Cataclysm
Page 17
President Drummond pauses. “I don’t think anyone in that room cares whether you’re wearing your suit coat or not.”
“Oh, but I’ll care, ma’am.”
She gives him a tired smile before proceeding into the room. The crowd is growing with the recent additions of a few members of the military brass. Assistant secretaries of the interior, Claire Espinoza and Hayden Fulton, are pecking away at laptops, and the secretary of agriculture is on the phone. The head of the Federal Aviation Administration is huddled in the corner with several staffers. President Drummond pulls out her chair and drops into her seat. “Nolan, how bad is it?”
The FAA administrator stands and straightens his tie before approaching the table. “There was a slight delay in getting the warning out. We’re talking about a delay of no more than a few minutes, but the results of that delay are devastating. We have three confirmed crashes, all related to volcanic ash. An Affordable Air Boeing 737-400, traveling from Seattle to Kansas City, crashed inside Yellowstone Park with a hundred forty-two souls on board. The second aircraft was a Canadian Air Embraer E-190, en route from Denver to Vancouver that went down just south of Bozeman, Montana, with ninety-seven passengers and five crew members aboard. The third was a Skyway Airbus A320, bound for Winnipeg out of Los Angeles, which crashed east of Billings, Montana. That aircraft was carrying a hundred fifty-six passengers and crew. There are apparently no survivors, but we won’t know more until the NTSB crews arrive on the scenes of all three accidents.”
President Drummond finishes scribbling on a pad and looks up. “That’s four hundred lives that would have been saved if we had grounded planes earlier. Please tell me nothing is flying now.”
“All domestic air travel is grounded, ma’am. There are a few international flights departing out of Los Angeles and New York.”
The President leans forward in her chair. “That stops now. I’ll not have another plane crash under my watch.”
“But, Madam President—”
President Drummond holds up her hand. “Until we can get this all sorted out, there will be no aircraft departing or landing anywhere in the United States. End of story.”
Kinney leans forward and places his palms on the table. “The airlines are going to raise hell.”
“Tough titty. I’ve made my stance perfectly clear. And tell the National Transportation Safety Board to hold off sending crews. I don’t want to be responsible for further unnecessary deaths.”
Kinney nods and slinks away as President Drummond turns to Granger. “Do we have Dr. Lyndsey on teleconference?”
“Yes, we do.” Ethan leans forward and punches a button on the speakerphone array.
“Dr. Lyndsey, are you with us?” the President asks.
“I’m here, ma’am.” His weary voice echoes across the room.
“What do we know, Doc?”
“I’ve lost contact with the chief scientist at Yellowstone, and most of the equipment in the southern portions of the park are offline. The latest satellite imagery shows just the one vent around the Old Faithful area.”
President Drummond drums her fingers on the table. “The governor of Wyoming has issued an evacuation order for the western half of the state. Do we need to widen the evacuation to other areas?”
“Everything within a radius of one hundred miles needs immediate evacuation. Beyond that, we might need to think of a relocation rather than an evacuation.”
“Why do you say that, Dr. Lyndsey?” the President asks.
“Some portions of the country might well be uninhabitable for several years. With ongoing power outages and all the other lingering issues with volcanic ash, the situation will be untenable.”
The shrill ringing of a cell phone blasts through the speakers. “Madam President, may I take this call?”
“If it’s important, yes.”
“It is, ma’am. Hello, Tucker . . .”
The President tunes out Lyndsey for the moment and turns her focus to Henry Edmonds, secretary of agriculture. “Henry, anything we can do to prepare?”
“Some of the cattle operators are shipping herds down to an area we’ve made available near Big Bend National Park, between El Paso and Del Rio, Texas. But with the ongoing drought, the area can only support two to three cattle per acre. They’re struggling to round up enough hay. We started shipping grain, via train car, from some of the storage facilities in the Midwest, but it’s a time-consuming proce—”
“Madam President?” Lyndsey’s urgent voice booms through the array of speakers.
“Go ahead, Dr. Lyndsey,” President Drummond says.
“That phone call was from Dr. Tucker Mayfield at Yellowstone. We’ve had a major eruption at the Norris area of the park. Norris lies along the northern rim of the caldera, a good distance from the first eruption. He and I believe an eruption of the entire caldera could occur at any time.”
President Drummond massages both temples. “How soon?”
“Could be minutes or hours, maybe as much as a day or two. But this eruption is much larger than the first, and an updated satellite image shows ash already ascending into the stratosphere.”
“Will this really be the largest eruption since man’s existence, Dr. Lyndsey? Or has the severity been overstated?”
“To answer your questions—yes and no. The effects haven’t been overstated, ma’am. This will be a globally changing event and, unfortunately for the United States, we’ll bear the brunt of it.”
CHAPTER 55
Near the east entrance of Yellowstone Park, outskirts of Cody, Wyoming
Josh Tolbert climbs down from the cab of the borrowed pickup and sneaks around the back to take a piss. After being told about the closure of the South Entrance, the most likely route his parents would have taken, Josh worked his way around to the east side of the park. He had to drive a big loop to get here—southeast to Riverton, then north on 120 to Cody, nearly two hundred miles out of the way. He found out the hard way that roads are sparse in this part of the country.
He rezips his shorts and returns to the pickup. He’s been sitting beside Highway 14 for the past few hours, hoping for any sight of his family. So far, no luck. A steady stream of traffic has trickled past but no cherry red Ford F-250 pulling a bright aluminum, completely restored Airstream trailer. The only time he’s vacated his post was to make a food run into Cody. Besides food, he stocked an ice chest with bottled water and Red Bull and added one of those $5.99 cell phone chargers that are ubiquitous at most roadside convenience stores. The Red Bull and water are responsible for his frequent trips to the rear of the truck.
He thumbs his glasses farther up his nose and reaches for his cell phone sitting in one of the cup holders. He checks again for messages and, finding none, starts dialing—Mom, then Dad, with the same results: no answer. He tries his sister, the one person who normally answers her cell come hell or high water, and hears, “I’m sorry but the cellular customer you are—”
Josh punches the end button and drops the phone back into the cup holder. He squirms in the driver’s seat, trying to get comfortable, then turns the radio on and finds only static. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel for a few moments before he starts squirming again. He exhales a loud sigh and reaches for another energy drink. After shaking off the residual water, he pops the top.
The can slips from his grasp when a loud explosion shatters the air and the ground beneath the pickup convulses. “What the hell was that?” Josh says out loud as he grabs for the spilled container before the sticky liquid can ooze into Professor Snider’s leather seats. The sirens in Cody start winding up. Josh tosses the can out the window and uses his palm to splash the liquid out of the seat.
The sat phone trills. He dries his hand on his shorts and picks up the phone.
“Josh, are you there?”
“I’m here, Professor Snider. I just heard a loud explosion.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Where are you at the moment?”
“Just
a little ways west of Cody on Highway 14.”
“Hold on, let me pull up a map.”
Josh hears the click of the keyboard. “What’s happening, Professor?”
“Okay I’ve got it. Josh, there’s been a major eruption around the Norris area . . . Hold on, I need to check the distances.” There is more typing and clicking. “Oh shit, you’re too close. Josh, I need you to get in the truck and start driving.”
“I’m not safe here?”
“No. There will be other, larger eruptions, and the pyroclastic flows could stretch for many miles in every direction.”
Josh fires up the pickup. “Which way do I need to go?”
“You can only go east from there, Josh. Head for Sheridan, then circle back north toward Billings, Montana.”
“But that’s the completely opposite way I need to go to get home.”
“Don’t worry about getting home right now, Josh. You need to get out of the danger zone first.”
“But I still haven’t found my family.”
“Listen carefully, Josh. There’s no telling where your parents are. They could’ve gone west or north out of the park. You need to concentrate on yourself for the moment. Can you do that?”
“Yeah. How long do I have?”
“At your location, maybe fifteen minutes. But that’s only a guesstimate. You should be clear once you’re on the other side of Cody, but you need to be moving now.”
Josh lowers the shifter into drive and mashes the gas pedal. Traffic is a tad lighter and he shoots through a gap and out onto the highway. “I don’t know how much battery I have left on this phone.”
“Just keep driving. Call me when you’re safe. Might need to find a landline phone, though. A satellite connection will be dicey with all the ash.”
“Okay. I’m on the highway now. Thanks, Professor, for the warning.”
“You’re welcome. I’m looking forward to reading your thesis. Be safe, Josh.”
“I will, sir. Talk to you soon.” Josh ends the call and tosses the phone onto the passenger seat. He places both hands on the wheel as he pushes the pickup up to seventy, passing the slower cars on the straightaways. Flying around a curve he has to swerve into the other lane to avoid colliding with a slow-moving tanker truck. He jerks the truck back into his lane, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with another oil field semi. As he ascends the next hill, he checks the rearview. Nothing yet. Cresting the ridge, he sees a convoy of tanker trucks in front of him, with no hopes for passing. He curses, slows, and checks the mirror again.
The convoy is poking along at about 35 miles an hour. Ten minutes later and about two miles from Cody, Josh spots the first sign of trouble. The sky behind him is dark and angry, with glowing embers shooting out like tracer bullets. Best he can tell, it’s still about seven or eight miles behind him. Josh lays on the horn and starts flashing his headlights, but the convoy only slows, as the first truck turtles a left turn onto a narrow dirt road. The six trucks crawl forward, their left-turn signals flashing, as they wait for the first driver to complete his turn. Josh slows enough to engage the four-wheel drive before steering off the road, now straddling the narrow shoulder and the sloped embankment on the right side of the road.
Tires squeal as the westbound traffic tries to stop when they catch a glimpse of what lies before them. Two large semitrucks jackknife, their trailers skidding across the asphalt, trailing thick clouds of white smoke. Another pickup sees the slowdown too late and steers up the steep side of a hill. The truck comes to a stop, teeters for a moment, then starts flipping down the hill. Josh looks away from the melee and feeds the engine more gas. He swerves around the back side of a guardrail and bounces over a rock outcropping, his jaws snapping together, catching a portion of his tongue. He cries out in agony.
Josh clears the line of trucks and shoots back up onto the roadway, flooring the gas. He glances in the mirror to see a large power flash and an eruption of sparks. When he turns his eyes forward he sees all the lighted signs in town wink out. Tapping the brakes, he slows for a series of long, swooping curves before the road widens into a four-laner at the edge of town. Josh hits the main drag going sixty-five. Zipping past a Pizza Hut, a Days Inn, two tanning salons, and a half a dozen churches, he hits the first stoplight. He slows enough to check opposing traffic before blowing through the intersection.
He glances in the rearview again and discovers a wall of smoke and fire eating its way toward town. The highway takes a dado to the left, but Josh shoots down a residential street, hoping no one steps out in front of him. Now racing down Stampede Avenue, he passes a cop. As expected, the cop lights his overheads and whips onto the road behind him. Josh stomps on the gas pedal. He spots a sign for Highway 20 and makes the turn, the truck careening up on two wheels. The police car looms large in his mirror when he hits the bridge over Beck Lake. Josh feeds the big V-8 more gas. On the other side of Cody, Josh opens the truck up all the way. He glances in the side-view mirror to see the cop car make a sliding U-turn to go back the other way. He exhales a sigh of relief.
He’s flying down the highway when a dash light flickers and a chime sounds. He glances at the display to discover the gas gauge hovering just above empty. He eases up on the pedal and casts another furtive glance at the mirror. The wall of smoke seems to have slowed and now lingers over the heart of downtown Cody. Josh slows a little more, hoping to stretch the remaining gas. As he passes the one of the last feeder roads into town, he spots a KOA campground in the distance, a large SHELL sign silhouetted against the smoky sky.
Josh steers the truck up to a pump and jumps from the cab. He leans over and vomits, a mixture of Red Bull and water gushing from his nostrils. He wipes the snot from his nose and begins filling the truck with gas. Behind him, the wall of flames stretches across the width of the horizon. Josh turns away from the horrific sight and vomits again. When the tank is full, he replaces the handle and climbs up into the cab. As tears stream down his cheeks, his brain clicks through a bevy of scenarios. Getting back to Salt Lake City will be an impossibility. What to do? Josh heaves out a heavy sigh. Where’s my family? Josh wipes away the tears and drops the truck into gear. The only place he can think to go is home. He steers the truck out onto the highway and feeds the big engine more gas.
CHAPTER 56
City of West Yellowstone, Montana
Though technically located in Montana, the town of West Yellowstone sits four miles from Wyoming and eight miles from Idaho. As the gateway city to the western entrance of the nation’s oldest national park, the annual population of 1,200 swells during the summer months. Tourists flock to the hotels, restaurants, and western wear stores that line the main drag of the 360-acre town.
Richard Altmiller slots the family minivan into a parking spot in front of one such western outfitter. On their way back to Los Angeles, their two teenage girls are hoping to score some cowboy boots to spring on their friends back home.
Kelley Altmiller, the matriarch of the family, removes her sunglasses. Still struggling to lose the baby weight from eleven years ago, there’s a stubborn heaviness that clings to her hips. “Richard, are you sure we have time for this? Maybe we should stop somewhere else.”
He arches his back against the seat. “I think we’re fine, and frankly, I could use some walking-around time. In addition to the sunburn, my back is stiff as a board.” The Altmillers have spent most of the day on the Madison River where Richard was attempting to teach the girls how to fly fish. That lasted all of about 15 minutes, the girls quickly losing interest.
“I know, but maybe we should drive on to Idaho Falls or somewhere else. I’d feel more comfortable if we could put some more distance between us and that damn volcano.”
Lacy, at thirteen, the older of the two girls, leans forward, wedging between the two captain’s chairs that make up the cockpit area of the van. She sweeps the dark hair from her eyes. “C’mon, Mom, it won’t take long. I know exactly what I’m looking for. I Googled it.”
Kelley swivels in her seat to look back at her daughters. “What makes you think this store will have them? I’ve done plenty of shopping with you two. You’ll want to try on a dozen pairs before deciding.”
Richard reaches over to put a hand on his wife’s leg. “Honey, we’re still on vacation. Besides, I might find a pair for myself.”
Kelley turns to her husband, laughing. “You in cowboy boots? You live in flip-flops. It’s a struggle for you to put on real shoes to go to work.”
Richard swings open the driver’s door. “Maybe I’ll find a cowboy hat, then. Keep the sun off my balding pate. C’mon, babe, let them pick out some cowboy boots.”
Kelley relents, and the Altmiller family spills out of the van. She takes one long lingering look down the street toward Yellowstone before following her family into the store.
Fifteen minutes later, Lacy is trying on her sixth pair of boots and Lori is carrying her eighth pair over to an old wooden chair at one end of the rows of boots. Richard walks by modeling another cowboy hat to the delight of his daughters. With a dozen racks of boots lining one side of the store, Kelley cruises the aisles, trying to tamp down her sudden urge for a pair. She picks up a pair of bronze lizard boots and flips one over to look at the price tag. She gasps and delicately places it back on the shelf. Farther down the aisle a red pair catches her eye. She flips it over and is glad to see the price is less than $200. After double-checking the size, she lugs them over to a chair and plops down.
Richard walks by modeling a Hoss Cartwright hat, with about two feet of empty space between the top of his head and the top of the hat. She chuckles as she toes off her tennis shoes. But the chuckles die in her throat when the echoing of sirens pierces the inner sanctum of the store. She lurches out of the chair and runs barefooted toward the large windows. She looks up and down the street and sees nothing amiss. She strides over to the sales counter where a teenage girl is texting on her cell phone. “What’re the sirens for?”