by Linda Jacobs
DEDICATION:
This book is dedicated to the men and women who have
devoted their lives, and risked them, to study the
deadly potential of modern volcanoes.
And always, to Richard.
Published 2006 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2006 by Linda Jacobs
Cover Illustration by Adam Mock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
I am particularly indebted to Robert Smith and his Utah Seismic Stations at the University of Utah and must note that none of my characters represent anyone there. I thank Marcos Alvarez of the IRIS/PASSCAL Instrument Lab in Socorro, NM, for information on seismic equipment and the life, Patrick Matheny, Yellowstone National Park Naturalist, for the park tour, and Dr. Lee Whittlesley, of the Yellowstone archives, for showing me around on my several visits there.
As my experience with volcanoes has been on those that are dormant, I untilized the following sources to provide insight into live ones: Surviving Galeras by Stanley Williams and Fen Montaigne (Houghton Mifflin, 2001,) Volcano Cowboys by Dick Thompson (St. Martin’s Press, 2000,) and Volcanoes: Crucibles of Change by Richard V. Fisher, Grant Heiken, and Jeffrey B. Hulen (Princeton University Press, 1997.)
Though I have tried to remain true to fact wherever possible, I have created a fictitious mountain named Nez Perce Peak and a world in which my characters alone take on the challenge of an erupting volcano, while park brass and geologists from all over the world sit on the sidelines. In truth, Yellowstone Park Management, USGS, and Utah Seismic Stations are aware of the hazards. In an emergency, teams of scientists would be deployed anywhere in the world.
Thanks to my agent Susan Schulman, my publisher Medallion Press, and to the following for giving critical input on all or part of the manuscript: Stephen Harrigan, Sarah Bird, Robert Vaughan, Michael Garrett, Jim Harris, Evan Fogelman, Marjorie Arsht, Kathryn Brown, Judith Finkel, Bob Hargrove, Elizabeth Hueben, Karen Meinardus, the late Joan Romans, and Jeff Theall.
Table of Contents
Foreward
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter-Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Epilogue
FOREWORD
We can only guess whether the geologic warnings would be adequate to prompt the evacuation of Yellowstone and surrounding areas and towns to prevent the instantaneous loss of thousands and perhaps tens of thousands of lives.
Devastation would be complete and incomprehensible at the caldera. Imagine Yellowstone Park and everything in it destroyed. Every road, every lodge, every campground, every visitor center, every geyser and scenic feature would either be blown instantly off the face of the Earth or swallowed as the floor of the caldera sank downward during the eruption …
We can only speculate on the disaster that society would face during a Yellowstone caldera eruption. As unlikely as such gargantuan explosions seem in our lifetimes, they have happened before and will occur again.
From Windows into the Earth: The Geologic Story of Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks by Robert B. Smith and Lee J. Siegel, copyright 2000 by Robert B. Smith and Lee J. Siegel. Used by permission of Oxford University Press.
PROLOGUE
AUGUST 17, 1959
Hebgen Lake, Montana
Kyle Stone turned six the night the mountain fell.
In later years, she would treasure the last perfect hours, seeking comfort in the simple details. Sunlight dazzling on water, the way the Madison River shot quicksilver past Rock Creek Campground. Dappled shade and a secret pool where she caught her first trout with only a little help from Dad. Mingled aromas, pine and campfire smoke, while Kyle’s fish sautéed in an iron skillet. She even got to help stir German chocolate cake batter.
While the sun sank on her birthday, Kyle watched her mother light the Coleman lantern and suspend it from a branch above the picnic table.
“Mom?” Sitting on a rough bench with her legs dangling, she tried to imagine being able to reach the lamp. “When I grow up will I be tall like you?”
“We’ll find out together.” Rachel Stone, with the graceful body of a willow sapling, snugged an arm around Kyle. The sleeves of her flower-sprigged cardigan did not quite cover her fine-boned wrists.
Daniel Stone, a rugged carpenter whose hands could span his daughter’s waist, marched into camp and dropped an armload of firewood next to the tent. Max, the family Golden Retriever, followed with his plumed tail high.
After Kyle’s ceremonial dinner, buttery trout and potatoes baked in the coals, Dad lit the candles on her cake. He and Mom joined in an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday” while Max yodeled along. People in a nearby campsite took up the refrain; someone strummed a guitar.
Amid applause, Kyle stared at her flickering symbols. Then she drew a big breath, blew out the flames atop five wax tapers and paused to study the one that was new this year.
She pursed her lips but stopped when Max jumped up and bared his teeth. With his ruff standing on end, he stared out beyond the circle of lantern light.
“What’s out there, boy?” Dad set his mug on the ground and pushed up from his camp chair. “Smell a bear?”
Goose bumps raised on Kyle’s thin arms. She looked for telltale eyes, a bear or the big bad wolf, though Dad had told her there were no wolves here anymore. Max paced the camp perimeter with a wary eye while her si
xth candle guttered out.
Though Dad relit it, and Mom served cake topped by the piercing sweet of coconut caramel, the dog’s continued disquiet made Kyle uneasy. After a bit, Dad ordered Max to a place near the fire and gathered her into his lap.
Gradually, the campground quieted. The guitar player put aside his instrument and everyone succumbed to the effect of the diamond-clear evening. The moon sailed from behind a shoulder of mountain. First, a crescent edge, then half a coin; finally a faultless disk emerged to shine upon the forest glen.
Kyle pressed her cheek against the comforting scratchiness of Dad’s wool shirt and struggled to stay awake for all of her birthday. Yet, she must have dozed, for when she opened her eyes the fire had reduced to translucent crimson fragments. The moon rode cold and high amidst a sprinkling of heaven’s brightest stars.
Her father followed her gaze to the sky. “I make it around eleven-thirty.”
“Time for bed.” Mom’s lips pressed warm on Kyle’s cheek, a hint of Breck shampoo wafting from burnished dark hair that matched her daughter’s.
“Can’t I stay up until midnight?” Kyle entreated.
Mom wagged a slender finger adorned with a turquoise-and-silver ring. “You’ve already been asleep for over an hour.”
“But I just …”
Swinging Kyle to his shoulders with a chuckle, Dad carried her toward the Rambler station wagon where she
and Max slept. Moonlight cast shadows at odds with the lantern, making her feel like she did when she twirled around too much.
Dad placed her on the blankets, and she smiled up into eyes the same green-blue as hers, turned down a bit at the outer edges. His soft brown beard brushed her cheek and he whispered, “Happy Birthday.”
Frozen forever in memory, that was the last perfect moment.
A hard jolt struck. It brought her father to his knees behind the Rambler’s tailgate.
Impossibly, the car seemed to drop, while Kyle’s stomach swooped like she was on a Ferris wheel. The sensation was of a long fall, but it couldn’t have been a second before the wagon bottomed with a jerk. It no sooner landed than it leaped and started jouncing as if a pair of giants jumped on the bumpers.
Max crouched but lost his balance. Dad made it up only to stagger and fall again. The lantern’s wild arc threw erratic shifting shadows.
Kyle didn’t know how to pray, only the ones that started ‘Now I Lay Me …’ and ‘Our Father …’ She cried into the night, “God, make it stop.”
The ground rolled in waves. Braced in the back of the Rambler, she cracked her head on the side window and started to sob.
Dad was back on his feet, arms extended for her. She scrabbled toward the tailgate.
A rough wall of dirt heaved between them, a black ditch opening at the base of the scarp, deeper and wider than she was tall.
“Daddy!” she shouted into the rising thunder coming from earth rather than sky. The bucking ground threatened to throw her off the tailgate into the crevasse.
Pines as thick as Kyle began to whip as though their trunks would snap. The motion added an eerie howl to the din. Down the canyon, a grinding roar increased.
She looked for the place she’d last seen her mother.
“Mommy,” she screamed, a raw ripping in her throat.
The lantern went out.
“Please, God.” She prayed to wake in warm arms by the fire. They’d eat birthday cake and laugh because she’d dreamed this world turned upside down.
In the next instant, a great banshee howl struck and extinguished the brave blazes in the campground. At the same time, something black, immense and terrible bore down from the mountain. Kyle watched in horror as it blotted out the moon, leaving the most profound darkness she had ever known.
CHAPTER ONE
SEPTEMBER 10
Salt Lake City
In the basement hallway of the Utah Institute, Dr. Kyle Stone opened a door and stared into blackness. It was only ten feet to the seismograph lab’s light switch, but darkness took her back.
With clammy palms, she contemplated. Go watch coffee brew and wait for another early riser? Easy enough, but if she tried it too often someone might figure out she was afraid. Poised on the threshold, she heard from within the unmistakable scratch of a match. In the room’s depths, a single point of light flared.
“Somebody there?” The raspy voice of Institute Director Stanton Jameson and the rose circlet of his cigarette reassured her.
Nearly thirty years ago, when Kyle arrived at Utah with all her possessions crammed into a rusting Pinto, Professor Stanton had been a lifesaver. His answer to her query about student housing had been to phone his wife to make up their guest room. Four years later, when Kyle completed her Ph.D., she was still boarding in their home.
“Who is that?” This time something querulous in Stanton’s tone alarmed her.
With three long strides, she reached the light switch.
Flooded with fluorescence, the Institute’s nerve center lay revealed. Triple banks of seismographs tracked Earth’s pulse, their pens tracing a record of crustal motion at remote stations all over the Mountain West. In this day of computers, there was something satisfying about the old-fashioned drum with a strip chart tracing.
Inhaling the familiar ink smell, Kyle checked out the data for Yellowstone Park and nearby Hebgen Lake. Parallel rows of straight lines meant all was quiet, but her scalp prickled.
She chalked it up to Stanton’s gray and disheveled appearance. He half-reclined on a faded plaid couch left behind by some graduate student, a cowlick in his faded umber hair. The furrows beside his mouth etched deeper than usual.
“What were you doing sitting in the dark?” She tried to keep alarm out of her voice.
“I’m … not sure. I believe I’ve been here … all night.”
Stanton was indeed dressed in the same gray suit and red tie he’d had on yesterday. Always a snappy dresser, he regularly gave Kyle a ration of grief over her workweek uniform, well-worn jeans and a pale blue cotton shirt rolled at the cuffs. Her excuse was that having grown to almost six feet, with her father’s height and her mother’s slender strength, her arms overshot most sleeves. With her dark hair pulled back from her oval face into a thick braid, she favored silver and turquoise accents that played up her exotic looks, a combination of Nez Perce, Tuscan, and central European ancestry.
This morning Stanton didn’t look up to giving her a hard time about anything.
“Are you all right?” She went and knelt beside the sofa, putting a hand on his. His flesh felt chilled, and her heart beat faster as she wondered if she should call for help.
“Don’t hover,” he ordered.
With reluctance, she drew back and watched him draw himself together, pulling in bits and pieces, a lolling leg here, a lazy arm there. Finally, he stood and dragged on his smoke, exhaling a small wreath.
Kyle fanned the cloud. That part of her past she’d managed to kick, but had no doubt she could be back to a pack a day in no time.
“Coffee?” she suggested.
“Caffeine,” Stanton said in a stronger voice.
Relieved, she walked with him toward the kitchen down a hall lined with maps of earthquake prone areas of the world. Once he was fully alert, they needed to talk about next Monday’s annual funding meeting. Although having a Consortium of the Institute, the National Park Service, and the United States Geological Survey brought valuable resources to earthquake and volcano research, Kyle dreaded the budgeting chaos.
In the kitchen lounge where a bulletin board advertised used textbooks, pizza delivery, and ‘roommates wanted,’ she passed a steaming cup into Stanton’s unsteady hands.
“Does Leila know where you’ve been all night?”
He looked confused, then brightened. “She called me on my cell. I told her I was too tired to drive safely.”
“You should go home for a shower and breakfast.”
“Soon as I finish my coffee.” Stanton nodded. “F
orty years and we’ve seldom spent a night apart.”
As Kyle studied him with a worried eye, he flipped on the TV he usually kept tuned to the stock market. Onscreen, Monty Muckleroy, a corpulent Los Angeles talk show host, sat on his signature, striped sofa. He faced a man with an aging hippie’s halo of curly hair.
“Well, I’m damned,” Kyle said. “It’s Brock Hobart.”
Fellow scientist Brock had developed a bit more salt than pepper in his hair in the years since she’d last seen him, but he looked as sure of himself as ever, going on national television in an academic uniform of tweed jacket over jeans. When she and Brock had worked together at USGS in Menlo Park, he’d seemed a regular guy. And though in recent years he had moved away from serious science toward the fringe, Kyle followed his earthquake predictions on the Web with the perverse fascination of a bird watching a cat approach.
“Come on, Brock,” Monty urged. “The audience is waiting for your latest prediction.”
The studio came alive with calls of “Yeah,” “All right,” and “What’s shakin’?”
Brock shot the camera a conspiratorial look. “There’s a reason I chose this morning to come on the show. With a full moon out there, we’ve got the earth, sun, and moon in alignment with Venus and Mars.”
“What does that mean?” Monty played the straight man.
Kyle knew what it meant. Gravitation fields were at a maximum, making for the largest tides in years. Sometimes it did seem that more earthquakes happened under these conditions, but she wouldn’t have stuck her neck out like she assumed Brock was about to do.
