start stalling.
"...winds over forty miles per hour have been clocked in the area, but have died down in the past hour, and the National Weather Service advises . .
10:18 p.m. - Five minutes ought to have been enough. Jim is watching me offstage like a border collie.
"...and it looks like we've passed through the worst of it..."
Keep talking and they can't cut to a commercial. ". . . so I'd like to take a moment to talk to you about news of a different kind. As these radar images from NexRad3 show, unidentified aircraft have been tracked in the towns of Beaumont, Sweetwater, and surrounding areas tonight . . . "
Oh god. Jim just walked off the set.
10:25 p.m. - "...and you can be sure that Channel IO will have more news on this story as it develops. Back to you, Keisha."
"Thanks, Richard, for that special report. We'll be right back."
Cut to a commercial. I whip my cellular phone out of my pocket and walk straight through the mob of stagehands, directors, and reporters from the newsroom who are suddenly gathering around me and shouting. I don't hear what they're saying. I hear the phone ringing at my house. What I don't hear is an answer. Where are you, Jude, what have I done? Someone answer the phone.
I walk outside into the rain, and start to get into my car when I look and see the Taurus parked on the other side of me. The kids are waving. Judy is giving me a look that says, "What's this all about?" As I get in the passenger's side, I reach over and kiss her on the ear, and before she can finish asking what's going on, I say: "Let's all sleep at a hotel tonight." Judy's smart. That's why I married her.
9:30 a.m. - I'm lying in the largest bed in the city. Our 2-year old Jodi and 3-year-old Henry are sandwiched around me, while Judy is getting me a cup of strong black coffee. The paper I'm reading says, "Army Denies Weatherman's Story, Other Sources Confirm." While the military still aren't talking, it seems that the airport and a couple other sources of meteorological data from the National Weather Service confirm my statement from last night with logs of their own. The general consensus is that some sort of man-made craft was in the air, and the AP tells me that the investigation is proceeding at the DOD's highest levels.
So far, it had been a good morning; I don't deny I was feeling a little heady. I'd done something no other meteorologist I knew of had ever done: I'd broken a news story. I'd busted a conspiracy. And lived to tell about it. Most of all, my family was safe, and I was letting the credits roll in my own private movie, when my cell phone rang.
It was Jim - "Congratulations, you son-of-a-gun! Well, I guess I should've listened to you, huh?"
"No big deal, Jim. You were just doing what you thought was right, and so was I."
"Well, I hope you remember who your friends are. You're going to the top. Big raise, I bet. And now that you're out of competition, you'll be number one here for a long time. That is, if the networks don't try and buy out your contract! "
"What do you mean, 'out of competition?'"
"I thought you read the paper. Didn't you hear? Look in the obits. Fraunshue died last night, at his desk. Didn't even make the evening forecast. A stroke or something."
I need that cup of black coffee.
Because I think I'm just starting to understand.
