Out of Crisis

by Richard Caldwell

  “Nelson’s Ninjas,” interjected Melissa.

  Milt chuckled. “Yes, that’s what we called ourselves. We were sequestered here at the Farm and worked day and night seven days a week. We met every day at five to review that day’s work and to discuss plans for the following day.

  “Although we were remarkably close on most issues, we had to hammer out a few, especially solutions for some of the more complex problems. As we worked, it became evident that cliques were forming. As soon as that happened, Nelson broke them up. He forced us to establish new working relationships and find original approaches to problem solutions. Nelson kept us focused and always on our toes. I don’t want to make him blush, but he epitomizes the concept of a leader: tireless, relentless, and just damned brilliant.”

  Nelson wagged a finger at Milt. “There you go, trying to canonize me again.”

  Milt grinned. “Didn’t you just say you weren’t Catholic?”

  Laughter swept around the table.

  “Anyway, by the end of the fourth month, we had developed a pretty decent clayman, something we could pull apart, shape, and remold piece by piece. We spent the last two months of our review period refining and wordsmithing our product, making sure it said what we as a single-minded group wanted it to say without any hint of ambiguity.”

  Milt motioned to Nelson. “Our new saint here compared this process to the Japanese art of sword making, the part where they forge, fold, and immerse the blade’s metal in cooling water many times: orikaeshi tanren. When this process is complete, the metal’s impurities have been removed, hammered out, and it becomes a finely honed work of art able to withstand centuries of use.

  “Just like you learned in grade school, the fundamental purpose of the United States Constitution is summed up in its Preamble: ‘establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity.’ The constitution itself is as close to perfect as any foundation of law and government ever developed. However, it was designed to be a living document, to evolve to keep pace with the times and our culture.”

  Judson shook his head. “Unfortunately, it’s not working out that way.”

  Milt nodded. “As I alluded to earlier, we, through our elected representatives, weren’t allowing that to happen. At least not quickly enough or to the extent necessary. You’ve gotta remember, we ratified the constitution in 1789, but it took another seventy-six years before it eliminated slavery and over one hundred thirty years before it gave women the right to vote. Our legal foundation and the government it supported were choking themselves. After all our work, we concluded that two fundamental issues were ripping our country apart.

  “The first, and ostensibly the cause of every other problem with our government and its legal system, is an apathetic, politically ignorant citizenry.” Milt stabbed his fork in the air. “The second is the ridiculously restrictive, ineffective two-party political system we have allowed to gain control over our country and our lives.”

  Still holding his fork but waving it like an orchestra conductor’s baton, Milt reached the crescendo of his sermonette.

  “Like a nuclear reactor, our political system has reached its critical mass. It’s no longer responsive to the needs of our people. It’s grown so big and so corrupt that it just feeds upon itself. And, like a runaway reactor, if we don’t do something, and do it soon, it’s going to melt down and explode. However, unlike that reactor, we don’t have giant cadmium control rods that we can push into the core to stop the reaction.” Milt’s voice thumped with passion. “My fear, the source of all my nightmares, is that it’s going to take a war or some sort of national catastrophe to bring about the constitutional changes necessary to keep our country from crashing and burning.”

  When Milt paused to gulp down some of his tea, David cleared his throat. “I agree with everything you’ve told me. I’ve been saying more or less the same thing for years. In the last election, well over forty percent of the people who were eligible to vote didn’t bother to show up. And we were thumping ourselves on the chest with that number. Half the kids entering college have no clue who we fought during World War Two or who won the Civil War, or can’t name the three branches of our government. I even saw a Saturday Night Live video where a fake news reporter asked some people on the street if they thought the Electoral College would get a bowl game. Half of them agreed, and the other half said they didn’t follow football.”

  Milt sighed and shook his head as David continued: “The sad thing is, their votes count just as much as anyone’s in this room. The average score on the Stanford-Binet in the United States is one hundred. That means, statistically speaking, almost one half of our voting population has a two-digit IQ. I’ve pretty much convinced myself that it’s a good thing that we have such low voter turnout. It may sound harsh, but I’m just not sure we want someone who thinks the VP is the ‘assistant president’ making decisions about who should be our elected representatives.

  “I’m entirely on board with what you’ve told me about Envision-2100 and what it’s trying to accomplish. But let’s cut to the chase. I can’t believe you went to all of the trouble and expense to bring me up here to ask me to become part of your organization. Hell, I’m a broke-ass government employee. I couldn’t even pay for the helicopter ride. I loved it, but I couldn’t afford it. Besides, as I’m sure Milt knows, in my position, I am not allowed to join a political organization.”

  The five Envision-2100 board members exchanged glances. One by one, they turned their heads toward David. For a few seconds, silence pulsated around the table. Then Melissa laid her knife and fork on her plate.

  “Mr. Secretary. David. We didn’t bring you here to ask you to join Envision-2100. We brought you here to ask you to run for president of the United States.”

  7

  Salt Lake City

  Two days before the day of

  Roland pulled the university’s white Ford Econoline van into the parking lot in front of his supervisor’s apartment building at 04:58. Larry’s apartment, number 101, was on the corner of the ground floor of the brick-and-stucco two-story building.

  Three long, gray, casket-like metal boxes sat in the back of the van. They contained the Seismology Department’s new ground-penetrating radar equipment and two ultrasensitive seismographs. Roland had also packed his bugout gear, which included a sleeping bag, a nylon pup tent, and a three-day supply of dehydrated food. Experience told him that Larry would bring similar camping equipment and an arsenal of bear spray. He got out of the van, cut across the front lawn to Larry’s apartment door, and rang the bell.

  Seconds later, the door opened. Larry stumbled out wearing a backpack and carrying a bugout bag similar to Roland’s.

  “You know, Dr. King,” Larry groaned as he tossed his gear through the side door of the van, “there aren’t any state or federal laws that would’ve prohibited us from leaving at, oh, I don’t know, say, nine or ten instead of this unholy time of day. The sun doesn’t come up for at least another hour. Or so I’ve heard. I don’t think I’ve ever been awake this early, at least not on purpose.”

  “Yeah, I know. It reminds me of my old army days.” Roland climbed back into the van and settled into the vehicle’s as-cheap-as-could-be-produced bucket seat.

  “You’ve never been in the fucking army.” Larry slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “You don’t have a social life and wanted to make sure I don’t, either.”

  Roland snorted. “Well, excuse me for interrupting your Taylor Swift sleepover with what could very well be one of the most important investigations in the history of vulcanology.”

  “You know, that’s a pretty short list, buddy,” Larry shot back. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “At least we get to head back into the wilderness on another research boondoggle and get paid for it. It’s been what?
Three months now. Way too long.”

  “This isn’t a boondoggle. And it’s only been two months.”

  Roland backed the van out of the parking space and headed for the parking lot exit.

  “OK, boss man,” he continued. “We’ll take the I-Fifteen to Idaho Falls. From there, we can jump on Highway Twenty and into the west entrance of Yellowstone. Depending on the traffic and construction, it should take us around six hours, assuming we stop for lunch in Idaho Falls.”

  “Sounds good,” Larry said. “I’ll set up my phone’s GPS. It’ll warn us if there’s trouble ahead.”

  “There’s a thermos of coffee and two travel mugs in my bag if you need a pick-me-up.” Roland glanced at Larry. “That’s a hint to pour me a cup, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “You know, Roland, you’ll make someone a great wife someday,” Larry teased. He poured two mugs of the steaming brew, screwed the lid back on, and placed Roland’s mug in the console cup holder. He rubbed his eyes again and yawned. “Well, there is at least one good thing about heading out at this god-awful time of day: there shouldn’t be any traffic coming out of the city, and once we get on I-Fifteen, there won’t be any until, well, ever.” The I-15 was one of the least traveled interstates in the country. “We finally get to do something productive with all the new equipment. Gotta show a return on its investment. And maybe we can cobble up a research paper from whatever we find.”

  “Sounds like you’re finally awake,” Roland said dryly.

  Once they got past North Salt Lake, Roland set the van’s cruise control to seventy-four miles per hour. They drove all the way past Ogden before he had to put on the brakes when they stopped just south of Willard Bay State Park to relieve themselves of the coffee they’d been sipping.

  They stopped at Stockman’s Restaurant, off I-15 just south of Idaho Falls, for lunch. They were both hungry, and neither was in the mood for fast food. Besides, they were on official business and could put their meals on the department’s expense account. After lunch, they topped off the van’s gas tank and turned on US 20, which would take them all the way to West Yellowstone.

  As Roland drove, Larry called the office of the Yellowstone Park rangers to confirm their arrival and let them know they would be camping in the area of the caldera on the west side, off Shoshone Lake. He also fired up an app on his iPad that, by connecting to the now nearly ubiquitous cellular network, allowed him to monitor remotely located seismographs as if he were seated in front of the computer in his office.

  “Holy shit, Roland. Look at this.” Larry held out the iPad so Roland could see it. An array of seismic measurement lights flashed across a map of Yellowstone. Most were yellow, but as the indicators closed in on the caldera, they changed from yellow to orange, indicating a high level of activity.

  “Holy crap. What’s going on in the caldera, Larry? Check the caldera!”

  Larry’s thumb and forefinger swept open the display. He held it up for Roland again. The five lights scattered over the actual caldera basin, atop the Yellowstone supervolcano, were bright red and blinked like strobe lights in a seventies disco. Not that Roland had ever seen a disco aside from Staying Alive reruns on TCM.

  “Just like you suspected, buddy: this place is jumping.” Larry dropped the iPad back in his lap.

  There were several vehicles in a line in front of them as they neared the West Entrance park gate. As they rolled up to the checkpoint after the car in front of them moved, a tremor rocked the van, sloshing out the remains of Larry’s coffee and knocking over two of the equipment crates that were stacked in the cargo bed. It only lasted a couple of seconds, and even though it wasn’t necessary, it reminded them of why they were there.

  “I guess you’ve been having a lot of those the last few days,” Roland said to the ranger at the sliding office window.

  “Yeah. We normally get some small quakes two or three times a month up here. But lately it’s been five or six times a day. I’ll tell you, it’s a little unnerving, especially when we’re sitting directly on top of the largest volcano in the Northern Hemisphere. I hope you guys can find out what’s going on down there. I want a little warning if that thing decides to blow its top.”

  That would have been nice. Nice indeed.

  “By the way, Roland,” Larry said, “I did dig up that emergency action plan we discussed. It’s at least as old as you expected, and everyone listed as a contact is long departed. However, I found a number for the Wyoming State Emergency Response Commission and the local office of Homeland Security. They have a reasonably robust website and a more current disaster plan. I downloaded key numbers to my phone just in case.”

  “Good.” Roland drove into the park following US 191 along the Madison River. As happened every time he visited Yellowstone, he was struck by two things. One was the sheer, heart-fluttering beauty of the place. The other was the swarm of tourists and associated traffic on the road, or at least this section. Cars on both sides of the way would pull over, park, and then disgorge their cell-phone-packing passengers every time they spied a moose or elk grazing or on the edge of the water. Roland knew this practice would ease up somewhat the farther into the park they got, as the traffic dispersed and the initial novelty of seeing the animals wore off. Still, it was congested and slow going for the first four or five miles.

  At the junction with US 89, they turned right, staying on 191, and headed southeast, this time loosely following the Firehole River. They passed through Whiskey Flat and then drove past the Excelsior Geyser crater and the steaming, deep-blue Grand Prismatic Spring. The wind blew from the west, spreading the rotten-egg stench of sulfur bubbling up through the water. Another fringe benefit of being a professional, government-employed seismologist: neither Roland nor Larry reacted to the smell; they had been working around these stink pits so long it barely registered.

  A few miles later, they came to the entrance of the parking lot of the tourist complex that surrounded Old Faithful. Roland was starting to feel an early signal from his bladder and said to Larry, “It’s only another ten miles until we turn off One Ninety-One and onto the maintenance trail that takes us into the caldera. But that coffee’s ready to make an exit, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, I could stand one last trip to a flushing toilet before we start sleeping in a tent and crapping in the woods,” Larry replied. “While we’re stopped, we may as well get a burger or something to eat. Ready-to-eat rations and canteen water are fine for about one meal, but after three or four days, I reach my limit. I didn’t fight my way up the food chain to eat sticks and twigs, and that’s what dehydrated stew tastes like after day one.”

  Roland turned off the highway and drove into the Old Faithful Inn and Visitor Center parking lot. There were cars and tour buses everywhere. He always felt a little sad every time he visited Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, or any of the other natural wonders that were crawling with tourists. Deep inside, he knew he had no right to feel that way since, at times, he was a tourist too, but he couldn’t shake that initial feeling.

  He parked the van about one hundred meters from the Inn. Although his bladder didn’t totally agree, he and Larry didn’t mind walking, and the exercise would wake them up. Just as he turned off the van’s engine, a huge, fire-truck-red F-250 pulled into a parking space across from them. When it stopped, two girls, carbon copies of one another, bounced out, followed by a man he assumed to be their father and a good-looking lady, whom he took to be their mother.

  As the loosely assembled group started walking toward the Inn, Larry smiled at the two girls. “You must be twins.”

  Grinning back like little spider monkeys, the two looked at each other, and one of them pulled her head back in mock astonishment. “Wow, mister. Are you some kind of genius or something?”

  The girls laughed hysterically, and Roland joined in—even though his bladder was throbbing—but the lady stopped dead in
her tracks. She wasn’t laughing. At all.

  “Fiona, that wasn’t the least bit funny! Apologize right this instant!”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young girl said, her lips trembling. An unmistakable twinkle lit her eyes. “It just jumped out.”

  The lady turned to Larry. “Please excuse my pair of smart alecks. They’re having a hormone explosion and practicing to be teenagers.”

  All four of the adults laughed. The twins rolled their eyes.

  Roland nodded at the F-250’s license plate. “Did you guys come here all the way from Tennessee?”

  The girls’ father nodded. “We got here yesterday. We’re camping in our RV over at Colter Bay. Name’s Jeremy Richards.” Jeremy shook hands with both men and introduced Judy, Fiona, and Ellis.

  “Been to Yellowstone before?” Larry asked.

  “It’s our first trip here,” Jeremy responded. “Actually, it’s our first trip anywhere west of the Mississippi. Old Faithful is our last stop for the day.”

  Judy smiled. “We’re going to wait around to watch the next eruption, and then we’re heading back to our campsite for dinner under the stars. We’ve never seen anything like the night sky up here.”

  “Tomorrow, we plan to go to the falls and then just wander around the park,” Jeremy added.

  “There’s a lot to see here if you enjoy wildlife and nature in general,” Larry said. “But you might also enjoy a side trip to Jackson Hole. It’s about forty miles south of Colter Bay, and the drive is beautiful, especially along the Snake River. The Hole is always packed with tourists, but they have some great restaurants if you want to have lunch. And you pass through the National Elk Refuge‍—although I’ve been through there about a hundred times and have yet to see a single elk.”

  “Speaking of wildlife,” Jeremy said slowly, “we passed through a herd of buffalo this morning on our way up here. They were acting crazy, running back and forth and around in circles. Judy asked one of the rangers about them. The ranger said she’d lived here all her life and had never seen anything like what she had witnessed over the last four or five days. She thinks it has something to do with all the earthquakes and the increased activity around the hot springs.”