Out of Crisis

by Richard Caldwell

  The falling ash grew thicker. Even though the earth seemed to be flying apart at the seams, Judy maintained her composure‍—but not without effort. She squeezed the armrest with her right hand and clenched her jaw as she stared transfixed at what little she could see of the road. She’d never make it as a horror film star.

  The twins were uncharacteristically quiet, not screaming and out of control like most twelve-year-olds. Maybe they were scared speechless.

  Jeremy broke the silence: “We’re a good forty miles from where I thought the caldera was. I was hoping we could get ahead of the cloud. It seems to be blowing almost due east, and we’re heading almost due south. Even at the snail’s pace I have to drive, I thought we could avoid most of the stuff.”

  Judy shook her head. “The problem is the eruption sent ejecta well into the stratosphere. The air currents up there flow at different speeds and different directions depending on the altitude. Most likely, the material fanned out in every direction, like the head of a giant mushroom. Most of it will eventually fall to the east, but we’re talking about years, maybe even decades. If it makes you feel any better, we are probably on the light side of the cloud, which initially blew out to the west.”

  “You know, that’s one of the things I love about you, Judy.” Jeremy grinned. “You may be a treasure chest of useless information, but at least you always try to find the bright side of every situation. Right now, I’m looking for the cloud around your silver lining. And I could use a little company.”

  Ellis piped up in the back seat: “You know, I don’t get this conversation.”

  “Yeah,” Fiona added. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady,” Judy said, looking over her shoulder. “You’re lucky we didn’t leave you behind when we had the chance.”

  Everyone laughed. Jeremy hoped it wouldn’t be their last.

  They continued their tedious, übercautious trek southward, gradually slowing as the ash snow intensified. Four times, vehicles came speeding up from behind and flew around them. A pickup with dual rear wheels, a Jeep, and two cars. The same pattern of insane driving appeared on the interstate every time there was torrential rainfall. Drivers who could barely see past the hoods of their cars, screaming down the hammer lane, half the time without headlights. Invariably, they were the ones that ran off embankments or rammed into the back of semis when the six o’clock news had its obligatory video clips about the storm.

  At mile nine from their departure, as the truck approached the bridge over Pacific Creek, Jeremy saw the Class A RV that had sped past them earlier. It was upside down in the center of the creek. Its taillights cast a blurry glow in the falling ash as its rear tires continued to slowly spin. Bluish smoke drifted up from the bottom of the engine compartment.

  Jeremy pulled onto the right shoulder. He put the F-250 in Park but left the engine running and the lights on. He turned to Judy. “I’m going down there.”

  “Yeah, I figured you would,” Judy replied. She took a terry-cloth towel from her door pocket and handed it to Jeremy. “Wrap this around your mouth and nose. None of us need to breathe in that stuff. This will help keep it out. When you get to the creek, hold your breath, take it off and wet it, then put it back on. That will help even more.”

  Appreciating Judy’s clinical savvy and her concern more than ever, Jeremy put the towel over his nose and tied it behind his head. He grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment, opened the driver’s door, and stepped out into the silently falling ash storm. Grains of pumice stung his eyes, and the distinct smell of sulfur burned his nose. Hell’s version of air conditioning.

  He walked to the front of the F-250, and staying within the glow cast by the truck’s headlights, he started down the slope toward the creek and the overturned RV. The RV’s door was on the passenger side, which now faced the road. The stream wasn’t terribly deep, and even with the vehicle stuck nose-first in the center of the flowing water, it was only partially submerged. Jeremy shone his flashlight through the passenger window and jumped backward.

  The passenger, apparently a plumpish female, had slammed into the windshield, knocking it out of the cockpit. The windshield and most of the person’s skull dangled out the front of the RV. Her body lay half in and half out of the passenger compartment. A stump where her right shoulder should have been poked through her “Yellowstone National Park” T-shirt.

  The driver had fared no better. He had been thrown against the steering wheel, shearing off the rim and thrusting the post through his upper chest. There was blood everywhere, even the ceiling.

  Jeremy assumed, correctly, that neither had been wearing a seat belt.

  The smell of gasoline was almost overpowering. Jeremy, gagging from the combined stench of fuel and death, instinctively realized two things: there was nothing else he could do, and he needed to get away from the smoking engine immediately. He turned and retraced his path up the creek bank. When he made it back to the truck, he got inside and, before anyone had a chance to ask any questions, said, “There was no one inside. I guess someone else picked them up after they wrecked.”

  Judy locked eyes with Jeremy. Her intense expression told him that she knew he was lying.

  16

  The Farm

  Two years before the day of

  David and his Envision-2100 board-member hosts got up from the table and, as a group, headed toward the foyer. Mattie and Lucas materialized from the dining room’s side door. Lucas held a small white cardboard box tied together by a length of red ribbon, with a little bow at the top. They intercepted the group.

  Mattie, ignoring the others, went straight for David and offered him her hand. “Mr. Secretary, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it has been to make your acquaintance. I hope you come back up here real soon and let me cook for you again.” Taking the box from Lucas, she handed it to David. “Here, Mr. Secretary. Take the rest of this coconut cake home for you and your wife. I’ve heard it’s your favorite.”

  After shaking her hand, David accepted the box, shook hands with Lucas, and gave them a sincere smile. “Thank you so much. This is very sweet and thoughtful. What you hear is correct, it’s my absolute favorite dessert. I think your meatloaf may be my new favorite main course. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be back up this way shortly. Maybe next time I can sample some of that fried chicken.”

  “You do just that, Mr. Secretary. For now, I think your chariot awaits.” Mattie and Lucas turned and started back into the dining room. In the background, the whup, whup of the approaching copter let everyone know David’s ride was about to land.

  As the group stepped outside, the AW160 nosed up slightly and dropped onto the Farm’s front-yard helipad. The main rotor continued turning as the engine slowed but didn’t stop. The copilot climbed out and opened the passenger door.

  Judson shook David’s hand and raised his voice to be heard over the engine noise: “I’ll be looking forward to your call after you and Kelly have talked tonight. So let me know, one way or the other. Don’t worry about calling late. I won’t sleep until I hear from you anyway. The copter will pick you up at seven in the morning. Enjoy your dinner and give my best to Kelly . . . Mr. President.” Judson grinned.

  The other four shook David’s hand and slapped him on his back for luck. Elated but apprehensive, David turned and walked to his multimillion-dollar ride home. As he climbed in, he looked back and waved to his new colleagues. Today bubbled up the list of the most exciting things that had ever happened in his life.

  David strapped himself into the flight harness and put on the headphones next to his seat as the copilot slid the passenger door closed. Twenty seconds later, the pilot simultaneously pulled up on the collective, twisted the throttle, and pushed forward, gently, on the cyclic. The AW160 lifted off the ground, and as the pilot applied pressure to the left pedal, sped off to the south.

 
The copilot’s voice came over David’s headphones: “Your back yard is about forty-five miles from here. Even fighting the headwind, we should have you there in about fifteen minutes‍—less time than it would take you to get from your office to your car in the Truman Building parking deck.”

  Keying his mic, David shot back, “That’s for sure. By the way, is it OK for me to make a cellphone call while we’re in the air? I don’t want to get the FCC on your case.”

  “Making a call is no problem, Mr. Secretary. This bird is equipped with Wi-Fi, so just leave that on and switch off your cellular. The ghost of Steve Jobs will take it from there. The person’s caller ID will show ‘Envision-2100,’ but other than that, you’ll never know the difference.”

  “Thanks,” David replied as he paired his iPhone with the AW160’s Bluetooth signal. He gave Siri a command to “call Kelly,” and seconds later, with a quizzical lilt to her voice, she answered, “Kelly Stakley.”

  “Hey, babe, it’s your husband. Are you home yet?”

  “David? My caller ID says Envision-2100. It sounds like you’re in a laundromat or a car wash somewhere. Are you still with Judson Ballard and his cronies?”

  “I was, but now I’m . . . well . . . just go into the back yard when the windows start to rattle.”

  “What? I’m in the kitchen, looking into the back yard.”

  “We have dinner reservations at the Comus in an hour. And, honey, we have a lot to talk about.”

  “The Comus? Well. It sounds like we’re celebrating something. I can’t wear slacks to the Comus. I have to change and slap on a coat of war paint. We can’t have the secretary of state’s main squeeze looking like she just got off work and drove for nearly an hour in Beltway traffic.

  Now, what’s this about our windows starting to—what? Oh my God!” Kelly’s voice was drowned out by the low-pitched, ever-increasing sound of the helicopter cycling from her phone through his, along with the loud rattle of vibrating kitchen dishes. She stepped outside just as the helicopter touched down in the back yard.

  The copilot opened the passenger door, and David stepped out. He thanked the copilot and ducked below the whirling rotor blades. Walking in military quick time, he made a bee line for his wife.

  “Shit. You bought a helicopter?” Kelly shouted. “A lot of people would have just called an Uber. But no, not you. I can’t wait to see that on our Visa bill.”

  David laughed, kissed Kelly, and put his arm across her shoulders. They walked toward the house. “I told you we have a lot to talk about.”

  “Let’s start with what’s in the box.” Kelly nodded at the package David carried.

  “This? This is dessert. Maybe the most delicious coconut cake I’ve ever had. I’ll put it on the table, and we can eat it when we get home from the Comus.”

  “That sounds like a plan. Now enough with the chit-chat. What’s going on? Where have you been all day? And how did we end up with a helicopter in our back yard?”

  They stepped into the house, and David put the gift-wrapped cake on the food prep island in the middle of the kitchen. He turned to Kelly, placed both of his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her with an uncharacteristically stern expression. “Kelly, they want me to run for president of the United States.”

  Kelly burst out laughing. “Right.”

  David tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I’m serious. They want me to run for president.”

  Kelly, stunned, flinched backward. “Jeez, David.” Her voice trembled. “Wow . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say. First the helicopter and then this. What other surprises are going to pop out of the box?”

  “Well, I do have a one-on-one meeting with the president in the morning, but other than those surprises, it’s been a relatively quiet day.”

  David offered a slightly worried but happy smile. “Let’s go upstairs, get dressed, and go to dinner. I’ll synopsize my discussion with Judson and the Envision-2100 board. We have a lot to talk about. Then we have to make the most significant decision we’ve ever made. Ever.”

  After a quick shower, David put on a pair of tan slacks, a blue pinstripe shirt, black loafers, and a blue Brooks Brothers linen jacket. He would skip the tie tonight. As Kelly sat in front of her dresser mirror, putting on her obligatory, never-leave-the-house-without-it cherry-red lipstick, David headed down the stairs to get his car keys.

  The front doorbell rang.

  “This is a lousy time for drop-ins.” David studied the small camera monitor State Department Security had installed on the hallway wall next to the front door. A large white male with a close-cropped military-style haircut and dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit stood on the porch. A slight bulge protruded from the upper left side of his jacket.

  David pressed a microphone button on the speaker mounted to the left of the door. “May I help you?”

  The man held up a small, opened leather case containing a photo and company identification card. “Mr. Secretary, my name is Charles Crum. I’m a security specialist with Blackwater Associates. Mr. Judson Ballard, on behalf of Envision-2100, has engaged my company to provide escort and protection services for you and Mrs. Stakley from now until further notice. I’m here to drive you and Mrs. Stakley to the Comus Inn, with your permission of course, and return you home after you have dinner. I would be honored if you would grant me that privilege.”

  David opened the door and assessed the man. “Mr. Ballard is just chock-full of surprises. Do you mind if I get a closer look at your identification, Mr. Crum?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Secretary.” Charles Crum handed the case to David through the partly opened door.

  David took the case and carefully studied the ID. At the same time, he completed his visual assessment: not huge, maybe six two, not an ounce of body fat. David’s military and martial arts training instinctively told him that the guy could handle himself.

  After comparing the man’s face with that in the photo, and to the best of his ability making sure the ID hadn’t been forged, he handed it back. “Thank you, Mr. Crum. Would you like to come in while I clear things with my wife?”

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Secretary, I’ll just wait next to the car.”

  Parked in the driveway was an absolutely stunning black Mercedes Maybach.

  “If you insist, Mr. Crum. Do you go by Charlie?”

  “No, sir. Just Charles.”

  David didn’t miss the fact that “Charles” hadn’t smiled or really changed facial expressions at all during their short conversation. “That’s fine, Charles. Unless there is some major snafu, we will be out in just a minute,” David said as he started easing the door closed.

  “Yes, sir.” Charles shifted slightly toward the Maybach. When David closed the door entirely, he checked the monitor. Only then did Charles turn his back on David.

  “Never turn your back on the king,” David mused. Charles Crum was former SEAL or Delta. One or the other, for sure.

  Kelly came down the stairs, adjusting her earrings. “Who was that?”

  “That, my dear, is our escort-slash-bodyguard for the evening, and depending on how our discussion goes, he and his ilk may be lurking around for the next several weeks. I’m pretty darn sure we won’t get mugged tonight. Now, if you’re ready, let’s go marvel at what German comfort and engineering are all about.”

  Tilting her head, Kelly gave her husband a what-are-you-talking-about look‍—until he opened the door.

  17

  The city of West Yellowstone, Montana

  23:30 the day of

  The IFDEC control room was in total, albeit controlled, chaos. Every phone on every desk was ringing, and each string of “hold” lights blinked incessantly.

  Joyce paid no attention to the fact that her shift had ended two hours ago, as she and her counterparts continued to answer a continuous stream of telephone calls and coor
dinate the growing list of first- and second-tier emergency responders. At the same time, her IFDEC supervisor began executing the steps laid out in the Idaho section of the Bureau of Homeland Security’s Emergency Action Plan, EAP.

  Much of the emergency effort was directed toward US Route 20, the one and only paved road leading out of West Yellowstone. Utter pandemonium covered every inch of it. Traffic was headlight to taillight heading west out of the city toward the Idaho state line, twenty miles away.

  The official resident population of West Yellowstone fluctuated around fourteen hundred. This time of year, another five or six hundred tourists were staying in the hotels and private RV parks. There was a daily pilgrimage into the park every morning after breakfast, a lull from ten until three, and then a returning stream in the late afternoon. The local sheriff estimated there were around five hundred vehicles, between the locals and visitors, in and around the city at any given time.

  Tonight, every civilian car, truck, and motorcycle that would run was westbound. Virtually no one was planning to ride this thing out. It would be years before they found the bodies of those who tried.

  Thanks to almost zero visibility and insane driving, the wrecks started before the fleeing caravan could even get past the city limits. All north- and southbound streets intersected with 20 as it snaked east and west through the center of town, forcing traffic to merge into a single artery. Even in the middle of the day, it would have been challenging to get so many vehicles on to a sole road, heading in the same direction, without pileups. At midnight, with ash-induced blackout conditions and panic-crazed drivers, it was literally impossible.

  To compound the problem, the combination of violent earthquakes and red-hot boulders falling out of the sky had disrupted all electrical power within a thirty-mile, and growing, radius around the caldera. The city’s gas main had also ruptured, igniting its spewing vapor into a raging tower of blue flame in the center of, ironically, Firehole Avenue.