NH3

by Stanley Salmons

  Morning light gleamed dully on its dark grey surfaces.

  Noel Harrison was beginning to find it hard to stay focused.

  “All right, Chris,” he said. “If there isn’t an alternative to Yellowstone, could we recommend a delay? I mean, it’s one thing setting up a threshold when it’s some months in the future; it’s quite a different thing when it’s on top of you.”

  Chris gave him a quizzical look. “The threshold was pretty extreme, Noel – so extreme we didn’t think we’d be reaching it any time soon – and the level of ammonia just sailed over it. Even if we raised the threshold ten per cent it’d only give us a few days. Then we’d be in exactly the same position as we are now.”

  “Well okay, could we – ?”

  They jumped as the phone buzzed. Chris had it on the speaker. Noel heard Trish’s voice say, “Chris, Sarah has the President on the line for you.”

  “Okay, Trish. Put it through.”

  There was a pause, then the President’s voice. “Chris?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Noel with you?”

  “Yes, sir. Both of us have been here all night.”

  There was a grunt. “Me too. Anything new?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  The sigh was audible. “What about the ammonia? You sure those figures are reliable?”

  “We’ve been over them again and again, sir. We’ve reanalysed them and we’ve graphed them every which way. We always come up with the same answer.”

  There was a silence. Then the voice, very quiet.

  “Yes, well… It’s not long now, you know.”

  “Yes, we know. We’ll keep on it, sir.”

  “You’ll let me know the moment you have something?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The line went dead.

  The B-2 accelerated along the runway and rose into the air, bound for New Mexico. In one weapons bay was the cruise missile, fitted with a bunker-busting nuclear warhead set for full secondary yield. The pilot and the mission commander, both of the 394th Bomb Squadron, were not fully aware of the nature of the munition they were carrying. As far as they were concerned this was a secret rehearsal for a possible mission somewhere in Afghanistan where the terrain was similar. They weren’t even aware of the final coordinates, which had been entered before the weapon was winched up into the weapons bay. The crew’s task was simply to arm the warhead and deploy the missile at the assigned location.

  Chris put down the phone and looked at Noel. “That poor guy. I so wish we could give him something – anything.”

  “What haven’t we thought of?” Noel said. “The instruments themselves. Could they be faulty in some way?”

  Chris shook his head. “The instruments on the NOAA flights and the NSF flights and Terry’s sampling flights were all calibrated independently. Their readings still agreed.”

  “Can we be sure we’re not looking at freak local concentrations?”

  Chris slapped a hand down on the desk. “Noel, we’ve been over all that before.”

  Noel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know, I know. We covered it by sampling at all those different sites and different altitudes. Flights, high altitude balloons – ”

  “That’s right. Now that ammonia’s built up, the levels don’t vary that much around the globe.”

  Noel replaced his glasses. “Sorry, Chris. I guess I’m just trying to reassure myself as much as anything.”

  “Don’t apologise, I know just how you feel. All night I’ve been asking myself the same question: can we really go through with this?”

  “You know what worries me? Maybe we are crazy. Suppose Kramer was right?”

  “You know Kramer; he’ll oppose anything he didn’t think of himself. And he hasn’t come up with a Plan B – other than doing nothing.”

  “But we have no direct experience of supermassive eruptions like this! The only record is in the rocks, in the landscape. How big will it be? What sort of area will it affect? What will it do to the global climate and how long will it last? It’s… it’s such a gamble.”

  For several minutes they sat there saying nothing. Sounds from outside seeped into the silence: the muted roar of a passenger plane heading out of Dulles International Airport, the thrum of the morning Washington traffic far below, a sudden burst of laughter from further down the corridor.

  “The planet’s dying, Noel.” Softly though Chris had spoken, his voice seemed suddenly loud in the room. “We’re like doctors standing round the sick bed. We’ve made a decision. It’s not ideal, but we’re doing the best we can.”

  Noel sighed. “I just wonder if it’s a case of curing the disease and killing the patient.”

  Chris’s lips tightened. He looked at his watch. “Do you think the President will go through with it?”

  “I don’t know, I just don’t know.” Noel pointed to the papers strewn on the desk and met Chris’s eyes. “One thing I do know. Even with all this in front of me it’s not a decision I’d care to take.”

  In the Oval Office the President sat staring at the red telephone. It was the moment he’d been dreading. After this there would be no turning back. The digital clock on his desk read 10:59. It was 08.59 in Colorado. One minute to launch. One hour to detonation.

  Again and again he balanced the alternatives in his mind. This could be the best decision of his Presidency – or the worst. How would history judge him: saviour of the world or a trigger-happy butcher of his own people? He buried his head in his hands.

  The phone rang and he jumped. He looked at it for a moment, then lifted the receiver.

  A jagged V-shaped shadow raced across the open desert. It shrank as the aircraft rose to deployment altitude. The weapons bay rolled open.

  Mission commander Lieutenant Colonel Scott Perry repeated the question, a note of urgency entering his voice.

  Five seconds elapsed. Ten. Fifteen. The President took a deep breath. Then he said:

  “That’s affirmative.”

  His hand remained on the receiver after he’d replaced it, his head bowed.

  History may never get the chance to judge him: the secret of what was about to happen would remain known to just a handful of trustworthy people. But he would know. He would always know.

  His hand trembled, then the fingers contracted into a fist so tightly that the knuckles went white.

  “God help me,” he murmured. “God help us all.”

  Fifteen hundred miles away the cruise missile dropped from the B2 and its engine ignited. It flew low, hugging the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, traversing Colorado and Wyoming, on its way to Yellowstone National Park.

  CHAPTER 58

  Felix Rutter, World Marketing Director of Vance Pharmaceuticals, caught the early flight to Boise, Idaho. With him was Carl Neumann, the young accountant he’d brought with as his aide on this trip. It was the latest stop on a tour of Vance’s manufacturing and distribution points at home and abroad. Stuart Marshall, Sales Director for the North West, had sent a car for them and the chauffeur was waiting there in the arrivals hall holding a card that bore the company logo and the word “Vance” in large letters.

  For months they had been busily preparing for the announcement of their major new anti-arrhythmic drug, Rallantor. In recent weeks these efforts had escalated into frantic activity. Now, with just ten days left, Rutter was conducting a final tour of their regional offices in the States. With Carl at his side he followed the chauffeur to the big limousine and relaxed in the back for the drive into town.

  In nearly twenty years with the company he’d risen from Regional Sales Director to World Marketing Director; in that time the company had had three CEOs. Things had changed yet again, since the dismembered remains of Warren’s body had been found washed up on the bank of the Charles River. Now that Ansel had taken over as CEO he’d be reporting to him. That was okay. Warren had been capable, no question, but you could never be sure where you were w
ith him. He had a reputation for firing senior staff, maybe to keep everyone on their toes or maybe because young guys were cheaper. More than once he’d thought his own job was on the line. Ansel was a lot easier to deal with.

  The car stopped outside the Hyatt Place Boise/Towne Square hotel and they took the elevator up to their rooms. They had a few minutes in which to freshen up. The meeting was due to start at nine-thirty a.m.

  The table in the centre of the room was furnished with the usual drinks, dishes of peppermints, notepads, and ballpoint pens. At the end was a projection screen and whiteboard, where one of the Market Analysts was completing the opening presentation. He fielded a couple of questions from Rutter, then sat down. It was one minute to ten o’clock.

  They had just turned to a discussion of follow-up strategies when the building shuddered violently, rattling the windows.

  Some of them got uncertainly to their feet.

  Stuart Marshall held out a hand and tried to reassure them.

  “Please don’t be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. The building is earthquake-proof. It’s not that uncommon in this area. It’ll be over in a moment.”

  But the aftershocks showed no sign of subsiding. The discussion lurched on but it was in no way equal to the distraction of the distant thunder in the air, the vibration of the floor under their feet, the water shivering and rocking in the glasses and jugs on the table. There was a knock at the door and a grey-faced hotel manager came in and whispered to Marshall. The others watched expectantly, saw his eyes widen, his tongue flick around his lips. He said something to the manager, who nodded and withdrew. He cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Rutter, ladies and gentlemen, I’m very sorry but we’ll have to break off our discussions here. I’ve just had word there’s been a major eruption in the Yellowstone Park area. We’re advised to evacuate the city.”

  There was a gasp of disbelief, then pandemonium broke out. A woman emitted something between a cry and a scream. Everyone was on their feet. Somebody snatched up his papers and rushed out of the door. Others fumbled for cell phones. Marshall tried to quieten things down.

  “Try to stay calm,” he pleaded. “There’s no point in moving until we’ve checked the flight situation at the airport. I’m just going down to the manager’s office to see for myself how things are. Please wait here. It should only take a few minutes.”

  Reluctantly some resumed their seats. Others remained standing, chatting nervously or looking out of the window; most were still glued to cell phones.

  Rutter turned to his aide. His insides were fluttering but he managed to steady his voice.

  “Damn this, Carl,” he said. “I knew we should have used the company jet. See if they’ve fixed that engine yet. We might still get it to fly out here.”

  Neumann accessed the company database on his smartphone. After some searching he found the number and started to punch it in. At that point Marshall came back. He sat down and tapped a glass with his ballpoint pen. The room went quiet.

  “We’ve been onto the airport,” he said. “I’m afraid they’ve closed it to incoming flights. You were scheduled to leave towards the end of the afternoon on aircraft that would have arrived earlier in the day. They won’t get here now so all those flights are cancelled.”

  “But there must be flights leaving at the moment,” said a woman.

  “They are leaving, taking off empty as fast as air traffic control will let them.”

  “That’s disgraceful!” she said. “They couldn’t care less about people. They just want to save their precious aircraft!”

  “They said it wouldn’t help if they waited. Right now there’s some clear sky. Once the ash cloud has spread it’ll be too dangerous for anything to take off. Volcanic ash and jet engines don’t mix.”

  “Helicopters?” someone else asked.

  “Commercial helicopters are being diverted as well. It’s possible the National Guard will try to use their helicopters to evacuate people, but they’ll be prioritizing those closer to the Yellowstone area so it could be a while before they get around to us. We had some limousines booked to take you to the airport. We’re still hoping to get them here but right now we can’t contact them.”

  “Just use a cab firm,” said a heavily overweight man, mopping the perspiration off his forehead.

  “We’re trying, believe me. They’re jammed with calls. And a lot of drivers are just putting their own families in their cabs and leaving town.”

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “I can’t honestly see the reason for panic. After all, Boise must be four hundred miles from Yellowstone so I don’t think there’s any immediate danger. We can extend your reservations here at the hotel,” he finished lamely, “in case you’d like to wait until things quieten down.”

  “Stuart?” It was the Marketing Analyst who’d just finished presenting. “I have a TV plug-in for my lap top. We can see what’s on the channels.”

  “You go ahead, Mark. I’ll just see if the hotel has any shuttle buses here.”

  He left the room and the others crowded around the lap top. Mark scanned through the channels. He stopped abruptly at an unsteady low-resolution movie, evidently captured by a cell phone. It showed an enormous tower of black cloud, many miles across, blotting out much of the sky. From time to time it blossomed orange and red, and boiling masses would erupt from somewhere inside and surge even higher, churning the column behind them. The camera panned slowly upwards until the screen showed nothing but roiling smoke from edge to edge; then up still further to pause at the topmost reaches, where unseen forces ripped the cloud into long rags, limned with silver by the sun. It was a sight of majestic, terrifying beauty.

  At the bottom of the screen was a banner with the words “Amateur film from Livingston, Montana”.

  “Jesus, will you look at the size of that thing!”

  “How far’s Livingston?”

  “From Yellowstone? About a hundred miles, I guess.”

  “If I was the guy holding that cell phone I’d haul ass.”

  “Me too.”

  “Shh…”

  The newsreader was saying:

  “…erupts about every 700,000 years. The last major eruption was 640,000 years ago. Even so, this one seems to have caught the volcanologists by surprise. We’ll bring you further bulletins as the news comes in. In Iowa today...”

  Matt closed his lap top and they dispersed to talk quietly in small groups. Noises filtered in from the town: emergency vehicles, their sirens rising and falling as they came and went, interspersed with the strange, echoing sound of police loud hailers. It did nothing to alleviate the tension in the room.

  Rutter checked his watch.

  “We’ll give them one hour, Carl,” he said. “If they haven’t come up with something by then we’re leaving.”

  An hour later they were crossing the hotel lobby, making for the exit. Even before they’d emerged through the revolving glass doors they could hear the cacophony of horns from the street outside. The sidewalks were crowded with people in a hurry and the road was crawling with vehicles. Some of the cars had the roofs piled high with household goods. The sky to the east was already blackening.

  Rutter said, “We’ll start walking. If we see a cab we’ll offer him five thousand dollars to take us anywhere to the south or west. If he won’t take five we’ll offer him ten. If we find a car showroom we’ll buy a car and drive it ourselves. Once we’re out of town we can charter a helicopter and arrange for it to meet us somewhere.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Others had had similar ideas, only they had no intention of paying. They smashed the windows of showrooms and either hot-wired the vehicles or broke into offices looking for the keys. In the jammed streets youths wandered amongst the cars, trying doors. One group spotted a stretch limo and surrounded it, hammering on the roof. Through the blackened glass it wasn’t possible to see whether the car was full or half empty. A brick struck the window on the passenger side; it s
pidered but remained intact. Then it rolled down. A revolver appeared briefly and fired a single shot into the air. The youths scattered and went to look for easier targets.

  Two hours later Rutter and Neumann were still walking, jackets over their arms, ties discarded and shirt collars open. Dark stains were spreading in their armpits. There’d been no opportunity to buy a car and even if they’d seen a vacant taxi there’d have been little point in flagging it down; the traffic in every direction was stationary.

  Above the noise of the car engines, the shouting and the hooting, an ominous rumble emerged and grew louder and louder. Neumann stopped.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  Rutter frowned. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, it seems to be heading this way.”

  Neumann covered his ears. “My God…!”

  Rutter grabbed his arm.

  “Quick, Carl, take cover!”

  They began to run. Clouds of scorching ash hundreds of feet high funnelled along the streets and smashed through buildings, blowing out windows and doors. The surge instantly incinerated every living thing in its path.

  The convoy of trucks left Washington with a police motorcycle escort. The column divided, some going direct to Florida and others to Joint Base Andrews Naval Air Facility Washington, where, alongside Air Force One, cargo planes were waiting. Aircraft were being offloaded in Florida and trucks were arriving there long before ash started to darken the skies over the capital.

  The speed of the operation stunned the media but it was explained to them by the White House Spokesman, Mike Grounds, in his last interview before leaving Washington. The administration had made contingency plans so that they could continue to govern the country in the event of a white smog hitting the capital. They were simply putting those same plans into effect.

  In the unlikely event that he would ever need to produce evidence, Mike Grounds had an internal memo headed “White Smogs: Precautionary Action” to prove it.