by Tim Washburn
Rachael sidles up next to Tucker. “Did I just cross over to the twilight zone?”
J.J. belts out a big laugh. “Not quite the twilight zone, young lady. But if I knew we was having a fuck”—he glances at the kids—“having a town reunion, I’d have invited the high school band.”
Rachael places both hands on her hips. “Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Tucker walks over and drapes an arm across her shoulders. “Matt, Jessica, and I grew up in the small town of Woodward, out in western Oklahoma. The town is also home to Jimmy John Jackson, legendary wildcatter, who also happens to be one of the richest men in the world. J.J., this is my girlfriend, Rachael. Those two men over there are Park Ranger Walt Stringer, and Ralph Barlow, superintendent of Yellowstone National Park.”
“Sorry about your place, Ralph. Nice to meet you, Walt. Well, gang, I’d like to hang around here and chat all fu . . . damn day, but we’d probably be better off gettin’ the hell out of here. Anyplace I can buy us a couple of cars?”
Walt and Ralph move closer. “We wouldn’t get three miles even if we had a car,” Walt says. “But I’ve got a . . . buddy’s the wrong word . . . an acquaintance who’s one of those prepper guys. Built and buried this ginormous bunker, stocked it with food and everything. About a month after he finished, his wife up and left him, taking the two girls with her. Couldn’t take the cold, I guess. That, or she got tired of living with her crazy-ass husband. He lives about two miles up the road.”
“Is he one of those shoot-on-sight type of guys?” Tucker asks.
“Now that you mention it, it might be better if I went in alone once we get up there. See if I can broker a deal.”
J.J. rubs his chin. “Tell him I’ll buy the place and sign it back over to him free and clear. If you need a pot sweetener, tell him I’ll buy the whole damn section and sign it over to him. If that doesn’t work, I’ll knock the fucker in the head.”
Rachael gasps.
“Just kiddin’, darlin’.” He looks around to see where the children are before lowering his voice. “Whatever I need to do to make the deal happen I will. Shit, tell him he can get come this chopper if he wants it. Ought to be worth close to five hundred grand if he parts it out.”
“Okay, we have a plan,” Tucker says, “but we need to really protect our noses and mouths if we’re going to be walking around in all this ash. Once a fair amount of ash gets into your lungs you’re a goner. And it’s a miserable death.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Joey says. He pulls out a knife as he walks back toward the chopper. With several quick slashes he cuts the fabric upholstery from the back three seats and hands out pieces to everyone.
Tucker and Walt buddy up on either side of Matt while Mason and Maddie latch on to Jess’s hands. Rachael falls in, and the group begins trudging down the road, J.J. and Joey bringing up the rear.
Joey leans toward J.J. “Jimmy John, huh? You start all those sandwich shops?”
J.J. scowls. “Do I look like a fuckin’ sandwich guy to you, Joey?”
CHAPTER 78
The White House
President Saundra Drummond shuffles into the room, looking as if she hasn’t slept in days, which happens to be the case. The Cabinet Room is jammed and there’s a spillover of people lining the halls and filling other nearby offices. The doors to the Rose Garden are open and a nice morning breeze flutters the reams of paper consuming nearly every inch of the long, oval table. The President pulls out her chair and drops into it as a staffer places a cup of coffee in front of her. She takes a small sip. “Where are we, people?”
Like a professor asking for a detailed explanation from a new class of freshmen, hands are glued to laps and eyes remain downcast. “Please, not everyone at once,” the President says. “Okay, let’s start with Homeland Security. Molly, what’s the latest?”
Molly Brewster, director of Homeland Security, is a still-honed former collegiate volleyball player with well-defined arms and shoulders layered on her six-foot frame. At forty-seven, Molly’s most attractive feature, other than her chiseled body, are her almond-shaped eyes, colored an arresting shade of agate green. She tucks a strand of short blond hair behind her ear and leans back in her chair. “It’s a mess, ma’am. The number of people left homeless continues to increase, and it seems each one is willing to fight for their space. We’ve had multiple shootings at abandoned airports, vacant factories, and shopping malls. Basically, any place capable of holding numerous people is a hotbed for violence. We simply don’t have the manpower. It’s like we’ve stepped into a time machine and ended up in the Old West. Unfortunately, guns are too prevalent in our society. Most everyone has one and, in this desperate situation, most are willing to use them.”
“What about the National Guard?” the President asks.
“They’re focusing most of their efforts on rescue and recovery at the moment. But even with the guard working in a law enforcement capacity, we still don’t have the manpower.”
President Drummond sighs. “Okay, what do we need to do?”
Brewster leans forward and shuffles a stack of papers, delaying. “We’d like a declaration of martial law, Madam President. That would allow us the use of active-duty military.”
“We’re not there yet, Molly. I will not declare martial law just days into this event. We’ll just have to do the best we can for now.”
“But ma’am, if we don’t get a handle—”
“Martial law is off the table,” President Drummond interrupts, punching the table with a finger for emphasis. “This country hasn’t declared martial law since the Civil War, and I’ll be damned if I do it now. This is a natural disaster not some attempt to overthrow the government. Our focus needs to be on assistance, not persecution.”
A few of those present nod in agreement, but just as many remain stoic as President Drummond glances around the table. “We’ll get to the power situation, but first, Claire, what’s the status of the volcanoes out West?”
Claire Espinoza looks up from the laptop. “Contact with staff out West is intermittent, but the latest data I received showed increased levels of seismic activity. Some of that might be a bleed over from the ongoing eruption at Yellowstone. But so far, so good, ma’am, in relation to the other volcanoes. There is one more piece of troubling news: Most of California and Oregon have received nearly two feet of ash, with the fertile central valley region of central California receiving nearly twice that much. It could be years before crops can be replanted in that portion of the state.”
“Do we have any indications how long the Yellowstone volcano will continue erupting?”
“Best estimates are weeks to months.”
President Drummond turns to the director of the Federal Aviation Administration, Nolan Kinney. “I assume no air travel until the eruption dies down?”
“That’s correct, ma’am. Even then, air travel will be severely limited by the amount of ash already in the atmosphere.”
The President swivels back to Claire Espinoza. “Claire, how long before this ash dissipates from overhead?”
“There are no definitive answers, ma’am. Research targeting that precise question has been ongoing for several years with no consensus. Guesstimates are anywhere from one to three years once the eruption ceases, but we’ve never witnessed an eruption on this scale. Basically, ma’am, there’s a lot we don’t know about the behaviors of ash in the atmosphere. But, keep in mind it’s not only ash we’re concerned about. There are now enormous amounts of sulfur dioxide and other gases spreading across the globe.”
President Drummond drums her fingers on the table. “And these gases will be responsible for lowering global temperatures?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The President stops drumming and leans back in her chair. “Let’s turn our focus to matters we can control. Where are we in establishing temporary housing?”
The administrator of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), Bri
an Norvell, thick glasses perched on his nose, begins shuffling paper. A bald man with a protruding belly, he clears his throat before speaking. “We’re still in the process of establishing shelters throughout the eastern portions of the nation. Right now we are using schools, churches, and vacant office spaces to house some of the refugees, but the situation is quickly deteriorating. With the lack of potable water and sewage treatment, health complications are expected to soar. We estimate the number of people left homeless by this disaster could approach one hundred million, nearly a third of our entire population. During our original planning, we didn’t factor in California and Oregon, thinking the prevailing winds would spread the ash in a more easterly direction. Apparently, the norms don’t apply for an eruption of this size. There are pockets that are habitable, but they are isolated in the extreme southern portions of California.”
Norvell pauses for a drink of water. “We’ve declared a national emergency, allowing us access to other modes of transportation, mainly shipping, which we’re using to evacuate portions of the West Coast. As a matter of fact, shipping is our only mode of transportation for any area west of the Mississippi. There is some travel in the east-central portions of the country, say, from Ohio and south from there and—”
“Mr. Norvell, I’m more interested in how we’re going to house these people. How they get here isn’t my top priority at the moment,” President Drummond says.
“Yes, ma’am. We’re proposing a large number of refugee camps be erected in the more temperate regions of the South.”
“They will not be called refugees, Mr. Norvell. We are not some third world country.”
“Yes, ma’am, but despite the nomenclature, we’ll need upward of five hundred camps with projected capacities of ten thousand inhabitants each. Even then, we’ll have space for only half the refug . . . survivors. There will be, of course, some attrition, but that’s our starting point.”
“When you say attrition, you mean deaths. Is that correct, Mr. Norvell?”
“Yes, Madam President. Housed in close quarters, any spread of disease will be rapid. Factoring in food shortages and other unforeseeable events, we could see the death toll climb into the millions.”
The statement elicits a number of gasps. After a moment of silence, President Drummond takes a deep breath. “Why haven’t we already started construction of these camps?”
“We have some legal hurdles to overcome. If we don’t have access to the numerous military bases scattered across the Southeast, we’ll have to appropriate land via the use of eminent domain.”
President Drummond leans forward in her seat. “Who denied your request for use of military installations?”
Norvell is taken aback by her question. “We made a request to the military and were rebuffed. They insist all bases are secure facilities, essential to the defense of the country.”
“We’ll see about that, Mr. Norvell.” President Drummond leans over to whisper in Ethan’s ear. “I want the Joint Chiefs in the Situation Room within the hour.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan says, pushing out of his chair.
She reaches out to grab his elbow. “I want Homeland Security and the NSA included.”
“I’m on it, ma’am.” Ethan crosses over to Molly Brewster and whispers the command before exiting the room.
President Drummond returns to Norvell. “I’ll work on freeing up some space for you, Mr. Norvell. But I want these camps erected yesterday. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re ready to go the moment we have a place to put them.”
“Now a brief update on the power grids.”
“Frankly, ma’am, the electrical grid is the least of our problems. The eastern seaboard continues to experience rolling blackouts. Power in the Southeast is intermittent. Everything west of Saint Louis is dead and may well remain that way for several years. Wet ash has destroyed most of the electrical transformers, and the power utilities have very few spare parts. What spares they do have will be transported east. No sense restoring the power grid in portions of the country that may not be habitable for years, if ever.”
“Let’s hope that’s not the case, Mr. Norvell. I want daily updates on the construction progress.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
President Drummond unwraps three antacids beneath the table and slips them into her mouth. “Henry, where are we on food supplies?”
“I hope you like fish, ma’am. For anything else the outlook is extremely dismal. We barely have enough grain to last us a month and the livestock death toll is beyond all expectations. We have about a half-million head of cattle corralled in south Texas, and that includes the livestock we purchased from Mexico. There are still some hog and chicken operators in the Southeast, but that’s a small fraction of what we’ll need.”
“Have you tried to purchase grain?”
“We’ve offered up to fifty times the market rate but have had no takers. We might eventually have some grain trickle in but it won’t amount to much.”
President Drummond plants her forearms on the table. “We’ve fought wars for our allies, sent food all over the world, and, in our time of need, nothing?”
Edmonds tosses his pen on the table and leans back in his chair. “I think, ma’am, before this is all over, we’re all going to be in the same boat. And that boat will be taking on water with nary a coffee can among us to bail it out.”
Camp 53–Forest Park, Georgia
Interview: Owen from Omaha, NE—farmer
“Been farming my whole life. Don’t know anything else. Suffered through the droughts, the hailstorms, and every other thing Mother Nature could throw at us. Never thought a volcano a thousand miles away would be the thing to do us in. Now they’re telling me my place might not grow crops for twenty years or more. Give me a tractor and a plow and I’ll have that ash turned over in no time, I told them. But it’s never as simple as it seems, is it? The ash sterilizes the dirt. Kills all the microbes and stuff that make the crops grow. I remember my Daddy and Momma talking about the old Depression days. I guess we’re about to have our own stories to tell. Or at least you will.”
CHAPTER 79
The White House
President Drummond retreats to her office before heading downstairs to the Situation Room. She shuffles across the floor and sags into her chair, ignoring the stack of phone messages as she swivels around to stare out the window. It’s a beautiful summer day and the roses are in bloom, providing pops of red along the perimeter of the South Lawn. She rises from her chair and walks over. A groundskeeper is cutting the grass, his riding mover crossing back and forth in a meticulous perpendicular pattern. A cardinal alights on a nearby branch, his urgent call silenced by the bulletproof glass. His scarlet breast feathers glisten in the sunlight, but he doesn’t stay long, flitting away to attend to other matters. President Drummond turns away from the windows and walks over to the bookshelf where family photos display happier times. The intercom buzzes and she walks over to answer.
“Ma’am, they’re all assembled in the Sit Room.”
“Thank you, Ethan. I’ll be down in a moment.” She hovers over her desk a few more moments before exiting the office.
As she enters the Situation Room, all rise. Usually she waves them down, but today she lets them stand until taking her seat. Once the men have retaken their seats, she turns to Lauren Petit, secretary of defense. “Lauren, how much federal land is in use by domestic military bases?”
“I don’t know the exact figure, Madam President, but it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty million acres.”
“And of those twenty million acres, how many are along the East Coast and further down south?”
“It would be a guess on my part, ma’am, but I’d estimate close to half.”
“Ten million acres?”
“Probably in the neighborhood, ma’am. May I ask why all these questions about military acreage?”
“I’m glad you asked, Lauren. General Cardenas, di
d you deny FEMA’s request to access this land?”
“I did after consulting with the other commanders. These are restricted military bases, essential to the defense of our nation.”
“Lauren, were you aware of this request?”
“Only now, ma’am.”
“General, I’m ordering all unoccupied lands be made available for survivor housing.”
General Cardenas straightens his jacket before answering. “Madam President, most of the undeveloped land is used for training readiness, and the bases themselves contain all manner of weapon systems, ordnance, and aircraft. Allowing the general public access to these areas would severely hamper our ability to respond to potential conflicts around the world. We’re already hamstrung by the temporary loss of two legs of our nuclear arsenal triad: the bombers can’t fly and our ICBMs are buried under mountains of ash. But allowing public access to our military facilities could well be the fatal blow. We are a sitting duck, ma’am, extremely vulnerable to an attack by any of our many enemies. We have no air cover, the satellite systems are erratic, and we’re ripe for the picking.”
“Gentlemen, there is a crisis here at home, and it has nothing to do with war. Lauren, military training is now reserved for bases outside the United States. General, secure your weapons, secure your facilities, establish a secure perimeter, do whatever you need to do, but I’m allowing FEMA access to build the camps.”
General Cardenas shoots to his feet. “You can’t do that, ma’am. I won’t allow it.”
The SECDEF shoots to her feet. “General, stand down.”
The President ignores Petit as she stands slowly from her chair. “You won’t allow it? General, the last time I looked at the Constitution, I believe it stated that the President of the United States is the commander in chief.” She steps closer to the general. “Have they made amendments since I last read it?”