by Tim Washburn
Rachael follows. “That’s the problem, Tucker, you don’t have a social life. You live like a hermit. Hell, we’ve worked together for years and we’ve never been out for a beer.”
Tucker whirls around. “We’re facing a natural disaster of unimaginable scale and you want to talk about my love life?”
“I like to think I’m a fairly attractive person. And I’ve dropped plenty of hints over the years. Is it the color of my skin, Tucker?”
Tucker kicks a dirt clod into the river. “I think we can cross here. Might be a little dicey, but I think it’s doable.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Tucker sighs. “No, it has nothing to do with the color of your skin. My father is the biggest bigot that ever existed and I vowed to live my life differently. Your skin color, or anyone’s skin color for that matter, doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me.”
“So what is it, Tucker? Why live the way you do?”
Tucker’s cheeks turn crimson. “I don’t think that’s any of your damn business.” Tucker turns for the truck. “We need to go.”
Rachael grabs his arm. “Is it something to do with your sister-in-law?”
Tucker turns, steps closer, and lowers his voice. “I said it’s none of your damn business.”
Rachael takes a step back. “It’s something. There’s an underlying tenseness when you two are together.” Rachael brushes past, walking toward the pickup. “But as you made clear, it’s none of my business. It’s your life.”
“You’re damn right it is,” Tucker shouts after her. Tucker inhales a deep breath as he watches Rachael retreat. He releases the inhaled breath and takes a hard kick at a gopher mound, before starting for the truck.
All three climb back in, resuming the same seating arrangement. Rachael sighs, turns toward the passenger window, and focuses her stare on a far mountain. Tucker angrily spins the steering wheel and hits the gas, throwing up a whirlwind of dirt and grass.
April looks left, then right. “It’s awful frosty in here. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but now’s not the time.”
Tucker lines the truck up on the bison trail down to the river. “You’ve got that right, April.” Tucker drops the shifter into low gear. “Everyone, hold on. If we stop, we’re stuck.” Tucker feeds more gas to the engine as they bounce down the bank and splash through the water. The truck is on the verge of stalling as they hit the opposite riverbank. Tucker mashes the gas and grunts as he works to maintain a firm grasp on the wheel. The path up is a meandering mess, and he spins the wheel, trying to stay in the ruts, as mud rooster-tails from all four wheels. The tires begin to spin and Tucker floors the gas. “Don’t know if we’re going to make it,” he shouts over the screaming engine. But the tires find purchase and the old pickup rockets up the bank.
After dodging around another collection of deadfall trees, Tucker aims for a point west of Bunsen Peak. They travel in silence for the next mile before picking up a dry wash that leads them to Glenn Creek. Tucker pulls the truck to a stop to search for another crossing. Before stepping out of the cab, he unclips the sat phone from his belt and hands it across to Rachael. “See if you can contact Eric to see what the latest is.”
Rachael snatches the phone from his hand. “You’re the boss.”
Tucker sighs, lowers his head, and pushes out of the cab. Once Tucker is out of earshot April says, “What’s up with you two?”
Rachael punches in a phone number. “Not a damn thing.” She puts the phone to her ear and stares off in the distance as the phone rings. The call is answered on the fourth ring. She asks to speak with Dr. Eric Snider and is put on hold. “And that’s the problem,” she mutters as she waits.
“What’s the problem?” April asks.
“Never—Hi, Eric, what’s the latest?” She drums her fingers on the passenger door as she listens. But then she sits up straight in her seat. “Oh shit. Did you say two feet?” She listens for another moment, then says, “I’ll call you back in a minute.” She tosses the phone onto the dash and jumps from the truck, shouting for Tucker. “We need to move. An area just east of Norris is uplifted two feet.”
Tucker races back to the truck and scoots behind the wheel. “Time frame?”
“Over the last three hours. And they registered a quake in the high fives only minutes ago.”
Tucker drops the truck into gear and grabs for the radio handset. “Please get Eric back on the phone. We need minute-by-minute reports.”
Rachael dials as all thoughts about the situation between her and Tucker fade into the background.
Tucker triggers the radio. “Tucker Mayfield for Walt Stringer.”
After a delay of a couple of moments he hears, “Go, Tucker.”
“Walt, find them and then get the hell out of the area as quickly as you can. We’re running out of time.”
CHAPTER 35
48 miles east of the park boundary, near Cody, Wyoming
Eldon Harjo tries to signal the crew about the sirens, but he’s ignored as they continue to make the final connections. Time is money, and the crew is hell-bent on fracking. A dozen switches are flipped and the high-pressure pumps roar to life. Eldon squishes a pair of foam earplugs and inserts them in his ears as he threads his way through the trucks, trailers, and multitude of containers all jammed tight as teeth around the wellhead. The expanding foam lessens the roar, but the vibrations from the massive machinery tremor up his legs. Eldon climbs up into the cab of his truck and cranks up the window.
What the oil company geologists don’t know is that the morning’s seismic activity has drastically altered the landscape two miles beneath the ground.
After shaking out a cigarette and lighting up, Eldon clicks on the dusty AM/FM radio. The local station isn’t playing Merle Haggard or Johnny Paycheck. Instead Eldon catches the last bits of a verbal announcement. He twirls the dial and is surprised when he hears no music whatsoever. He dials to the other local station and catches more of the announcement: “. . . Park is being evacuated. Please follow park ranger directions for a safe and orderly evacuation process.”
Eldon lowers the volume and digs his cell phone out of his pocket to discover six missed calls from home. With a trembling finger he punches a speed dial button and waits for the call to connect. The phone rings eight times before he hangs up. He punches another speed dial, his wife’s cell phone.
* * *
Across the drilling pad, a worker gets the thumbs-up and begins to crank open one of the valves at the wellhead. At pressures beyond 10,000 PSI, the fracking fluid is injected down the borehole. The liquid, searching for the path of least resistance, blows through the now-fractured well casing. The jet of water and chemicals slams into a recently developed fault, launching a wave of seismic tremors toward Yellowstone. Then, in its relentless pursuit, the fracking fluid turns back toward the surface, blasting through the drill pad at an old surface fault covered over during recent dirt work to level the site. Those standing near are sliced in half as the water shoots skyward.
* * *
The cell phone slips from Eldon Harjo’s hand when he catches sight of the horror unfolding before him. A scramble of people race to turn off the pumps as the jet of water grows in circumference, tossing rocks and debris like the shrapnel from an exploding bomb. Eldon struggles with the decision of what to do. He reaches for the door handle just as the plume of water dies and falls back to earth. He exhales with relief. But his relief is short-lived when the natural gas that had accumulated within the two miles of pipe breaks through the surface and ignites. The explosion overturns trucks, and the ball of fire incinerates everything in its path. Parked on the other side of the drilling pad, Eldon rams his truck in gear and tries to steer around the truck in front of him.
As the seismic waves slam into Yellowstone, and just as Eldon thinks he’s in the clear, the fire ignites a diesel tanker parked along the road. As the fire burns through the cab of his truck, Eldon’s mind flashes on Q
uincy’s prophecy—It’s only a matter of time, Chief, until something up here . . .
CHAPTER 36
Yellowstone park headquarters
Superintendent Barlow slams the phone down in disgust. Even with pressure from the governor of Wyoming, the bus companies continue to refuse his pleas for help, citing concern for their employees and possible legal implications. He pushes to his feet and racks his head back and forth to relieve the pain flaring in his neck. After several pops, he strides over to the map pinned to the wall. “There has to be some way to speed the evacuation process,” he mutters as he concentrates on the limited number of escape routes. After studying the map for a few moments, he returns to his desk and picks up the handheld radio, only to find the battery dead. He curses, places the radio into a charger, and puts on his hat before exiting the office.
Several employees shout questions his way, but he waves them away as he strides down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time to the ground floor. He pushes through the back door of the building and hurries across the street to the communications building. Inside, he goes straight to the radio base station and picks up the microphone. With over two million acres of parkland, radio base stations and frequency repeaters are scattered throughout the park, allowing nearly 100 percent radio coverage.
He triggers the transmit button. “Attention, all park rangers and other park personnel. Please switch all radios to the tactical channel.” He pauses for a couple of moments to allow everyone time to switch radio channels. “I don’t have time to know who’s on the radio and who’s not, but we will use this channel going forward. I want all snow plows, dozers, and any other heavy equipment we have moving within the next five minutes. Any vehicles blocking access are to be pushed off the roadways, no questions asked. We don’t have time to worry about personal property. For those people who don’t have access to transportation, put them in a vehicle. Only those vehicles that are fully loaded will be allowed to proceed. We have no other options. Do your best to steer most of the traffic north or west. East and south will bear the brunt of the ash due to prevailing winds.” Barlow pauses to catch his breath. “I can’t predict when or if the caldera will erupt, but I’m asking for your help. I know you have concerns about your own well-being or that of family members, but the backbone of the National Park Service is built on our service to others. Godspeed.” Barlow replaces the microphone and slowly turns for the door when he’s halted by another voice over the radio.
“Superintendent Barlow, this is Air Ranger Susan Maxwell. I’m doing an overflight of the park and traffic is backed up in every direction. I’ll be here to direct crews to critical locations.”
Barlow picks up the handset. “Thank you. All crews—Ranger Maxwell is in charge of road clearance. Please follow her directions. Susan, I’d also request that you keep us informed of anything unusual you see from the air.”
“Roger, sir. I’ll keep you posted.”
Barlow picks up an extra radio and makes his way outside, where he takes a moment to let the cool breeze drift across his face. After a brief moment of respite, he pulls out his cell phone and punches one of the speed dials.
“Hi, Dad,” the voice says on the other end.
“Andy, I need you to grab Michelle and get out of Jackson.”
“I’m just about to take a group down the river, Dad.” Andy pauses. “Besides, Michelle and I are on the outs.” Andy Barlow, a recent college graduate, is spending his last free summer guiding along the Snake River.
“I don’t care what you’re doing right now, Andy. I’m telling you to leave town. And if you ever want to see Michelle again, you’ll take her with you.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“We’re evacuating the park. We think the caldera could be on the verge of eruption.”
“What . . . how . . . could that be possible?”
“We knew it could be a possibility, son. Why now, I don’t know.
“What about you and Mom?”
“When the time comes we’ll scoot toward the northwest. But Jackson Hole could be in the direct path of a pyroclastic flow. It won’t be long before the governor orders an evacuation for most of western Wyoming, but you need to get started out of town now. Once the evacuation order hits, there’ll be chaos, just like what’s happening up here.”
“How far do we need to go, Dad?”
“Go until you can’t go anymore. Get to the southern part of Nevada before you even think about stopping. I want you to call your mother on your way out of town. Will you do that for me?”
“How am I supposed to get in touch with you, after . . .”
“We’ll figure it out, son. Electricity and communications will be spotty, but if you can get to your uncle Dave’s place in Phoenix we’ll have a starting point.”
“Okay. I need to get Michelle moving. I love you, Dad.”
Ralph smiles, thinking briefly about the fragility of young love. “I love you, too, son. Give Michelle a hug for me.” He disconnects the call and stuffs the phone back in his pocket.
As he recrosses the street, he spots a mud-splattered pickup turning off Washtub Row. Hoping it’s Tucker, he waits for the vehicle to arrive.
CHAPTER 37
Biscuit Basin, Yellowstone National Park
After searching the area around the Old Faithful Inn for Tucker’s family and not finding them, Walt Stringer hops on his four-wheeler. As he fires up the engine, heads turn. Several people begin moving his way. Walt gooses the throttle and steers around the people trying to flag him down. When he reaches the relative safety of the loop trail he cranks the throttle wide open, letting the cool rush of air rising off the Firehole River soothe his blistered face. He follows the trail until it dead-ends at the Morning Glory Pool, then diverts over to a fire road and follows that all the way to Biscuit Basin before turning into a well-concealed maintenance barn. He kills the four-wheeler and climbs down as one of the snowplows starts up, belching a stream of black smoke.
Walt climbs up on the plow’s steps to talk to the driver. “What’s going on?”
The driver takes one look at Walt and rears back. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Let’s just say it’s been a bad morning,” Walt answers. “What’s with all the heavy equipment?”
“The boss ordered us out to clear the roads. We’re supposed to push any stalled or wrecked vehicles off the road.” The man shrugs. “I’m sure the tourists are going to be thrilled to see their new travel trailers crumpled like a beer can.”
“All that stuff’s replaceable. But I’ll grant you that some of those people will be downright pissed. Probably best if you don’t even get out of the cab.”
“I’m not planning on it. You heard any more about the volcano?”
Walt shakes his head. “Nothing recent. How bad are the roads?”
“Bad. Traffic’s at a standstill.”
Walt slaps the door. “I’ll let you get to it, then.” Walt steps down, hesitates, then climbs back up. “Hey, I’m looking for one family in particular.” Walt describes the Mayfield family and provides a description of their vehicle. “Give me a shout on the radio if you run across them.”
“Ten-four,” the driver says.
Walt steps down and the driver eases off the clutch, creeping the old plow forward. Before he’s gone too far, the driver shouts out the window, “Don’t know if you heard, but all the radios are switched to the tactical channel.”
Walt gives a thumbs-up and walks over to his pickup parked in the dusty lot. He fiddles with the radio buttons on top of the device, then puts it to his lips. “Walt Stringer to Tucker Mayfield.”
After a delay he hears, “Go, Walt.”
“What’s your twenty, Tucker?”
“Just pulled into park headquarters. Any luck?”
“Negative. But it’s going to be like finding a needle in a needle stack.”
“I know, Walt. But I know they’re headed north. Let me try their cell phones again.
I’ll give you a shout over the radio if I get through.”
“Roger that.” Walt opens the door to the cab of the truck and clicks on the ignition to check the fuel level. The needle shows less than a quarter of a tank. He curses as he twists the key off and returns to the barn in search of fuel. The radio sounds. “Walt?”
“Go, Tucker.”
“I got through to my sister-in-law for a quick second before losing the connection. The only thing I could make out was Madison Campground. I don’t know if they just passed it or are coming up on it. It’s a starting point.”
“I can get in the neighborhood by crossing over to the west side where Madison River crosses under the highway. I’ll find them, Tucker.”
Before Tucker can reply, a panicked voice fills the airwaves. “Break—Break—Break. This is Air Ranger Susan Maxwell, airborne over Yellowstone Lake . . . Oh God . . . something . . . something strange is going on. There’s like a tidal wave . . . Oh no . . . the area west of the lake is underwater.”
Walt grabs two gas containers and races for his truck.
“It’s washing the cars off of the roadway . . . my God, those poor people . . . Grant Village is completely engulfed . . . there are travel trailers bobbing around like corks. Vehicles are being washed off the road as far north as Little Thumb Creek. The water level is . . . rising quickly as it strikes the upward slope on the west side of the road. Anyone on the highway between Grant Village and Bluff Point to the north is . . . Oh God, I see people in the water . . . we need the lake patrol with their boats . . . there are entire families down there . . .”
Walt starts his truck, but before putting it in gear, changes his mind. He hurries back to the shed and grabs two metal loading ramps, which he uses to load the ATV into the bed of his truck. He hurries back to the cab and slams the truck into gear. He mashes the gas pedal, sending a cyclone of gravel and grit skyward as Ranger Maxwell continues her macabre play-by-play over the radio.