The Yellowstone Event: Book 6: The Aftermath

by Darrell Maloney

  They immediately began to cough.

  They went back in and tore one of Darrell’s old t-shirts into strips.

  They tied the strips across their heads, covering nose and mouth.

  It made it much easier to breath without inhaling the ash.

  Rocki asked, “Should we soak them in water?”

  “No. That’ll just waste our drinking water and make the ash stick to the cloth. Eventually it’ll turn to mud and won’t let air pass through.”

  It made perfect sense.

  She regretted asking the question.

  Of course, had her damaged brain been working at full capacity she’d have thought the question through and likely wouldn’t have.

  There were cliffs in the area where they’d been knocked off the roadway.

  Steep, high cliffs which almost certainly would have meant their drop would be fatal.

  But they were lucky, though they might not think themselves so.

  They’d flown off the highway at one of the few places within a mile either way where the drop was gradual and free of large boulders. It was a gentle slope of buffalo grass and an occasional tree.

  The big RV rolled a couple of times and slid down the embankment, coming to rest upside down against a tall fir.

  It could have been much, much worse.

  They’d ended up about eighty yards or so from the roadway, and they were right in thinking help would never come to them; that they’d have to hike out.

  From their position on the slope, they couldn’t see the roadway.

  That meant someone driving down the roadway likely wouldn’t see them either.

  “Are you ready for this?” Rocki asked.

  “Nope. Are you?”

  “Not in the least. But I’m very ready to get the hell out of here.”

  “Watch your step. It’s gonna be slippery.”

  One would think that dry ash would provide good traction.

  One would be wrong.

  It wasn’t like snowflakes, which stuck together and provided a fairly good hold until it melted and refroze as ice.

  Because ash particles were dry, they didn’t stick together. They rubbed against each other and were highly unstable.

  Climbing up a fifteen degree grade covered with several inches of ash was painstakingly slow, and exhausting as well.

  It didn’t help that for every four steps they took they slipped back at least one.

  They’d have slipped back even farther if the buffalo grass hadn’t provided a bit better traction for them.

  It took over an hour to reach the top, and once they made it to the roadway, Rocki wanted to cry.

  Darrell, not a crier by nature, chose to curse a blue streak instead.

  Two full days since the eruption and there was no hint of a single tire track in the ash.

  Chapter 17

  Many times, in the face of great adversity, people in power immediately resort to their go-to habits. They look for ways to benefit themselves and their cronies. Ways to take advantage of people who are already suffering in the belief that now’s the best time.

  Because now, at a time of national grieving, no one is watching.

  After September 11, 2001 many souvenir manufacturers went to work, trying to be the first on the street with “tributes” to the buildings and those who died.

  Such tribute souvenirs were considered gauche at best, disgusting at worst.

  Most decent people were turned off by them and refused to purchase them. They saw them for what they were: disgusting efforts to profit on the blood and misery of the victims.

  The souvenirs didn’t last long. They were soon taken off the market, and the manufacturers suffered. Some lost money in the deal, others suffered damage to their reputations. Several were forced out of business.

  Nobody felt bad for them.

  Less visible, but just as disgusting, were the people who claimed to be at ground zero for monetary gain.

  A few went on speaking tours, or claimed they helped people to safety. A couple of books were written by self-proclaimed “heroes” who were later proved to be hundreds of miles away at the time.

  A few “help the victims” efforts sprung up and accepted donations they promised would be used to aid the victims’ families with funeral and transitional expenses.

  In most cases the funds were used for just that purpose.

  In other cases the cash mysteriously disappeared. The fundraising activities simply dissolved, with no evidence the money was used for any good.

  There were seemingly a hundred other ways to take advantage of the grief of others. All of them were tried with varying degrees of success.

  There are, after all, a lot of creeps and thieves out there.

  Looking at the flipside, though, there are a lot of incredible people in the world. And the Big Apple seems to have far more than its fair share of them.

  Or maybe it’s not New York City specifically.

  Maybe it’s true that in any great catastrophe a certain type of person will step up and do what’s right; do what’s heroic.

  It was accepted that each of those firemen who fought their way up the WTC stairwells, some carrying forty pounds of equipment and dragging heavy hoses, knew they’d never survive the day.

  But they went anyway.

  So did the brave members of the NYPD.

  Even after the first tower collapsed, first responders knew they were doomed.

  The towers were virtually identical in design and construction.

  They’d suffered virtually the same damage.

  If one came crashing down, it was almost a guarantee the other would suffer the same fate.

  Yet they went in anyway.

  There were some who were cold and callous.

  “It was their job,” they said. “They knew the risks when they took their jobs.”

  Such people should rot in hell.

  Those firemen, those policemen, died heroes and have a special place in heaven.

  People who say they had a duty to die aren’t worthy of shining such heroes’ boots.

  There were other heroes that day as well.

  People who worked in the towers, and could have gotten themselves out.

  But who chose instead to stay behind to help the injured.

  Or took the time to assist others to the stairwells.

  Many such people died so that others could live.

  Their heroics will live forever.

  In the days immediately following Yellowstone’s eruptions the usual suspects were back at work, looking for ways to capitalize on the nation’s grief.

  And the usual heroes were being mourned.

  In the wake of all that the most unlikely of heroes were popping up in the most unlikely of places.

  Day two, post-eruption, the phone rang at the Department of the Interior’s National Parks Service.

  An administrative clerk answered.

  “NPS, this is Tracy Callahan. How may I help you?”

  “Um… hello, Ms. Callahan. I’m probably calling the wrong office, but I’m hoping you can help me get to the right one…”

  “I’ll certainly try, sir. What is the matter concerning?”

  “Well, this is David Whittle. I’m the Chief Executive Officer for Midway Cruise Lines. We’re currently in the process of recalling our fleet of ships and would like to offer them up to help move Yellowstone refugees to European ports.”

  “Well, Mr. Whittle, I can say with full confidence that’s not our department. But we certainly appreciate your kind offer. May I put you on hold while I find a name and number for you to call? I promise I’ll return as quickly as possible.”

  “Certainly. Take your time. I assure you this is the most important thing on my agenda for today.”

  The phone had been ringing off the hook since the eruption. So much so that the office had to call in additional staffing from a temp agency just to field phone calls.

  Most callers were just good citizens o
ffering condolences, for they were well aware many Parks Service employees had died in the event.

  Or were family members asking about death benefits or for confirmation their loved ones were indeed among the deceased.

  This call was very different.

  Ms. Callahan raised her voice to get everyone’s attention.

  “Excuse me. I have a man on the phone who runs a cruise ship company. He wants to help transport refugees to Europe. Does anyone know who he needs to talk to?”

  A random voice came from the back of the room.

  “DHS. They put out a memo yesterday saying they’re heading up the overseas transportation. Hold on a sec, I’ll get you the number.”

  Chapter 18

  It took David Whittle several more minutes to get to the right person at the Department of Homeland Security.

  He was passed from one phone to the next to the next, having gone through no less than seven people before he finally got to one in a position to make things happen.

  Even in the very best of times, navigating a behemoth as big as DHS could be a pain.

  To give them due credit, though, the Yellowstone evacuation program was something they weren’t trained, manned or funded to do, and they were doing the very best they could.

  Under the circumstances, no one was expecting them to be overly efficient.

  “Hello, Mr. Whittle. My name is David too. David Rodriguez. My staff tells me you’d like to help us move some of our citizens overseas for us.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “I’ll have to send you to our contracting division. They’re the ones who are accepting bids for transportation contracts. They can fill you in on bid procedures. Our usual low-bid requirements are waived for Yellowstone, and we’ll be selecting what we call our ‘best value’ bid. Are you aware of the criteria for that program?”

  “Yes, I am. But I don’t think you quite understand. May I call you David?”

  “Certainly.”

  “David, I have no interest in bidding for a contract to provide transportation services.

  “I’m offering to move our fellow Americans at no charge. I’m offering to foot the bill myself, or rather, at my company’s expense.”

  “You mean for free? You just want the government to pay for… fuel, and your operating costs?”

  “You’re not hearing me, David. This is the greatest catastrophe our nation has ever experienced. This great nation of ours has allowed Midway Cruise Lines to flourish.

  “It’s time for us to give back, as patriotic Americans.

  “What I’m advocating is that we place ourselves at your disposal, at no charge. All we ask is that you make sure fuel is available for us to travel to and from foreign ports. And of course we’ll pay market rate for it. We’ll also pay our labor and operating costs, although many of our employees are volunteering to work for free.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “But nobody offers to do anything for free. Especially for the United States government.”

  “Perhaps it’s time someone started. And we’re not actually making the offer for the federal government. We’re making the offer to help out our friends, our neighbors, our fellow Americans.”

  “I don’t suppose you can send a representative to D.C. to sign a no-cost contract?”

  “I’ll do you one better, David. Midway is based in Philadelphia. I live in Hampton, Virginia. If you provide me an address I’ll be there to meet with you personally tomorrow.”

  David Rodriguez was many things.

  He was a bit suspicious that one of his friends was perpetuating a prank on him.

  He was a bit angry that someone would have the nerve to do such a thing. Especially in the face of a national tragedy.

  He was hopeful. Hopeful that the offer from David Whittle was legitimate. For what he said was absolutely true. No one ever made such a generous offer to the federal government. Ever.

  Lastly he was doubtful. Doubtful that Mr. Whittle would show up the next day.

  Or that his “offer” would really be filled with stipulations and hidden charges and fees. Charges and fees that might cost the DHS far more in the long run than they’d pay for a transportation contract.

  He needn’t have worried.

  David Whittle did indeed show up. He was even half an hour early, as he’d rightly predicted downtown Washington to be a traffic nightmare.

  And there were no stipulations. No hidden fees.

  The offer was exactly as advertised.

  Midway Cruise Lines would pay all costs on an open-ended contract to move tens of thousands of Americans to Southampton and London in England.

  They’d move many more thousands to Hamburg and Bremen in Germany, Valencia in Spain, Rotterdam in the Netherlands, Genoa in Italy and Marseille-Fos in France.

  All they asked, and it was certainly a reasonable request, was that the government ensure they weren’t cut off from a reasonably-priced fuel supply.

  Their offer was immediately accepted and they agreed to set sail from ports at Miami and Galveston as soon as DHS vetted the first four thousand passengers.

  But that was just the beginning.

  Whittle’s benevolent gesture sent a shockwave through the cruise industry.

  The following day Tom Charleston, CEO of Ultra Cruises, called an emergency meeting of his board of directors.

  His chief of operations, Mike Markel, briefed the board and answered questions.

  The first question, asked by Charleston himself, was “What is Dave Whittle up to?”

  “His offer appears to be completely legitimate, sir. Our man on the inside got a peek at the written agreement with DHS, and there’s nothing to indicate Midway will be compensated in any way.”

  “So they’re doing this out of the kindness of their hearts?”

  “Yes sir. It appears that way.”

  “Bullshit! There’s not that much kindness in the heart of anyone in this industry.”

  The CFO asked his own question.

  “Mike, what’s the industry ranking of Midway Cruise Lines?”

  “They’re currently fourth, sir, and climbing. They were number five three years ago.”

  “And the ownership breakdown?”

  “Privately owned. The philanthropist Peter Gell owns fifty six percent. Thirty five percent is owned by a handful of billionaires. The remainder to a conglomerate of mid-level investors and various family members of Mr. Gell.”

  “So that’s it! They have no stockholders to talk into accepting this lunacy. Nobody to report to as they hemorrhage money hand over fist. No one to ask permission of before they run their line right into bankruptcy.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that,” Charleston said. “I think it’s all about the publicity. I think they see it as an investment. Once the crisis passes and everybody gets where they want to go, they’ll use the whole thing as a marketing campaign.

  “They’ll be all over the industry mags, all over the TV, saying over and over again how the other lines were all trying to make a profit during the great boatlift.

  “And all the while they were donating their resources to help John and Jill American move to safety in their hour of need.

  “They’re going to make us look like the scum of the earth, and they’re going to steal a good share of passengers from every other line.”

  “But how can they afford to sustain that, when every run will cost them a hundred grand or better?”

  “Peter Gell is a multi-billionaire. He passes out millions of dollars like we pass out dinner mints. That’s why they call him a philanthropist.

  “But he’s not stupid. He sees this as an investment. He’ll foot the bill for the free runs in exchange for the payoff that’ll come when his leisure cruise business triples after the crisis is over. And he’ll convince the other owners to toe the same line.

  “And you know what? In ten years he’ll move up to number two. Hell,
they might even take over our spot at the top. It’s absolutely brilliant.”

  Chapter 19

  Charleston’s interpretation of Midway’s big move was insightful and well thought-out.

  It was also wrong, for he was looking at it through the clouded and cynical lens of the chief executive of an industry competitor.

  The truth was, David Whittle had more generosity and patriotism in his little finger than Charleston had in his whole body.

  And he was acting at the behest of Peter Gell, who had many times more of each.

  Mr. Gell had indeed gone to the other owners and told them to hang tough. That he would agree to cover all expenses. All they had to do was forfeit any profits they might make by charging the government for their share of refugee travel, in exchange for a larger share of the market in future years.

  And he really had no other motive than his own generosity and a desire to do what was right.

  Gell had started out just another Texas millionaire fifty years before. He’d inherited his family’s oil empire, such as it was, when his parents died in a plane crash just after his twentieth birthday.

  At the time his estimated worth was just over ten million dollars.

  In the pecking order of the Texas rich he was just another minnow in the sea.

  It wasn’t his fault, though. It had only been a few years since oil had been discovered on his parents’ cattle ranch, and they were working their way up the pecking order.

  Now, after fifty years and some very wise investments, Gell was rich beyond belief.

  He’d blown through the pecking order of Texas millionaires long before. Now he was on another list: American billionaires, and in the top five at that.

  He had a long list of female companions but no desire to marry. In that regard he was easily the richest bachelor in America.

  Oh, it wasn’t that he had anything against marriage.

  Rather, he had something against bearing children.

  Cancer ran in his family on both sides. Pancreatic and colon cancer on his father’s side; leukemia and bone cancer on his mother's.

  People died early in his family. He himself was living on borrowed time.