at three points of the compass, within sight of observers aboard the aircraft carrier, waterspouts had formed. The diameter of their funnels grew rapidly until each was larger than the single twister captured on video by the French. An officer aboard the carrier, unable to keep either the awe or the tremor of fear out of his voice, added narration to the incredible visuals.
Again, neither the sea nor the spinning funnels revealed any trace of the scintillation that characterized the falling rain.
Impossibly, reports of giant waterspouts were also coming in from ships in the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, though these were not supported by video.
Obviously reading from a TelePrompTer, in a pedantic but still ingratiating tone, Veronica said, “Although waterspouts appear to be twisting tubes of solid water, they consist of mist and spray, and are not as formidable as they look.”
“However,” Jack chimed in, “relying on sophisticated computer analysis of Doppler-radar images, technicians aboard the Ronald Reagan determined that the spouts under their observation did not conform to any known models of the phenomenon. These are nearly solid forms, and Dr. Randolph Templeton, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service, who joined us in the studio just a short while ago, estimates that each of these funnels is drawing water from the sea at the rate of a hundred thousand gallons per minute.”
“More,” said Templeton when he came on-screen. “Twice that, at least.” He had the good sense not to smile.
In the meteorologist’s eyes, Molly saw the measured fear of an informed intelligence.
Needing to touch Neil, she put a hand on his shoulder, and was less reassured than usual by his solid physique.
With furrowed brow, in a solemn voice, Jack asked Dr. Templeton if these phenomena were the result of global warming.
“The vast majority of meteorologists don’t believe there is any global warming,” Templeton replied with a note of impatience, “at least not any that isn’t natural and cyclical.”
Jack and Veronica both appeared dumbfounded by this statement, and before a producer could murmur a suitable comeback question in their earpieces, they both looked simultaneously at the ceiling of the broadcast studio.
“A very hard rain has just begun falling here in Washington,” said Veronica.
“Remarkably hard,” Jack agreed. Apparently, the producer at last whispered in his earpiece, for Jack turned to the meteorologist. “But Dr. Templeton, everyone knows the effect of greenhouse gases—”
“What everyone knows is bunk,” Templeton said, “and if we’re going to get a handle on this, what we need right now is analysis based on real science, not—”
Neil thumbed the remote control repeatedly until he found one of the three major networks, which had belatedly risen to the crisis like a shark to a swimmer.
The anchorman was older than the pair on cable news, and famous. He preened with self-importance as he interviewed a specialist in satellite-data analysis.
According to the bio line on the bottom of the screen, the expert was Dr. Sanford Nguyen. He worked for the same government agency that employed Randolph Templeton, who was at that moment debating global warming with Jack and Veronica on another channel.
The anchorman was surely being fed questions by an unseen producer and a first-rate team of researchers, but his inquiries rolled off his golden tongue as though he himself were a maven of orbital data-recovery systems.
Dr. Nguyen made the unsettling revelation that three hours prior to the observation of the extraordinary waterspouts, all orbital assets of the National Weather Service and other federal agencies had gone blind. Evidently, industry-owned satellites with high-resolution photographic capability were out of commission, as well. No high-altitude photographic, infrared, or radar images of the waterspouts were available to suggest why and how these phenomena had occurred.
“What about military satellites, the missile trackers?” Molly wondered. “What about spy satellites?”
“They’ll have been blinded, too,” Neil predicted.
On the TV, the anchorman asked Dr. Nguyen if a burst of cosmic radiation or perhaps unusually intense sunspot activity could have fried the circuitry in all those eyes in the sky.
“No,” Nguyen assured him. “That can’t be the explanation. Besides, it’s too coincidental. Neither cosmic radiation nor magnetic pulses could have precipitated the calamitous weather we’re seeing, and I’m sure that whatever blinded our satellites is the cause also of those waterspouts and these storms.”
Puckering his face into his most solemn of all expressions, the network anchorman said, “Dr. Nguyen, are we seeing at last the terrible consequences of global warming?”
Nguyen’s expression suggested contempt but also sudden bewilderment at the unanswerable question he must have been asking himself: What the hell am I doing here?
Molly said, “Why would only observation satellites be out of commission?” She gestured toward the TV. “Obviously, communications satellites are still functioning.”
“Probably they prefer we don’t see them,” Neil said, “but they want us to know what’s happening with the weather because fear debilitates. Maybe they want us frightened, cowering, and pliable.”
“They?”
He didn’t reply.
She knew what he meant, and he knew that she understood. Yet both of them were reluctant to express the truth that they suspected, as if to name the enemy would be to unleash in themselves a terror that they could not tame.
Neil put down the remote control, turned from the TV, and headed out of the family room into the adjoining kitchen. “I’m going to make coffee.”
“Coffee?” she asked with a note of disbelief.
This domestic task seemed to be evidence of total psychological denial, a reaction unworthy of the unshakeable, eternally competent man whom she had married.
“We haven’t had a full night’s sleep,” he explained. “We might need to stay awake, keep our wits about us, for a long time. Coffee will help. I better make it while we still have electrical service.”
Molly glanced at the TV, at the lamps. She hadn’t thought the power might go off.
She was chilled by the prospect of having no light except the eerie luminosity of the unclean rain.
“I’ll gather all the flashlights,” she said, “and whatever spare batteries we have.”
Flashlights were distributed throughout the house, continually charging in wall outlets. They were to provide guidance in the event that an earthquake imposed darkness in rocked rooms filled with avalanched furniture.
He turned to her, paler than he’d been a moment ago. “No, Molly. From now on, neither of us goes anywhere alone. We’ll collect the flashlights later, together. Right now, let’s brew some coffee. And make sandwiches.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We’ll
