Peabody's Prognosis

By Freeman Hall

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 17, 2006
• ISBN: 9781465318305

Freeman Hall

Freeman Hall, a retired meteorologist, Ph.D. from UCLA, worked in the aerospace industry and for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration for thirty-five years. Peabody's Prognosis relates how a fascination with severe weather leads a college professor to foretell how a proposed dam near Sweetwater, Texas may endanger the town. Politics, personalities, and his marriage become atrociously entangled with his forecast. His students, including an attractive young woman, help him gather observations to support his storm modeling work. When all of the elements of his prognosis come together the town's destruction is far more complete than even he envisioned.

Book preview

PEABODY’S PROGNOSIS

A Novel by

Freeman Hall

Copyright © 2006 by Freeman Hall.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

The Hearing

CHAPTER 2

Storm Flak

CHAPTER 3

Water Spouts and Flat Tires

CHAPTER 4

Dallas, Texas?

CHAPTER 5

Duplicates

CHAPTER 6

Short Timer?

CHAPTER 7

For Richer, For Poorer

CHAPTER 8

Supercell

CHAPTER 9

Hiroshima in Sweetwater

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Mike Sirota for guidance and the admonishment to write about what you know about, and also to members of his read and critique workshops: Bob Fleischaker, Ruth Froland, Peggy Hawley, Carol Strop, and Barbara Wright for many helpful comments.

PROLOGUE

19 APRIL 1986, SWEETWATER, TEXAS

Ed Daniels scraped the frying potatoes to the warming corner of the steel cooktop. A gangling sun-burned man with huge hands, he looked the part of the typical short-order cook. But not so! Daniels was the pumper engineer at Sweetwater’s Engine 1. Ed next spread one pound of bacon over the hot spot. The aroma of the sizzling strips was guaranteed to arouse the sleeping fire station crew. They had been called out on an 11:00 P.M. false alarm yesterday—probably some Friday night prank—so Chief Baker told them to sleep in until 7:00. They could start the routine Saturday morning station scrub-down an hour later than usual. But it was Ed’s turn to cook, so he was up at the usual 6:00 A.M. anyway. Daniels’ luck his wife, Alice, would say.

The light over the huge stove blinked, then dimmed again. Trouble with the power line? Ed shrugged his shoulders just as the clap of thunder shook the station.

Damn! That was close! And at 6:55? Never get thunder this early in the morning!

The sudden rattle of hail on the roof confirmed the storm’s presence. Ed turned the burner down, walked into the mess hall, and opened the window blinds. For sure, the sky was black. The streetlights had even come on again.

Rookie fireman Tad Blakely, still in his skivvies, came hobbling up behind him. What the hell’s goin’ on Ed? But before Daniels could answer there was another blinding flash and instantaneous thunder.

Jesus! That hit the flag pole! Tad exclaimed.

The dining area was now filling with the rest of the station crew in various stages of partial dress. Chief Baker—fully clothed—joined his men, saying, Okay, CHOW DOWN, ever’body. Let’s eat while we can. Gonna have a lightnin’ fire somewheres, sure as shootin’!

As the men were loading their plates, the telephone rang downstairs in the watch office. In a moment the loudspeaker sputtered, then squawked, Chief Baker! Call from Jesse Bowan out at the Coleman ranch. Says there’s a twister, up in the clouds, but headed this way! He’ll keep an eye on it an’ call again if it touches down!

James Henry Dawkins maneuvered his Cadillac Fleetwood into Al’s Cafe’s parking lot and found an empty spot next to a crew-cab pickup. Looked like Arney Charles’ four-wheeler rig, but the driving rain and his tired old eyes made it hard to see if there was an identifying Marine Corps League decal on the rear window. For a moment Dawkins hesitated—should have brought his rain slicker. But this was some freak morning shower—wouldn’t last long. And Al’s biscuits and gravy beckoned.

With Lillian off to another of her infernal bridge tournaments, he should take advantage of the opportunity to have a Saturday breakfast with the boys—and maybe see his old high school sweetheart who worked at Al’s. With his keys in his right hand, he clutched his coat lapels together, opened the car door, and sprinted around the corner to the cafe’s front door on Broadway. There he shook the rain off his Stetson in the entry alcove, then pushed down on the thumb latch. A gust of wind caught the sign hanging inside the door—OPEN 4:00 A.M.

Howdy, J.H., Arney Charles called from a booth along the wall. Got room fo’ yuh heah. Slide youah fat ass ovah jest a skosh, Bobby. Make room fo’ old James Henry.

Thought that was youah rig in the pawkin’ lot, Dawkins said as he slid onto the varnished bench. Ah may need a lift back home if this heah rain keeps up. Gotta get Andy to dump some mo’e gravel from TexSand on owah front drahv! Get’s slickah than a puppy’s prick when it gets wet!

Hee hee! That’s a good un, Charles responded. Old lady outta town? Must be! She’s a keepin’ yuh on a sho’t leash lately, I heah. Bet she’s onta you an’ Mollie.

Hey, speak up, Arney, corpulent Bobby McVay commanded. Cain’t heah yuh ovah the damned wind noise. Then McVay turned to yell at Dawkins. An’ you bettah enjoy sowing them wild oats while you can, J.H.! Ah heared that us old men is like old trucks—once we ovah the hill, we start to run fastah! But we run outta gas fastah, too!

Before Dawkins could reply, the wind noise rose to a thundering roar and the front window exploded outward into the street! The door to the kitchen banged open. Counter place settings, breakfasts, napkin dispensers and salt shakers sailed away in a torrent of wind that swept through the cafe!

Holy shit! Arney Charles cried. HIT THE DECK!

The three middle-aged Texans managed to dive under the table one second before the side wall of the building collapsed outward. Rafters, ceiling tiles and plaster debris crashed down on the table, giving James Henry Dawkins a sharp rap on his ample buttocks.

The growl of the Civil Defense siren on the fire station’s roof rapidly changed to the dreaded, warbling alarm tone that carried to the town’s 12,000 residents. At the Sweetwater Retirement Center, prim Alice Daniels knew what it meant. Husband Ed was on the job. She picked up the microphone at her central nurse’s station. Attention everyone! All residents and staff should move immediately to the recreation hall! Stay away from windows! Tornado warning!

Alice then headed for the A wing, where the less ambulatory residents lived. At the double doors she met Sandy Clifton who was pushing Mrs. Sipe in her wheelchair. Good job, Sandy, Alice said. Who else needs help?

There’s the new resident, at the end of the hall. He’s quite frail . . . forget his name.

I know the one, Alice replied. I’ll get him. But as Alice reached the end room the door swung open by itself. A rush of air pushed her through the entry. She grabbed at the door molding and managed to hang on as she watched with disbelief. With a shriek the outside wall disintegrated into pieces of kindling, the carpet lifted from the floor and with a flapping motion flew away from her, carrying chairs, the little table, and the resident, still in his bed, out into the screaming blackness!

CHAPTER 1

The Hearing

It was 11:00 P.M. The Public Comments session of the Nolan County hearing on the proposed Sweetwater Dam was dragging on far longer than scheduled. All of the speakers, no exceptions, had been enthusiastically in favor of the project. They cited the economic benefits it would bring to offset the stagnate markets for beef, oil and cotton. Texas was hurting!

When the previous speaker took his seat, one might have thought Sweetwater High had scored a touchdown against arch-rival Snyder. The applause was raucous—clapping, stamping, whistling. Billy Joe Cracken, president of Noxon Chemicals over in Midland, had promised to build his next fertilizer plant adjacent to the dam to take advantage of the cheap electrical power it would generate. A local source for the chemicals would save the neighboring farmers plenty on trucking costs.

Delbert Peabody knew the dam was going to be built, and his opposition to it would only hurt his chances for a tenured position at the college. Still, he had to speak his mind. It was a stupid career move, but the only honest thing to do.

You’re really going to oppose the dam, Dr. Peabody? asked his star student, Camille Renzoni, seated next to him. She had come along for support. I hope these people don’t have a rope. They may turn into a lynch mob!

And now, the final speakah is . . . Delbe’t Peabody, said