The Weathermen

The Weathermen

BY

John Dee & Katt Lynn

Smashwords Edition

********************

Published By John Dee

ON

Smashwords

The Weathermen

Copyright 2011 by John Dee & Katt Lynn

Smashwords Edition License Notes.

This E-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

You know the rest of this speech, so do what's right.

Thank You, John Dee & Katt Lynn

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Author's Note

With the exception of our computer, the title, and one or two references about mom and dad; there are no he, she, him, or her in this book.

You have my permission to make the heroes/heroines and villains any gender you wish.

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Are you faster than the speed of light?

I AM

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Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

FORWARD

CHAPTER: ONE: Ruined Weekend

CHAPTER: TWO: The Feds Take Us Flying

CHAPTER: THREE: Penguins and Quartermasters

CHAPTER: FOUR: Orientation

CHAPTER: FIVE: Learning the Ropes

CHAPTER: SIX: Beyboutu

CHAPTER: SEVEN: First Suspicions

CHAPTER: EIGHT: Going to Kansas City

CHAPTER: NINE: Renegades and Prison

CHAPTER: TEN: Smyth or Smith?

CHAPTER: ELEVEN: The Weather

CHAPTER: TWELVE: Wanda Land

CHAPTER: THIRTEEN: Weather Balloons and Volcanoes

CHAPTER: FOURTEEN: Preparing for War!

CHAPTER: FIFTEEN: Jobs, Jokes and Jesters

CHAPTER: SIXTEEN: Racing and Wrecks

CHAPTER: SEVENTEEN: Operation Pandemonium

CHAPTER: EIGHTEEN: Spies and Lies

CHAPTER: NINETEEN: Setting the Trap

CHAPTER: TWENTY: Back and Forth

CHAPTER: TWENTY-ONE: Misapprehension

CHAPTER: TWENTY-TWO: Cattle Cars and Cop Cars

CHAPTER: TWENTY-THREE: The Two Most Dangerous People on Earth!

CHAPTER: TWENTY-FOUR: Illusions and Delusions

CHAPTER: TWENTY-FIVE: Just Playing With Us

CHAPTER: TWENTY-SIX: Welcome Party

CHAPTER: TWENTY-SEVEN: Call You Friend

CHAPTER: TWENTY-EIGHT: Back From the Dead

CHAPTER: TWENTY-NINE: Sparks Fly

CHAPTER: THIRTY: The Experts

CHAPTER: THIRTY-ONE: Rock Solid Proof

CHAPTER: THIRTY-TWO: Bombs Away

CHAPTER: THIRTY-THREE: Black Commas of Death

CHAPTER: THIRTY-FOUR: Restraint

CHAPTER: THIRTY-FIVE: Elk River Massacre

CHAPTER: THIRTY-SIX: Seventh Mesa

CHAPTER: THIRTY-SEVEN: Land of the Strangers

CHAPTER: THIRTY-EIGHT: Happy Pilot

CHAPTER: THIRTY-NINE: Flipping the Switch

CHAPTER: FORTY: Firing Codes

CHAPTER: FORTY-ONE: Showdown

EPILOGUE

The Weathermen

By

John Dee

INTRODUCTION

****

I received a parcel approximately three months ago with no return address. Interestingly to me however; the postmark on it was from Ethiopia. Having the quirk of a curious nature, I opened said package and removed the contents. It just so happened to be a manuscript from a long ago student of mine.

During that particular point in my career; I was teaching 'Rudiments of Labor Law' at a junior college in the proximity of Detroit. I have read the manuscript twice and present it to you unchanged. For after extensive research; I do believe that it may carry some validity.

Herald J. Wingate;

Prof. Harvard School of Law

FORWARD

****

If you receive a copy of this manuscript; you must see that it is published. I am not a professional writer. So please forgive my many mistakes in punctuation, sentence structure and of course spelling.

Most of the information in this book comes from my diary, or journal if you prefer. I have taken the liberty of filling in the blanks, from memory. Please allow me to apologize in advance; for there are no dates. I lost track of them. You will understand why, as you read on.

The names have been changed by everyone, to protect the innocent and the guilty. By me, by the government, and by other concerned parties.

Again; I ask your forgiveness for my writing style. But hey, I'm just a line supervisor; what do I know about writing books?

I've done my part. I have lived long enough to write this book. Now all you need to do is sit back in a comfortable chair, read it; then tell a friend and do something, anything, so I can come out hiding.

If you receive this manuscript, GET IT PUBLISHED!

The future of the world depends upon you.

Everything in my life was normal until July, I think, or maybe August; I do not remember. It was so long ago; ten years at least. I seem to recall I was somewhat upset, because the barbecue, which I planned for Saturday had been rained out. Again! For the third weekend in a row, or maybe it was the fourth.

I was just sitting in my living room, crying in my beer; listening to the rain spoil my weekend.

Then - - - There was a knock on the door. That knock did more than mess up my weekend. Ultimately, it ruined my life and made me a fugitive

CHAPTER: ONE

Ruined weekend

****

The weekend in which I allegedly disappeared as far as I am concerned is where my story begins. It was about four in the afternoon and someone, or something was leaning on my doorbell. I got up and opened the door. It was still pouring down to beat all.

Standing there, in the rain, were two Feds, holding their badges in my face, while dripping water like Victoria Falls.

The tall one asked; You Thompson?

Yea.

J.E. Thompson?

Yea; that's me all right. Listen; if this is about that parking ticket, I can explain.

We don't know anything about a parking ticket Thompson, but we do know that your country needs you. May we talk?

My country needs me?

Yes Thompson; it needs you very much.

The United States of America needs me? Are you sure there's not some mistake?

Is your mother's name, Caroline? Is your father's name, Jim?

Yea, yea; that's right.

No mistake Thompson; you’re the one. Would it be possible to continue this inside, where it's dryer?

Yea sure; I'm sorry. Come on in.

As we went inside, my mind was racing like a roller coaster.

Me? Why me? I am your perfectly average American. An average job, average weight, a little below the average height, for my weight, not much, about a foot or so. I got 'C's' all through school. What did the U.S., Government need me for?

After they removed their raincoats; we all sat down in my average living room. I turned off my average TV, on which I had been watching an average program.

Why me?

To begin with, the tall one did all the talking. The short one was checking notes, taking notes, or both.

Thompson; how long have you worked at Widgets Manufacturing?

About twelve years. I replied.

A nod from the short one, before the tall one continued.

Did you take a vacation the first year?

If you want to call it, a vacation.

Could you explain?

Two weeks of rain in Miami Beach, is not my idea of a vacation.

I understand perfectly.

A nod, and the beginning, of what I thought to be a smile, was on the quiet one's face.

You received a promotion about four years later?

Yea; crew boss on the line. It consisted of a raise and three weeks' vacation per year.

Do you recall where you went on vacation that year?

Tucson, Arizona.

And?

And what?

And; how was your vacation?

The wettest February on record, three inches of rain in one day, with sixty miles an hour wind.

Then you went to Palm Springs; is that correct?

How did you know that?

Dopey was scowling at my inquisitor with a warning look in both eyes. I did not know why at the time; but I do now.

We know all about you Thompson. That is why you were picked. How was Palm Springs?

Why don't you tell me, if you people know so much?

OK, Palm Springs recorded the worst flooding in forty years.

Yea that's right. I don't have very good luck picking vacation spots. Warmest winter on record when I went to Vail, Colorado; all the slopes were closed. The typhoon that hit Hawaii; I was there. Remember hurricane Andrew? I tried Miami again. Galveston; Camille! I was there! Yellowstone and the fires; I was there too, but I didn't start them; lightning did. Even this picnic I have attempted for the last three weekends has been rained out. Again. I don't go on vacations anymore; I . . .

Thompson!

Well, Dopey could speak.

Thompson; we didn't come here to discuss your vacations. We are here to talk about your work.

I did not know it then; but Dopey could look you straight in the eye while they were strapping you into the electric chair and tell you the pardon was on the way. Then Dopey would pull the switch.

Beanpole took over lying again.

Thompson; our records show that five years ago you were made line supervisor and last year you were promoted to shift supervisor. That is quite an accomplishment for anyone, in only twelve years. The records also show, production went up nine percent while you were the line supervisor. Plus, another eight percent increase, while you were shift supervisor. This is the caliber of person; the President wants working for the United States of America's government. Will you do it, Thompson?

What exactly is it, that the president wants me to do for America?

Precisely what you are doing now; shift supervisor at an assembly plant. What we are about to tell you, is Top Secret. You breathe one word of this, and it is Leavenworth for the next twenty years. We want you to understand that; right up front, before we continue this further.

Top secret! I was going to be a spy! Just like double O what's its number.

The tall one interrupted my fantasy.

Well?

Well, what?

Do you comprehend; if you even contemplate telling your neighbor's cat about anything said here today; you are going to rot in prison for the rest of your life.

I understand; not a word to anyone.

Very good; we want you to leave tonight. Arrangements are already made to fly you to a clandestine base in Utah. You will go through a one-week orientation class and a month long training course. Upon completion; you will have two weeks leave. Any place in the world you wish; with the exception of here. Under no circumstances, are you ever to return here at any time.

For security reasons; Added Dopey

If you accept our offer, and pass orientation; your personal effects will be shipped to the base, at government expense. Your starting pay will be a hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars per year.

Ex - ex - excuse me; ha-ha- how much did you say?

One hundred, eighty-five thousand, with twelve weeks paid vacation per year.

Where do I sign? With money like that, I can have great vacations, no matter what the weather is.

Dopey just sat there and grinned ear to ear; while pulling out the forms.

Beanpole smiled and remarked; That's what we are counting on, Thompson; that's what we are counting on.

CHAPTER: TWO

The feds take us flying

****

I was packed by six o'clock. They wouldn't allow me to tell anyone I was leaving, for national security reasons, or some such thing. The three of us climbed into the chauffeur driven car, (a dirty late model Lincoln) as the sun was timidly peeking out from behind the clouds; turning the sky crimson while we drove off, into the sunset.

Beanpole smiled and announced; Red sky at night, sailors delight.

Dopey continued to smile like the Cheshire Cat.

Our chauffeur took us through a private gate at the airport; then drove right up to the most beautiful, azure blue and gold jet I had ever seen. In fact; at the time, it was the only one I had ever seen.

There was room enough, for at least a hundred passengers inside, but this plane only had seating for twenty. Not seats like in commercial jets mind you, but rather full-size plush chairs, and sofas surrounding coffee tables, along with four big flat screen TVs complimented by built-in DVD players. A bar / kitchen separated the front and back sections.

Thompson; help yourself to the bar if you wish, we take off in four minutes.

I sat back and relaxed while we took off; saluting the cloudless sky. Blessing all the American taxpayers with my hundred-year-old Brandy; for making this all possible.

The flight was just as smooth as the Brandy; that is until we neared Atlanta.

Then the Cumulonimbus took on an ominous green black color. The pilot switched on the 'fasten seat belt' sign. Thirty seconds later we were yawing and pitching wildly through the thunderstorms.

I have to hand it to the pilot and copilot; they brought us down without a hitch. Ten minutes later, we were back in the thunder and lightning once more.

All the commercial flights were still in a holding pattern or being diverted elsewhere, due to the weather. Too rough for them, but not for us.

We picked up another recruit in Atlanta. A true southerner named O'Brion.

O'Brion was quality control for some cola company, and even more average than I am; if that is possible.

Twenty minutes later we were out of the storm, and racing the setting sun. Not a trace of rain anywhere; in fact, the sky shone alizarin, and gold in the west.

As we were all getting acquainted; the pilot paid us a social call.

Folks; that is the last of the bad weather; it is clear all the way to the west coast. We'll be arriving in Salt Lake City at nine fifty-six, under clear skies, with a lovely seventy-eight degree temperature.

Beanpole was smiling, as was Dopey. The taller agent challenged the pilot; I bet you fifty bucks it'll be storming when we get there.

The captain smiled back. Everyone was smiling, but me. For some strange reason I was nervous with all that smiling going around.

The pilot replied. You’re on. It is always a pleasure to take money from the F.B.I.

The smiling pilot returned to the cockpit; whistling 'Viva Las Vegas.'

Beanpole sauntered over to the bar smiling; offering to mix drinks. Dopey smiled, while exclaiming.

That's cheating.

While handing us our drinks, Beanpole replied. So it is, so it is. What say we take in some of the sights, when we get to salty? I know a really nice outdoor café; great food, fantastic view and then we'll take a walk around Mormon square.

We all agreed to the plan, but when I looked at Beanpole, and Dopey; I wondered if it was my imagination, or did their smiles actually become larger?

Slowly; we lost our race with the westward bound sun and the newborn stars, timidly showed their sparkling faces in the clear indigo night.

Later as we descended toward Salt Lake City; nature put on a beautiful pyrotechnic show for us. The lightning lit up the sky from north to south.

Heat lightning? I inquired.

Not a chance Thompson, Wasatch front; plenty of wind, and rain. Looks to me like the captain is buying us supper tonight.

Beanpole got up and strolled lightly toward the bar, humming the theme song from 'The High and The Mighty;' while I turned toward the window again.

In the window's reflection; I caught Dopey positively beaming.

Another Lincoln was waiting for us as we deplaned, in the pouring rain.

Uncle Sam put us up in a very nice hotel, and the food was great in their restaurant. The one inside the hotel, not the one outside.

It was raining too hard for taking in the sights, so I turned in early.

Next morning after a quick breakfast; we rushed back to the airport. It was a beautiful, crystal clear morning; not a cloud in the sky. Perfect for sightseeing; unfortunately we did not have the time.

Boarding the chopper; I couldn't stop thinking of how nice it would have been to travel by car, and see some of the tourist attractions.

The ominous roll of thunder quickly changed my mind on that subject. While looking over my shoulder; I noticed a towering thunderhead, which I had somehow missed earlier.

We gained altitude and headed southwest toward the Cedar Mountains. I had this funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am not subject to motion sickness; so that wasn't the problem. It was more like a foreboding.

Gazing out of a window; I looked around to see how that storm was doing. Franticly I looked out both sides of the chopper. Not a cloud in the sky, anywhere. Crystal clear as a matter of fact; not even, a little baby cloud.

The knot in my stomach tightened.

Forty-five minutes later, we touched down at Dugway.

CHAPTER: THREE

Penguins and Quartermasters

****

Dugway, Utah!

In the middle of the Great Salt Lake Desert. In the middle of the proving grounds. In other words; in the middle of nowhere.

It was quite beautiful in a stark sort of way and in the middle of all the middles; was the largest assembly plant I had ever seen. Complete; with forklifts, trucks, electric carts, and pedestrians scurrying around in what appeared to be controlled chaos.

Shooting out from the double doors of the building nearest us; rushing past the guards, toward us at a high rate of animation, was a. - - - A Penguin?

That's what it looked like. Five foot one, or two; black shoes, pants, and coat. Augmented; by the whitest of white shirts, with the tail hanging out in front.

The apparition waddled right up to us, beaming with happiness, and shouting; Alo, Alo; welcome, welcome everyone to Stalag thirteen. Just kidding, welcome to the Bradley Tank Assembly Plant. You must be O'Brion, and you must be Thompson, or vice versa. I am Doctor Benguin.

Luckily, the Doctor shook hands with O'Brion first; while I fought for composure. The Doctor shook my hand firmly and with eyes twinkling, laughed; Go ahead Thompson; let it out before you burst. Everyone calls me Dr. Penguin. I don't mind, I think the penguin is one of God's loveliest creatures, and I am flattered when people think I am beautiful enough to resemble one.

I took an instant liking to the good Doctor.

Benguin; shifted his gaze beyond O'Brion and me, and shouted.

Be gone, be gone F.B.I. types. You have delivered these fine people into my care. They are under my protection now. Your job is done! Be gone; you 'Hounds of The Baskerville.' Search out more victims, and bring them to me. Alive!

As we walked toward the building, the Doctor suggested; O'Brion, you take out the guard on the left. Thompson you get the one on the right, and then the three of us will fight our way inside, and take control of the central air conditioning. I shall take command of the thermostat, immediately set it down to seventy-two, and then we may talk in comfort. I look forward to winter; do either one of you enjoy snow skiing?

We somehow entered the building; without taking out, any of the guards.

Once inside; we followed the blue line to get our pictures taken, then we followed the green line to where we were finger printed, next was the yellow line to our thirty second, complete medical exam.

Finally, following the red line; we picked up our I.D. cards.

Dr. Benguin; took us on the grand tour, which ended up at one of the base cafeterias. In which the walls were covered with travel posters from all over the world. Every place you could imagine, and some you couldn’t. I asked about them.

Laughing; Doctor Benguin explained. We encourage travel here. The government pays for it as you shall learn during your orientation class. Basically; you work thirty days here, and then spend one or two weeks on vacation. Hopefully; somewhere mysterious and exotic.

O'Brion inquired; Excuse me please. Dr. Benguin; what might y'all, be a Doctor of?

O'Brion's accent was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. It was interesting to meet someone, who couldn't say more than two or three words in a sentence without pausing. Personally, I thought it sounded cultured; I'm the type who tries to spit it all out in one breath.

O’Brion. I am the doctor of all you survey.

With a sweep of the arm to encompass everything; the Doctor continued. I am the emperor penguin of this iceberg.

My apologies. For being somewhat unclear Doctor. What I actually meant to inquire of you; was. What is, your Doctorate in?

Yes, yes of course, of course. I am a Doctor of meteorology. The humble weatherperson if you will.

Doctor?

Yes; Thompson.

I was thinking that it is - - -a - - -a, interesting that a meteorologist is in charge of building tanks.

I believe the word you are searching for, Thompson, is unusual. Weather is interesting, mysterious, and fascinating. My position here is merely, unusual and you flatter me too much by thinking I am in charge of building tanks. I will let you both in on a little secret. I am only in charge of the people, who are in charge of building tanks, and that takes all my skill as a meteorologist.

How so, Doctor?

I must be ever watchful for the winds of discontent. The gales of temper. And the dreaded hurricanes of ego. I believe; controlling the weather, is much simpler, than controlling our emotions. What do you think, Thompson?

I agree with you, one hundred percent Doctor.

Not to be presumptuous, in the least bit, but don't y'all, mean, predicting the weather, Dr. Benguin?

Thank you, O'Brion; so I do, so I do.

With that; lunch was over. O'Brion and I went in search of the quartermasters building, for our room assignments.

Map in hand we promptly got lost of course, and neither one of us would ask directions. Finally, after an hour or two of searching; we found the quartermaster’s office.

Building 28; of course, was right next to building 114. That is the way they do it on secret bases; number the buildings in the order they are built.

Confuses the enemy and anyone else, who happens to be around.

Inside building 28; nineteen people were busier than bees. The exception; sat behind an immaculate mahogany desk the size of an aircraft carrier. Eating caviar, drinking Champaign, and doing a crossword puzzle with a pen!

A busy bee type came rushing up. Wadayaneed

O'Brion replied; We, wish to speak, with the Quartermaster.

The bee type said. Ikenelpya.

O'Brion explained in a - - - well, in a rather stentorian voice. I was instructed; to speak with the Quartermaster. I do so wish to speak, with the Quartermaster; now!

You could have heard a thought drop.

The whole hive turned as one; starring at us with eyes wide and mouths open. Slowly; they all turned towards the Aircraft carrier.

The Spelling Bee; ever, so deliberately; put down the champagne glass, wiped its mouth, and placed the pen on the desk.

I learned a long time ago; not to fool with anyone who does crosswords in pen.

I quickly edged away from O'Brion, obliquely as the Spelling Bee rose and gracefully, panther like; paced towards us. The worker bees parted making a path straight to O'Brion.

After an eon; a soft voice broke the silence. You? Wish, to speak? To. ME?

Undaunted; O'Brion continued. Are y'all the Quartermaster?

I am called by many different names, in many different lands. You may address me as, - - - GOD.

Turning to me; the 'Spelling Bee' continued. Do you also, have the uncontrollable, desire to discourse? With God!

ME? No. Your God ness! I'd be perfectly happy with a simple cherub.

Wilson! Front!

Wilson rushed forward at the speed of a lightning bolt.

This pilgrim is yours Wilson; treat it with kindness. I, shall personally attempt, to convert the infidel.

As the Supreme Being of the base walked away; I knew O'Brion was doomed. Never, piss off the Quartermaster.

That evening, while I was finishing my dessert in the cafeteria; O'Brion limped in, looking almost dead. Curious; I inquired; What happened to you?

Me? Absolutely nothing. First; I walked all over, this lovely base, looking for my barracks.

Really? Wilson drove me to mine, in a jeep.

Next; I climbed up, three magnificent flights, of stairs.

Wait a minute; why didn't you use the elevator?

Elevator? There ain't, no such animal, Thompson!

There is in MY building.

Then, I had to search, just, all over the place, once more, for my luggage.

Funny; mine was sitting right next to the dresser.

Dresser? Pray tell; what else, might you, perchance have in your room, of which I, do not?

I have no idea; let's see. Do you have a Microwave in your kitchenette?

Microwave! I do not, even have, the luxury of, a kitchenette!

You mean you have no refrigerator, or stove?

That! Is, precisely, what I mean, Thompson.

Why don't you tell me what's in your bedroom and living room, first. Then; we'll see if I have the same things in mine, O’Brion?

Thompson; I, only have, one room, but it is truly historical. I have the bed, which, 'Alexander the Great,' died in. I have; the very same desk, on which Lincoln; wrote the 'Gettysburg address.'

Lincoln wrote the 'Gettysburg address' on a train, O'Brion.

I am totally, aware, of that rumor, Thompson. To continue; I have, the Original, electric light bulb, which Edison invented, and a lovely chair, from the first, school house in Utah. Oh yes, one more thing; I have the very same rug, in which they covered, that nasty old John Brown's body with.

My bathroom is rather small. I offered.

Finally, Thompson; you have given me, something, of which I may, boast about on my own. My shower, is only thirty feet, from my room. It is, of a dimension, which will suffice, for twenty people, to bathe, at same time. Six of the shower heads, actually do work. Three of them, even have warm water; after a fashion. When the rust, can be persuaded to leave the pipes. Beat that my friend!

I can't O'Brion. My shower only has four nozzles that work, and it's at least forty feet from my bedroom.

Approximately two hours later; you could hear O'Brion in three states! Idaho, Nevada, and of course, Utah.

ONLY FOUR NOZZLES! Thompson! ONLY FOUR NOZZLES! THEY ARE ALL IN THE SAME SHOWER! IN A PRIVATE BATH! ABOVE YOUR JACUZZI! AND IT IS NEARLY FORTY FEET TO CROSS YOUR LIVING ROOM, FROM YOUR BEDROOM, TO YOUR SHOWER!

CHAPTER: FOUR

Orientation

****

"Good morning class, my name is Kimble; I am your liaison officer. I am the link between the civilian and military populations on this base. If you have any problems with the military talk to me.

(O'Brion's hand shot up.)

And I will straighten things out.

(O'Brion's hand was waving madly.)

My job is to make sure everything runs smoothly between you, and our military forces.

(I thought O’Brion