Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

Lacey had politely waited until after dinner so as not to offend her host. However, she was anxious to learn more about a possible hurricane to their south. Was it just a rumor, or did somebody have firsthand knowledge? Were they broadcasting the weather over the emergency stations? If a storm was brewing, should she and Tucker wait it out in Tarpon Springs?

“Do you mind telling us what you’ve heard about a storm?” Lacey asked, looking at the men, who were settled into their chairs around the large dining table.

Andino’s oldest sibling, his brother Sandros, explained, “We’ve had an agreement with our fellow sponge fishermen to share the burden of bringing food in for our families. Mostly, we focus off nearby Anclote Key, where snook and mullet are abundant. We try to conserve fuel on our fishing runs, so we bait up-current of the drop-offs near Clearwater. Rooker Island has been a great location for mackerel and snapper.

“Anyway, you have to understand that it’s hard to keep our old sea captains on dry land. They don’t care about nuclear wars or economic collapse or fuel shortages. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve got a job to do, and they’ll always find a way.

“They do, however, worry about storms. Many trust the weather reporting from NOAA and the news networks. Others trust their own instincts and years of experience to sense changes in barometric pressure, winds, and even the color of the water.”

Andino laughed. “To most of these guys, our way of relying upon meteorological reports about wind intensity, pressure, and predictive storm tracks is for the weak.”

Sandros slapped his brother on the shoulder. “They’d rather get swamped than listen to some fool on the Weather Channel, right?”

Andino winked and sipped his ouzo.

Sandros leaned back in his chair and addressed Lacey. “You grew up on the water, right?”

“Technically, an island. Driftwood Key is small, one of hundreds in Monroe County. It’s still an island.”

He continued. “You’ve probably heard some of these old sayings like red sky in the morning, sailors take warning . Followed by red sky at night, sailors’ delight .”

Andino jumped in with another well-known reference about a ring around the moon. “To the old-timers, a ring around the moon was an indication that a storm could be coming. We know, of course, that a lunar corona could be caused by many factors and isn’t necessarily a harbinger of a storm.”

Lacey had become impressed with the Andino brothers as she listened to them. They were experienced and learned. Sponge fishing was their job, and their most valued asset was their boat. They’d schooled themselves in order to prevent a catastrophe while at sea.

Sandros added, “Before satellite imagery and hurricane hunter airplanes came around in the last sixty years or so, boat captains relied upon radio reports from other vessels at sea. Before that, they used barometers. The problem back in the day was that the best you could do was have a few hours’ warning that a storm was imminent. Also, you had no idea how intense it might be, which gave you little time to take action.”

Tucker, who’d been listening intently to the conversation, chimed in, “Unless something is different farther south, we can’t see signs like red skies in the morning or rings around the moon. It’s one continuous sky of gray.”

“You’re correct, which is why our friends have placed such a heavy emphasis on their barometers,” said Sandros. “I’m not talking about the electronic kind, either. Some use a single barometer that ranges from a low of twenty-eight to a high of thirty-one.”

“Twenty-eight? Millibars?” asked Lacey.

Andino explained, “There are two ways to look at atmospheric pressure. One is by measuring inches of mercury, of Hg. The lower the Hg reading, the stormier the conditions. For example, a reading between twenty-eight and twenty-nine equates to roughly nine hundred fifty to nine eighty millibars.”

“Right,” interjected Sandros. “When you see on the news that the weather guy reports the pressure is dropping to those levels, the storm is intensifying.”

“So with a barometer, you don’t really need a weather report,” Tucker opined.

“No, not necessarily,” said Andino as he shook his head. “Your barometric pressure readings are only for your particular location. You could be in the middle of a high-pressure area full of sun, you know, before all of this. Suddenly, a strong low-pressure system could build and bring a drastic change in the weather.”

Lacey pushed away from the table and walked to the front windows of the home. The house was lit up with candles. That, coupled with the heat emanating from the wood-burning stove in the kitchen, had caused her to sweat somewhat. Or perhaps it was perspiration generated as she considered the prospects of sailing into a storm.

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

Peter wanted to take a lap around the speedway. He really, really wanted to. With the storm approaching, he doubted anyone would’ve noticed. But if they had, the two of them would be back in the substation, answering questions and facing assault charges. Instead, he followed the access through the underground tunnel at the start of Turn Three and emerged on the other side.

He slowly approached the tangerine-colored guard shack that ordinarily stopped recreational vehicles and racecar transports before allowing them into the infield. Instead of uniformed track personnel manning the exit, armed guardsmen stood in the road, dressed in rain gear, with their automatic weapons raised to low ready as Peter approached.

“Jimmy, I don’t know if I can fake this.”

Jimmy offered some words of encouragement, and then he sent a shock wave through Peter’s body. “You’ll be fine. But, um, what’s your name?”

Peter subconsciously gripped the steering wheel with both hands and let off the gas. “What?”

“Your name. The name of the soldier.”

“Shit!” Peter slowed to a stop short of the gate. It was pitch dark outside except for temporary lighting illuminating the entrance and exit on both sides of the guard shack. He pulled the fatigues away from his chest and dropped his chin to get a better angle to read it. “I don’t know! I don’t freakin’ know!”

Jimmy leaned forward in the back seat. “Peter, you gotta wing it. They’re getting antsy.”

Peter noticed the guards were looking at one another and slowly approaching the vehicle. A third guard had exited the guard shack and was resting his right hand on his holstered weapon.

Panicked, Peter began to roll forward toward the approaching guards a little faster than he, and they, expected. This set into a motion a series of events that almost resulted in them getting killed.

The guardsmen raised their rifles and pointed them directly at Peter’s side of the windshield. “Stop! Do not move forward another inch!”

Peter obliged and quickly rolled down the window. “Sorry, fellas, I had to finish up a phone call.”

He’d said the words before he realized how absurd they were.

“What?” yelled the guard approaching the driver’s side window.

“Um, I mean, sorry, I was on the, um, walkie-talkie.” Peter was failing miserably at impersonating a National Guardsman. None of the guards bought it, either.

“Out of the truck. Now!” shouted the man who’d emerged from the guard shack. He’d pulled his weapon and was walking briskly toward the driver’s side.

“Dammit! Get down!” Peter shouted to Jimmy.