Ball Lightning

We tested the system in Guangdong Province, a frequent site for tornadoes, and successfully predicted several of them, one of which grazed a corner of urban Guangzhou. The system gave ten- to fifteen-minute advance warnings—enough time to safely evacuate personnel before the tornado’s arrival, but not long enough to avert other losses. But in atmospherics circles, this was already a remarkable achievement. Besides, according to the principles of chaos theory, long-term prediction of tornadoes was basically impossible anyway.

Time moved quickly while I was immersed in my work, and, in the blink of an eye, a year had passed. In that year, I attended the World Meteorological Congress, held once every four years, and was nominated for the International Meteorological Organization Prize, known as the Nobel in Meteorology. In part because of my academic background, I ultimately didn’t win, but I still attracted the attention of the meteorological world.

To demonstrate the achievements of tornado research, a conference sponsored by the organization—the International Workshop on Tropical Cyclones—specifically selected Oklahoma to host. The region, known as “Tornado Alley,” was the setting for the movie Twister, which depicted tornado researchers.

The main motivation for the trip was to see the world’s first practical tornado forecasting system. Our car drove along the flat plains, Oklahoma’s three most common sights alternating outside the window: livestock farms, oil fields, and vast wheat fields. When we had almost reached our destination, my travel companion, Dr. Ross ordered the windows covered.

“I have to apologize. We’re entering a military base,” he said.

I felt crushed. Was I really unable to escape from the military and army bases? I got out of the car and noticed that most of the buildings around us were temporary structures, along with several radar antennas in large radomes. I could also see a vehicle carrying a device that resembled a telescope, but was no doubt actually a high-powered laser transmitter, probably for atmospheric optical observation. In the control room was a familiar sight: a row of dark-green military computers and operators wearing fatigues. The only thing a little unfamiliar was the large, high-resolution plasma display, usually unaffordable back home, where projection screens were used instead.

The big screen displayed images of atmospheric disturbances captured by the optical observation system, a technology transfer that had netted Gao Bo’s Lightning Institute a nice sum. What appeared as ordinary disturbance images on the small screen were quite impressive when blown up to this size, chaotic turbulence like a group of crystalline pythons dancing wildly, tangling into balls, and then flinging out again in all directions, disorienting and frightening at the same time.

“You look at the air and it seems so empty, not a crazy world like this,” someone exclaimed.

There’s even wilder stuff you haven’t seen yet, I said to myself, and then looked closely at the chaotic turbulence on the screen, trying to get a glimpse of a macro-electron bubble. I couldn’t, of course, but there was definitely more than one of them hiding in such a large area, only recognizable by the still-classified pattern-recognition software.

“Will we be seeing any eggs today?” I asked.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Ross replied. “Tornadoes have been common in Oklahoma and Kansas lately. Just last week, 124 tornadoes occurred in Oklahoma in the space of a single day. A new record.”

So as not to waste time, our hosts had set up a conference room on the base so the symposium could take place while we waited for the eggs to appear. Before the attendees had even taken their seats, an alarm sounded. The system had found an egg! We rushed back to the control center, but the screen still rolled with the same translucent chaos, little different from how it was before. The egg had no fixed shape; it was only discernible through the model recognition software, which then marked it on the image with a red circle.

“It’s 130 kilometers away, at the border of Oklahoma City. It’s very dangerous,” Ross said.

“How long until it produces a tornado?” someone asked nervously.

“Around seven minutes.”

“It will be difficult to evacuate all personnel,” I said.

“No, Dr. Chen. We’re not doing any evacuation!” Ross said loudly. “This is the surprise we want to give you today!”