The Yellowstone Conundrum

by John Randall

  “In 1976 studies by various Federal and state agencies came to the conclusion that the Jackson Dam would be susceptible to failure if hit with an earthquake of 5.5 magnitude. Over the span of 20 years the dam was reinforced to withstand an earthquake of 7.5 magnitude.”

  “Not an 11.2,” added the President.

  “No, sir,” Liebowitz continued. “The Snake River exits Jackson Lake to the east, curls around Signal Mountain, and heads due south through farmlands. Although at high elevation, the terrain is relatively flat. In the space of 30 miles the river only drops 500 feet.”

  There was a collective gasp from the elite audience as Air Force camera 1 showed the leading edge of the water as it encountered the first of a hundred loops in various stages of forming oxbow lakes as the Snake meandered through lush meadows; along the northern bank of the first loop ran US 191/287/29. Driving northbound was a delivery truck. The driver never knew what hit him. One moment there was clear road, the next he was hit by a six-foot wall of water. The truck smashed into the wall, turned to the right, then upside down and gone from view.

  The DOE Secretary continued.

  “In a few minutes the water is going to come to a large meadow, at the point where the Snake River heads straight south and the Buffalo Fork of the Snake heads east. This whole area will be flooded. After a short while the water will slowly make its way south toward Jackson which is 30 miles away. By six p.m. the streets of Jackson will be under six-to-ten feet of water.”

  “What have we done to warn them?” asked the President, his mouth cotton-ball dry.

  The FEMA Director, Anne Hastings, 58 from Knoxville, Tennessee; a former president of the Red Cross, gave the steely-eyed director of Homeland Security a meaningful look. In a soft voice she gave the President the bad news.

  “Mr. President, in 1997 the Emergency Broadcast System was replaced by the Emergency Alert System; this system was designed to alert the public about tornadoes, floods—and for the President of the United States to speak to the public within 10 minutes of a disaster. Unfortunately, the nationwide piece of this program has never been implemented. It was thought by Congress that CNN, the Weather Channel and other commercial companies already were providing the public with needed information.” With obvious disdain for her own government, Director Hastings continued. “Now each state has its own Emergency Alert System, with its own regulations and rules. On paper this is supposed to be managed jointly by my agency, the Federal Communications Commission and the National Weather Service; which in essence. . .“

  The President held up his hand indicating no more. This was another example of how a good idea had been sliced and diced by the politics of funding and inter-agency squabbling. In this case the elephants were partially or mostly right; too much government, too much duplication of service; the problem is, none of it actually worked, elephants or donkeys.

  “So, if I’m in Jackson, Wyoming at this moment,” the President concluded. “Which has no electricity and no telephone service,” he paused, his brain flipping through the times he’d been there. Jackson was the home of expensive motels and fantastic views of the Teton Range. The city square had an entrance gate constructed from elk antlers. The bars were noisy and good-old-boy establishments. “How do I know there is a wall of water headed my way?”

  “Sir, you need to have a NOAA weather radio,” added Mrs. Hastings, semi-shrugging her padded shoulders. She paused. “And the announcement has to be about the advancing water. I’m not sure where you tell them to go, sir.”

  “We’ve never implemented the National Emergency Alert System?” the President asked.

  “No, sir,” she paused. “Are you going to ask me--” Hastings started.

  “Yes,” the President replied.

  “Sir,” Hastings started. “This isn’t like your pictures from the Air Force. We may or may not have an actual person at--” Anne Hastings quickly typed into her laptop. “The sheriff’s office in Cody, Wyoming; in fact, I can pretty much guarantee that NOAA doesn’t have an actual person in any location in the entire state, perhaps with the exception of Cheyenne. Perhaps the Secretary of the Interior would like to comment.”

  “Not yet,” replied David Jackson. “Mr. President, this is another example of how seemingly simple things have been screwed up by our government.”

  Anne Hastings continued, her boss George Johnson of Homeland Security seated at her right elbow. “Plus the broadcast system uses equipment that is,” Secretary Hastings sighed. “Thirty years old, at least; teletype age,” she added.

  No interpretation needed to be added. This was another we-don’t-need-to-fund-it-because-it-just-won’t-happen situation.

  “Anne, can you send a message to these people?” The President asked.

  “From here, sir?” she asked in an are-you-kidding-me tone of voice.

  “Yes,” the President replied, no-joke.

  The administrator of FEMA looked to her left, then her right, a 180 degree view of Big Brass. She tapped and clicked on her computer; frowned, then nodded yes, then no as the screens changed. Then she took her hands off the keyboard in a what the fuck gesture. She tried again and muttered something intelligible.

  “Sir, I’m apparently not authorized,” replied the head of FEMA. “I’m not sure why. Sorry, I am sure, sir. Our computers are at least two generations behind pretty much everyone.” The President didn’t unload on her, instead buried his head in his hands in the futility of managing The Government of the Low Bid Contractors in the Land of Abortion Funding, coming to a Cineplex in your neighborhood.

  The room was silent for a good 30 seconds.

  “Abe?” The President asked his Energy Secretary.

  “Yes, sir; the water from Jackson Lake is going to pause here at the junction of US 191, 287, 26 and 89; about thirty miles north of Jackson, or Jackson Hole as was it’s old name. The entire valley will be flooded. By this time tomorrow the town of Jackson, Wyoming will be under water or torn by moving water. There is no escaping it. Those residents who have access to emergency radio might—and say might—be able to out-run the water by going southeast on US 287 toward the southeast. It’s pretty simple; those who stay or don’t hear the word will be killed.

  “The water however will continue to flow downhill.”

  On the monitors from the Air Force recon satellites over North America, the delivery truck had disappeared, replaced by a fast-moving river.

  “Approximately 17 miles south of Jackson, the Snake River meets the Greys River at the head of a canyon just west of the village of Hoback Junction, then turns west at the Idaho-Wyoming border at the town of Alpine. The area is known as one of the best white-water rafting in the country. The river then empties into the Palisades Dam Reservoir in southeastern Idaho.

  “There is a stretch of ten miles between Hoback Junction and the village of Alpine where the Snake River runs close along the southern face of Wolf Mountain. If you were going to attempt to stop the water from Jackson Dam before it reaches downstream dams, some of which are earthen, like the first one at Palisades. This would be a good spot to create a landslide dam.

  “Unfortunately, the next potential target is west of Boise in Hell’s Canyon along the Idaho-Oregon border.”

  Palisades Dam, Idaho

  Snake River Drainage Basin

  US Bureau of Reclamation, Department of the Interior

  US Army Corps of Engineers, 11 January 2010

  “How long do we have?” The President asked.

  “Eight hours, maybe less,” the DOE Secretary added. “It depends on how long the river slows above and through Jackson; does it go directly downstream or try to fill the entire area before moving further.”

  “Casualties?”

  “In the big picture, a handful; Hoback Junction and Alpine are going to be washed away.”

  General Johnny Goodwin, representative of the Air Force on the JCS turned his attention from the computer to the President. “Sir, communications with both Mountain Home
and nearby Saylor Creek are spotty. From these reports Mountain Home AFB has been leveled by the earthquake. You know that most of these buildings are fifty years old, typical military buildings. I don’t have any estimate of damage or casualties, nor do I know the availability or functionality of the bomber fleet.

  “If conditions on the ground are as bad as we suspect, my first priorities are to our servicemen and women, then the planes; I have no idea what damage we’ve incurred. I can’t get through even on our secure lines. Being as close as we are, I’m not sure if I can support this mission within the allotted time period.” General Goodwin turned to the Google image of Wolf Mountain on the center screen, then to the Secretary of the Army James Yarborough.

  “Jimmy, seems like we’d have to knock the entire flank of that mountain down in order to block the river.”

  The Secretary of the Army swiveled in his chair. “The Corps of Engineers would want three months minimum to prepare the mountain; probably more. I honestly don’t have a clue how many bunker-busters it would take to knock enough rock down to block that river.

  “Assuming you could knock the side of that mountain down, would that do it?” asked The President.

  General Yarborough’s face turned to a double frown. “Impossible to answer sir; there are too many variables. For example, does the water flow out into the Snake River Plain, creating a huge lake?” A map of Idaho appeared on the left screen. “Or does it follow the existing riverbed? Will the existing dams on the River hold up? A week? A month?”

  An aide appeared quietly at General Goodwin’s right shoulder, and a note passed.

  “Bring it up,” he instructed the aide, who walked to a control panel and keyed in a series of instructions. All three screens changed.

  There was another audible gasp in the room.

  “Mr. President, this is the Fort Peck Dam in eastern Montana. The body of water on the left is Fort Peck Lake, the fifth largest artificial lake in the United States. (Lake Powell, Lake Mead, Lake Sakakawea, Lake Oahe) Goodwin’s finger became a pointer on the screen. “This is the Missouri River. We can conclude the dam has suffered catastrophic structural damage.”

  There was silence in the room. The left screen showed the Snake River out of control in Wyoming. The right screen showed the Missouri River out of control in Montana. The center screen showed the ash plume from the Yellowstone Caldera explosion, now seventy-five miles wide and three hundred miles long.

  If the right camera could have been re-calculated by a single click, a close-up would see the solitary figure of Undersecretary of the Bureau of Land Management Robert O’Brien slowly walking southbound on McCone County road number 24 headed smack into the Middle of Nowhere. The temperature outside was a balmy 12 degrees.

  Anne Hastings broke the silence.

  “Mr. President,” she started. “This is an order of magnitude beyond what FEMA and the Civilian Agencies are capable of supporting. We’re just starting tornado season in the South; even then, Congress has--”

  Again, the President waved his hand, indicating he understood; they all understood.

  “We’ll all do the best we can with what we have,” the President, his hair now more silver than black, turned to the Chiefs of Staff and the intelligence chiefs. “I need for you guys to be thinking outside the box, outside of your mission. In fact, I need for to be thinking WAY outside the box.” The President stood up, which caused the room to come to attention.

  “Anne,” I want the National Alert System to be activated by 12:30,” he looked at the bank of clocks.

  The President turned to his military and intelligence chiefs. “You’ve got an hour to come up with the shell of ideas that can help our people, not the details, but the big picture. The people will want to know what the overall problems are, and we’re not going to sugarcoat it. We don’t have the resources to make everyone warm and toasty.

  He paused.

  “I know you didn’t sign on for this,” he spoke softly but directly to his FEMA Director,” but I need you,” he leaned over and touched her right hand. “I want you to act as if there were no procedural requirements for the declaration of a Disaster. I want you to eliminate the paperwork required by towns, counties, and states and trust the officials who will be calling us.”

  The President looked Anne Hastings in the eyes.

  “We will sort out the bad guys later and fix them. There will always be bad people who figure they can make a buck on the government,” the President’s voice was near breaking. “Some are going to get away with it. But, let’s you and I do what is right first.” He squeezed her hand gently. “Let’s don’t put the American people out in the street because they didn’t fill a form out correctly. Let’s figure it out later. And, that’s my promise to you. Do your best.”

  Anne Hastings nodded yes. “Yes, sir,” she replied, knowing the rough trail ahead. The President turned back to the table, then to the Secretary of Homeland Security, George Johnson.

  “I want to know if I need to activate martial law and what the process is,” then turned to Abe Liebowitz and David Jackson. The Interior Secretary was on the phone.

  “Mr. President, I have Dr. Adams, one of our top volcanologists on the phone, from Costa Rica. I can teleconference him by SKYPE.”

  “Costa Rica? What’s a department of Interior scientist doing in Costa Rica?” The President asked.

  “Ring of Fire, sir; it’s all connected. Mt. Turrialba east of the capital of San Jose appears ready to explode.”

  “Put him on,” the President asked, frowning hard.

  “Dr. Adams, this is the President.” Dr. Adams, disheveled red-hair, thin, 80s-style glasses, leaned into the computer’s camera.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “How is Costa Rica, Dr. Adams?”

  The camera showed a sun-filled scenic shot of the Central Valley.

  “Tolerable, sir,” Adams returned the jibe.

  “I wish you could have been in Yellowstone the day before yesterday, Dr. Adams. I could have used a heads-up. We all could have.”

  Adams refused to be baited. “Sir, if I’d been standing at Old Faithful this morning and had the right instrumentation in the right place, I might been able to give you ten minutes lead time. The last major explosion at Yellowstone was 640,000 years ago.

  “From the instrumentation I have available here, the explosion is following the same lines as the ancient caldera,” Dr. Harris started.

  “That’s what we show in Reston,” added David Jackson, clearly uncomfortable with the President’s near-implication that his agency should have done a better job at predicting the explosion. The President was unhappy and acting very human in wanting to share the blame for something completely out of his control.

  “Sir,” Jackson, 57, former governor of Nebraska, tried to intercede, “What would you-we-us have done with 48 hours’ notice, assuming we had any idea how bad the explosion would be? No one has been able to predict the behavior of earthquakes; not once has a single earthquake been predicted with accuracy.”

  The President nodded briefly. “Go on,” he returned to Dr. Adams.

  “Have you issued the civil defense evacuation for Denver, Mr. President?” The signal became blurry, flickering in and out.

  Seemingly at once the President shared eyes with everyone in the room.

  Dr. Harris tapped his computer screen in “hello?” fashion. “The line is garbled, Mr. President. Is that a ‘Yes I’ve ordered the evacuation of Denver.’ Or ‘No, I haven’t ordered the evacuation of Denver.”

  The President was nonplussed.

  “No,” was his simple reply.

  On the SKYPE connection, Dr. Harris sat back in his chair with a jerk, his right hand touching his forehead, muttering “Sweet, Jesus! Mr. President, the ash field will indeed follow the current Artic jet stream. If it continues, most of Denver will be buried by this afternoon. “In a regular volcano like Mount St. Helens, Redoubt, Etna, Kilauea, Mauna Loa, or the one I’m studyi
ng, Turrialba, magma is forced up from the center of the earth as lava, the lava cools, the mountain grows. Eventually, the pressure becomes too great and there is an eruption. The explosion at Mount St. Helens was a mile wide by three-quarters of a mile long by maybe a quarter mile deep. It took off the top of the mountain and spread the ash all over central Washington and Idaho.

  “Yellowstone is a super volcano, where there is no exiting mountain, but instead under the surface is a large sea of molten rock. Was there an actual mountain there in ancient? Yes. How tall? Hard to tell. We’re talking millions of years ago. But, at some point in time the mountain caved. The center of the ancient volcano is called a caldera.

  Illustration by Hernan Canellas Illustration by “Wikipedian Kbh3rd”

  National Geographic

  “The Yellowstone caldera is fifty-three MILES wide east-to-west and 30 MILES north-to-south by at least four MILES deep! If the whole caldera goes, that’s sixty-three hundred cubic MILES of volcanic ash. That’s a number so big I have no fucking idea what it means,” Dr. Harris, as comfortable as he was in Cartago, Costa Rica, was beside himself in agitation. “It’s like taking all the land between Baltimore and Philadelphia, destroying it, pulverizing it, smashing it up with God’s red-hot cement mixer and barfing it high into the sky—over and over and over and over again.

  “There’s no modern reference, sir, for comparison,” Dr. Harris concluded. “This is the bend-over and kiss your ass good-bye scenario,” Dr. Harris paused.

  “How long will it last?” The President asked.

  “I’m afraid this is just the beginning, sir. If it simply blew up, the ash would be dispersed around the world on current weather patterns and be deposited in predictable locations, people would be killed, crops, animals, and cities destroyed. But, we could recover in time. Unfortunately, it didn’t just blow. It’s as if the caldera is being surgically removed from beneath the surface, literally like a surgeon cutting around a tumor; currently the separation line between the caldera and the surrounding rock is approximately one third of the circumference; meaning it’s possible that the initial explosions will continue until the entire caldera is separated,” Dr. Harris stopped, looked at his notes, then continued. “I have no idea how long it will last.