Tom placed the omeprazole in his mouth, trying not to accidentally chew. The pill was huge, oversized. He chased it down with a gulp of water and massaged his temples, feeling the aches and creases shifting in his forehead. The screen on his desk was dark, and he avoided looking at it; he didn’t want to see his own misshapen jowls reflected back at him. The bits of graying beard around his mouth were so wispy and tattered he’d taken to shaving them off. Coupled with the roundness of his face and the wrinkles, he knew he looked like a vegetable: a sort of shriveled-up pumpkin that hadn’t yet seen enough sun.
Glowing text scrolled across the ticker in the hall outside, catching his eye. Tom mouthed along with the words: Depression strengthens into Tropical Storm Epsilon. He nodded to himself and jotted down the time (two thirty-six p.m.) on a Post-it stuck to his monitor. Above fluorescent lighting flickered, bouncing ugly, synthetic rays against the bleached bony tile of his office.
It was a bit strange, making a living off of what society deemed natural disasters; Tom never hoped for storms, of course, but without them he’d have been out of a job. Take Katrina, for example: it had been tragic for Louisiana, undoubtedly, and the WMO had retired it as a name for good reason…but it had also drummed up a ton of press for the National Hurricane Center, with more donations and grants in ‘05 than in the past ten years combined. Not that the NHC was the most prestigious meteorological organization in the world (or even the country) anymore. The World Meteorological Organization had that covered. These days the Center seemed relegated more to the realm of photo ops for the mayor, on days when they weren’t hosting middle school field trips. It was hard not to feel passed over sometimes.
A tall, bespectacled man in a turtleneck crossed in front of Tom’s door. He stopped and swiveled. “Tommy,” he said, before barging in fully and depositing himself into a chair.
Tom did his best not to grimace. “Hendricks. What can I do for you?”
“I read your new paper on wind currents,” said Hendricks. He leaned forward and smoothed back his hair. “Very enlightening.”
“You think so?” Tom couldn’t help but straighten in his seat. He couldn’t recall the last time Hendricks had given him a compliment.
“Mm. A little dry, but you still know your patterns.” Hendricks drummed his hands on the edge of the desk. “For whatever that’s worth.”
The pill hadn’t kicked in yet, and the pain in Tom’s stomach was beginning to flare up. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“One of the interns called out sick, and they asked for an extra pair of hands sorting through envelopes. You think you can manage that?”
Hendricks—looking past him, through him—didn’t wait for an answer. He got up and strode out of the office, letting the door hang open as he left. Tom followed his exit with his eyes, watching him disappear from view, then he hoisted up his pants and bent down to the lowest drawer of his desk. He rummaged around for a minute before pulling out a tiny black rectangle.
He’d help with the letters. He was a team player, after all. But he had a stop to make first.
*
Hendricks’s office was a floor above and twice the size, as befitted a Senior Specialist. The man was a few decades younger than Tom, and already he’d wowed the meteorological community with his poise, his insight, his knack for wresting endowments from government hands. Atop his desk sat a framed picture: Hendricks with a few assistants at the 38th Hurricane Committee in Geneva, surrounded by some of the most brilliant minds in weather. He’d be going again in a couple of months. Tom checked to make sure no one was watching, then carefully slipped the rectangle into the back of the frame, behind the picture. He left quickly, smiling to himself.
Despite what Hendricks may have thought of him, Tom was no fool. For twelve years now the National Hurricane Center had been languishing, kept alive on a drip feed of donor support and political disinterest. More than once Tom had read articles and tweets joking about Florida falling into the sea, by meteorologists who failed to remember (or care) that the NHC was based entirely in Miami. It made him sick to think about it. And yet there were rumblings now of change, coinciding with the results of the recent election. Rumors were spreading about budgetary shifts, staff reassignments, about renewed government oversight. There was talk even of reevaluating the National Weather Service’s relationship with the WMO and the U.N.. As cliché as he knew it sounded, there was a storm on the horizon.
Whatever was coming, Hendricks was going to be on the ground floor of it. A hundred-dollar recording device off Amazon seemed an appropriately sound investment. Besides which Hendricks liked to hear himself talk, and Tom was very interested to hear what the man said when he thought no one was listening.
Tom headed down the stairs to Lab Two, which their rotating array of interns had affectionately dubbed “the mail room.” Tom did not relish this task; the vast majority of letters they received were variations on a single theme. People were always upset about the names of the hurricanes, furious that they or their children might share an identity with a storm that had wrecked the economy or killed a distant relative. Never mind that the names were on a set schedule, one that rotated out every six years. Never mind that the NHC didn’t even run the lists anymore, that the World Meteorological Organization had placed that duty firmly under U.N. jurisdiction. People didn’t care about the facts.
One of the interns nodded to him as he entered the lab. “Hey, Tommy. Back for another round?”
He was fifty-four years old and nobody called him Thomas. Tom or Tommy or Doctor Green or sometimes even Professor Green, after that ill-fated stint at UF, but never Thomas. In his thirties his father had reached out for him, beckoning him closer towards his hospital bed—Cassie had long since left the room—and seized his hand with a tightness that defied the dimming in his pupils.
“Leave the lights on when you go, Tommy,” he’d hissed, hacking up blood between breaths. “You need to leave ‘em on for me.” No respect, not even from his father. Not even on his deathbed. He’d sounded almost accusatory, near the end.
Tom’s phone whirred with a notification. He checked it: an email, cc’d to him and Hendricks and the rest of the Hurricane Specialists Unit.
The United States of America will no longer be attending the 39th RA IV Hurricane Committee in San Jose, Costa Rica, from March 23-26, 2017. Details forthcoming.
*
“You’re one of the most respected voices in weather.” Her voice was relaxed, soothing, not quite melodic. She was from the Capitol, Tom knew, a stranger, newly appointed by a newly elected President.
“You’re promoting me?” That was Hendricks, all right.
“We need a leader. Someone who knows hurricanes better than the rest, someone we can trust. We’re excited to offer you the opportunity to be that leader.”
“What about Cole? He’s the Branch Chief.”
“You’re a Senior Specialist.”
“And the rest of the team?”
“We’re restructuring. The administration feels we’d be better served with a more streamlined approach to storm management.”
“Gutted, you mean.” There, in the background: Hendricks’s hands tapping. “You think I haven’t heard what you people are doing in TSB? Cutting the Storm Surge Unit down to two? And pulling out of the WMO, are you shitting me?”
“It’s a new day in Washington, sir.” The pace of the tapping increased. “New Secretary, new guidelines. We’re looking for the people most capable of adapting to changing circumstances.”
“You’ve got that right.” Silence for a moment. Then: “I didn’t go to Cornell for six years to be a political prop. Whatever’s going on here, with the election, the U.N…you can leave me out of it.”
“We’re sorry you feel that way,” came the voice, mildly. “If you change your mind, the Center would love to have you back.”
“Excuse me?”
“The administration wishes you all the best.”
The wave of shouting drowned out what was left of the conversation, and Tom yanked out his earpiece. He let out a rush of breath. His instincts had been right, even if he hadn’t seen the full scope of it. The Center brought back under direct supervision? The Hurricane Specialist Unit restructured? Hendricks fired, after more than a decade of being their ace in the hole?
Cassie had been with him the first time he’d ever met Hendricks. It had been at a fundraiser for the Center, a “Benefit Ball,” they’d called it, and she’d worn a brand-new dress with crimson fabric and thin straps. They’d arrived a little late—Tom had misplaced his wallet, lodged between two crumb-covered couch cushions—and already there’d been a crowd gathered around Hendricks. He was the new up-and-comer, the star of the show, and he was quickly accumulating admirers. It was all very intimidating.
Cassie had nudged him forward. “Go introduce yourself,” she’d muttered. “It’s now or never.”
He’d approached, a little wary, to shake Hendricks’s hand. They’d exchanged pleasantries, commiserated about the Floridian heat, batted a few ideas back and forth about requests for new cameras. Tom had tried not to talk down to the man; it was clear he had a bright future ahead of him, and it behooved Tom to be as ingratiating as possible. At one point he’d looked over his shoulder to see Cassie watching from the bar. He could tell she’d been impressed, despite herself.
Their divorce had been quick and easy, relatively painless. Easier than their marriage, at least. Cassie had taken the car and the house and even the furniture with nary a fight; if they’d had any kids he knew she would have taken those too. He’d just wanted it over and done with at that point. He was tired of her prodding, of her endless parade of twice-worn cocktail dresses, of her inability to see patience as anything but cowardice. He’d be happier without her, he knew. He’d been certain of it. That certainty had faded with time.
“Doctor Green?” The government woman, poking her head into his office. “Could I see you for a moment?”
Tom nodded, shaking himself out of numbness, and she closed the door behind her. Her hair was so pale it might have been dyed, tied back in a thin ponytail. She smoothed out her business suit and plastered on a smile.
“You’re one of the most respected voices in—”
“I’m ready,” he interrupted, holding out his hand. It was now or never. “I’m your guy.”