Nuclear Winter Devil Storm by Bobby Akart (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📕

The warmer the water, the more moisture in the air, which results in a broader and stronger hurricane.”

The president interrupted the scientist’s explanation. “All I’ve been told these last few weeks is that the fallout, or nuclear winter, is blocking the sun’s rays, resulting in rapidly cooling temperatures. Wouldn’t that apply to the ocean’s waters as well?”

The NOAA representative nodded and referred to a stack of graphs stapled together. “Yes, sir, that is true. As you can imagine, data is not available from all of our resources, but I do have sufficient readings from buoys spread throughout the South Atlantic, the Caribbean Sea, and even into the Gulf of Mexico to provide a response.”

He offered to provide the dozen pages or so to the president to review, but he waved his arm, declining. The president was interested in the bottom line and how this would impact the nation.

“That’s okay. What does it reveal?”

“Let me explain it this way. Hurricanes are like machines whose job is to move heat from the warm ocean below to the cooler atmosphere above. Under present conditions, the water temperatures have dropped well below eighty degrees, which is considered ideal to form a hurricane.

“Nuclear winter puts us in uncharted waters, sir. What we’ve learned is that this storm is acting much like a polar low. As the name suggests, this is a low-pressure system that forms over the Arctic ocean in winter where the ocean water temperatures are cold, but the atmosphere above it is much more frigid.

“In the Caribbean Sea right now, and I’ll go ahead and include the Gulf of Mexico in this analysis, we have a situation where the water is, shall I say, lukewarm. However, the air above it is much, much colder, especially for the region. The result has become the tropical equivalent of a polar low. A hurricane like no other. May I give you an example?”

“Please do.” The president leaned back in his chair and motioned for the NOAA representative to continue.

“In mid-January 2016, Hurricane Alex was the first storm to occur in the winter since Alice sixty years prior. Because of the cold wintertime temperatures, it originated as a nontropical low near the Bahamas. At first, its path took it northeast toward the open waters near Bermuda.

“Then a high-pressure system turned it back to the southeast. The storm deepened and strengthened. Now, the path is not the issue. What I’m trying to illustrate is this phenomenon has happened before, at least twice. It’s happening for a third time.”

The president sat forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table. “What can you tell me about this storm’s path, strength, and timing?”

“Sir, the eye of the storm will be moving between Cuba and the Dominican Republic hours from now. We expect it to maintain its strength as it travels over open waters before turning slightly on a northwesterly track to the south of The Bahamas.”

“U.S. landfall?” asked the president.

“The storm will pass over the Florida Keys and enter the Gulf of Mexico. Our buoys indicate the surface waters in the Gulf are warmer than the Caribbean Sea, oddly. In any event, the storm may strengthen as it enters Florida Bay and the Gulf. We’re unable to state this with certainty at this time.”

President Helton leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together behind his head. He studied the information scribbled across the whiteboards, which included the computer model’s indicated track for the storm.

He set his jaw and allowed a barely perceptible smirk. That’ll teach ya.

Chapter Fifteen

Thursday, November 7

Tarpon Springs, Florida

It was only a few weeks ago that fishing boats of all types would be making their way back to the docks, easing their way past Anclote Key before entering the protective inlet at Tarpon Springs. Located thirty miles north of Tampa, Tarpon Springs was known as the Sponge Capital of the World or, in some cases, the Venice of the South because the mouth of the Anclote River ran through the middle of the small coastal town.

Like the fishing villages of the Mediterranean, Tarpon Springs was replete with whitewashed buildings spread out along narrow streets, where Greek food, culture, and traditions were on full display. No more so than along the waterfront, where working commercial fishing and sponging operations were comingled with tourist activities, including diving trips and eco-tours.

Now, the boats were tied off at the docks, devoid of human activity unless their owners lived aboard them. Gone were the throngs of tourists who spent their days wandering the shops, filling their bellies, and emptying their wallets in order to bring a piece of this way of life to their homes.

Andino slept a few hours before returning to the helm to guide the boat into Anclote River, navigating his way past Chesapeake Point toward the historic sponge docks. Boats were everywhere, as fuel was scarce and the need to conduct commercial fishing had ceased.

To be sure, food was an absolute necessity, but the cost of harvesting it from Florida’s fertile coastal waters was excessive. At this point the value of the American currency had become virtually nothing. Barter markets were growing in popularity, and very few merchants were willing to accept greenbacks. Anyone willing to accept the almighty dollar as payment demanded an exorbitant sum for the simplest of items. To say the inflation rate had skyrocketed would not do justice to the diminished value of the dollar.

Those who did trade in currency were speculators. Their belief, or hope, in any case, was that the U.S. government would take corrective measures and the U.S. currency would once again become of value. For now, it was practically worthless, and a box of cereal, for example, was selling for nearly two hundred dollars.

Everyone was huddled around the helm as Andino gave Lacey and Tucker the nickel tour. He directed their attention to points of interest while he and his family gasped as they spotted several familiar landmarks that had been looted or even destroyed by