by Tim Washburn
“General, for the last time, stand down,” the SECDEF says in a low, urgent tone.
“It’s all right, Lauren. I’d like to hear his answer.”
“No, ma’am, but I will not stand by while you castrate our military. I, too, have friends on the Hill.”
Petit sags back into her seat.
“Good, you can use those friends to help you look for a new job. General Jose Cardenas, you are hereby relieved of command. Please exit the premises.”
General Cardenas pivots on his heel and marches out of the room. The rest of the military leaders are leaning forward in their chairs. “Who’s up next in the batter’s box? Or would you all prefer to follow General Cardenas out the door?”
The secretary of defense works her way around the table. “As vice chairman, I believe Admiral Nichols would be next in line.”
The President turns to the man dressed in white, four bright brass stars attached to the epaulets of his uniform. “Admiral, you can work with me or you can follow the general out the door.”
Admiral Nichols stands to attention and salutes. “I prefer to work with you, ma’am. We have enough sea power to wreak havoc on most anyone in the world, so I’m not concerned with allowing access to the uninhabited portions of our military bases. I’d only ask you to allow us a day to sort things out.”
President Drummond turns to Petit. “Any portions you can release today? We’ve got nearly a hundred million Americans who are displaced.”
“Let me confer with the admiral. I will get back to you in an hour. Is that acceptable?”
“That’ll work, Lauren.” The President turns and extends her hand to Admiral Nichols, who grasps hers with both of his. “Thanks for answering the call, Admiral. We’ve got quite a shitstorm ahead of us.”
“It won’t be my first rodeo, ma’am. I’ll serve in whatever capacity you choose.”
President Drummond nods and takes Petit by the elbow, steering her out the door. “So I’ve made an enemy for life, it appears.”
“Jose is a little high-strung. But he’s a hell of an officer, and I hate to see him go.”
“Put him somewhere back in the army, Lauren. Let him serve out his time.”
“You don’t want him fired?”
“If I fired everyone who disagreed with me, I’d be working by myself. He’s relieved from the Joint Chiefs, but not the army. Just give me a heads-up if he starts plotting a friendly fire incident involving me.”
Lauren chuckles before turning serious. “Anything I can do to help, Saundra?”
“You could assign some of those military personnel to help assemble the camps.”
“Done. We’ve gotten pretty good at setting up tent cities. I’ll have someone from the military liaise with Brian Norvell. Might take a day or two to get everything ironed out, but once they start, they move quickly.”
“Thank you, Lauren.”
“How are the food supplies, ma’am?”
“Your grandparents ever talk about the soup lines during the Great Depression?”
“Some, why?”
“Because, if we’re lucky, you’ll be telling your grandchildren a similar story.”
DAY 10
CHAPTER 80
Near Red Lodge, Montana
Tucker pulls on his mask and pushes open the door to the underground bunker for another look around. The ash is still falling, adding to the nearly nine feet they have already received. They had been taking turns shoveling away the ash blocking the door, creating a mound nearly twenty feet tall next to the walkway. What Walt called a ginormous bunker turns small when you insert eleven people inside. The owner, Jerry Cavanaugh, is now the proud owner of an entire section of ash-covered land with an additional guarantee of $1 million in cash when J.J. makes his way to a telephone. The money did wonders in softening his stance about no visitors. But seven days confined underground is seven long, miserable days. Although all have taken trips outdoors, the ash is too heavy to spend much time outside. Most haven’t stayed beyond the time it takes to take care of the necessary bodily functions. Tucker is the only one to spend considerable time outdoors, and he glances once more at the sky, humbled by Mother Nature’s fury. The cloud over the main eruption now stretches across the horizons, and though it’s midmorning, it feels more like dusk.
The door creaks open and his brother, Matt, steps out. Cavanaugh, a pack rat of the highest order, has stocked enough food to last a year, a water tank that holds a thousand gallons, and all manner of might-need items, including antibiotics. Matt’s leg is nearly healed.
“What’s the plan, Tuck?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t stay here much longer. Might be on the verge of overstaying our welcome.”
“I agree with you. Although Jerry saved our lives, there’s something not quite right with him. And the way he looks at Rachael and Jessica is downright creepy.”
“There’s no doubt he has a screw or two loose, but he won’t try anything while we’re around.”
“Just the same, I’d like to get the hell out of here. And if I have to hear another of J.J.’s oil stories, I might go insane.”
“He’s lived a large life, hasn’t he? I swear the guy looks just the same as he did thirty years ago.”
“I guess once you’re past your thirties, the physical changes become more subtle. But you’re right—other than a few more wrinkles and that mane of silver hair, he looks remarkably well considering he’s probably closer to seventy than sixty.”
Tucker turns serious. “There’s no way for you to make your way back to Oklahoma. You know that, right?”
“I do, Tucker. We’ll have to wait for conditions to improve.”
“Matt, I hate to tell you this, but they may not. Just clearing the ash will be a monumental task. Throw in rebuilding the power grids and it could be a decade or more before life returns to anything resembling normal. Out here, they may never recover.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I guess we’re all going to head north up into Canada. Ralph knows a place up around Calgary. Maybe we can work our way over to Alaska.”
“Great, another state where they have more volcanoes than you can shake a stick at. I’ll stick to Canada. I’ve had my fill of volcanoes. I assume Rachael is going with us.”
“I hope so. But that’ll be her decision.”
“No, Tucker, it’ll have to be a decision you both make. You’re a pair now. You’ve lived so long by yourself, you need to change your whole philosophy. She’s terrific and if you let her go, you’re a damn fool.”
Tucker traces his boot heel through the ash. “Any more advice, Dr. Phil?”
“Make fun if you want, but she’s about the best damn thing that ever happened to you.”
Tucker abruptly changes the subject. “You think Jerry has any snowshoes?”
“Why? Are we walking out of here?”
“About the only option we have. The ash should thin out the farther north we travel, but it’ll be a chore getting there.”
“Maybe Jerry has one of those things you arrived on the mountain in. Or maybe he knows someone who has one.”
“Another snow coach, huh? I doubt it. Those things are few and far between, but you may have given me an idea.”
“What?”
“Don’t know yet. I need to think about it. I’m going to take a walk down the road. Want to come?”
“Hell no. My leg is just now getting to where I can walk on it. Don’t stray too far.”
Tucker is gasping for breath only twenty yards down the road. He retraces his steps back to the bunker. “Walking is out of the question,” he mutters as he takes a seat on a mound of ash. Having spent most of his time within the park, he’s not familiar with this area of Montana. He lumbers to his feet and opens the door, asking Walt to step outside.
Walt pushes through the door. His face is scabbed over and, other than looking like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, he’s healing. “Don’t tell me. You’ve g
ot another harebrained idea.”
“Kind of, but it’s not well formed yet. Are there any ski areas around this part of the country?”
“One that I know about. Red Lodge Mountain is just down the road.”
“Is it a commercial ski area? A place where they groom the slopes?”
“Sure. It’s pretty busy in the wintertime. I think they have multiple ski runs. Why?”
“Think we can hike down that way?”
“Not without something to walk on.”
“I’m hoping Jerry has some snowshoes.”
“Could be. He’s got about two of everything else. To tell you the truth, if I have to hear any more of his moose-hunting stories, I’m liable to put a bullet in his head or mine. It’s also rank as hell in there, so I’m open to damn near anything at this point.”
“I’ll ask him.” Tucker enters the bunker and spots Jerry toward the back. A short, thin man, Jerry has the rugged face of an outdoorsman, at least the parts of his face you can see. Most of it is covered by a long, shaggy salt-and-pepper beard that hasn’t been trimmed in at least a couple of decades. The same applies to his hair, and it hangs limply, a greasy, stringy mess. He’s braiding a piece of leather, his hands seemingly always in motion. Tucker weaves through the cramped space. “Jerry, you have any snowshoes?”
Jerry’s hands continue to work. “I have two pair in the barn. You planning on a walk?”
“Something like that. You mind if I borrow them?”
“Suit yourself. Should be hanging right near the door, if I remember correctly.”
“Thanks, Jerry. And thanks for everything else you’ve done for us.”
He shrugs. “Hey, I made out like a bandit.” Jerry puts a piece of leather into his mouth to soften it as Tucker turns away. Before returning outside he stops next to Rachael to tell her his plans. When he’s finished he gives her a quick kiss on the lips and slips outside. “Jerry says there are two sets of snowshoes in his barn.”
“Of course there are. I told you the man has two of everything. No sense in both of us hiking up there. I’ll go get the shoes.”
“I can go.”
“Naw, I need to stretch my legs a bit.” Walt sets off, plowing through the ash like a bull in the snow. He returns a half hour later, his shirt soaked through and his breathing labored. One set of snowshoes is tied onto his boots and he hands the other pair to Tucker. “They work pretty damn good. I still sink up to my ankles but it’s a hell of a lot better than trying to wade through this stuff. I didn’t know if I was going to make it to the barn without my old ticker exploding in my chest. I’ve walked through my share of deep snow, but this ash is like walking with cement shoes.”
“We have zero chance of making it out of here if we can’t find some form of transportation.” Tucker ties the webbed shoes onto his boots and tests them out. “Much better. You ready for a hike?”
Walt and Tucker make the town of Red Lodge after an hour of hiking. The place is buried in ash with only the occasional roof peak or chimney showing through. Some of the upper floors of the two-story buildings are visible, but the light poles lining the main drag look more like path lighting, their plastic lenses only a few feet above the ash. The lights are the only proof that a road once existed here. The men trudge through town and cross under the now-dead electrical lines, turning east toward the Red Lodge Resort.
Some of the taller pine trees push up through the ash, looking like recently planted shrubs on the surface of the moon. As Walt and Tucker approach the mountain, the going gets tougher as they ascend the steep incline. They pass a canteen back and forth, trying to stay hydrated. The ash drifts into their shoes and creeps down their backs, abrading their skin. Their shirts sag under the weight of wet ash as it soaks up the perspiration as soon as it forms. Four hours after beginning, they arrive at the remains of the resort.
The upper windows of the two-story log structure are at eye level, and Tucker peers into the dusty interior. A large dining room table is set for a meal service that won’t be served for a very long time. Groupings of tall-backed leather chairs are arranged just so, scattered across the lobby to facilitate friendly gatherings. Tucker turns away with dismay.
They strip off their shirts and shake them out, laying them on the remnants of a pine tree to dry. Both strip off their shoes and shake out their socks. Their feet are red and raw, covered with bloody blisters. “If we have to walk back, I might just stay here,” Walt says, gently massaging his feet.
Tucker trickles some water across his feet to rinse the blood. “I hear you. That was way worse than when we were hiking the road after the snow coach died. Of course the ash was only a few inches deep at the time. Let’s just hope the maintenance barn is close.”
After resting for a few minutes, they regretfully pull on their socks and lace up their boots, reattaching the snowshoes. Shirtless, they scout around for the maintenance facility. Around the back of the lodge they hit pay dirt when they discover a large, partially opened door. They climb through and drop to their feet. Walt clicks on a flashlight, and the beam reflects off the windshields of three massive snow machines. “Hot damn,” Tucker shouts, his voice echoing around the cavernous space. “We’re in business now.”
The machines are outfitted with tracks about four feet wide and twelve feet long, with large plow blades attached to the front. Two are single cabs and the third is a double, stenciled with MOUNTAIN RESCUE along the side.
“How are we going to get them out of here?” Walt asks.
“We’re going to use one to open the door and push through the ash. We’ll work it hard and if we tear it up in the process, so be it. But we need to devise some type of filtration system for the engines before we go anywhere. And we need fuel and lots of it.”
“I bet there’s a big diesel tank around here somewhere. Might be buried, but we can dig out a path to it.”
They rummage through the barn and find a dozen five-gallon diesel containers, and Walt scores big when he discovers two boxes of home air conditioner filters, obviously for use up at the lodge. They spend the next hour building a patchwork system to hold the filters before beginning the tedious process of digging out. The snowcat Tucker chooses is beat to hell by the time he finishes, but he’s cleared a path out of the barn and dug out around a thousand-gallon diesel tank up on legs about eight feet in the air. Another good find, because now they don’t need to worry about powering a pump. After topping off the tanks on the remaining two snowcats, they begin filling the containers.
Normally one of the longer days of the year, darkness arrives quicker with the slate-colored sky of ash. The temperature plummets and they quickly don their still-damp shirts. “I wish we had more gas cans,” Walt says, screwing the lid on the last jug.
“I think this will get us where we need to go. Hopefully, the farther north we go the less ash there will be. We should be able to commandeer a couple of real vehicles.”
Walt takes the single cab and the lead as they fire up the engines and click on the lights. They move out like rovers traversing the Martian landscape—the only things missing are the space suits and bubble helmets.
DAY 146
CHAPTER 81
The White House
After one final glance at the mirror, President Saundra Drummond exits the restroom and takes her husband’s hand as they walk down the corridor. A staffer hands her a stack of papers, and she gives Sean a peck on the cheek before pushing through the door to the White House’s media room. Once standing room only on such occasions, tonight only a handful of are present––what’s left of the nation’s media.
President Drummond steps up to the lectern. “I’ll begin this evening with a few preliminaries. We continue to search for available food options. We have a standing offer for any available grain, and we’ve contracted with the Brazilian government for 100,000 head of cattle. We are now in the process of shipping those cattle here. That’s one bit of good news. I’m also happy to report that most of the ele
ctrical grids east of the Mississippi River are now functional with only sporadic blackouts. Power officials say the occasional blackouts might be with us for a while due to the large number of people inhabiting the area. The grids are extremely stressed but some power is much better than none. I’ll now take a few questions.” President Drummond points to a man on the front row. “John?”
“Thank you Madam President. Can you give us the latest estimates on the death toll?”
President Drummond bows her head for a moment. When she lifts back up, tears are pooling in her eyes. “Over 30 million Americans have perished, John. The outlook remains bleak, with future deaths expected to rise as the famine worsens.”
“One follow up, ma’am?”
The president nods.
“How many deaths are related to the H1N1 flu that spread through the survivor camps?”
“I don’t have the exact number, but I know those deaths were numerous.” President Drummond points to a woman in the second row.
The woman stands and straightens her skirt before saying, “President Drummond, why weren’t evacuations started earlier?”
The president’s face flashes red with anger. “I’ve addressed that issue numerous times and I’m not going to rehash that now. We did all we could humanly do.” She turns to another woman on the first row.
“Madam President, is there a timeline to reestablish air service?”
“The airlines are hoping the atmospheric ash will subside, but, from what I understand, there are no real timelines. The railroads are working to reopen traffic to portions of the West Coast that remain habitable. Unfortunately, they have a big hill to climb with the large swath of destruction between here and there.” She nods to a man on her left.
“Thank you, ma’am. How long until the financial systems are all up and running?”
“A few banks are operating now, especially in the larger cities. The fed is working around the clock to open more. I received word last week that the stock markets in New York are hoping to be up and running by year’s end. We’re making daily improvements, but still have a long ways to go in certain areas. We’re recovering from the largest natural disaster in the history of humanity.” The president nods to a man on her right.