“I wrote a feature article about him while working for my college paper.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So how did you find out?”
She held up her cell phone.
“You’re not supposed to have that on.”
“I turned it off before we got to the runway.”
He reclined his seat and stared at the ceiling. “So you told me that story so I can feel better about my dead family?”
“Feel better? Is that possible? I’ve never lost someone that close.”
“Yet you’re going to tell me that you understand and that life will get better.”
“Not at all.” Her words carried a touch of heat.
“Then why the story?”
“Never mind. Sorry I brought it up.”
Morgan glanced at her. She had turned her face back to the window but not before he saw it redden.
“My son was one of you.”
“A woman?”
“Again, cute. No, he was a Christian. Got involved in a local Baptist church. I think it was all the youth activities that drew him in. You know, people his age. Girls his age.”
“It couldn’t be that he was searching for the truth?”
Morgan’s temper rose. “I guess I’ll never know.”
“It’s time.” Bob Newton wished he had more data, but the radio relay between the monitors on the volcano and his equipment in San Pedro was still incapacitated. “We can’t wait any longer.”
“Are you sure?” Profirio Galicia asked.
As if answering his question, a deep rumble rocked the community building. “As sure as I can be without hard information.”
“What about the others?” Profirio referred to the team that had gone up El Popo three hours before.
“They radioed that they were on their way back down. They couldn’t fix the relay board. They said the mountain is becoming more active. CO2 and SO2 levels are lower, which means El Popo is not degassing properly, and the number of tremors has increased substantially. The time has come. We can’t take any chances.”
“But last time—”
“But last time the volcano didn’t erupt. I know, Profirio, but what if it had? I’d rather go down in history for being too early than being too late.”
“I’ll inform the mayor.”
“Don’t inform him. You tell him in no uncertain terms to clear this town out and to do it now. He needs to deliver the same message to the other communities. I’ll notify the Mexican Civil Protection Agency, although they’ve been monitoring things from Cuernavaca. They probably already know.”
Profirio nodded. “I understand.” He ran from the room.
Newton wondered if Profirio really understood. Popocatépetl had been active over the last few years and there was clear evidence about two previous major eruptions in 400 B.C. and A.D. 822. Entire towns had disappeared. Over the last few years, the volcano had made a lot of noise but had done very little damage. It would vent from time to time, throwing gray ash and fiery projectiles high into the air, which would later rain down on the earth. Quarter-inch bits of debris called clasts had fallen as far as seven miles away. Ash had been propelled 27,000 feet in the air. And those events were mere belches compared to what a volcano like El Popo could do.
Bob Newton stepped from the building and into the street, leaving the door behind him open so that he could hear the radio. He turned to face the mountain. A thick column of smoky ash rose into the sky. But it wasn’t the sight of a pillar of smoke that made Newton uneasy—it was what he couldn’t see.
El Popo wasn’t the biggest volcano in the world, nor was it the most dangerous, but it was dangerous enough. Thirty million people lived within fifty miles of the peak, including those who resided in Mexico City. A significant eruption would impact them all. The worst hit would be the smaller towns near the foot of the mountain. These would be choked with ash and bombarded by burning projectiles. There would be mudslides, avalanches, and—depending on how El Popo blew—possible lava flows.
It would be the realization of Dante’s Hell.
Newton stared at the mountain. Where were his people?
“Tell me you think I’m brilliant.” Robert Sanchez, known to his followers as Robert Quetzal, sat in one of the white leather seats in the Bombardier’s passenger compartment. The seat was reclined, and its padded leg support extended in front of him. In the seat next to him rested his expensive suit coat, neatly folded. The sound of the aircraft filled his ears with white noise and was close to lulling him to sleep.
“I always think you’re brilliant.” Charles Balfour sounded slightly miffed. Quetzal heard the man tapping the keyboard of a laptop computer.
“You don’t say it enough. We creative types are an insecure bunch.”
“So I’ve noticed.” More keyboarding.
“Must you always work? Or are you playing a video game?”
“Yes. No. I wouldn’t know how to play a video game.”
Quetzal imagined the man’s matchstick fingers doing their disco dance on plastic keys.
“Maybe you should learn. It would give you a relaxing diversion.”
“First-person shooter games are relaxing?”
“You could start off with solitaire or checkers.”
Balfour snickered. “I have an IQ over a hundred and eighty, and I’m an expert in several fields. I don’t think checkers would do anything for me. I enjoy what I do. I don’t need diversion, especially now. The 2012 clock is ticking. I’m not going to spend those seconds pushing digital cards around on a computer screen.”
“Then what are you pushing around?” Quetzal turned his head and expended the energy to open his eyes. The thin man sat hunched over a table, face close to the screen, sharp shoulders threatening to pierce the thin shoulder pads of his coat. “You could at least take your coat off and act like you’re comfortable. This is the most luxurious jet you’ll ever be in.”
“You sure about that? If I have my way, we both will have a fleet of these.”
“Dream big, friend. Dream big.” He waited a moment. “You never answered my question.”
“I’m digging up more research on the meteorite strike in Arizona. I can’t believe our luck to have that hit while we were in Roswell. I’ve already sent a directive to the PR firm. We need to make hay off this.”
Quetzal snickered. “Make hay. I haven’t heard that for a long time.”
Balfour sighed. “Reports from the general media state the thing destroyed a mechanic’s shop.” He turned the screen of the tablet PC so Quetzal could see.
“Guy won’t be using that building anytime soon.”
“He won’t need to. Recovered meteorites are as valuable as gold. The Peekskill meteor of 1992 hit a parked car. That car has traveled the world raking in big bucks. The H6 meteor was about the size of a bowling ball.”
“I bet it did a job on the car.”
Balfour grunted. “You could say that. Blew through the trunk. Other large meteors have brought in hundreds of thousands of dollars. The owner of the car shop won’t need to get his hands dirty for a long time.”
“Too bad it was so small.” Quetzal brought his seat upright.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Look, I haven’t studied like you have, but judging by those pictures, the crater it left must be pretty small.”
Balfour nodded. “The early reports say the rock ripped through the roof and knocked down a couple of walls. It also fractured the foundation.”
“See what I mean? Interesting as that is, it’s not a life-ending event. It will be forgotten in a few days.”
“Let’s let PR find the right way to spin this. We pay them barrels of money to do that.”
“You can only spin things so far, Chuck. People, especially Americans, have very short attention spans. If something new isn’t shoved in their face from time to time, they go on to other things.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I agree we shou
ld see what the PR people come up with, but I’m planning on referring to it as the ‘first strike.’ ”
“First strike.” Balfour licked his lips as if tasting the idea. “First…strike. Hmm.” He leaned back. “So something like this? Media girl asks, ‘Mr. Quetzal, do you and your followers see significance in the meteor strike?’ You look concerned, even worried—but not surprised. ‘Yes, my many researchers and I think it is a very significant event.’ Media girl: ‘But it damaged only one building.’ You: ‘Which is what we expect from a first strike.’ You—”
“Me: ‘I can’t say any more. I refuse to be responsible for a panic.’ Then I shake my head sadly and refuse to answer any more questions.”
A grin spread across Balfour’s narrow face that made Quetzal think of a smiling skeleton. “What do you know? You are brilliant.”
Bob Newton watched as trucks and cars loaded with people slowly drove by. A large construction truck filled with people instead of building materials lumbered along the street, its tires spewing dust into the air. Some of San Pedro’s inhabitants rode on motor scooters or bicycles, and some walked to waiting, aged buses.
Another tremor rolled through the ground. They were becoming more frequent and therefore more frightening. Newton was beginning to second-guess himself. Maybe he should have called for the evacuation sooner. Volcanoes were fairly predictable and normally gave sufficient time for evacuation. Ground tremors were one of the key indicators. What couldn’t be predicted was the level of activity a volcano might take. Violent eruptions could happen quickly. It had with Mt. Pinatubo in the Philippines, but there had been enough time to evacuate the area as well as the local air force base. He was hoping for the same luxury.
Newton wished for two things now: more time, and the return of his team from the mountain. They were overdue. They had radioed a report earlier, but that was now two hours past. There had been no contact since, which was unusual. Something was wrong, and Newton didn’t know what.
Perhaps he should go look for them. As he weighed the idea, another tremor shook the ground. Too many tremors, he thought. They were experienced field scientists, they knew how to take care of themselves, he reassured himself. But the reassurance rang hollow. Mt. Pinatubo took the lives of two experienced scientists, as it had other scientists before them.
He saw it before he heard it. Facing the northwest side of the mountain, Newton raised his binoculars to his eyes and saw a cloud of dust, followed by sudden jet of ash and steam rocketing skyward. “It’s beginning,” he said to himself. The face of the mountain collapsed on itself as the magma chamber below gave way. As a child, Newton imagined an eruption as fire and lava squirting out the peak of the volcano and running down its side. While such things did happen, many volcanoes erupted explosively through their weakened sides. The ash continued to rise like a mushroom cloud after a nuclear explosion. Then came the billows of pyroclastic flow. Heavy billows of black smoke, laced with rock and debris, began to cascade down the mountainside.
Newton felt his heart stop—the deadly cloud was heading straight for San Pedro. It was also traveling down the dirt road used by the scientific team, if they were still on the mountain.
Turning, he saw the citizens of San Pedro staring in disbelief at El Popo. “Run,” Newton screamed. “Run!”
There was pandemonium. People scattered in different directions. The few who had cars sped down the dirt road that ran through town, barely missing their pedestrian neighbors.
The deadly, toxic cloud approached.
Thud.
Newton turned to see what had made the sound behind him. It was a rock, red with heat and the size of a grapefruit. The object didn’t surprise him; he had been expecting such flying burning materials—known to volcanologists as pyroclastic ejecta. They were common in major eruptions. Another dropped, then another, burning missiles fired from deep within the mountain. Soon there would be mudflows like the one that killed 23,000 people in the Nevado del Ruiz eruption in 1985. One of the things that had captured Newton’s scientific curiosity was the numerous ways in which a volcano could kill.
Directing his attention to the ash cloud above the mountain, Newton saw that it was also headed northwest. Ash would begin to fall from the mountain to well past Mexico City forty-five miles away.
Sadness filled him. He was sure his team was dead, and even if they had survived by some miracle, the town of San Pedro wouldn’t. He had shouted a warning to the stunned inhabitants who had stood dumbstruck by the sight of the cataclysm they were witnessing, but he knew that many would still die. He felt responsible. If only the monitoring devices on El Popo hadn’t failed, perhaps then they would have had more warning. Still, there had been enough indications, and he had hesitated. After all, El Popo was supposed to be relatively safe, some even defining its destructive capabilities as mild. They were wrong. He was wrong. And now many would die. Perhaps the other towns would fare better.
Another falling rock jarred him from his thoughts. The mountain was now surrounded by a massive ash cloud. Already lightning was beginning to flash from the cloud as it created its own thunderstorm. The rumbling of the mountain was set counterpoint to the newly added claps of thunder.
“Fire and water. How ironic.”
He turned to face the community building that had been serving as his field office. A woman, not much more than a girl, huddled in fear by the doorway. She was clutching an infant in her arms. Stepping to his Toyota Land Cruiser, he opened the passenger door and quickly motioned for her to come. She hesitated but then complied. Then he loaded the car with as many as would fit, jumped in the driver’s seat, and started down the street.
The afternoon sky darkened as the ash cloud obliterated the sun. Gray ash began to fall. Soon the ground, the buildings, and the bodies of those who died would be covered in a gray funeral shroud that had been created in the depths of the earth.
“I haven’t been a very good guest,” Lisa said. She had been watching Morgan out of the corner of her eye. For a while she assumed he was sleeping, but every once in a while, he would open his eyes and stare at the jet’s ceiling. He hadn’t spoken for the last hour, and every minute of that hour cut her soul like tiny knives of guilt. She had come on too strong. She was always doing that—pressing the subject of a story for a more quotable line, nagging her editor for better assignments, and even engaging in arguments with herself.
Why was she so polemical? What did she have to prove? She didn’t know, but she felt she had to prove something. Maybe it was her upbringing. As a child, she had learned to hold her own at the supper table, which was more of a debate forum than a place to eat the evening meal. Her father taught philosophy at a Christian college, and her mother taught English literature. As a family, they never had much money, but they did abound in passion.
Her one brother was too smart for his own good. Smarter than the other kids in school, the best he could do was circle the outer orbit of social interaction. Until he got to college. Through college and med school, he had all the friends he could want, including pretty coeds. How he resisted their tempting smiles, sweet laughter, and youthful bodies was beyond her, but she knew he had. He married two years out of med school. Three years later, he took his wife to East Africa to work as a medical missionary.
It was the way of her family: Everything centered on Christ. What Lisa lacked—and she told herself this repeatedly—was restraint. Perhaps she was trying to live up to her brother’s level of commitment. Perhaps she was just argumentative.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan said. “Did you say something?”
“I was apologizing for being rude.”
He sat up. “Rude? Did I miss something?”
“You’ve gone out of your way to help me, and I repay that kindness by offending you.”
“Really? Am I offended? I hadn’t noticed.”
She smiled at him. “I think you’re just being gentlemanly.”
“Ah. It’s a fault among men of the South.”
“Aggressive?”
“I was going to say assertive.”
He tipped his head to the side. “That’s a much more positive term. Assertive. I like it.”
“I’m trying to apologize here. I can be a little pushy.”
Morgan grinned. “A pushy reporter. Who could imagine such a thing?”
Lisa began to speak, but Morgan cut her off with a raised finger. “You did your research. You know I’ve suffered the worst loss a man can experience, but that doesn’t mean I’m fragile. I’m not. You don’t need to apologize.”
“But you haven’t said a word in over an hour.”
“So? I’ve been thinking. I do that a lot. Trust me, my board of directors puts me through more than you can ever dream up.”
She leaned back and wondered why his refusal to let her apologize bothered her so much. “Do you really believe all this Mayan calendar…”
“Mumbo jumbo? Nonsense? Garbage? Superstition? Which term do you prefer?” He leaned his head back against the seat rest. “Yes, I believe it.”
“But you seem…I mean…I’m doing it again.”
He didn’t move. “Seem what? Intelligent? I am. I have an MS degree in geology from Reynolds University. Had my father not died, I might have pursued a PhD. As it was, I inherited a business. The boardroom is a very different place than a barren field.”
“You prefer the outdoors, don’t you?”
“More of your research?”
“I saw the online photos of you in far-off places.” She reached for her phone. “Want to see?”
“No thanks. I was there.”
“So why believe this stuff about the Mayans and 2012?”
He waited a few moments before answering. “Because, Lisa, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
The Mayan Apocalypse Page 4
