G. I. Joe: Operation Vortex

By "Wolfman Six"

Summary:

An unexplained natural disaster in the Midwest starts a new Cobra campaign against the United States. Was the weather random, or part of the Cobra plot? Can the Joes get to the bottom of the mystery in time to keep the death toll from growing?

Feedback to: wolfman769@aol.com

Disclaimers:

G. I. Joe, Cobra, and any associated characters are the property of Hasbro, Inc. This is a derivative work and uses their characters without permission. Sorry about that, folks – at least I don’t make any money off this, so there’s nothing in the coffers.

The NOAA TMSU was surrounded by the sprawling airfield that supported the United States Air Force’s 55^th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing and a number of combat and combat support flying units. It was a small support office of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Agency, and just a small part of the large network of stations that studied and shared information about bad weather all across the country.

Manned by a dedicated group of veteran weather experts, the TMSU existed to support the detachment of U.S. Air Force Reserve combat weather specialists that operated the WC-135 Constant Phoenix aircraft from Offutt. While the Constant Phoenix program was mainly geared toward air quality sampling and the detection of radioactivity in the air after nuclear weapons tests, the TMSU also served as a data collection point for the masses of satellite based weather data broadcast back to Earth from low orbit. Offutt was also a backup command facility for the NOAA Hurricane Tracking Center, when the Miami, Florida operation came under threat by the storms that often battered the American southeast in the summer months.

The TMSU operated four shifts of systems operators and meteorologists, seven days a week and 365 days a year. The staff was constantly watching their sector of the Midwest for indicators that would lead them to believe bad weather was coming. The closely-knit group of experts had been lauded as heroes many times before, by developing procedures to spot the minute atmospheric anomalies that often became the most violent of tornadoes, which were the bane of the Midwest, just as much as hurricanes plagued the Gulf coast.

The conditions over the Midwest were clear. Doppler radars, thermal satellite data and barometers from all over Nebraska and Kansas barely registered a spike. The chief equipment operator on duty enjoyed shifts that were so quiet, even though he generally groused about the boredom. At least, there were no bad storms out killing people and destroying property.

One of the computers chirped a warning, just after the operator finished typing up the latest "all clear" e-mail, which had gone out instantly to hundreds of subscribing agencies and news outlets. With a stretch and yawn, he wheeled his office chair over to the display and called it up on his large screen workstation.

At first, the Doppler radar return from an orbiting weather satellite over the Wichita area showed the characteristic neon green digitized background that depicted the land areas of that part of Kansas. The fields of green were crisscrossed with the thin blue lines of the rivers and streams, and dotted with the black markers belonging to the municipalities and functional weather reporting stations in the immediate vicinity.

All of a sudden, splotches of white and gray filled the display, and strings of numbers flashed across another adjacent monitor. The operator knew what was going on. A storm cell was being born.

"Hello?" the operator said after dialing a memorized phone number. "Director Johnston? This is Wally Hinton at Offutt. I’ve got a storm cell fifty-eight miles west of Wichita…

"No, sir. The reports were all clear, all day long. There are no appreciable patterns or fronts crossing that sector. It… it just appeared, sir…

"I understand, sir. I’ll get my assistant to start broadcasting an advisory to the locals. We have a Hurricane Hunter aircraft on a navigation practice and crew qualification flight. It’s refueling at McConnell Air Force Base just east of Wichita. I can get our bird cycled and back in the air in thirty minutes to overfly the sector and give me eyeballs on the forming cell."

Hinton scrawled at a notepad that he always carried around in his shirt’s breast pocket, nodding as he jotted down Director Johnston’s instructions. "Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it."

Hanging up the telephone, Hinton rolled his chair over to a different desk and traced his finger along a telephone list. Selecting one, he picked up the closest extension and dialed. "Hello, McConnell Air Force Base Operations? This is the weather TMSU at Offutt. I need to speak to NOAA Aircraft Commander Tom Brentwood or a member of his crew. We’ve got a hot mission for him…"

***

WP-3W Hurricane Hunter "Kermit The Frog"

Aircraft Commander Tom Brentwood had the controls of the 1960’s and 70’s vintage Lockheed airliner, which had changed hands from being a civilian design to one of the Navy’s foremost anti-submarine warfare aircraft, and then part of the NOAA’s mixed fleet of atmospheric research "Hurricane Hunter" planes.

The original Lockheed fuselage was conceived to be a sleek and powerful airliner with smooth lines. However, the Navy (and later, the NOAA) had festooned the WP-3W with a variety of bulbous radar domes, antennae and protrusions to suit its new mission of following violent atmospheric events. Instead of transporting a large number of passengers in relative comfort, a skeleton crew of meteorologists and atmospheric researchers operated the aircraft’s equipment from a cramped crew bay behind the cockpit, often for up to twelve hours at a time.

Brentwood sipped at a bottle of Poland Spring water while he watched the swirling clouds forming below him, estimating the altitude of the forming storm at fifteen thousand feet. The tall, brown-haired pilot was a veteran Navy ASW patrol aviator, having flown countless hours of Atlantic Ocean duty aboard P-3C Orion planes, before retiring from the military and being asked to fly the venerable Orion once more for the NOAA. He already had nearly a hundred storm missions under his belt after only five years with the NOAA aviation operations unit, based out of MacDill AFB in Florida.

The co-pilot on the mission, Dave Powers, was a two year veteran of NOAA "Hurricane Hunter" operations, and he busied himself on the radio with Offutt AFB and the intercom with the systems cabin while Brentwood prepared the WP-3W for its initial descent into the storm cell below.

"I still can’t believe that Offutt says this thing just appeared, Tom," Powers said. "It looks like a mature storm system. All of the satellite feeds showed the same thing. Clear skies and light clouds at twelve thousand, then like turning on a light switch, this monster started to form."

"That’s all the information we have, Dave," Brentwood replied, setting his automatic pilot for a slow and steady descent into the gray and black swirling cloud cover below. "It’s the wierdest thing I’ve ever heard in my twenty years of flying these rust buckets. But look down there. You can’t dispute your own eyes."

"Nope, can’t dispute that," Powers said, holding one of the earphones of his headset closer to his ear to listen to a radio call from the ground. "Offutt’s cleared us for descent. They want us to run a standard sweep and disperse weather sensors into the eye and rings."

"Okay," Brentwood replied, pushing gently on the yoke in front of him to nose the WP-3W into an easy dive. "Tell the passengers to start the tapes. It’s time to thread the needle."

***

"Dash! Will you come down here already? It’s time for dinner!"

"Coming, Alison!"

The thudding of heavy footsteps and slight creaking of the hand cut, wood framed stairs grew in volume as Alison Hart-Burnett Fairborne finished laying out four place settings around the unassuming dining room in the family home of her husband.

"Mom! Dad!" the loud voice of Alison’s husband Dashiell called out. "Dinner time! Where are you two?"

Dashiell and Alison Fairborne, better known to much of the world as the G. I. Joe operatives Flint and Lady Jaye, met in the hallway between the stairs and kitchen, sharing a tender embrace and kiss.

"Isn’t this fun?" Flint asked. "I just love the outdoors and getting back to the farm. It sure beats sweating it out in some jungle with Cobra hot on our heels."

"I must admit, that your family’s farm isn’t as bad as I thought when you first suggested taking this trip," Lady Jaye replied, slipping an arm around her husband’s waist. "I miss my friends at the theater company back in New York, but the vacation is certainly doing wonders."

Flint cast Lady Jaye one of his signature smiles, a boyish look that usually made her heart melt. "That’s not fair, Dash," she said with a grin. "You’re using dirty tactics. Now you’re making me want to skip dinner and haul you off to your old childhood bedroom again."

"I used to play doctor in there with Sally Lewis when we were nine years old," Flint replied with a sly grin. "The room’s been broken in already."

Lady Jaye slapped Flint playfully on the upper arm before trying to turn back toward the kitchen. Flint’s muscular arm held her in place while he leaned close to offer another kiss. "Now it’s confirmed. You started your career as a Lothario at a very young age. I’m sure your mom and dad would not appreciate the news."

"I’ll protect my secret," Flint whispered, nuzzling the nape of her neck and drawing a soft moan from his wife.

The lovebirds stopped flirting when John Fairborne, Flint’s father, swung the screen door in the back of the farmhouse open. "Did you say it was dinner time, Dash?"

"Yeah, Dad," Flint said, releasing Jaye and walking back to help his father haul in a stack of firewood for the farmhouse’s wood-burning stove. "Where did Mom go?"

"I think she drove the pickup into town for some last-minute groceries, son," John said, lowering the half cord of split firewood onto the floor planks with a groan. "Guess my old bones aren’t cut out for doing all the heavy hauling anymore."

"Take it easy, Dad," Flint said, hoisting the firewood for the rest of the trip into the sitting room. "You shouldn’t be doing all this stuff just because we’re here to visit."

"What? You telling me that I can’t do a few extra things to make my only son and his beautiful wife comfortable?" John retorted. "I’m not that old, my boy. I can still toss you over my knee or drop kick you into the pile of hay in the back of the barn."

Flint chuckled and stoked the stove, while John sat down in his favorite chair to catch a breath. "I know, Pop. None of us are getting any younger though. It’s not like the days when you could out pull an ox and taught me everything about raising animals and crops out there."

"Speaking of not getting any younger, son… What are you and Alison doing about grandkids?"

"I would’ve thought I’d hear that out of Mom’s mouth before yours, Dad," Flint replied, flicking a lit match into the stove and closing its faceplate. "We’ve both been busy. Alison’s got her theater career taking off, and I still work for the government."

"When are you gonna give up the Army and spend your days taking care of that wife of yours, son?" John asked point blank. "There’s a lot more important things in this world, you know."

Flint rubbed his hands in front of the stove’s faceplate, feeling the warmth of the fire against his palms. "Soon, Dad. Real soon. Times aren’t like back when you came home from Korea and decided to be a farmer. My job is something that you don’t just walk away from."

"Your loyalty is admirable, son," John said, passing a glass of whiskey towards Flint. "But you have to remember just what it is you fight for every day. Alison is the biggest part of your life. That gold ring on your finger means a helluva lot more than putting your life on the line for an ideal.

"I can’t tell you what decisions to make for yourself, son. But I don’t want you losing Alison – or Alison losing you - before you even get the chance to enjoy what it was that got you two married in the first place. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Flint said. "I understand."

Lady Jaye walked into the sitting room, shaking out a tangle in her auburn hair. She smiled at Flint and John. "Where’s your mom, Dash? Dinner’s ready to put out on the table."

"She went into town in the pickup, Alison," John said. "She should be back any minute."

"I’m kind of worried, Dash," Jaye said to Flint. "The clouds turned really dark all of a sudden. Looks like a really bad storm is brewing out there."

"The weatherman said it was clear all day," Flint replied. "… Fair winds and clear skies all the way from Wichita to Kansas City."

"It was turning when I came in from the barn," John said, "but it’s nothin’ new. All we get around here are rainstorms and some pretty lights in the sky when the clouds open up."

***

WP-3W Hurricane Hunter "Kermit The Frog"

The thirty-plus year old aircraft fuselage rattled as freshening winds buffeted it from all directions. Tom Brentwood and Dave Powers both calmly held their course while the in-flight crew behind them scrambled around the systems cabin.

"The payload bay is ready to release, Tom," Powers said after listening to a report from the chief meteorologist in the aft compartment. "Let’s keep this line and altitude for five minutes while they deploy the first set of remote barometers and wind sensors."

"I’m holding her steady, Dave," Brentwood said, his arms taut and stiff while they held the WP-3W level against the rapidly changing wind patterns. Audible alarms sounded in the cockpit, from the engineering and systems panels behind the two men, as they stared into the belly of the quickly growing beast.

"Oh, shit!" Powers exclaimed, taking a hand off his control yoke to point at a dark shadow one of the WP-3W’s running lights picked out against the clouds. "Did you see that?"

Brentwood’s sharp eyes and keen pilot’s senses didn’t register the dark shape, but he was a second or two behind Powers’ report and the shape was already gone. "I didn’t see it, Dave. What did you have?"

"Dark shadow in the clouds at one o’clock, Tom. Are there any other Hurricane Hunters in the air? Maybe an Air Force bird out of Mississippi?"

Brentwood glanced at the scope of the aircraft’s civilian model weather radar, on his side of the cockpit. Only the colored swirls of the atmospheric depression filled the tiny digital display. He fired off a quick call to the Wichita Mid Continent Airport’s air traffic control center, which also confirmed that there were no other planes known to be in the immediate area.

"No blips on the radar, Dave. ATC at Wichita is coming up empty too. You sure you saw an aircraft out there?"

"Not really," Powers relented. "Just a dark shape. It might have even been our own shadow against a flash of sheet lightning up here."

"Keep your wits, Dave. This could be a big one. I’ll need you at a hundred percent in case we get into trouble inside this thing. The eye should be coming up soon. Keep your eyes peeled for anomalies."

The WP-3W punched through a wall of moistened clouds before an empty patch of air opened up ahead of the aircraft. As the windscreen wipers on the cockpit windows swished back and forth to keep the droplets of rain out of the way, Brentwood and Powers gasped at what they discovered.

"Get on the radio, Dave!" Brentwood nearly shouted. "Call Wichita and tell them we have a funnel forming! And it’s a big sucker, too!"

While Powers scrambled to switch frequencies on the radio board, to warn the Wichita Mid Continent Airport and the local authorities on the ground, Brentwood switched off the automatic pilot and hauled hard on the control yoke, his tired muscles pulling the steering system back between his legs.

"Calling Wichita Center!" Powers radioed frantically. "This is November Four Two Romeo Foxtrot! We’ve got a massive funnel cloud formation at angels ten! Can’t get a read on the internal wind speed, but she’s moving toward you at over forty miles an hour! If this baby touches down, it could be a Foxtrot-Five for sure!"

"Hurricane Hunter Romeo Foxtrot, from Wichita Center," the young and scared Wichita ATC controller’s voice replied. "We read your warning! Taking emergency precautions! You guys set a course northwest and get out of that system! We’re clearing all traffic ahead of the pattern!"

"Our escape heading is northwest, Tom," Powers said. "Wichita Center’s spreading the word on the ground."

Heavy winds from air being sucked into the weather system rocked the Hurricane Hunter, making it hard for Brentwood and Powers to navigate the plane smoothly. The WP-3W lurched violently into a left bank and the four turboprops complained loudly, straining to maintain power and thrust in the changing air.

"Max out the throttles, Dave!" Brentwood called out, as his co-pilot slammed the four throttle handles all the way into their stops.

"We’re all the way, Tom! Get us the hell out of the path of that monster!"

Thuds and shouts of panic from the systems crew compartment made their way into the cockpit, as the NOAA equipment operators were tossed about from the emergency evasive maneuver.

"Buckle up, everyone!" Brentwood shouted. "We’ve gotta get out of here!"

The pilot watched his compass heading wheel around, straining and sweating as he tried with his hands and feet to keep the controls obeying him instead of the other way around. When the indicator finally pointed northwest, he swiftly kicked the rudder pedals in the opposite direction and both pilots pulled at their yokes to aim their plane out of the maelstrom.

***

Distant peals of thunder echoed through the sky, the sounds penetrating the bones of the sturdy farmhouse. All of a sudden, flashes of sheet lightning brightened the bottom surface of the cloud cover, as the fast-moving weather pattern blew eastward towards the city of Wichita.

"Where is your mother?" John Fairborne groused. "She has more sense than to get into a long conversation with her friends at the grocery store with this thing brewing."

"I’ve got the upstairs windows locked, Dad," Flint said, stomping his way downstairs into the sitting room. He had a pair of his combat boots knotted together and tossed over a shoulder, which he set on the floor to slip his feet into. "I’ll go out and secure the barn doors for you, Dad. Just keep an eye out for Mom."

"Thanks, son," John said, offering Alison a brave smile as she sat next to the wood stove.

"I’ll come and help you, Dash," Alison said, reaching for a waterproof jacket that hung from a coat hook near the back door.

"It’s okay, sweetheart," Flint said, putting his arm between Jaye and the back door. "Just stick with Dad and watch out for Mom. I can handle the barn myself. It’s just like Dad said - no big deal. We’ve been through this stuff all the time."

"Why don’t we listen to the radio or put on the TV while we wait for Mom, huh, Alison?" John asked, trying to lighten the look of concern that was starting to cross Lady Jaye’s face.

"Sure," Jaye replied, while John reached for the remote control to the television set.

The screen came to life with the unmistakable tones of the Federal Emergency Broadcast System. A series of text messages ran across the television unintelligibly, before the face of one of Wichita’s local news reporters appeared, already in the middle of a report.

"… We’re at Wichita Mid Continent Airport, where the FAA has instructed the management to close the airport immediately and re-route all incoming commercial and civil air traffic to alternate sites. A storm chasing aircraft from the NOAA is following this very strange atmospheric depression that has formed - quite literally - out of nowhere above the city."

The reporter stood out in the open, with the main terminal of the Wichita airport as his background, as winds kicked up various bits of flotsam and debris. He grabbed an earpiece that he was wearing, frowning and squinting as he listened to a message.

"We’ve got new information. The NOAA aircraft that was inside the storm just signaled an emergency and is trying to break out of the heavy cross winds that are causing the system to move our way. They have also reported the formation of a funnel cloud near its eye.

"You all know what this means, folks. For the first time in a very long time, Wichita might have a tornado touch down. For your own safety, and the safety of your neighbors, stay indoors and keep tuned to a television or radio station for updates. If you can, get into a basement or take precautions to protect yourself and your family."

A few larger pieces of material blew past the reporter at the airport and he stifled the urge to curse on camera. "We’re going to seek shelter inside the terminal here. I’m sending you back to our Eyewitness News Eight weather center in Downtown Wichita. This is Mike Carruthers, signing off for now. Everyone stay safe!"

Flint charged into the farmhouse and locked the back door just a moment before the tornado alert siren, perched high atop a three hundred-foot tripod pole near the local fire station, began to emit its eerie warble for the first time in years.

"Have you seen Mom yet?" Flint asked, panting. John and Lady Jaye both shook their heads in the negative, and Flint’s heart sank with worry.

"The weather boys in Wichita think this storm has a tornado brewing inside her, Dashiell," John said. "Maybe you and Alison should take cover in the storm cellar. I’ll be along when your mom gets here."

"No, Dad! Come with us!" Flint tugged at his father’s sleeve, urging him to get out of his chair. Lady Jaye snatched up a transistor radio and an armful of warm clothes before throwing open the back door.

John, Flint and Lady Jaye reached the large and heavy doors leading down to the storm cellar as the horizon turned an eerie gray-black. In the distance, a funnel of whipping air and moisture had formed, a whirlpool of violent winds heading in their direction.

One by one, the Fairbornes headed into the cellar and Flint locked them in, keeping an ear toward the heavy doors in case his mother arrived and was banging on them to be let inside.

The cold, cement-walled cellar had a few old blankets on the floor. John lit a fire in the small fireplace that was built into a wall while the growing wind whistled its angry tune all around them. Lady Jaye crouched against Flint, the two hugging one another tightly as frantic voices at the local radio station reported the tornado touching down.

"It’s down! It’s down!" the voices shouted through the transistor radio. "The fire house is okay, but the tornado is going straight east on the highway. It looks like it’s going to flatten the Piggly Wiggly, the strip mall and the big grocery store! Oh my God! …"