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thinking about Wake. We’re no more above sea level than they were.”
    “I will be sure to let you know the minute I know anything, sir.”
    “You just couldn’t hold this off until after the change of command in July, huh?” he asked, smiling. “I’d be hunting and fishing back in Missouri by then.”
     
    7:15 PM – BASE HOUSING, KWAJALEIN
     
    I decided to check on my quarters before heading back out to the weather station to pull what would likely be an all-nighter. The sun had set, and the showers and thunderstorms had moved on, but just as I rounded the bend onto the road toward home, the siren cut through the air like a knife—three short bursts followed by a long burst. The siren normally sounded the “all clear,” which consisted of one long blast, every day at six p.m., except Sundays. Other than the all clear signals, the siren had been silent for our entire stay on the island up to that point. Given the unusual signal, hundreds of people were likely scrambling to find the section of their telephone books that would remind them what it meant.
    The thought reminded me of Kate. She had a photographic memory and certainly would have known what the siren meant without having to look it up. To most people, her memory was just a novelty—people loved testing her with trivial questions—but it also was a big part of her success as a lawyer. She could recite any case she had ever read, remember every legal technicality, and she never forgot a name, face, or a statement anybody made. In addition, she was also a great debater—a nearly insurmountable combination in a courtroom. But just because you are good at something, doesn’t mean you enjoy it.
    I met Kate on a dare in a bar two weeks before I graduated from college. My friends knew she was out of my league and bet me that I couldn’t get her number. With little money, no job, and no prospects, I marched over to her table in order to get it over with—so we could all have a good laugh about how pathetic I was and get back to drinking. My plan to win the bet was simple: I just told her about it. She told me that she admired honesty most, and that she’d play along and give me her number if I promised to actually call her. I realized at that moment that I had stumbled onto a great pickup strate gy, but I never needed it again—I kept my end of the bargain by calling her, and we’ve been together ever since. And I won the bet.
    We dated for two years as I worked as a weekend meteorologist on a small local television station. On a whim, I applied for a job at RTS and got it. It was twice the money I was making on TV, and it was a chance to live in paradise. On another whim I proposed to Kate and asked her to come with me. Had she said no to either question, I would have refused the job offer—I already knew what I had in her.
    I nearly fell over when she said yes to both questions.
    I may be the only man in the history of the world who followed up an accepted marriage proposal from the woman of his dreams with the question: why? She made plenty of money, had lots of friends, was destined to be a superstar in her law firm, and I had never heard her utter a single complaint about her job. In retrospect, it was selfish of me to ask her to leave all that.
    But she answered me with only four words: “I hate my job.” She retired from law at the ripe old age of twenty-seven and has been happily married to me and raising our children ever since.
    I walked in the door and the first thing I did was call Kate. It went to voicemail, but it was after midnight on the west coast, so her not answering didn’t worry me. I didn’t leave a message; she’d see that I called and call me back in the morning.
    As I wandered around our quarters, I marveled at the immaculate condition in which Kate kept it. I realized there was little I could do to protect anything. Either the storm was going to destroy our quarters, or it wasn’t. I raised some of the more expensive