That’s my fantasy.
And the first part that’s wrong is that I’m not stepping anywhere. Not yet. I’m confined to a wheelchair, because my legs are fairly useless. It’s been less than a day since fleeing Bardarbunga’s eruption, first on foot, then in the superjeep and finally in the Cessna, which carried us to Keflavík International Airport. Thanks to its location on the far west coast of Iceland and the ash cloud’s eastern trajectory, the airport remained open, and still does. While floods have consumed much of the island nation’s east, the west has suffered only minor damage from a series of earthquakes that rumbled through the land, the previous night. They resulted in a tsunami that killed untold millions throughout Europe.
I close my eyes, confused by a strange cauldron of emotions. I was at ground zero for the world’s worst volcanic eruption in modern history and survived. But all those people in Europe, choked by gas and water... It doesn’t seem fair that they should perish, while I live.
I’m not ungrateful. My sons still have a father. My wife a husband. And my mistress her love. But I feel guilty for surviving while so many others died. Normal survivor’s guilt is triggered when something like a car crash claims some lives while sparing others. The odds of survival are equal and left to chance, or to fate, or Bell would say, to God. But that’s not what happened to me. I stood at the point of impact, between metaphorical crashing cars, all odds against survival. And not only did I survive, but the crash extended to the far side of the road, resulting in a pile up claiming the lives of everyone for miles.
I should have died. That I didn’t, feels like the very laws of nature have been broken on my behalf. Surviving while so many others perished is an unexpected burden, shouting at me, ‘What will you do with your life now?’
My heart replies, ‘Go home. Love my family. Live a quiet life.’
But my mind finds this offensive. How can I live such a small, simple life, when it feels like I was spared for a reason, for a purpose beyond my understanding?
As I’m wheeled down the 747’s aisle, I decide not to mention these thoughts to Sabella. Mina’s logical mind will break it down for me. Help me make sense of these emotions. Bell, for all her abounding love, will add the weight of eternity to my already heavy load.
The eyes of my fellow passengers—Americans escaping Iceland—follow my progress through the plane, as I’m wheeled by a flight attendant. They all heard the story of our escape from the frozen caldera, a yarn spun by Phillip upon our arrival at Keflavík, where I landed—nearly crashed—the Cessna, without permission. We were arrested, but freed upon Phillip’s dramatic retelling, in which he was elevated to heroic status, and upon our very dire predictions for the volcanic fallout. We were, after all, the only experts in the area to witness and survive the eruption. And they had much bigger problems on their hands—the kind that determine the very lives and deaths of nations, never mind individuals.
I get a few nods from men I don’t know. Smiles from the women. Wide eyes from the kids.
“Are you a hero?” a little boy asks me.
“Surviving doesn’t make you a hero,” I tell him as I pass.
Then I hear Holly, who’s being wheeled out behind me, tell him, “He saved us all.”
“Really?” the kid asks, as if by ‘all’ she meant the human race.
“Really,” Holly says, and I suppose she’s right. Deigo, Phillip and Holly are alive because of me. Kiljan, who knows, but I wish him well.
The journey through the jet bridge is silent. The flight attendants just smile and push Holly and me, side-by-side. Holly smiles at me, takes my hand in hers, and squeezes. As we approach the doorway ahead, I hear a sound like angry bees coming from the far side.
Holly squeezes again. “For real. Thank you.”
I squeeze back and offer a smile. It’s the most she’s going to get, though I can see she’d appreciate more. “Maybe we’ll work together again.”
“Count on it,” she says, and frees my hand from her tightening grasp.
The doors open.
Light explodes in our faces.
Voices assault us from every direction, the cacophony sounding like an alien language, roaring. A waterfall, resounding. I flinch at the memory of the black figure, placing its staff into my hand. Its voice. Then my hands are raised, blocking the light strobe.
“Look,” someone says. “He is hurt.”
Lights flash faster. Photographers are taking pictures of my gauze-wrapped hand like it’s Taylor Swift’s panties. The waterfall takes on a new tone. Questioning me. About Iceland. Bardarbunga. Europe. Holly. What? I managed to leave a frozen-turned-fiery hell behind, only to enter a new kind of modern hell, where the people I love are held at bay by a throng of hungry reporters. They’re jostling over sound bites like hyenas over a kill, yapping and pushing, ready to pounce at the first sign of life.
I’m thankful when a man in a black suit steps between me and the reporters. “Back. Give them space. Everyone back.”
But then a particularly resilient reporter breaks the line, thrusts a microphone in my face and asks, “Mr. Wright, how do you think you survived, while so many others in the region—”
The man in the black suit descends on the reporter, yanking him back by his shirt collar and shoving him back in line. Then he lifts a badge and says, “Secret Service. The next of you to interfere will—”
“Freedom of the Press!” the reporter shouts, stepping up to the tall, black secret service man, but not making physical contact. “What gives you the right to...”
I miss the rest when a second suited man, who looks like a Tom Cruise clone, wrests control of my wheelchair and whisks me away.
“What’s going on?” I stretch my neck up, looking through a glass wall for Mina or Bell. They were supposed to be here. “Where’s my family?”
“They’ll join you later,” the man says.
“Join me? Where?” I twist back and forth, searching. The reporters, still held at bay by the large secret service agent, have quieted down. Holly is being wheeled behind me by a third agent. A woman.
Then I see them, waving and frantic, on the far side of the glass partition. My family. Ike leaps onto a bench, looking worried, while Ishah clings to Bell’s neck, supported by her hip. He looks like he’s been crying. I reach a hand out to them, but it’s slapped down.
“Watch it,” the agent says. I’m about to complain when we pass through a doorway and I lose sight of my family.
“Where the hell are we going?” I ask, gripping the wheels with both hands, but forced to let go when the friction burns one hand and the gauze covered hand just slips. Then I see where we’re going—not the ultimate destination, but a mode of transportation. We’re on a jet bridge, approaching the open door of a plane. The two men waiting for me are dressed in U.S. Air Force uniforms. Their steady gazes and shaved heads intimidate me, but I’m still too angry to care. I find the wheelchair’s brake and push it hard against the wheel. Forward momentum tips the chair forward. As I lean toward the floor, I plant my feet, push hard and rise—a few inches. I stumble to the side and crash into the jet bridge wall.
Thick hands catch me, while rough hands grab me from behind.
“I’ve got him,” says a new voice. One of the Air Force men. He’s older than most active duty military men, his salt and pepper hair hidden by the short haircut, but visible in his mustache.
“Your problem now,” the short secret service agent says, before doing an about-face and motioning to the woman pushing an equally stunned, but less indignant Holly. “We’re done here.”
Without a word, Holly is abandoned and has to slow the wheelchair on her own.
“Sorry about them, Mr. Wright,” the Air Force man says, then he nods to Holly. “Ms. Interlandi. I am Major David Gibbs.” He looks me in the eyes. “You’re not a light man, Mr. Wright, mind if I sit you back down?”
Working together, we get me back into the chair. I’m able to walk some, but not without help. Anothe
r day and I should be fully mobile again, though it’s going to hurt, maybe even worse than today, but I plan on being medicated by then. I lean back in the wheelchair seat with a groan. “Where are you taking us?”
“I’m going to tell you everything I know,” Gibbs says. “Everything. With the hopes that we can avoid further incident.”
I can’t promise I’ll play nice without hearing what he has to say, so I just wait in silence for him to speak.
“Deal,” Holly says for me.
“Our destination is Washington, D.C. My mission is to fly you both there, where a second Secret Service team will pick you up.”
When he falls silent, I ask, “That’s it?”
“That’s it. That’s all I know, but given your recent experiences in Iceland, and the Secret Service treatment, my guess is that you’re both headed for the White House. The world is in a tizzy, and you both were firsthand witnesses.”
While it makes some kind of sense, I don’t appreciate the surprise, or being torn away from my family. “My kids are out there. My family. They took me away before I could even speak to them.”
Gibbs steps behind my chair and starts pushing, while the second, silent U.S. Airman pushes Holly. “Understand your frustration, sir. And I will look into it for you. But the situation is fluid. The death toll is climbing. And while the fallout is primarily affecting Europe, the whole world is going to feel it. I’ve been in the military for a long time, sir. Where you and I might see tragedy, others will see opportunity. If there was anything I could do to help avert further loss of life, I would do it.” He pauses to look down at me, his mustached grin upside down. “Wouldn’t you?”
“They told me my family would join me later,” I say.
“Like I said, I’ll look into it.” He wheels me into the plane, and we turn through a door just wide enough for the wheelchair. Two U.S. Marines salute the Major as we enter and step aside to reveal what looks like a plush corporate jet outfitted for Marines on the go. While the seats at the front of the plane are intact, the rear has been converted into a mobile weapons locker. A special forces unit could probably climb aboard and be ready for just about any mission upon landing.
Then I realize where we are. A friend of mine wrote a piece about it years ago. But it had just been speculation based on rumor and legend. The story told of how the U.S. Marines adopted the luxurious Gulfstream IV, after it was damaged by a tornado. During its repair, some of the accoutrements were kept, but much of it was gutted and converted to a mission-ready plane that moved Marines, weapons and cargo during 476 sorties, without being identified as a military asset. Legend no more. This is the real thing. “The Gray Ghost.”
“You know your planes,” Gibbs says, impressed.
“I know a little about a lot,” I say.
Holly stands from her wheelchair, takes a shaky step and slides into the nearest seat. “He knows a lot about a lot.”
“I have a feeling that quality is going to be in high demand,” Gibbs says. “Now find a seat. We’re going to be in the air and back on the ground inside an hour.”
“That fast?” I ask.
“Let’s hope it’s fast enough,” Gibbs says with a deep frown, and I realize I’ve been lied to. He knows more than he’s said, and whatever it is he’s not telling me, it’s not good.
9
Despite the growing list of unanswered questions and unvented anger, I fall asleep only five minutes after liftoff. Rest had been impossible on the flight from Iceland. Frenetic energy buzzed through the passengers like an agitated specter, keeping eyes wide and mouths speculating. So when I leaned back in the plush executive chair, a remnant of this vehicle’s former corporate life, blanketed by the white noise of the engines, I closed my eyes. For the first time since wrapping my hand around that black and red spike, I rested.
Briefly.
I jolt awake as the wheels touch down, frantically clawing at the armrests as inertia pulls me forward. I’m held in place by a seatbelt I don’t remember buckling. Before we’ve come to a complete stop, the two Marines seated in front of me unbuckle, stand and turn around, with the single-minded efficiency of synchronized swimmers. Then they separate, one headed for me, the other for Holly, who just woke up.
“Come with me, Mr. Wright,” the nearest of the two big men says. His tone suggests I better find my legs, and fast, or he’s going to manhandle me. But is he an ass, or just in a rush? Either way, I don’t want to know what his meaty hands feel like, so I push myself up with a groan. My knees wobble for a moment, but I remain upright, clinging to a seatback.
“Move it, Mr. Wright,” Holly says in a deep voice, hobbling past me with a grin. The Marine following her doesn’t seemed pleased by the impression, but it lightens my spirits and ignites my competitive spirit. If Holly can walk on her own, so can I.
Limping on both legs looks funny, like a tall, Indian Runner duck, wings folded down, body wobbling from side to side. It hurts, but the image keeps my spirits lifted. Slightly. I still don’t know what’s happening, or where my family is.
We’re whisked into a black SUV with tinted windows. I half expect to be greeted by some shady Smoking Man, but the back seat is empty. Blue and red lights strobe from the windshield, pushing traffic out of the way, and we’re treated to a very fast, psychedelic, tour of Washington, D.C. And then we’re underground. It happens so fast, I miss the transition, and I flinch back as we race down the well-lit concrete tunnel.
Tires screech. Doors open from the outside. Men in suits, wearing coiled white comms in one ear, motion for us to exit.
“This way,” one of them says, leading us to an elevator, its doors already open and waiting.
“If you all went into fast food, you’d make the—” A glare silences me.
Inside the elevator, I take a moment to stretch my legs, pulling my feet up behind my butt. Before I’m done with the second, the doors open and the agent steps out, motioning for us to follow. Holly gives me a nervous glance, but then follows the man.
On slowly limbering legs, I follow. The journey is a short one, ending at a door guarded by two more Secret Service agents. One of the two agents twists the knob slowly and pulls the door open without making a sound. Commingling voices slide out of the room beyond. It sounds like a party, I think, and then I step over the threshold and realize there is nothing festive about this room, or the people in it.
The long, rectangular room is occupied by a large wooden table, currently covered in open documents and laptops. Flat-screen monitors are mounted around the room, taking up wall space like a grandmother’s family photos. White light from the ceiling makes most of the room’s occupants—generals, advisors, elected officials, some of whom I recognize—look pale, even those who aren’t already white. When I see what’s on the monitors, I realize it might not be the light making them look pale.
Scenes of death and destruction surround the room, displayed on the monitors. Some are newsfeeds from around the world. Some are satellite images, though many of those are blotted out by clouds of ash. I saw the eruption first hand, and understand its destructive force, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen the fallout.
“Oh, god,” Holly whispers next to me.
I keep my mouth shut, but share the sentiment. This is unreal.
Our escort motions to a line of chairs against the wall. All but two, at the far end, are occupied. Traversing the maze of limbs and moving bodies would be a challenge if I felt fresh. I get more than a few annoyed looks as I bumble my way to the far end of the room.
My legs quiver as I lower myself into the seat. Then everyone stands up. Before I comprehend why, Gerrald McKnight, the President of the United States, walks in and stops by his chair, which is directly across from me. He pauses long enough to give me a sidelong glance, no doubt wondering why I’m the only person who didn’t stand upon his entrance, and then he takes his seat. Relief settles over me when the room sits with him.
The President looks tired, but not
hing close to how I feel. Sure, he’s pushing seventy-five and has a roller coaster of wrinkles and honest-to-god jowls, but his sharp blue eyes say he’s also hopped up on coffee. Probably the best coffee money can buy.
“What’s the latest?” McKnight asks, his voice deep and rough.
“Sir,” says a man seated beside the President. His face looks familiar, but nothing else about him stands out. His light blue shirt, loosened tie and gray hair match more than half the men in the room. He clears his throat. “Casualties are estimated at upwards of ten million.”
The President wilts, sickened by the number. “Anything they need. Offer it. I don’t care how much it costs and whether or not they’re an ally. In a situation like this, I don’t care about borders.”
Two men in military dress, the only two still wearing their jackets, sit up a little straighter, but keep their mouths shut. Open borders flow in both directions, and there are bound to be refugees.
“Uh, sir…” The man speaking is Harry...Something, the Homeland Security Advisor. “We don’t know how this is going to play out yet. Russia could—”
“Harry,” McKnight says.
“Sir. If the winds change direc—”
“Harry.” The President leans forward on his elbows. “While I recognize your concerns, I really do, we cannot turn our backs on a crisis this vast. Wind shift or not, we are in a position to provide aid and save lives. How many nations have agreed to take part in the aid coalition?”
“Twenty-two,” says the President’s Chief of Staff, Sonja Clark, who looks fresh and poised. “China is still on the fence.”
“I want aid on the ground in the hardest hit regions by nightfall. If you have to fly in from the Mediterranean and drive the rest of the way, so be it. Everywhere else by morning. Ted, John, make it happen. Now.”
The two military men stand and offer a synchronized “Yes, sir,” before heading into an adjacent room.
“Now then, let’s get back to the matter of what the hell happened.” McKnight motions to the man I recognize most in the room, Robert Scarlato. He’s the Assistant to the President for Science and Technology, Director of the White House Office of Science and Technology Policy and Co-Chair of the President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology. Basically, he is the guiding force behind the United States’ scientific programs, and I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing him three times. He’s progressive, kind and brilliant, but like most scientists, he’s a specialist—plasma physics and astronautics—which has resulted in a budget increase for NASA.
Apocalypse Machine Page 6
