Hurricane Hunter

By D. C. Miller

Seventeen Year Old Craig Hancock can't wait to Fly with NOAA into the eye of a Hurricane. Excited, he boards the plane and heads to Miami and Halsey Navel Air Station. He has no idea he is stepping into a mystery that threatens not only his life, but the nation's security

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590883891

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the scientists of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and to the small group of valiant men and women of the NOAA Corps, who risk their lives protecting the lives and property of the people of North America and around the globe.

With special thanks to Ensign Jeff Hagan, and the other members of the NOAA Corps stationed at McDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, whose help made this book possible.

One

Craig Hancock angled his sail board and exploded up the face of the wave. The board cleared the wave, shot into the air and hung motionless a moment, nose pointing toward the sky.

Expertly, Craig pulled on the boom, leaned his weight on his front foot and adjusted the angle of the board. He bent his knees, absorbing the shock as it hit the turquoise water tail first.

As he jockeyed into position for the next wave, he glanced toward his house. His dad stood on the balcony, motioning for him.

He knew his dad wouldn’t call him in unless something was up. Craig rode the board all the way in, beaching it on the sparkling white sand of the narrow key separating Sarasota Bay from the Gulf of Mexico.

He picked his board up and made his way across the sea-oat covered dunes to the last house at the end of the key. After rinsing the salt and sand off in the outdoor shower beside the pool, he grabbed a towel and stepped into the rec room.

Brad Hancock, his father, sat on the sofa, elbows on his knees as he leaned forward.

What’s up? Craig asked.

Brad pointed to the satellite radar image on the big screen TV.

Craig, a seventeen year old junior at Gulf Coast High, looked at the TV. It was only mid-August, the time when the hurricane season usually got rolling, but this year they’d already had twelve named storms. Three of them had pounded southern Florida, including a category one hurricane. Now, the storms were lined up like boxcars in a freight train, barreling across the Atlantic Ocean.

Is one of the storms headed our way?

Too early to tell, Brad said. Take a look at southern Florida.

The Doppler image zeroed in on a stretch from Ft. Lauderdale to Key West. Bright orange and red patches blanketed the area. And more was moving off Cuba and across the Florida Straits.

Looks like it’s gonna dump another ten or twelve inches of rain, Brad said. And everything is already flooded.

Craig was proud of his dad. Brad Hancock was a civil engineer, a builder of roads, dams and bridges. Over the years, his reputation as a trouble shooter had grown. Now, he spent most of his time globetrotting from one disaster area to another—volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, busted dams and the like.

I just got a call from NOAA, Brad said. A sink hole opened up in the middle of their main runway. At the rate it’s growing, all the runways will be shut down in a couple of days.

And they want you to do something about it, Craig said.

Brad nodded. How would you like to fly into the eye of a hurricane?

You’re kidding? How soon can we leave?

Brad grinned. Tomorrow morning—before light. Better set your alarm for four.

Craig groaned. He’d never understand why grownups wanted to get up before sunrise. Why so early?

A low pressure cell in the Gulf is moving north, Brad said. I want to be off the ground before the thunderstorms start rolling in.

Brad owned his own plane, a Cessna Skylane, and had flown them in and out of some tight places. Craig still didn’t like the idea of getting up so early, but he respected his dad’s judgment.

Guess I’d better pack, Craig said.

When you finish, how about throwing a couple of extra lines on the boats? Brad said. I want to make sure everything’s secure, in case one of those storms hits while we’re gone.

Should I break out the fenders? Craig asked.

Good idea. Let me know when you’re ready, Brad said. I’ll give you a hand.

Craig headed to his room. He emerged from the shower a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist. He ran a comb through his light brown hair, streaked blond by the sun. Then he put a CD on and began packing for the trip.

When he finished, he dressed in khaki shorts and a baggy T-shirt, jammed his feet into scruffy sneakers and went to look for his dad.

He found him in his office talking on the phone. We’ll be there early in the morning. Brad hung up, then turned to Craig. Ready?

They reached the dock on the bay side of the property a few minutes later. Together, they took rubber tires with ropes attached from the boathouse on the end of the dock. They hung the fenders along the sides of the sailboat and the sleek power boat moored along side it. Then they stretched extra lines from the bows and sterns of both boats, to keep them from blowing around in high winds.

When they returned to the house, Angie met them at the door. Dinner’s ready. And don’t be tracking sand into the house.

Angie began keeping house for Brad Hancock when his wife died in a car crash. Craig was two at the time. She was like a member of the family now, and ran the house with an iron hand.

Thirty minutes later, Craig pushed his chair back. That was great lasagna, Angie.

There’s cheesecake for dessert. she said.

Maybe later, Craig said.

Angie reached over and felt his forehead. Are you sick?

I feel great, Craig said. I just want to catch up on some reading before I go to bed.

Brad’s eyes, blue like his son’s, twinkled. "The Scientific Journal on my desk has an article about NOAA and the hurricane hunters."

Craig stopped in his dad’s office and scooped up the magazine, then headed to the rec room. The artifacts on the wall, bolas from Argentina, an aborigine boomerang, the blow gun from Borneo, reminded him of the hair-raising adventures he’d had while traveling with his dad. And now he was going to fly into the eye of a hurricane. He had to be the luckiest kid in the whole world.

He put another CD in the player, then excitedly opened the magazine to the article on hurricane hunting and began reading. He closed the book thirty minutes later, having learned NOAA, The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, flew into the giant storms to better understand their erratic movements—why some of them strengthened, and others fizzled out.

After putting the magazine away, he climbed into bed. He fell asleep wondering how it would feel to be at the controls of one of the hurricane hunters.

It felt as if he’d only been asleep a few minutes when the alarm jarred him awake. Craig hopped out of bed and hurriedly dressed. After breakfast, he and his dad piled their gear into the Land Rover, and headed for the mainland.

A salty mist rolled in off the Gulf, coating the windshield as they drove across the draw bridge.

They made good time and pulled into the airport fifteen minutes later. Craig was so excited he could hardly wait and was glad to see his dad’s Cessna Skylane on the tarmac in front of the hangar, fueled up and ready to go.

While Craig loaded their gear on board, his dad ran a pre-flight test, checking the propeller, the cowling, the flaps and the ailerons. Then he climbed into the cockpit and started the engine. Five minutes later, they were airborne.

Craig watched the altimeter climb to five thousand feet. Brad leveled off, bearing south-southeast. A faint gray line on the eastern horizon marked the approaching dawn.

Wow! Craig said, pointing out the window. They’re launching a rocket at Cape Canaveral.

The booster, exhaust flames clearly visible in the night, shot skyward. Craig watched until the booster separated from the rocket. Wonder what it’s carrying?

A new NOAA satellite. It’s highly advanced, according to the news, Brad said. Mind taking the controls? The tower said we might run into some heavy weather around Lake Okeechobee. I want to check the charts.

Craig soloed in the spring, had the ripped shirt hanging on his wall to prove it, and