by Tim Washburn
“I’m not going to ask you to risk your life on my behalf.”
Rachael gives his hand a squeeze. “You don’t need to ask. I’m all in.”
Tucker shakes his head. “Too risky for you.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to assume.” Rachael leans forward and brushes her lips across his. “It’s about time you let someone into your world, Tucker.”
Tucker squeezes her hand. “I could use your help. I’m not as familiar as I should be with the eastern portions of the park. Most of my activity has been centered around the caldera.”
Rachael leans in and gives Tucker a firmer, longer kiss. “All you had to do was ask.” She pulls away. “We need to make a mental checklist of what we need. We’ll want to take food and water for sure, and we need some way to deal with the ash. I wonder if there are any respirators anywhere around here?”
Tucker pulls his hand free and places it on her cheek. He leans in and kisses her. “Thank you.”
Rachael lies back, pulling Tucker on top of her. “I have a better way for you to display your thanks.”
CHAPTER 61
Cheyenne Regional Airport, Cheyenne, Wyoming
J. John Jackson pushes out of the Escalade and arches his back. After driving straight through from Woodward, Oklahoma, he’s haggard from nearly twenty hours behind the wheel. But time is money, and there’s no time to waste. He reaches back into the car to retrieve his black cowboy hat and places it on his head. The hat, 100 percent pure beaver and custom made out of a shop in Santa Fe, New Mexico, cost J. John, or J.J., as most of his hands call him, a cool $5,000. But when you’re worth billions, $5,000 is pocket change.
J.J. slams the door and saunters toward one of the airport’s private aircraft operators. Everything about J.J. is large. His broad torso is stacked onto a pair of long legs and he’s heavily muscled from five decades of working oil fields all over the world. Ash swirls up with each step of his long stride as he approaches the door and pushes through. Inside he finds a long counter littered with flying magazines and a tall, skinny man outfitted in greasy coveralls, the name Joey stitched over the right breast pocket. “I need to rent me a helicopter.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but all of our aircraft are grounded.”
“Unground them. I’ve got to have me a helicopter.”
“Sir, the federal government has ordered all aircraft grounded.”
J.J. leans over and places his forearms on the counter. “I don’t give a damn what the federal government ordered. I’ve got a half a billion dollars in abandoned drilling rigs up at the Bighorn Basin. And I need to get a look at ’em.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Even if I could help you, we don’t have a pilot.”
“Now listen to me, son. I want one of those whirlybirds and a pilot to go with it. Now you get your ass over to the phone and get ahold of that boss of yours.”
The man’s face turns red, and J.J. can tell he’s thinking about a response, but instead the man shrugs and turns for the phone. You don’t play poker for a bunch of money and not learn how to read a man. J.J. stands to his full height of six-four and leans against the counter, wiping the ash from the top of boots behind each calf. The crocodile boots, also custom made from an outfit in Fort Worth, set J.J. back about seven grand. He stares at the man on the phone and plops a toothpick into the side of his mouth.
After a couple of minutes of hushed conversation, the man approaches, the phone extended like he’s holding an angry rattler. J.J. snatches up the handset. “Who’s this?”
“This is George Kingwell, owner and operator of Flight Time. Who are you?”
“I’m a man with a fat wallet, George, and I’m goin’ to use it to rent one of your helicopters.”
“Even if I could rent you a chopper, there’s not a pilot anywhere who’d risk losing his license by disobeying a national grounding order.”
“I’ll pay one of these flyboys here at your base to take me up.”
“There aren’t any pilots at Warren that I know about. It’s a missile base.”
“It said ‘Air Force’ on the sign comin’ into town. Air Force means flyin’, don’t it? You can bet your ass someone out there can fly one of your choppers.”
“Whether there are pilots out there or not is a moot point. I can’t rent you a helicopter.”
“Then I’ll buy one off of you. How much?”
“They’re not for sale. I have two and they’re worth in excess of a million dollars each.”
“Sold.”
Kingwell sighs on the other end of the line. “You can’t buy one if they’re not for sale.”
“George, everything’s for sale. And I do mean everything. Two million, cash, for one of your whirlybirds.”
“You walk around with two million dollars in cash, Mr. Jackson?”
“Course not. But I can damn sure have it wired to your account lickety-split. Do we have a deal?”
“You’d be wasting your money, Mr. Johnson. The FAA is not going to let you fly.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the FAA, George. I own about half of Congress and if I want to fly my own goddamn helicopter, I will.”
“You’re serious about the two million dollars?”
“As a heart attack. Now get your ass in here and start the paperwork. I’m goin’ to have your man Joey find me a pilot.” He hands the handset back across the desk.
Joey smirks as he hangs up the phone. “Mr. Jackson, you’ve got more money than sense. You could have bought one of those helicopters for less than seven hundred grand.”
“You know what, Joey? When I get those wells pumpin’ up there in the Powder River I’ll be able to buy me a two-million-dollar helicopter about every hour. Sometimes you have to overspend to make a man feel better. Now, see about gettin’ me a pilot.”
“No one’s going to fly with all the ash.”
“Can you fly one of those choppers, Joey?”
“I can, but I’m not licensed.”
“Whether you have a license or not don’t matter one shit to me. Can you fly one or not?”
Joey nods. “But it’d be a suicide mission. Once that ash gets into the engine, you’ll drop like a rock.”
J.J. leans across the counter. “How much?”
“How much what?”
“To fly me up there to my rigs.”
“What does it matter? I can’t spend it if I’m dead.”
J.J. leans back. “Not a risk taker, Joey?”
“Not when the risk is a virtual certainty.”
J.J. slaps the counter. “Call around. Somebody’ll fly me up there if I offer them about fifty grand. Hell, there’ll be people out there beggin’ to let them fly for that kind of money. Make some calls, you’ll see.”
Joey gulps. “You’d have to find a place to refuel. The helicopter only has a range of about three hundred miles.”
“All that’ll be up to the pilot. But maybe we won’t have to worry about refueling if the fucker’s goin’ to crash anyway.”
“Why is it so important to go see your drilling equipment?”
“Because, Joey, I’ve got ’em insured for close to a billion dollars. If they’re fucked up I need to get busy buyin’ some more. And dealin’ with those cocksuckin’ insurance adjusters takes forever. Time is money, Joey.” J.J. turns away from the counter. “I’m gonna find a bar to get me a cold beer. Call me when the boss man comes in.” He turns and flicks a business card onto the counter.
“One hundred thousand dollars. Paid in advance,” Joey says.
“For what?”
“To fly you up there.”
J.J. steps back to the counter and extends his hand. “You got yourself a deal there, pard.”
Joey hesitates for a moment, then shakes on the deal.
“Thought a dead man couldn’t spend no money?” J.J. asks.
“It’s for my wife. She wants reconstructive surgery after surviving breast cancer.”
J.J. thumps his knuckle on the counter, th
en removes the toothpick from his mouth. “Tell you what, Joey, you fly me up there and back and I’ll give you a hundred grand, plus pay for her surgery. That sound like a good deal?”
“As long as you pay the cost of surgery in advance, too.”
“How much?”
“A full reconstruction is about sixty grand.”
J.J. smiles. “I can do that. That way she’ll have enough to get the surgery and still have a little walkin’-around money in case we buy the farm.”
Joey dry swallows and nods.
“You worried about dyin’, Joey?”
“Yeah, aren’t most people?”
J.J. laughs. “Fuck, Joey, life’s too short to worry about dyin’ all the time.”
“Well, I don’t really want to die. I’m going to see if there’s a way to filter the ash out the air intake. Only chance we’ll have.”
“Do what you gotta do, Joey. Hey, you gotta last name?”
“Yeah, Jimmerson.”
“Well, if that ain’t the shits. Two J.J.’s, huh. Can’t go wrong with that.” He raps a knuckle on the counter again. “I’ve got me a hankerin’ for a cold beer. My cell number’s on the card. Give me a shout when the boss rolls in.”
CHAPTER 62
The Oval Office
In the quiet of her office President Drummond massages her temples while looking over the latest ash fall estimates. The Cabinet Room is now a war room and the body odor is rank enough to be nauseating. She tosses the papers onto the desk and turns to Granger. “Ethan, have the service open the doors to the Rose Garden. We need to air that room out.”
“Too big of a security risk, ma’am. Might have another crazy climb the fence welding a knife.”
“The main security risk is I might pass out if I have to spend any more time in there. Open the damn doors.”
Ethan stands. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And offer them the showers in the basement. No, belay that. Insist on the showers. And see if we can wrestle up some new clothing.”
Ethan waves a hand in the air as he retreats. “I’m on it.”
Someone knocks on the side door to the study. “Come,” the President shouts.
The door swings open.
“Well, if it’s not the First Husband come to visit.”
Sean Drummond shoots his wife the finger as he walks across the office, taking a seat next to the desk. “You know how much I hate that fucking title?”
President Drummond laughs. “I know, but jeez, it sure gets you riled up.”
“The press needs to come up with something else. First Husband is such a pussified title.”
The President reaches out to take her husband’s hand. “First Lover?”
He opens her hand and strokes her palm with his thumb. “Too personal. I prefer Mr. President.”
“I believe that’s my title.”
“No, you’re Madam President. Nothing wrong with mister for me.”
The two laugh. “So what brings you to the Oval, Mr. President?”
Sean Drummond is a tall, well-groomed man, who wears the same size suit coat he wore his senior year of college, size 44 extra long. He releases his wife’s hand and leans back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other while running a hand through his mane of silver hair. An attorney by trade, he gave up practicing when he and his wife moved into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“How bad is it going to get?”
“It’s already bad. We’re in disastrous territory at the moment.”
“How so?”
“Well, let’s see.” She holds up her hand and begins counting off fingers. “Two towns have been wiped off the map. Half of the Midwest is already without power, and no one has a clue when the power might be restored. Ash is already playing havoc and the larger eruption hasn’t even happened yet . . . Want me to continue?”
“No, I think I get the gist of it. Let me guess. You’re being blamed for it?”
President Drummond fakes being surprised. “How did you know? The spin doctors on Fox News are all over my ass for not having the country prepared.”
“Hell, you can’t prepare for a natural disaster on this scale.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” The President leans forward in her chair, propping her elbows on her desk. “I’m worried about what’s yet to come, Sean.”
“The larger eruption?”
“That’s one part of it, but we’re already in deep shit. We could be facing famine on a global scale.” She traces the wood grain of the desk with a fingernail bitten to the quick. “Some estimates suggest as many as a billion deaths worldwide.”
Sean Drummond reaches for his wife’s hand again. “We can’t control what might happen. All we can do is worry about the here and now. You’re only one woman, Saundra.”
“No, Sean, I’m the President of the United States. And that comes with a mountain of responsibilities. Solving the nation’s problems is in my job description.”
“Congress is supposed to play an equal role.”
“The Senate could spend a month arguing over where to set the thermostat and still not come up with an acceptable answer. And the House would do the same, except take longer doing it. Congress is dysfunctional, Sean.”
“You can’t solve the world’s problems by yourself.”
“No, but I’m expected to lead the charge. And I will. I just wish I knew which direction to go.”
“I’m here as a resource.”
She covers his hands with hers. “I know you are, sweetie. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, but I don’t want to overburden you with my job. I’m the one who got us in this mess.”
“No, Saundra, the decision was mutual. I’m here, but I’m not going to step on your toes.”
Ethan enters the office. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here, sir.”
“It’s okay, Ethan, I’m leaving.” Sean stands and leans over to kiss his wife. “I’m here if you need me.”
“Thank you. Now scoot. You taking command of the kitchen to make dinner?”
“I am. I discovered an old Julia Child cookbook in the library. Be ready for the finest of French cuisine.”
President Drummond blows her husband a kiss. “Pick a nice wine from the cellar to pair with it.”
“Already done.” He waves toward Ethan. “You’re invited to join us if you wish.”
“Thank you, sir, but I think your wife gets her fill of me during working hours.”
Sean slips through the door and closes it behind him as the President turns to Ethan. “Where are we on evacuations?”
“The governors of Wyoming, Montana, and Colorado have issued evacuation orders for their entire states. Other governors in the nearby states are keeping a close eye on the situation.”
President Drummond pushes out of her chair and walks over to the window. “Where in the world are we going to put all these people, Ethan?”
“Schools, churches, or any vacant buildings for now. The Red Cross and other charities are mobilizing. But I’m afraid the situation could become untenable.”
“Temporary housing moves to the top of the to-do list. I want a plan and I want it yesterday.”
Ethan leans against the desk and sighs. “The team is already hard at work on viable options.”
“Good. Is there any good news?”
“Other than the fact that the rest of the volcano hasn’t yet erupted, no.”
The telephone trills and Ethan leans over to punch the speaker button.
The President’s secretary says, “Ma’am, Secretary Edmonds is on line two.”
“Thank you, Helen,” the President says. “Put it on speaker, Ethan.”
Ethan punches off and hits line two.
“What’s the latest, Henry?” President Drummond asks as she walks back to her desk and sags into her chair.
“The ash is already having a major impact.”
The President leans forward. “How so?”
“Well, ma’
am, only about a third of the winter wheat has been harvested due to recent rainfall. Most of the remaining crops in the upper Midwest are now buried by the ash. The same goes for the spring wheat, soybeans, and about every other agricultural crop in the Midwest. The death toll for livestock is already on the uptick and the worst hasn’t even hit yet.”
President Drummond twists her wedding band around her finger. “Any chance we can import some grain?”
“Not likely. China produces about eighteen percent of the world’s wheat, but they still need imports to satisfy their growing population. Canada’s in the same boat we’re in. Unfortunately, ma’am, the U.S. is the largest exporter of wheat in the world, and those countries we export to are also going to be in a world of hurt.”
“My main focus is this country, Henry. There have to be other viable alternatives.”
“If there are, I’m not seeing them, ma’am. The entire Ag Department is searching for possible solutions, but we can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip, ma’am.”
President Drummond thumbs a tight spot on her neck. “Can we import livestock, Henry?”
“We can, ma’am, but we’d have to cut through about a mile of red tape.”
“I’m your cutter, Henry. Tell me what I need to do.”
“I’ll have staff put together a plan.”
“Do it quickly, Henry.”
“I’m on it, Madam President. I’ll have something by the end of the day.”
President Drummond reaches over and disconnects the call. “What are the death toll estimates so far, Ethan?”
“I don’t have the latest numbers, ma’am, but it’s north of ten thousand. And those are only taking into account the plane crashes and those deaths around the Yellowstone National Park area. I expect the numbers to grow significantly as the situation worsens.”
President Drummond stands and begins to pace. “I know we’ve started evacuations but there has to be more we can do.”
“I think we’re doing everything we can humanly do, Madam President.”
She stops and turns to her aide and confidant. “It’s not going to be enough, is it?”
CHAPTER 63
