Out of Crisis

by Richard Caldwell

  Then Redtail Three turned on the jet’s powerful landing lights, and the president of the United States almost shit his pants.

  David recalled a navy fighter jockey once telling him that even the most experienced carrier pilot feels a chill when he’s hurtling toward a little patch of tarmac heaving up and down and pitching left and right in the middle of the ocean. But a carrier has a tailhook that can take an F-15G from 150 to zero miles per hour in less than five hundred feet; there was no such hook on a highway.

  US 287 wasn’t moving, but it was narrow and bumpy, and even the combination of headlights from a short line of National Guard trucks and Humvees and the F-15’s landing lights barely illuminated their runway.

  None of this seemed to bother Redtail Three. He didn’t hesitate or waver in his approach. And he didn’t say a word, which David thought was a little creepy given their situation. Apparently, the man’s heart was pumping ice water.

  At what David estimated to be a half mile away from the semi-illuminated highway, the commander lowered his flaps and increased his angle of descent. David realized that Redtail Three was going to simulate a carrier landing. He remembered reading somewhere that a pilot makes well over two hundred corrections to his approach during the eighteen seconds he is in “the groove.”

  When executed correctly, the plane hits the deck at around thirteen feet per second. When it’s not done correctly, the carrier captain writes a letter to the pilot’s next of kin.

  David thought that Redtail Three was coming in hot. He wasn’t. But the F-15 slammed down hard on the highway. So hard that David wondered if the impact had broken his coccyx. He was sure the jet’s seats were designed to absorb the effects of this kind of landing, but, damn, his tailbone hurt.

  Redtail Three still had one more surprise in his pilot’s bag of physical abuse tricks. As soon as all three wheels touched the pavement, he popped the F-15’s drag chute. The law of physics kicked in, and David’s body continued forward at the speed the jet had been traveling and squeezed so hard against his harness he thought his eyes were going to pop out.

  Once the F-15 had come to a stop almost a half mile up the highway, Commander Davis raised the canopy. David crawled down a makeshift ladder and onto the bed of a National Guard truck.

  As soon as he jumped from the truck to the ground, a major dressed in BDUs walked over, rendered a crisp salute, and greeted him. “Major Kohler, Mr. President. Welcome to Montana.”

  Not twenty feet behind the major stood two men, obviously a reporter and his cameraman, both dressed in what used to be white protective overalls. Amazing. There he was, on the fringes of what could be the largest natural disaster in recorded history, in the middle of no-damn-where, and out popped a reporter.

  “Mr. President,” Major Kohler continued, “my team has been dispatched to provide security and escort services until our main force arrives.”

  “Thank you, Major. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a few hours. I’ve ordered the Guard to secure a perimeter around the volcano, but that no one is to venture inside until the area is deemed safe. And it looks like you’ll have to make that determination. In the interim, take me as close to that glowing mountain as we can get so I can do a firsthand assessment.”

  “Yes, sir! We’re ready when you are.”

  The reporter took two steps forward and spoke into his microphone: “Mr. President, Martin Driggs, station KIFI. Most of the country is waking up to the news that we’ve just experienced the most massive volcano eruption in recorded history. And it’s still erupting. Yet here you are, less than four hours later. Your visit and mode of transportation are unprecedented. How do you respond to the situation and your decision to make such a risky journey?”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you, Mr. Driggs? Martin. My heart’s still pounding from that landing, and you’re already hitting me with multiple-choice questions. But what the hell, I’d do the same thing if I were you.

  “Rather than answer your ‘risky journey’ question, I’ll quote a parable I heard a long time ago that stuck with me. A wise man once posed a question to a group of his followers. ‘Which of you men, if you had one hundred sheep and lost one of them, wouldn’t leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that was lost, until he found it?’ I don’t presume to be looking for the lost or endangered. But in my role, I damn sure won’t be sitting in DC watching on TV.

  “I can’t really respond to the situation until I can actually see what’s happened. And with Major Kohler and her team’s assistance, I plan to start that process right now. In fact, if the major doesn’t mind, you and your sidekick can tag along and document what Mother Nature has done to us.” David turned his attention to Major Kohler. “Major, it’ll be sunup in less than an hour. I’d like to be as close as we can get to the volcano when that happens. Let’s hit the bricks.”

  Less than an hour later, David, a beguiled National Guard major, a cub reporter, and their eclectic convoy of military trucks and Humvees stopped on the north shore of the Grayling Arm of Hebgen Lake. They were still thirty-five air miles from what was now the largest active volcano on the face of the earth‍—and that was as close as they were going to get.

  David and his convoy focused on the east as sunlight started spilling across what had once been a lush string of forest at the feet of the western side of the Rocky Mountains. Now, a course, gray-black material that looked like sand covered every square inch of everything, mile after mile.

  Steam and smoke rose in hundreds of columns in all directions. The upper branches of taller trees smoldered, while the flames of lower-lying vegetation had been snuffed out as accumulating ash deprived them of oxygen.

  Dotting the landscape were thousands upon thousands of ash-blanketed boulders, some as large as the major’s Humvee. To say the area looked like the lunar landscape would be inaccurate. It lacked the craters that pitted the surface of the moon. There was no sign of life. Nothing moved. The usually ubiquitous flocks of geese were nowhere to be seen. Not a single bird in the sky.

  David didn’t know that the plume of ash and smoke had fanned out north and south, and mounting layers of ash crept toward South Dakota and Northwest Nebraska. Most of central Wyoming and southern Montana had already accumulated over six inches of the suffocating grit.

  All along the cloud’s expanding path, cattle and wildlife died, gasping for air, then choking on their thickening saliva. Hydroelectric plants were starting to automatically shut themselves down when their sensors detected a drastic change in water viscosity. Sections of I-90 and I-25 were closed and would remain so for days to come.

  Months later, David would receive a Homeland Security disaster assessment that estimated that over fifty thousand lives had been lost or unaccounted for during the first seventy-two hours following the eruption. In the months immediately following the eruption, corn, wheat, and other crops were decimated across much of South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, and Minnesota. This drove grain prices up across the United States and generated food shortages across the globe.

  However, the following year grain production in these same states hit record highs. This was due to high concentrations of nutrients such as phosphates, nitrates, and potassium found in the particular type of ash, basalt based, belched out by what was now Mount Shoshone.

  Although the long-term environmental effects of the eruption wouldn’t be fully understood for decades, its first-year impact caused scientists the world over to scratch their heads in confusion. Initially, the cloud resulted in a reduction of the earth’s average temperature by over fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. But it also reduced the average rainfall in the Amazon and central Africa by nearly 50 percent. This, in combination with the lack of sunshine resulting in cold weather, caused crop failures across the globe.

  However, due to the massive amount of carbon dioxide, which was also released into the atmosphere, not only didn’t the cl
oud stop global warming, it actually increased it in the years following the eruption. By post-Shoshone year three, the average temperature had recovered, and by year five had risen by two degrees Fahrenheit.

  After a six-hour damage assessment, and David’s first army ration lunch in years, it was time to get the POTUS to Bozeman, where Air Force One and a swarm of Secret Service agents were not so patiently waiting.

  Leaving the main body of her convoy at their Hebgen Lake outpost to continue to search for survivors, Major Kohler and the KIFI news team retreated up US 287. The route the convoy had initially taken down US 191 would have been the least circuitous, but it had vanished.

  The POTUS convoy was met just south of Ennis by the governor of Montana, a contingency of National Guard soldiers, and a Secret Service security team.

  When the convoy stopped, several members of Major Kohler’s team, carrying their weapons, got out of their vehicles and flanked the Humvee carrying the POTUS to provide security. After they did so, David dismounted and started toward the governor and his entourage. But after taking only a few steps, he turned around and walked back to where Major Kohler and the KIFI team were standing as they observed the VIP exchange.

  Major Kohler snapped to rigid attention, rendering a salute as the POTUS approached. David returned the salute and then thrust out his hand.

  “Major, I can’t thank you enough for your assistance. I know you’re obliged to say you were just doing your duty, but I appreciate you, your soldiers, and all that you do to keep our country safe.”

  Then turning to Martin and Kevin and shaking their hands, David continued his praise: “And you two, the luckiest news team on the planet. Thanks for being respectful while doing an excellent job reporting what will undoubtedly become known as the biggest scoop in history. You’ve earned the title, Martin.”

  After joining the approaching governor and his group, David allowed the Secret Service escorts to whisk him to Air Force One in Bozeman to begin the journey back to Washington.

  Major Kohler stayed behind and continued to direct her search-and-rescue mission. Martin and Kevin had been ordered to relocate as closely as they could get to Grand Teton National Park.

  As they prepared to go in opposite directions, Major Kohler and Martin shook hands and acknowledged their mutual appreciation for one another. Major Kohler started to turn to walk away, then turned back, took a card from her BDU pocket, handed it to Martin, and said, “Call me.”

  47

  The Streets of Gold Evangelical Church, Tulsa, Oklahoma

  The first Sunday following the day of

  The Reverend Doctor Bryan Larson III glanced at his watch: 2:10 a.m. The founder and senior pastor of The Streets of Gold Evangelical Church had almost finished with the most important task of his life.

  Last night, Saturday evening, Dr. Larson had let himself into the church’s main sanctuary, carrying the first load of what he considered to be the Lord’s tools. He unlocked the door at the rear of the building and made his way up the steep stairs leading to the church attic. He cautiously moved down the narrow, dimly lit catwalk until he reached what he knew was the space above the two double doors that opened into the foyer.

  Pine two-by-fours ran parallel to the catwalk. Along with connecting studs every twenty-four inches, they formed the upper support for the church’s false ceiling. Reaching into his oversized canvas duffel bag, the reverend removed the first of four folding fiberglass sawhorses and positioned its feet on two of the wooden beams. He repeated this three more times, until he had a contiguous sixteen-foot sawhorse spanning the attic space across the two rear aisles.

  In the center of each of the four sawhorses, he attached a remotely controlled cargo release hook. Dr. Larson had borrowed the idea from the now-ubiquitous Amazon delivery drones. In this case, the hooks used the same radio frequency and could be opened simultaneously with the remote-control device the reverend would be using later Sunday morning.

  After the sawhorse mounts were in place, Dr. Larson made two trips back to his Lexus SUV, retrieving four glass apple-cider jugs. The jugs did not contain cider.

  Years earlier, when he was still just Bryan Larson III, he had overheard one of his older, far-from-religious uncles‍—a Vietnam vet‍—telling his father how to make what he called “foo gas,” essentially napalm.

  “You make a mixture of three parts gasoline and one part diesel. Then you start stirring in crushed-up chunks of styrofoam. Plates or cups or packing material‍—anything made of styrofoam will work. As you stir, the gas will dissolve the styrofoam, and the mixture will start to form a gel. That’s all there is to it. Pour the gel into a jar, put a firecracker on the outside, and you’re ready to make some crispy critters.”

  Reverend Larson wouldn’t need a firecracker.

  He wasn’t tired even though he had been working feverishly since ten o’clock. The reverend knew he was one of the chosen and this was God’s work, his crowning glory on this earth. He knew what he had to do. And he knew when he was supposed to do it.

  His preparations were almost complete. The reverend attached a glass jug of foo gas to the release hook on each of the sawhorses. They hung about three feet above a fiber tile on the ceiling.

  Each of the jugs weighed six pounds. This was more than enough to send it crashing through the flimsy ceiling tile when it was released by the remotely controlled hook. He knew because he had tested his design numerous times in his garage using Clorox bottles filled with six pounds of water. The main thing to remember was to shield the buttons on his remote control. It would not serve the Lord if the jugs were released prematurely.

  The next task was a lot easier. Dr. Larson returned to his SUV and removed another canvas duffel bag. Inside was an AR-15 equipped with an illegal bump stock and three one-hundred-round dual-drum magazines. The magazines were manufactured in what had been South Korea for use by the ROK Army. He had purchased them online from Classic Firearms at a special price of $79.99 plus state tax and shipping.

  He had loaded tracers into the last twenty positions of each drum magazine; they would be the first to fire. Tracers didn’t have the penetrating power of regular AR-15 ammunition, but they could still blow the heart out of a target at one hundred meters. Besides, penetrating power wasn’t their primary objective. Not today.

  The bump-stock-equipped AR-15 was capable of firing four hundred rounds of 5.56 mm ammo per minute. And the dual-drum magazines gave it more continuous firepower than the US Army’s fully automatic M-16. To be on the safe side, he had also packed a twelve-gauge Street Sweeper shotgun and two twelve-round drums. This little goodie had cost him over fifteen hundred dollars at a gun show in Dallas.

  The reverend loaded each weapon and made sure a round was in each chamber. He did click on each gun’s safety. He wanted to be ready, but as with the foo gas, he didn’t want an accidental discharge. That could really mess up his plans, and the Lord would not be pleased.

  Finally, he hid the guns and their spare ammo inside the pulpit. He covered its rear storage space with the white cloth he used to conceal the props he sometimes used in his sermons.

  As was his custom, he would be the first to arrive for Sunday service. He would make sure neither any of the choir nor one of his associate pastors came near the pulpit.

  It was after three by the time Reverend Larson made it back to the parsonage. Still running on pure adrenalin, he was not the least bit tired. The reverend realized he would never be tired again.

  He went to the master bedroom and took his clothes off, planning to take a shower and get dressed in his most expensive Sunday suit. He wanted to look his absolute best today.

  After getting undressed, he walked over to the California king bed, where his wife of forty-nine, almost fifty years lay sleeping. Gentle snores accompanied her shallow breathing. He was careful not to wake her, she seemed so peaceful. He thought she was still beautifu
l even after all these years, and he realized he loved her as much as he had the day they were married.

  He picked up the aluminum softball bat that was kept for protection at the head of his side of the bed.

  Swinging with all his might, he brought it down on the pterion region of his wife’s skull. It sounded like a cantaloupe had been dropped on a kitchen floor.

  “Tell Jesus I’m coming, darling. I’ll see you directly.” Dr. Larson laid the bat on his bed, then went into the master bathroom and showered. He let the steaming hot water wash his wife’s splattered blood from his hands and chest. Then he shampooed his hair, rinsed, and repeated. His hair was his signature. He tried not to be prideful, but he did love his coiffure.

  After putting on his tighty-whities and a T-shirt, he went into the kitchen, made a half pot of coffee, and put a Pop-Tart in the toaster. He wasn’t terribly hungry, but he knew he was going to need the little extra push the caffeine and sugar would give him.

  Reverend Larson arrived at the sanctuary at seven thirty, well in advance of the nine-thirty early service, his largest and most inspired congregation. For the first time in years, he didn’t need to review the notes for today’s sermon. There weren’t any notes because there wasn’t going to be a sermon.

  At nine fifteen, the reverend hung the Street Sweeper on a sling attached to the center of his belt. He then slipped on his long black pastor’s robe and the rose-colored Easter-season stole he had received as a gift from the congregation at the consecration of The Streets of Gold Evangelical Church.

  He made sure his robe didn’t show a bulge from the dangling shotgun. He was confident that none of the worshipers would notice the significance of the stole’s color. Nor would it matter if they did.

  At promptly nine thirty, Sister Dorothea sat down at the vintage Hammond organ. She pressed a single key, producing a chime that could be heard throughout the sanctuary, signifying the beginning of the service.