Chapter 7

Gavin advised Alon to go out for sports in the afternoon, convincing him that he would deal with the project problems, and that there was little Alon could do with it for the time being. Gavin went to see his supervisor, Paul Durant, a professor visiting Berkeley from McGill University in Montréal.

"Paul, I think we might have a problem," said Gavin.
"What sort of problem?" asked Paul.

Gavin explained the situation.

"Show me!" said Paul, gravely, and followed Gavin back to the met lab.

Gavin ran the simulation using 3 of the mainframe computer terminals. On one, he showed the storm prediction using Alon's calculations. On another, he showed the simulation according to the Met Office formulae, and on the third, he showed a time-lapse image of the development of the storm over the last 24 hours.

Professor Durant spent twenty minutes each at the first two terminals, and a few moments at the time-lapse terminal. When he had finished, he looked up at Gavin.
"So, who's right?" said Gavin. He was hoping it was not Alon, but Paul's face told him to expect bad news.

"Alon is right."
"So what did the Met Office do wrong?"

"Nothing, but Alon's model takes into account neighbouring, and recent weather events in the area. The Met Office model does not. Two weeks ago there was a severe storm at sea in the area. Two container ships were sunk."
"That must have been some storm!" said Gavin, shaking his head.

"Indeed. A ship can normally take any wave shorter than the ship is long, as long as it takes it on the bow. So either the waves were bigger than the ships, ¼ mile high, or they were so thick and fast that the ships couldn't turn into them. Either way, if it is worse than that, and looking at the time-lapse video, it is, and it hits land, the devastation could be unimaginable."

"Oh, God!" said Gavin, and slapped his head with his hand.

"We have to tell someone!" said Paul.

"I told you, I did! They told me where to go!"

"You called the Met Office," said Paul, reminding himself. His thoughts were all over the place.

"Of course. Yes!" said gavin excitedly.

Paul shook his head. "The Centre Meteorologique Canadien will listen."

"What makes you so sure?" said Gavin.

"Because they don't think they are always right!" said Paul, with a wink, and punched in the number on the videophone. "Strange," he said. "I only get voice." He picked up the old-fashioned hand-held receiver and dialled again. "Bonjour!" he said. "Sandrine DuVivier, s'il vous plaît."

Gavin listened intently as Paul waited for various connections, and spoke with, it seemed, various different people. Unfortunately, Gavin spoke no French, and was relieved when Paul suddenly switched to English.

"Sandrine?"

"How are you, Paul?"

"We've no time for pleasantries, I'm afraid!" said Paul. "We have a situation!"

"What?" Sandrine sensed the urgency in his voice.

"I'm emailing you something now!" said Paul, and clamped the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he tapped away at the keyboard. "Should be there in a few seconds."

Sandrine did not speak for some minutes; she had obviously received it and was worried. "You know," she began, and paused for a while before resuming her sentence. "We've already had reports of string winds over Maine."
"So we're in for a rough ride?" said Paul.

"That's a bit of an understatement. If you're right, Paul, we need to act fast to avoid total devastation."

"I didn't predict this!" said Paul.

"Who did?" asked Sandrine.

"Alon Markowitz, a nine-year old boy."

"Well, thank God for him!" said Sandrine. "I have to go, Paul. We have to implement the emergency plan as soon as possible."
"What about the USA?"
"I will contact them direct," she said.

"Good luck," said Paul.

"Thanks. I'll need it," said Sandrine, and signed off.


"What now?" said Gavin.

"Now, we wait!" said Paul, and sat down once again at the time-lapse terminal. "And we pray."

"What do I tell Alon?" said Gavin.

"Nothing."
"He's not stupid!" said Gavin.

"That much is clear," said Paul. "I'm sure you'll think of something."


Sandrine contacted the Met Office in the USA.
"Henderson!" barked the man at the other end, when Sandrine managed to finally get through. He had a wide, reddening face, and a grey moustache which contrasted with his brown hair. He was wearing a lab coat over a green military uniform.

"This is Sandrine DuVivier, in Montréal, at the CMC."

"CMC?"
"Centre Meteorologique Canadien."
"French, huh?" said Henderson.

"No, Canadian."

"You mean the Canadian Meteorological Centre?" said Henderson, patronisingly.

"That's what I said," said Sandrine, understanding at once the problems that Gavin had had with dealing with him.

"What do you want?" he barked.

"I understand that you have been speaking with someone about a problem with your prediction model?"
"Yes. But I told him as well, there's nothing wrong with our model."
"There most certainly is. Your model fails to take into account the problems caused by recent storms."
"We are confident in the accuracy of our predictions!" said Henderson, proudly.
"How do you explain the high winds and rough seas so close to US and Canadian territorial waters?"
"It's just slightly more severe than we expected."

"I'm emailing you the data now."
"I don't need to see your data!"

"I'm sending it anyway."
"Why?" asked Henderson.

"Because when it all goes to the wall, I'll know I did my part. Will you do yours, Mr. Henderson?"

"It's Colonel Henderson! I know what I'm doing!" he growled.

"What are you doing?"
"Monitoring."
"I'm evacuating coastal regions and the areas surrounding the Great Lakes. I suggest you do the same."

"Spend millions of dollars moving people who don't want to go, to save them from a storm that isn't coming? I don't think so, Miss DuVivier!"

"It's Professor DuVivier."

"That's nice. Look, I have other things to do, you know!"

"I'm sorry you aren't listening, Colonel Henderson. But you have been warned."

"Whatever!" said Henderson, and hung up.


Sandrine poured herself a glass of water, and made a very important phone call. She had never used the hotline before, and her hand sock as she picked up the receiver. It was an old analogue telephone, used because in the event of a disaster like this, it was much more likely than a digital videophone to keep working.

"Anawak," said the voice at the other end, gravely.
"Prime Minister?"
"Yes?"
"This is Sandrine DuVivier from the CMC."
"We have a situation?" asked Prime Minister Anawak.

"Code red weather," said Sandrine.

"Location?"

"Suggest evacuation of towns and cities within 100 miles of east coast, and surrounding Great Lakes. Everyone else east of Winnipeg should make severe storm arrangements."
"That's a lot of people to move!"

"Yes, Sir. But it is necessary."

"Then we'd better get started."
"Thank you, Sir."

"I'll make the arrangements."

Sandrine smiled sadly. She was taken with the way the Prime Minister of Canada trusted her so much. "Goodbye, Sir."


Sandrine looked up from her desk, and pressed a button on her phone to call in her assistant, who summoned a colleague.
"Yes?" said Guillaume as he entered.

"Guillaume, we are instigating severe weather plan Code red." She filled him in on the particulars.

The news was grave; Guillaume knew that this meant a severe, potentially devastating storm was going to make landfall in Canada. However, he reacted in the same way as if Sandrine had asked him to make her a cup of tea. "Right," he said. "I'll get thing going."
"And Guillaume?"
"I sent this to the Met Office in the US. They didn't listen. Keep sending it. Send it to the papers if you have to- but only as a last resort."
"Okay," said Guillaume, and departed.