Caldera

by Larry LaVoie

  “Milton Bainbridge could be a loose cannon,” Talant said into the phone. “We must get to his family like we did Sanders.

  “It won’t work with Bainbridge,” Talant said. “His wife is dead and his son has not spoken to him in years. I can watch him, but I think we need to take him out.”

  “I’ll send an operator. Meanwhile you stay with him. Understand.”

  Talant folded his cell phone and tossed it on the seat of the van. An operator was the term used for a hit man. It would probably be Vladimir Mishenka. He hated the man.

  Sumatra, Indonesia

  Jason Trask had found an out-of-the-way cocktail lounge that was as dark as the Jakarta sky. He was swatting at the flies surrounding his stale beer and deciding whether to order another one.

  “You know, Dr. Trask, those sunglasses won’t stop them from finding you.” The voice had a German accent.

  Jason looked up into the clear blue eyes of Helmut Schmidt, a reporter for an underground Berlin newspaper. “How’d you find me?”

  The tall man pulled up a chair. “I’m on your side, Dr. Trask. You give me a story and I keep your hiding place our little secret.”

  “Like hell. All you want to do is sell a story like all the others. You don’t give a damn about the people who were killed or the USGS for that matter.”

  “You are wrong about those who were killed, Dr. Trask. Three of the victims were my countrymen. They were outside the Red Zone. A safety zone you should have been here to set. Your absence caused many needless deaths.”

  The legs of Jason’s chair screeched on the wooden floor as he shoved back from the table. The veins in his neck bulged out. His face turned red behind a three-day growth of whiskers. He rose to his feet. “Listen, you son of a bitch, my father was killed on St. Helens when I was six years old. It was May 18th. Does that mean anything to you?”

  The German paused for a moment then raised his hand. “Beer, bartender!” He motioned to Jason. “You will have another?”

  Jason shook his head. “I was about to go.”

  “You said your father was killed on St. Helens? Is that why you became a volcanologist?” the reporter asked.

  “I told you no story,” Jason said. “I meant it.”

  “Answer only one question then.” The man picked up Jason’s check and gave the bartender a credit card. “The chief scientist at Talang said you arrived late by twenty-four hours? Was it because of your father’s death?”

  “I was off duty. I don’t go anywhere on May 18th.”

  “I understand, but your father has been dead for years. There were a lot of people here who were depending on you. They are also dead now.”

  Jason felt the anger well up again. It was impossible to keep it in check. He took a drunken swing at the German, fanning the air.

  The German was too fast and he was sober, all to the detriment of Jason who stumbled, teetered off balance, and hit his head on the table before crashing to the floor.

  It was dark outside when Jason woke up kissing the concrete in the alley behind the bar. He picked himself up. His head was throbbing, his muscles sore. He stumbled back inside and walked up to the bar rubbing his head trying to remember what had happened. On the TV above the bar he saw himself. Helmut Schmidt must have had a hidden camera, he thought. On Fox news he saw the whole scene replayed to an international audience. Jason ordered a shot of bourbon to clear his mind.

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Bainbridge noticed a strange car in his driveway as he pulled up in front of his modest brick home on the outskirts of Salt Lake City. Two men in black suits were knocking on his door. Mormons are out in force today, he thought. They turned and watched him come up the walk.

  “I respect your religion, but put my name on the do not call list for your church?” Bainbridge said setting his small overnight bag on the porch. Both men pulled back their coats at the same time showing identification.

  “FBI,” Bainbridge said. “I thought you were Mormons. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Special Agent Meadows and this is Special Agent Park,” Meadows said. May we talk inside?”

  “What about?” Bainbridge asked.

  “Official business,” Meadows said.

  Bainbridge looked at him curiously, pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and held it open for them. He got his bag from the porch and followed them in. “I haven’t been home in a while. Excuse the mess.” He dropped his bag on the floor in the entry.

  “Take a seat in here.” He waved at the couch while he drew the drapes. The air smelled musty. He glanced around the room. It hadn’t changed since Sarah had died. It reminded him of her, and that’s what he wanted. Strange how a room could bring back memories. The couch was a faded maroon coarse-weave fabric and was her favorite. The lamp on the mahogany end table with the yellowed silk shade and maroon tassel fringe had been a wedding present.

  “Dr. Bainbridge?”

  For a moment he’d forgotten he had visitors. “Can I get you fellows some tea,” Bainbridge offered. “I suppose you’ll get around to telling me what this is all about in due time.”

  Meadows declined the tea. “We know this is an inconvenience, but we have a request from the White House for you to meet with President Turner and his Homeland Security advisor.”

  Bainbridge turned from the window and tilted his head. “The President wants to see me?” He smiled. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Dr. Bainbridge,” Agent Park spoke for the first time. His voice was low and raspy. In the poor light his black skin hid most of his facial features except for a pair of eyes too large for his head. “We have orders to see that you are on the next plane. We will accompany you if necessary.”

  “Am I under arrest? What’s this about?”

  “We’re not authorized to say any more. President Turner was certain you wouldn’t refuse a personal invitation,” Meadows said. He reached in his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. “The plane leaves in two hours. You’ll be met by another agent at Reagan National.”

  “How will I know him?” Bainbridge asked, now certain he would be taking the trip with or without his cooperation.

  “He’ll know you. You have fifteen minutes to pack. We’ll drive you to the airport.”

  Chapter 6

  They had seen the gray sedan with government plates and this made it even more confusing for Talant and the man with him. Better keep our distance, Talant warned the operator. He was glad they had not sent Mishenka. This man, though less seasoned, did not seem so ruthless.

  “I can take them all out. We have the element of surprise,” the operator said.

  The comment had surprised Talant. “What’s your name son?”

  “Bobby,” the man said. “I go by Boom Boom.”

  “Bobby, this has to be an accident. I trust you have methods other than blowing up buildings and machine gun raids.”

  Bobby paused in thought. “Sure.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small black case. Inside was a syringe. “Delayed heart attack. Works great on old people.”

  “Then we wait and you do it without detection.” Talant completed setting up the listening device and caught a little of the conversation. The government was interested in Milton Bainbridge. This cannot be good, he thought.

  Yellowstone National Park

  Carlene had put off calling home as long as she dared. Waiting longer would only make matters worse. She had to face her parents and her brother Billy sooner or later. With Bainbridge gone she saw no alternative but to stay at the park and monitor the ever-increasing activity.

  She rolled her eyes in frustration. She had wanted to talk to her mother, but instead she was trying to explain to her brother who wouldn’t listen.

  “It’s not safe,” Carlene said to her brother.

  “Too late. I’ve already got Terry Phillips signed up and we both got dates. Ya know what I mean.”

  “Billy!”

  “Look sis, I’m
sorry you’re not going to be at my graduation, but I’m not your little brother anymore. Hell, like you’d bother to notice, I’m six-two and outweigh you by at least a hundred.”

  “Billy, put Mamma on.”

  “No can do. She’s in town picking up my cap and gown. That sounds like a song, in town cap and gown—”

  “Daddy, then,” Carlene cut him off.

  “He’s rounding up calves for the auction.”

  “You should be out there helping.”

  “I had a track meet. Took first in pole-vault.”

  “Tell your friends you have to cancel. It’s too dangerous to come to the park right now. Too much seismic activity.”

  “We’ve been planning this all year.”

  “I’m sorry; you’ll have to change your plans. I’m up to my neck in alligators right now.”

  “Like I have to get your permission?”

  Carlene stared at the receiver and considered pounding it on the desk. She put it back to her ear. “Tell Momma I called and listen to the news. They may have to close the park.”

  “Cool. What’s happenin’?”

  “I told you. There’s been some unusual seismic activity around the Norris Basin.”

  “We’re hiking the Lamar River Trail, it’s thirty miles away.”

  “No you’re not—” She heard a click. Little shit hung up on me. She had second thoughts. She shouldn’t have argued with Billy. She was in Yellowstone, telling him it was too dangerous to come to the park. Great, Daddy will probably show up ready to rescue me. Forget it. Billy won’t even tell them she called. Her musing turned to Bainbridge. Why was he heading to Washington? The question had gone unanswered when he had called. In fact he had been vague about everything. She put her hand on her stomach trying to quash the uneasy feeling. Being in charge was not what it was cracked up to be.

  Washington, DC

  Bainbridge sat in the outer office of President Turner’s private quarters fingering his newly trimmed beard and grooming his sparse gray hair with one hand. His other hand held a herringbone-patterned wool hat that closely matched his suit. He straightened his tie. He was uncomfortable in the suit he hadn’t worn since a friend’s passing three years earlier. He hadn’t even worn a suit to Peter Frank’s banquet last year, but he had worn a tie and that seemed to suffice.

  Why couldn’t it be under less mysterious circumstances? He thought, as he looked around the anti-room. His eyes rested on the two Secret Service agents on either side of the white-paneled door across the hall to his left. Their black suits were perfectly pressed and the nearly hidden coil of wire hanging from behind one ear made him feel like he was in the middle of a movie. Neither wore dark glasses and that made them seem out of character. Weren’t all Secret Service Agents supposed to hide behind dark glasses so one couldn’t tell what they were looking at?

  On the wall opposite him, an oil portrait hung against a background of green-striped wallpaper. Thomas Jefferson. Must be an original, the White House wouldn’t have a print.

  He looked down and wiped a scuff mark from his black wingtip shoes using the back of his pant leg. He rubbed his beard again, suddenly feeling old. What happened to the young man who took charge at St. Helens so many years ago? He hoped Carlene would be all right by herself. She’d be worried if he didn’t return soon. Of course he couldn’t tell her what the trip was all about, he didn’t know himself.

  The door opened and the black suits moved aside for the uniformed Army officer who stepped out. “Dr. Bainbridge, I’m General Montgomery. The President will see you now.”

  Bainbridge stood, smoothed the wrinkles from his suit jacket, and followed the general. He locked his knees trying to keep them from shaking. Behind a massive cherry-wood desk sat President Turner. The President stood and walked around to greet him. He was taller than Bainbridge had pictured. Bainbridge tilted his head back slightly and looked up at him. The President reached out a manicured hand. “Dr. Bainbridge, I want to thank you for meeting with us on such short notice. I trust you had a good flight.”

  Bainbridge tried to return the strong grip. “Mr. President, I’m delighted to be here, but I have to confess, I’m not sure what this is about.”

  “We’ll get to that.” The President pointed to a chair.

  Bainbridge found himself sitting across the desk from the President. General Montgomery dropped into a matching brown leather chair next to Bainbridge.

  The President put his hands together and rested them on his desk. “General Montgomery has briefed me on your report to Yellowstone Headquarters and USGS.”

  Bainbridge turned to the general. The President continued, “as you know we, as a nation are very proud of Yellowstone. It was our first National Park. Did you know that?”

  Bainbridge nodded. Did he think he was an idiot? Where was this going?

  “Your report has piqued our interest.” The President fingered his chin. “More accurately, it has created a stir within the National Security community. Frankly we’ve never been faced with a situation like this before and we are not quite sure how we’re going to handle it. For the time being we’ve decided to keep your report classified. No telling what our enemies could do with information like this.” The President raised an eyebrow as if to solicit an agreement from Bainbridge.

  “I don’t understand,” Bainbridge said. “I sent my report to park headquarters and the USGS. How did it end up here?”

  The general turned to Bainbridge. “USGS documents are up-linked to the Office of Homeland Security. After source verification, it was passed on to me. We did a background check, found you credible. Frankly if it had been written by anyone else we might have discounted it as a stunt, but given your credentials we thought it best to check with you in person.”

  “Sorry if I caused a stir,” Bainbridge said. “Volcanoes can be very erratic. It’s not a scientific certainty, mind you, but a pending eruption needs to be taken seriously. Five million visitors come to the park each year. I feel responsible.”

  “We understand,” the President said. “Are you sure Yellowstone is a volcano?”

  Stupid question, Bainbridge thought. Why the hell would he be the park volcanologist if it wasn’t a volcano? “The last major eruption of Yellowstone created the caldera that makes up a good portion of the park. That was 640,000 years ago. The park is an active system some call a super volcano that’s been venting itself for thousands of years, but things appear to be changing. No one has ever predicted the eruption of a super volcano before, but if she’s anything like a normal volcano all the signs are there. For example, the dome at Mallard Lake is growing at an unparalleled rate; earthquakes are greater magnitude and at more frequent intervals. The system is growing in intensity. Sulfur dioxide fumes are being recorded in higher levels around the fumaroles. We’ve even seen some magma on the surface around Pelican Cone. We can’t afford to ignore the signs, can we?” Bainbridge smiled and raised his eyebrows expecting agreement.

  “That’s what we’re here to decide,” President Turner said. “What happens if we wait until we are more certain?”

  “You mean don’t do anything? No evacuation. Just let it happen?”

  The President frowned and shook his head. “Yellowstone is in the middle of nowhere. The park is over fifty miles square. What happens if we just let it erupt?”

  Dr. Bainbridge leaned forward and removed his glasses. His gray eyes locked with the President. “We don’t have a say in the matter. If Yellowstone decides to erupt she won’t ask our permission. And it will probably wipe out everything in a six-hundred mile radius.”

  “Bad choice of words,” the President said. “If Yellowstone erupts what are we looking at, worst case scenario?”

  “If the caldera doesn’t catastrophically explode without warning, then the weeks before an eruption the ground will swell significantly more. We will be monitoring the surface with GPS sensors, of course. Just prior to an eruption, earthquakes of four or higher magnitude will shake the area
until the dome cracks. When that happens the system will effuse lava, or more likely explode, unleashing six-hundred-thousand years of pent up energy.”

  Bainbridge paused for effect then continued, “The scientists in the park will probably not be able to predict the exact moment it’s going to erupt so they will be the first martyrs to indecision along with every living creature for thousands of square miles. Magma will spew into the ionosphere where it will be picked up by prevailing winds, predominately from the northwest. Within a six-hundred-mile radius virtually all plant life will be buried under a smothering layer of ash and pumice, starting a chain reaction that will kill millions of animals for lack of food. Global temperatures will drop, plunging the Northern Hemisphere into another ice age. In the United States and around the world there will be massive starvation due to the devastation of vegetation and mankind as we know it will cease to exist.” Bainbridge cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “You asked for the worst case.”

  The President leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. “Sounds like a doom’s day report.”

  “So how do we stop it?” Montgomery asked.

  Bainbridge dropped his jaw. He was among people whose egos were such that they actually thought they could stop Yellowstone from erupting. Sure, he’d heard the theories that you could nuke a spot and cause it to erupt where you wanted it, but as far as a super volcano, any attempt to interfere with nature could very well cause unknown disasters of untold magnitude. Finally he said, “Pardon me general, I thought you asked how we stop it?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked. Surely there is a way of preventing an eruption.”

  Bainbridge shook his head discounting the general and turned back to the President. “We’re not at war with this thing. Our best line of defense is to evacuate the park and the surrounding towns. We need to clear out everyone within a six-hundred-mile zone southeast of the park. A six-hundred-mile radius of Yellowstone would be better, but those up-wind should not be affected as much. That’s the best damage control you can do.”