Placing his plate on the coffee table and sipping his coffee, the POTUS eased back onto the couch. “Judson may not have told you that our succession discussions started several years ago. Many Americans in what President Richard Nixon called the ‘silent majority’ have grown increasingly disillusioned with partisan politics in this country.
“Envision-2100 didn’t formally exist when I ran for office, but I did get a healthy dose of financial and moral support from Judson and some of the others. In fact, if it hadn’t been for him and his social network, I would never have been elected. I owe them a debt I will never be able to repay.
“It wasn’t long after I was elected that Judson and I started laying out a strategy to make some changes that we both knew were long overdue but that we knew would never be taken up by either Republican or Democrat party hardliners. However, our political instincts, along with a couple dozen statistically significant surveys, told us that a good seventy to eighty percent of mainstream Americans were chomping at the bit to change directions. Or it might be more accurate to say alter the country’s course. So we set out to do just that.
“Judson established Envision-2100 and started actively recruiting the A-team players you met yesterday, as well as other socially enlightened political moderates who had the means to bankroll a nationwide movement. He didn’t set out to exclude anyone based on personal wealth, just the opposite. However, we both knew that realistically it would require people of power and substance, like our Founding Fathers—Jefferson, Madison, Hamilton, and Washinton—to finance a party that could take on the Republicans and Democrats. After all, efforts like this had failed in the past.
“H. Ross Perot and his Reform Party only managed to garner eight percent of the popular vote when he tried in 1996. But Perot wasn’t aiming at America’s center of mass. Truth be known, he was to the political right of Richard Nixon. Although I did incorporate some of his philosophies into my modus operandi. Perot once said, ‘The activist is not the man who says the river is dirty. The activist is the man who cleans up the river.’ And everyday operations in the White House are based on his observation ‘If you see a snake, just kill it—don’t appoint a committee on snakes.’”
A smile split David’s face as he visualized a wizened Perot spouting one of his famous Texas aphorisms.
The president, now on a roll, paused just long enough to splash a bit more coffee into his and David’s cups. “But I digress, David. My point is our river has gotten filthy, and we have to clean it up. But it will take people with more than just thoughts and prayers to get it done. It’s going to take a lot of that green stuff to get us over the hump. Then we—well, you and yours—can sit around the campfire and sing ‘Kumbaya’ for another hundred years.
“The instant that Judson chartered Envision-2100 and formed its core members, he initiated two critical projects. The first was to establish a viable political party for the candidates that Envision-2100 would offer up for sacrifice. I bought into the plan from day one. But I had to do so under the radar. I had my own newly elected administration to lead. And as I’m sure Judson shared with you, I was confident we had eight years to get the country back on track, or in today’s vernacular, to position it to become America two point oh. Regardless, setting the stage for a new party and subliminally softening up its perceived near-left and near-right opposition would prove to make the Labours of Hercules look like a day at the beach, at least from my somewhat paranoid perspective. And, David, always remember: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”
David nodded and laughed at the president’s attempt to lighten the mood even in one of the worst personal situations imaginable. And that, boys and girls, is why he’s the POTUS, David thought, smiling.
“Establishing a political party at the national level can be an arduous, time-consuming effort. It’s fraught with opportunities for endless delays, starting with the requirement to register with the Federal Election Commission,” the president continued. “That’s why the Envision-2100 Political Coalition task force elected to hitch on to the already-established Centrist Party. No one was infatuated with the name, and it did wear a faint stain of failure, but it was in place with some degree of name recognition. And it did represent, in the minds of those knowledgable in such things, the eighty-percenters—the voters we wanted to win over.
“So Envision-2100 adopted the Centrist moniker, the color purple, and the owl as its mascot. The consultants convinced the board that you’ve got to have a mascot. I’m sure they spent a not-so-small fortune coming up with that caricature. But hey, that kind of money is just a rounding error for those folks. And now we have a symbol that will hopefully be around at least as long as that elephant and donkey. Settling on a name and cartoon icon was the simple part of this project. They also had to hammer out a party platform to lay out its fundamental principles, beliefs, and sociopolitical values.
“I’m greatly oversimplifying the work that went into this component and its significance. Both are just too complicated to do justice to in the time we have to discuss. Suffice it to say, no single task or set of activities was more important than developing the Centrist foundation. This would become what our constituents rallied around. Their battle cry. Fortunately, Milt Freeman had orchestrated the development and formalization of most of what became the Centrist credo shortly after Envision-2100 was created.”
“Yes,” David interjected. “Nelson Teal and Elton Kirby shared tales of a marathon session they and some of their fellow Envision-2100 members had at the Farm putting that manifesto together.”
That comment seemed to fan the flame for the POTUS. He set his cup on the coffee table, leaned forward, and locked eyes with David. With renewed passion, the president said, “They came up with an absolutely brilliant set of ideas for some fundamental changes, enhancements to our constitution. And, David, you are being allowed to implement what they have architected. A chance to slap a coat of paint on what is unarguably the most perfect governance document ever created. When fully implemented, these changes will have an impact equal to the Thirteenth Amendment’s—and, I fear, will be just as challenging to push through Congress.
“Imagine, David, if you pull this whole thing off, and I have all the confidence in the world that you will, your place in history will be secured right alongside Abraham Lincoln’s.” The president sipped his coffee while peering at David across the top of his cup.
David was stunned. He fought to control his pulse and maintain a sense of composure. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, Mr. President. I think the gravity of the whole situation just punched me in the gut.”
“It’ll pass, my friend.” The POTUS smiled and took a bite of his Danish. “Then the adrenalin will kick in, and you’ll be back in the hammer lane. Now to continue my story.
“The next essential project was the search for a candidate that everyone could agree on who could and would represent the ideals that formed the foundation of the Centrist Party. Actually, this effort ran parallel with the FEC’s registration effort. You would be surprised to learn just how shallow the pool of viable, qualified people is once you start factoring in all of the attributes we were looking for in a candidate. You might say the pool didn’t have a deep end.”
David smiled and nodded, once again impressed by the president’s ability to maintain his sense of wit and humor.
“You will notice my use of ‘we’ rather than ‘they.’ By the time the Envision-2100 Presidential Candidate Selection Team got into full swing, I was committed to the cause. I couldn’t come out and admit it publicly, of course; I had to keep my beliefs and support under wraps. But secretly, I had defected into what would become the Centrist camp. I felt a little guilty and disingenuous after riding my party’s ticket into the White House. And I still had to wear a loyalist mask, thinking I had another five years in office. At times, I almost felt like a turncoat.
“Surprisingly, however, I had so many diplomatic relations and domestic policy snafus from the previous administration to mend that those partisan politics weren’t a factor for the first two years. And by the time I had things back on course, well, here we are.
“In retrospect, this charade worked for the best. While I worked on healing the wounds my predecessor had inflicted on every faction that disagreed with his lunacy, I was able to plow the ground for the Centrists without raising the suspicion or ire of almost anyone. The policies, the endless executive orders that spewed from Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, were so loathsome that I could do no wrong. I felt like John the Baptist.
“In Luke, the Bible says that John was to ‘go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people in the forgiveness of their sins.’ Yes, I know, I may be tooting my own self-righteous horn here, but the analogy is spot on: I was preparing the way for the messiah.”
David blushed.
“And while I was surreptitiously setting up a political chessboard, the Envision-2100 Candidate Selection Team was scouring the land for the perfect man or woman for what is, or what should be if done correctly, the most demanding job on the planet. After they slimmed down the list of potential candidates, they took a genuinely scientific, structured approach to ranking the names.
“Back in the midfifties, the RAND Corporation came up with a process called the Delphi technique, or the Delphi method, depending on whether you went to MIT or Caltech. To try to explain something that is way above my head: it’s basically a forecasting system. It uses a panel of subject matter experts to assign assessment values to whatever is being evaluated and then goes through an iterative repetition of steps to select a logically best choice. And, David, you’ll embarrass me if you ask for any more detail than I just gave you. I’m smart enough to understand when someone explains but not smart enough to elaborate on my own.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. President,” David replied. “I’m intimately familiar with the process. In fact, it’s on the top shelf of the State Department toolbox. Our teams use it all the time when evaluating treaties, sanction options, those sorts of things.”
“Somehow I knew you’d be up to speed on that little trick.” The president grinned. “Anyway, there was no small amount of discussion around political experience. In the end, it was decided that we didn’t want a career politician as our first choice for POTUS. For the VP, perhaps, but not POTUS. The team was looking for someone with at least some degree of name recognition but did not want to go to the congressional, state legislature, or gubernatorial bullpen for our first candidate. There were too many opportunities for regional bias and corruption.
“So, after months of effort, after screening hundreds of potential nominees, and after thousands of hours of investigative work, do you know what they found?”
“No, sir,” David replied.
“The ideal candidate was right under our collective noses. You, David! Our squeaky-clean, confirmed-by-a-landslide secretary of state, blissfully slaving away in the Harry S. Truman Building, flying hither and yon with your own brand of shuttle diplomacy, and number four on the presidential line of succession list. As soon as your name bubbled to the top of the list and everyone on the Envision-2100 board and its candidate selection committee agreed—and by the way, they did so unanimously—Judson reached out to you. The rest, as we like to say, is history.
“Now that you have that bit of background and have heard firsthand about my rather grim situation, we can move on to the ‘where do we go from here’ discussion. There are a couple of things we need to do that we need to do in sequence and that we need to do ASAP. And as you might suspect, I have a plan.”
23
The town of West Yellowstone, Montana
The morning after the day of
The stiffened plastic coveralls the two newsmen wore were officially known as Level D personal protective equipment, or PPE. It was designed to give the wearer some protection against chemical splashes and to keep airborne contaminants off skin and clothing.
With the drawstrings of the hoodies pulled tight around their foreheads and faces, Martin and Kevin looked like set extras on a sci-fi flick. The surgical masks covering their mouths and noses and the protective goggles contributed to the effect, as well as making it impossible to identify them.
Martin didn’t like that one bit. Once they were powered up and transmitting in real time, he wanted everyone to see his face and remember his name.
As Kevin unlocked the clamps securing the telescoping pole that held the basketball-goal-sized satellite dish to the roof of the van, Martin drug a tripod-mounted set of spotlights out of the back. The things weren’t all that heavy, but they were bulky and hard to maneuver, especially while wading through ten inches of slippery ash and grit.
After managing to unfold the tripod and aiming the lights in what he thought was the direction of the park entrance, he pulled their electrical cord to the back of the van. He plugged the cable into a small, gasoline-powered Honda generator and pressed its starter switch. The motor turned over several times but didn’t start.
“Shit,” Martin muttered through his mask. The generators were supposed to start the first time every time. “Fucking Japs!” Then he remembered he had to turn the fuel control from off to on. He twisted the lever to its vertical position and pressed the ignition switch again; the engine started immediately.
Walking back to the lights, he pressed the on-off switch, and twin beams of brilliant light exploded forward. But the ashfall was so thick, even the powerful halogen bulbs couldn’t penetrate beyond fifty feet.
Kevin approached and pointed over his shoulder at the erected satellite dish. “We’re all hooked up, Scoop.” His voice was muffled by the protective mask. “I fired up the sat phone in case you want to call Ms. Corbin before we start broadcasting.”
“Yeah, I guess I’d better call the bitch first. Otherwise, she’ll have a level-four hissy fit. Besides, she can prep the station and make sure the early-morning manager knows to let us interrupt whatever episode of The Andy Griffith Show they’re airing.”
Martin took the phone, which also had a Wi-Fi connection to the satellite uplink computer, and punched in Micca Corbin’s number. This time she answered on the second ring.
“OK, Driggs, are you on-site? I’ve got everyone here at the station on standby. Let’s get on the air before the folks from Bozeman get down there.”
“We are as close as we can get to the volcano, Ms. Corbin, which is about thirty miles as the crow flies. The road is utterly impassable.”
“What? Speak up, Driggs. I can’t hear you.”
“I’m wearing a mask—to keep the ash out.” Martin spoke louder, and he smiled at the thought of making Corbin strain to understand what he was saying. “There’s an ash blizzard, and it’s still dark. We can’t see more than thirty feet in front of us. We can see a creepy-as-shit glow due east of where we are standing and assume that’s the volcano.
“Oh, and every ten minutes or so, there’s an earthquake. Most are relatively mild, but we had one a while back that would have knocked our light set over if Kevin hadn’t been there to catch it. It’s getting pretty damn hairy, Ms. Corbin, but to answer your next question: yes, we are ready to start broadcasting as soon as someone gives us the green light.”
“All right, Driggs, put your earphone in and gear up. BHB-Squared just rolled in and plopped her cute butt on the anchor chair. She will break in with a news alert in about ten seconds. Get ready to be famous, Driggs.”
Martin clicked off the sat phone and hooked a small headphone around the back of his ear. As he did so, he laughed out loud at the station manager’s use of the early-morning news anchor’s station nickname, BHB2: bubble-headed bleach blonde, from the old Don Henley song “Dirty Laundry.” Couldn’t be more apropos. But, damn, she was hot.
Standing in front of the tripod-mounted light set, Martin pulled down the hoodie of his PPE suit and removed his goggles so viewers could see and remember his face. He didn’t remove the surgical mask that was keeping the muck out of his mouth. He might have been vain and desperate for recognition, but he wasn’t stupid.
Swiftly, the gritty, sparkly grains began to sting his eyes, causing tears to well up. It would only be a matter of minutes before he had to put the goggles back on. Maybe he could do it dramatically, something for visual effect.
Squinting through tears, Martin saw the camera’s green light flick on. They were broadcasting. Holding up his mic like some kind of magic wand, Martin took his first step into newscaster history.
“This is Martin Driggs, broadcasting live from the outskirts of West Yellowstone, Montana. We are about a mile from the entrance to Yellowstone National Park and about twenty-five air miles from what scientists call the caldera, better known as the Yellowstone supervolcano. It has been over six hundred thousand years since the supervolcano last erupted, but it appears that the dormant period came to a climactic end around eleven o’clock last night.
“We can’t get any closer to its physical location due to the thousands of rocks and boulders that are scattered everywhere, making it impossible to proceed any farther east on Highway Twenty. Besides, that doesn’t seem like it would be a good idea. As you can see, the air is thick with ash caused by the eruption.
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