The Fault With The Spy

by Linda Mackay

  “I was camped at Hawk’s Rest in the Thorofare and saw it in the sky.”

  I was lucky to remember what I did last week, but he remembered dates and statistics that went back decades. It was part of what made him so good at his job. He could store information for years then recall it to calculate a change in everything from the depth of the magma chamber to the number of earthquakes in Norris Geyser Basin and how they related to the change in poisonous gas release. He also remembered I still owed him five dollars from a bet in 2009.

  It was this ability that was part of his demise at the USGS. Since the 1980s many statistics from studies in Yellowstone were calculated to achieve only the desired result. Even when the actual documentation was destroyed, Dad could recall every stat and spew it like Old Faithful erupting. You don’t play ball, you’re in for a fall was repeated so many times to him that he got the nickname Fallball.

  I watched him riding Alfalfa, the strange horse born with a strand of his mane that always stood up like Alfalfa’s from Our Gang. The odd mane was a fitting symbol for his quirky personality. Dad didn’t have a cowlick, in fact he was bald as a honeydew melon, but he was definitely quirky. Ever since he earned his PhD and started spouting he could predict the probability of earthquakes with tides, moon phases, and animal behavior, he’d been labeled an oddball by some, and a fraud by many.

  He was smarter than almost everyone else which kept his job secure for years. But in the end that intelligence coupled with his integrity shook him out of his government job. Dad should have left for the private sector twenty years ago, but his belief that Yellowstone was far more active than the government wanted to acknowledge kept him fighting the battle. He believed if he could prove his theories, he would not only be helping save lives, he would be proving critical science.

  It almost destroyed him when the politics finally became the absolute truth over the science. However, today he was riding with a straight back watching his surroundings with great interest. It was the first time in ten years I’d seen his old confidence. He turned and saw me watching, and winked at me. He had a mission. Dad might be the only person capable of proving the President was assassinated. This was his moment and I was complaining and inciting my team to riot.

  This was Dad’s field investigation and I was being a bad daughter. The daughter who always demanded the rules be followed and those in authority revered. The daughter who felt she had to fight every day to prove she wasn’t her father. The daughter who could succeed where he failed and prove to the USGS a Clark could be a team player.

  The truth was, my dad never failed. I did.

  Every theory he had over the last twenty years was being proven as either probable or factual. He was the visionary. The one who took the insults, pay cuts, and lack of promotions in stride because he believed in what he was doing.

  Now, my job was to stand with him for once. Screw the politics. Screw the rules. And screw my job. Dad had climbed in the saddle and he was ready for the ride, whatever that ride was. It was time for me to get off the government merry-go-round and ride bareback.

  Maybe I better start with tightening the cinch and holding on.

  Chapter 14

  Hey Special Forces, don’t hurt yourself thinking so hard.”

  “Hey Sugar, why isn’t the park closed?”

  “Probably because they couldn’t afford to lose any more money after being closed last year, spy boy.” Maybe it was time to call a truce in the name-calling department. I brushed the mud off a log and sat to eat my lunch. I’d managed to find a place to stop that met the three criteria for an acceptable lunch break: a good place to sit, a view, and as few bugs as possible.

  I took a bite of my peanut butter, jelly and M&M sandwich.

  “We have a President and others killed or injured, and it’s business as usual.” Mac said inspecting his sandwich to be sure there were no M&Ms in it. “Dr. Clark, that’s screwed up.”

  The way he said Dr. Clark, I was sure he was still calling me names. “I quit trying to figure out what was wonky with the government years ago. So don’t ask me.”

  “If a President is killed, under any circumstances, you always assume the worst till proven otherwise.”

  I looked at Mac. “You’re saying something’s seriously wonky?”

  “I wouldn’t say that’s the official term, but yes, something is seriously wonky.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I’d close the whole damn park after two events in six months and I certainly wouldn’t allow those hikers to use the trailhead near the bay. I need to find out where the sealed-off perimeter is, then I’ll be able to form an opinion on the situation.”

  “Is Mac working out the Wonky Factor?” Todd asked pouring water he had filtered into our cups.

  I took a long drink of the cold water. Water is a necessary luxury in the backcountry and by the time you located and filtered it, you appreciated every drop. “I’d say he’s thinking we’re at Wonk Fac 3, but seriously moving toward Wonk Fac 2.”

  “I take it the Wonky Factor is your version of the military Defcon rating,” Mac said.

  Todd took a drink of water. “Been using it since the never-gonna-happen event three years ago.”

  “Should I ask what that was?”

  “Can’t tell you, it’s classified.” Sometimes Todd is such a bitch, which is one of the top three reasons I love him.

  “Seriously, a bunch of geology geeks have classified information?” Mac shook his head.

  Todd moved in close to Mac and whispered, “Maybe, we know when the Yellowstone Volcano is going to erupt again, but are sworn to secrecy to protect the financial stability of the country.”

  “I don’t think you can be trusted with protecting your mental stability.”

  Todd stood up and dropped his pants. “I’d object to that statement, but the truth has set me free.”

  Mac raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Yes, I know he’s one of the nuts in my bag. But at least this one wears underpants.”

  Waiting for cover of darkness to cross the main road gave me too much time to reflect on what was happening around me. The past five days had blurred into a world isolated from other humans. Without phones, Internet, television news or screeching sirens rushing to rescue someone caught in the earthquake, I’d become oblivious to the catastrophe playing out in the surrounding areas.

  If it wasn’t for passing the occasional hiker, we could be the last people alive on the planet. We’d survived the largest recorded earthquake to shake Wyoming. The Yellowstone volcano was emitting gases in places I’d never seen before, dormant geysers were spouting water, and two streams that had for decades provided water to backcountry travelers were dry.

  Away from the inhabited communities racing to repair earthquake damage the world was quiet. The winds that had been blowing for eons were still leaving their daily mark on the small light-colored pebbles creating the beaches around the lake. The Cottonwood trees surrounding me were thick and provided shade and protection from close scrutiny by other humans. However most of the area was littered with dead snags from forest fires, most caused by summer lightning, but some started by careless people. The media and politicians claimed the entire park was destroyed by fire in 1988. Actually, only 36 percent burned and half of that was low or moderate intensity. The burn was a necessary cycle in the life of a dense forest and I feel blessed to live in that blip in geologic history where I can see the landscape without the trees providing cover.

  From my vantage point I had a view of the southeast arm of Yellowstone Lake. The wind had picked up and the white caps filled the lake like it was topped with meringue. I knew the fading light of day would soon turn the bright colors from the bold impressionistic palette of a Van Gogh to the pastels of an ocean seascape. The trail had moved away from the lake leaving mainly forest and grizzlies as our companions. When we stopped to wait for darkness Frank took us off-trail nearer the lake. We were less likely to be disturbed by a gri
z here instead of sitting on the banks of Cub Creek. It was also easier to hear one away from the noise of the roaring water where we could surprise a bear fishing for spawning trout. Even at rest we couldn’t afford to let down our vigilance to all the dangers around us.

  It didn’t matter how serene the setting. Somewhere ahead of us on the 18-mile long southeast arm of Yellowstone Lake was the location of a bomb crater that had changed America, possibly forever.

  “Now who’s thinking too hard?” Mac sat down next to me.

  “I never tire of the scenery. Every time I’m in the backcountry I see something I haven’t seen before.”

  “What do you see today?”

  “The world encroaching.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Mac staring at me. “Would you mind moving and sitting on my right side?”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “It’s worse when someone speaks quietly or there is a lot of background noise. Otherwise, I’ve adapted.”

  Mac wrapped his fingers around mine. “Adapting seems to be your life.”

  “Why do you think that?” I sighed as the warm grip of his fingers worked their magic.

  “Because you are surrounded by genius goofballs who all need someone to give them a chance to shine and you adapt so they can.”

  “I thought you believed I was as crazy as they are?”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t crazy,” Mac smiled. “But I also know you’re arguably the most intelligent person at the USGS, and you could have chosen to work for any company you wanted, anywhere in the world, but you chose to stay in Wyoming.”

  “My dad talks too much.”

  “Only when he’s losing at Poker.” Mac let my fingers drop back to the ground and I felt an instant chill from the loss of his touch. “Do you see anything out of the ordinary now?”

  “No, and we need to be higher to see any damage from an explosion.”

  “Then let’s get back to camp and make a plan to do just that.” Mac stuck out his hand to help me up. I ignored it and stood on my own. “It was just a hand, Jorie.”

  “I don’t need a hand.”

  “You need a lot more than a hand.”

  He was gone before I could respond. How does he do that?

  “Gimmie that back.”

  “No way, it’s mine.” Todd took a bite out of the sandwich he grabbed out of Amanda’s hand. It was just after six, we were “totally stealth” by Frank’s orders, eating sandwiches again and reconstituted strawberries while dying of boredom.

  “Doesn’t have your name on it,” Amanda whined.

  “It kinda does. You said you didn’t want anything to eat so I didn’t make you a sandwich, and since everyone else has theirs, this one would be mine.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Then make one for your damn self.” Mac said finishing his sandwich.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I said. “She’s going to be pissed and pout for hours.”

  Mac shook his head. “Are you suggesting Todd give her his sandwich, or that one of us make her a sandwich? Because I’ll tell you right now, I’m not doing it.”

  “Normally, we ignore her and then she’ll take care of herself.”

  Todd sat next to Mac and took a huge bite of sandwich, rubbed his chin with his fingertips, and did a really bad impression of the Godfather. “I like Mac’s way better.”

  Frank lifted his hat off his face from his nap position. “Don’t poke the bear.”

  Mac looked at Frank. “Maybe this part of the trip would be easier if we weren’t traveling with a bear?”

  “Yep, it would, but too late for that now.” Frank said resuming his nap pose.

  I’m pretty sure Mac is never going to warm up to Amanda. Even on her good days she can be a royal pain in the tuchus. If the last sandwich had belonged to anyone but Todd, she wouldn’t have touched it. Which I admit makes their relationship one for a therapist to sort out, but it works for them. I on the other hand was warming up to Mac’s shutting the Bicker Brats down. They are both excellent workers and geeked-out smart so I put up with them five months a year doing fieldwork. They’re like the siblings you love in spite of the fact they make you want to tie them to a tree with a feather dangling in their face.

  Mac had assumed the cowboy-napping pose next to Frank. Tata had settled in quietly and were playing a game of Gin Rummy and Dad had wandered off somewhere. He had a habit of wandering, so I wasn’t worried. He wasn’t really happy unless he was working and camping. The winter months cooped up at the ranch were torture to him. He didn’t watch TV. Instead, he spent winter writing reports and academic papers. I wouldn’t see him for days only to discover he’d hiked out and been winter camping a couple miles from home. Dad didn’t follow the rule of never hiking alone. So, it didn’t surprise anyone that he’d made a lifetime commitment of not telling us when he was leaving for a day or two. I felt lucky he told me when he was leaving for an extended trip and where he’d “probably” be working.

  I checked on the horses, and then leaned up against the trunk of a tree close to Arikira. She nuzzled my foot and I scratched her nose. It was good to have a horse as your best friend.

  “Jorie, wake up,” Amanda whispered. “I need to borrow a pair of socks.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t find my socks, and my feet are blistering from not wearing any.”

  Crap. I’d forgotten about the socks. “Sure, give me a second.” I didn’t mean for her to go all day without them. And now I didn’t dare tell her I’d stolen them, she’d meltdown and our stealth mission would be toast.

  Mac was checking his packs on Chimayo. “Mac, I need Amanda’s socks.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because if she finds out I stole them…”

  “Say no more.” He walked over to Deli and opened his gear pack. He looked around to be sure Amanda wasn’t loitering with the horses and handed me her socks. “Tell her they got packed in your bag by mistake.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Amanda was happy to have her own socks. According to her, my plain gray socks were sad socks and her orange, purple and green plaid ones were happy socks. I can’t imagine socks having any emotions whatsoever, but then I talk to animals so who was I to cast stones.

  One thing for sure, the sky was casting dark clouds full of thunder and lightning in the distance. Rain was imminent and we needed to start moving up the game trail. The moon and stars were not going to be providing any light for our travels, which meant we would be riding in pitch-blackness. I’ve ridden in complete darkness more than a few times and every time ended badly. My watch said it was 8:35 p.m. We would have twilight until about 9:45, with total darkness normally setting in around 11:30. I was betting with the storm moving in we’d be lucky if total darkness held off till 10:30. That left us under two hours to travel a couple miles on a game trail, cross the main road, and finally locate a place to stop until light allowed us to move on to the Turbid Lake area and our first view of the destruction.

  Definitely an undertaking only lunatics and spies would attempt.

  “Does everyone have their headlamps?” Frank asked. “Let’s move out.”

  “I’ll bring up the rear,” Mac said.

  Frank had already starting moving when he reined in Junior so fast that Amanda on her horse Blue ran into the back of Junior. “Jorie rides caboose.”

  Mac opened his mouth to argue.

  “Don’t do it, Mac,” Todd said pulling into line behind Amanda. “Ride behind Joe.”

  Mac’s body tensed on Chimayo and she stomped and snorted to let him know she wasn’t about to walk out into the darkness with a stressed rider sitting her. He rubbed her neck and pulled in behind Dad. I gave them a few steps then reined Arikira onto the game trail.

  Game trails are everywhere in the wilderness, many not usable by humans or horses. But the best backcountry guides knew which trails a human c
ould reasonably safely share. Both Frank and Dad could draw you a map from memory of every usable game trail. You could drop either one of them blindfolded in the wilderness and once they took off the blindfold it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes for them to know exactly where they were. I was hoping that skill was our ace-in-the-hole over the next couple days.

  The problem with using game trails is the game. Depending on the time of year they are heavily traveled by everything from marmots, coyotes and elk, to moose, bear and mountain lions. It’s often difficult to know whether a bear or a weasel is making the approaching noise. Figuring it out fast enough to react can be the difference between life and death. Unless the weasel scares you to death, which I refuse to talk about on the grounds it would incriminate me.

  “Is all this burned forest from the 1988 fire?” Mac asked.

  “No. Clear Creek a few miles back burned in 2011 and this area burned in 2003.” I said. “Lucky for us, as nature regenerates we’re reaping the benefit of being able to have less dense forest to navigate through.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a negative?” Mac asked. “We’re more visible.”

  Dad turned around on Alfalfa. “Not as visible as you’d think. And if the forest was dense the horses would never be able to navigate this trail.”

  “Enough chatter,” Frank ordered. “Use your ears not your mouth for the rest of the ride.”

  Silence was the reason Frank wanted me riding caboose. It isn’t just the danger ahead when you are traveling in the dark; it is the quiet behind of a stalking animal that could kill you. Frank was counting on my ability to sense the animals to keep our rear flank safe. However, I was more worried about a horse stumbling on deadfall or a rock. I was also wishing for a helmet instead of my cowboy hat.

  Thunder rolled directly over us startling horses and humans alike. Rain began dumping on us like we’d walked under a waterfall. Everyone dismounted and put on rain dusters. I remounted Arikira and shivered as my duster only served to push my wet clothes closer to my body sending a chill through me. Frank started Junior back up the trail and I hoped this wasn’t how I was going to enter the Happy Hunting Ground in the sky.