CHAPTER EIGHT
THE TOREADOR
BUILDING A DEVICE that will remain immobile in winds strong enough to hurl railcars was the easy part. For all the years Tim has handled weapons designed to destroy on massive scales, the testing has always been meticulously controlled, each variable understood and accounted for. High explosives often require a deliberate dose of energy to detonate. There are fail-safes in place, strict layers of firing-system checks. Warheads may contain awesome power, but that power is unleashed only on his mark.
There are good reasons why the quest Tim is now undertaking has never been realized. It’s not just the messiness of a large-scale chase. Even when Tim has been able to chart his own course, he still operates in a world that is, by its very nature, in flux. Unlike on the test range, he controls nothing beneath the storm. Every object is a missile, every passing telephone pole a potential crushing blow, every dirt road a quagmire. There’s a thin line between too close to the tornado, and too far. His life—and the fate of his mission—depends on knowing the difference, and on minimizing every infinitesimal variable within his power.
On February 16, 2002, Tim meets with Seimon at an IHOP in Lakewood to discuss a new NatGeo grant proposal. The pair now imagine a stripped-down mission, its scope winnowed to a single objective. No mesonets, no instructions phoned in from Boulder, no unmanned drones—just Tim’s probe and perhaps a small media crew from National Geographic. Tim argues that the mission’s command structure should likewise be simplified. Strong-willed chasers are bound to argue to the point of paralysis over which target to pursue. One person, Tim says, should be charged with making the ultimate decision when there is no consensus. And Tim believes he should be the one to make the call.
As they settle in at the table, he hands Seimon a single page of typed notes—a manifesto of sorts—that he proposes should govern field operations going forward. “This mission is ALL ABOUT getting In-situ measurements with no allowance for other programs to interfere,” he writes. In other words, they want to make history: pierce the heart of the tornado or bust. He continues: Each morning the team will convene to discuss the forecast, but “being that I am responsible for the fielding of these probes, I have the final decision if there are any differences of opinion.” The manifesto strikes a surprisingly, uncharacteristically authoritarian tone. Yet Tim must have the rigid hierarchy of the previous mission in mind when he writes in one final caveat, “There will be no ‘dictating’ on the target. The subject is always open to suggestion and review.”
Since last year, Tim’s attitude has hardened. He’s a more focused, more intense man. He’s been hard at work, building eight turtles, which he plans to deploy at intervals to sample multiple transects through the tornado. Seimon gamely offers to take several, reasoning that a second deployment team will increase the likelihood of a hit. But Tim flatly refuses to part with even one. His chasing long ago crossed from hobby to obsession; now it’s almost as though his fate and that of the turtle are bound together. The animating cause of his life is the fervent belief that his invention will be the exception, the breakthrough. If anyone is going to make history with the turtle, it isn’t going to be Seimon. It can only be Tim.
Through February and into March, Seimon corresponds with other scientists who might round out the mission’s forecasting capabilities; though he considers himself a specialist in High Plains storms, he’s still occasionally baffled by those to the east. In late April, however, Seimon gets bad news: the Expeditions Council of the National Geographic Society has declined to fund their grant proposal.
It’s a blow, especially so close to the start of the season, especially since Seimon’s work still feels unfinished after failing to “land the big fish” last year. Still, he vows to help Tim accomplish his objective in whatever way he can. The two have developed a strong rapport, and Seimon admires Tim’s commitment. After regrouping, they decide to string together a series of chases out of their own pockets. All they really need is a driver and a navigator, and a little money for gas and motels. They wanted simplicity, after all. Now they’re going back to basics.
For Tim, the loss of NatGeo contains something of a silver lining. There’s no hierarchy, no holder of purse strings. He has always cut an odd trail of his own invention. This doesn’t seem so different. The turtle and the mission are in his own hands: he is free to charge at the core as he sees fit.
Through the spring and early summer of 2002, Tim and Seimon fall into the grinding rhythms of storm chasing—a week on the road here, a couple of weeks there, whenever and wherever the weather models betray a glimmer of hope. Tim has saved up his vacation time at ARA, and if he needs an extra day or two, he pulls weekend shifts to stay within the bounds of company policy. On some days, Seimon rides along. When he can’t come, Tim invites his friends—guys who can spare a few days to hold a camera, split the cost of a motel room, keep him company, and raise his spirits when things look bleak. To a one, they believe in his mission and have been infected with his passion. The roster includes colleague Julian Lee, Tim’s neighbor Brad Carter, and his brother-in-law, Pat Porter.
It isn’t quite like Tim and Porter’s previous carefree pursuits in Lipscomb County, Texas, and the like. Tim is chasing harder now. He keeps to the road with religious zeal, staying out longer than he ever has. One by one, his companions cycle through, unable to keep
