Out of Crisis

by Richard Caldwell

  Melissa thrust her hand out to David. With a grip reflecting a passion for physical fitness and belying her external femininity, she shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Secretary. Thank you for carving out some time to meet with us. It’s an honor to have you here at the Farm.”

  “The honor is all mine, Melissa. Please call me David. If I’m not mistaken, my wife and I met you during a cocktail party not long ago. A fundraiser at George Washington University, as I recall.”

  Melissa smiled, obviously flattered by the recognition. “You have an impressive memory, David. Especially considering the number of hands you must shake each day.”

  His memory was less impressive than she gave him credit for. It hadn’t been just any run-of-the-mill fundraiser where David had first met Melissa. She was one of five honorees who were being recognized for their contributions to both the healthcare field and humanitarian work. More than just a pretty face, Melissa Gibson was a point shy of being a medical legend.

  David knew her background well. She was in her late forties and widely regarded as downright brilliant. She was a PharmD—a doctor of pharmacy‍—by training and had single-handedly developed the code for what came to be known as a “medical laboratory on a chip,” or an MLOC.

  The medical laboratory test industry fought the MLOC with everything in their arsenal, including their influence over the Food and Drug Administration, the FDA. According to news reports, Judson recognized MLOC’s potential to improve medical treatment and reduce costs, especially in rural and underserved areas of the country. He brought his influence and that of the Bureau of Fiscal Service to bear on the federal approval process. The FDA approved it in record time.

  Less than seven years later, Melissa had parlayed Spectral Medical into a multibillion-dollar operation. On its tenth anniversary, she took the company public. Her holdings and continued investments in the company made her one of the one-hundred-wealthiest people in the United States.

  Judson nudged David down the veranda to the next person in line, a man in his early sixties. Of average height, he was dressed in a black short-sleeved Jockey T-shirt, Levi’s, and leather docksiders. He had a nondescript, easy-to-forget face‍—until David looked into his eyes. They burned with an intensity projecting pure intelligence and a passion knocking on maniacal.

  “David, this is Elton Kirby, next up for the Envision-2100 president’s position and a guy who gets almost as much social media airtime as POTUS.” Judson chuckled. “Elton is one of the founding members of our group and one of the first ‘techno-philanthropists,’ to use a term coined by Peter Diamandis in his book Abundance.”

  From the near-constant barrage of news shorts, David knew that Elton, the only African American member of the board, was a multibillionaire whose work was of enormous benefit around the globe. Like Melissa, his wealth had its genesis in software development. Using a loan from his Ugandan-born father, Elton and his future wife, Marie, had developed an artificial-intelligence, or AI, system that could gather, analyze, and store bitstream-level internet and voice-communication traffic. They subsequently sold the software, upgrades, and support to the National Security Administration (NSA) for a reputed seven billion dollars to be paid over five years.

  Unlike Melissa, Elton then started one company after another without any apparent business or product-line strategy. Most notably, Elton and Marie spearheaded the invention of a radically new technique for underwater communication that eliminated the need for unwieldy, point-to-point cables, acoustic signals, and radio waves. His process mimicked the way information in the brain traveled from neuron to neuron across a synapse. Small electrical devices served as neurons and transmitted or received signals through minerals in seawater. The US Navy classified the system, dubbed the Kirby Axon, as top secret. They entered into an exclusive twenty-year agreement to lease it for use on the navy’s nuclear submarine fleet.

  Following that success, Elton ventured into undersea mining. Through his startup Blue Midas, Inc., he used the Kirby Axon to remotely control undersea drones. Those drones drew a variety of minerals from hydrothermal vents located thousands of meters under the Pacific Ocean. Nimble and relatively inexpensive, the drones didn’t upset the seabed or generate thousands of gallons of sediment-laden wastewater, which was characteristic of legacy mining equipment. Environmentally friendly methods allowed Blue Midas to obtain exclusive mining rights to highly productive seabeds controlled by the Papua New Guinea government, creating profit for Elton and a flourishing economy for Papua New Guinea.

  Elton Kirby was like a god in that tiny, dirt-poor country, David mused.

  Judson continued his introduction: “Elton is also one of the most, shall we say, outspoken members of Envision-2100. He has a bizarre following out there who are ready to pounce on anything he says or does regardless of his intentions. But we love him.”

  David recalled one incident where the public pounded Elton. He had paid to have public wells constructed near a dozen villages in Uganda. Rather than garnering applause, his deed was tarnished by a vocal few who accused him of grandstanding.

  David shook Elton’s hand firmly. “Elton, although we’ve never met, I want to say how much I’ve grown to admire you and your efforts. Despite criticism from the peanut gallery, your work and your philanthropic efforts are outstanding.”

  Elton smiled graciously. “David, that’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. It’s easy to see how you became our secretary of state. You must have a black belt in diplomacy.”

  “Not at all, Elton. I tend to call them like I see them.”

  Gently grasping David’s elbow, Judson steered him past Melissa and Judson to a familiar-looking man in his seventies who was about the same height as David, just shy of six feet. He had a head full of slate-gray, razor-cut hair, and the build of a running back.

  David, this is Nelson Teal,” Judson said. “Unlike Melissa and Elton, and like myself, he doesn’t fall into the techno-philanthropist box. He made his money the old-fashioned way: he stole it.”

  The others standing on the veranda burst into laughter, including Nelson.

  “I’m glad to meet you in person, David.” An openly mischievous smile crept across Nelson’s face. He slapped David on the shoulder. As they shook hands, David felt an instant bond spark between them.

  “We’ve had our eye on you ever since your predecessor, Bulldog Pitts, had that cardiac meltdown. Don’t go getting all swelled up or anything, but as far as I’m concerned, you are about the only Washington bureaucrat that I’ve seen in a long while who’s worth a shit.”

  David chuckled. “Thank you, Nelson. I’ll keep a lid on my ego; it’s way too early in my career to let it boil over. Let me volley a compliment right back at you. I’ve read your biography, and I couldn’t help being impressed with your business acumen. But the story about you and the OU cheerleaders cracked me up. Is it true?”

  Nelson offered a toothy grin. “Let’s just say it’s based on fact. I’m not sure it was a good idea to put that out there for the whole world to see, but, what the hell, everyone who knows me knows I’ll never be canonized—even if I was Catholic, which I’m not.”

  Another round of hearty laughter swept across the veranda.

  “Besides,” Nelson continued, “at this stage of my life, I’ve got nothing to lose. And to be honest with you, David, the cheerleader thing is a long way from the worst of my transgressions. But I’ll guarantee you’ll never see any of those in print.” He winked.

  In David’s mind, Nelson Teal personified the “Will Rogers, Okie from Muskogee,” “good ol’ country boy” image. The cheek-to-cheek smile on his face hinted at a rare combination of honesty and humor. From reading Nelson’s biography, David knew he was the sole heir to a fortune his father had grown by taking a small-town grocery store to a nationwide giant—the largest retail chain in the United States. Nelson assumed command
after his father retired and expanded the business into Canada and Mexico and overseas.

  Despite its financial success, the employment opportunities it provided to local populations, and the taxes it paid wherever it went, the company was seldom shown in a positive light. More often than not, it was portrayed as being just short of evil, a big company driving the mom-and-pops out of business. The older Nelson got, the more this perception bothered him, and when Judson approached him to become part of the Envision-2100 movement, he leaped at the opportunity.

  David looked from Nelson to the slim, towering man standing next to him.

  “Ah, here we go, David. Last but certainly not least is our token politician, champion tree hugger, and the all-around good guy of the group, Milton Freeman. Milt is a lawyer by training and keeps the board more or less in line when our conversation starts touching on the Constitution or, as you will soon see, the Federal Election Commission. Milt, direct from the Foggy Bottom section of your former stomping grounds, the secretary of state of the good ol’ US of A, David Stakley.”

  Grasping David’s hand in his massive paw, Milt said, “Mr. Secretary, let me add my thanks to your gracious acceptance to join us today.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” David replied. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Milt. Your reputation precedes you.”

  Milt “the Stilt” Freeman, a popular four-term senator from Connecticut, had made an unsuccessful run for president on the Democratic ticket while David was in the army and stationed in Korea. Although relatively civil at the candidate level compared to previous campaigns, the party-level infighting was nothing short of slanderous. Even with the growing use of biometric and password-protected computerized voting machines, there were accusations of fraud and hacking, later proven to be false.

  The election results were historically close. Freeman won the popular vote, but for the second time in the twenty-first century, a majority elected candidate lost the Electoral College count. The Democrats were outraged and called for nationwide strikes and protests. Freeman, who had refused to make or support any negative comments, commercials, or social media ads throughout the campaign, would have none of it. Instead, he graciously conceded to the legally elected Republican candidate. He began transitioning into the political shadows and immersing himself in his passion for protecting the environment.

  Milt was the only member of the Envision-2100 board who hadn’t cracked the billion-dollar barrier as far as David knew. He had married rich, and his wife, Camille, had inherited a fortune that allowed Milt to follow his political ambitions without ever having to actually practice law. It also gave Milt and Camile the freedom to devote themselves full time to their environmental protection efforts. Camile was as passionate as Milt about their various “save the planet” causes, which frequently made the news.

  Milt interrupted David’s thoughts: “I’m so hungry my stomach feels like my throat’s been cut. Let’s go inside and grab lunch. I think you’ll be pleased and impressed by what you’ll learn about Envision-2100, David. I’m confident you will be excited about the proposal we have in store for you. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” He nodded at the door. “I hope you don’t mind if we make this a working lunch. We have a lot of ground to cover, and if we’re going to get you back to DC before dark, we don’t have any time to waste.”

  “I’m fine with that,” David replied.

  Milt nodded. “Good. I’ve been drafted to facilitate our discussion and keep things on track. But as you will soon see, the rest of these folks will jump in with both feet when something touches their hot button.”

  With that, Milt ushered the group through the veranda door and into a new chapter in both David’s life and the history of the United States.

  David just didn’t know that yet.

  5

  Salt Lake City

  Two days before the day of

  For the sixth day in a row, Dr. Roland King hunched his lean, six-foot frame over his desk at the University of Utah Seismograph Station, fixated on his array of monitors. The tracing pen on the San Andreas Fault seismic monitor twitched. Its movements had been getting stronger and more erratic on what appeared to be some yet-to-be-determined cycle. A small bounce at first, then a straight line marking no activity for seven hours. Another jump, a fraction of a second longer in duration, followed by a six-hour, forty-minute lull. Then rinse and repeat.

  With each round, the cycle grew longer and the intensity, as measured by the Richter scale, got a bit stronger. There was some type of Fibonacci number pattern at play. Something he had never seen in all his years of needle watching.

  He clicked his ballpoint pen repeatedly, deep in thought. If he could determine the frequency, he might be able to develop an earthquake prediction model, the holy grail of his science. That would guarantee his name on a brick at the University of California, Berkley, School of Earth and Planetary Science. However, it wasn’t the allure of academic fame that kept Roland glued to his monitor this morning. There was another phenomenon at play. And it sent shivers up his spine.

  This was the moment he’d been waiting for since he was thirteen and decided, thanks to his parents, that he wanted a career in seismology. While on a caravan tour of Costa Rica with his parents and older sister, he had stood on the rim of the Poás volcano’s main crater and listened to his Costa Rican tour guide describe the Ring of Fire. The tour included side trips to the national park surrounding the Poás volcano, followed by a four-hour drive and an overnight stay in the district of La Fortuna in the northwestern part of the country.

  In the center of La Fortuna sat the gigantic, cone-shaped Arenal Volcano and its hundreds of magma-heated springs. In 1968, after lying dormant for hundreds of years, Arenal experienced a violent, unanticipated eruption that buried several nearby villages and killed nearly one hundred inhabitants.

  It was during a tour guide discussion while viewing the main Poás crater that Roland first learned about what is commonly known as the Pacific Ring of Fire. Nearly 90 percent of the world’s earthquakes occur somewhere along the Ring of Fire, which extends from the Kermadec Trench, east of New Zealand, to Java, then up the coast of Asia. From there, it travels through the Aleutian Trench to Alaska and all along the west shores of North, Central, and South America.

  Roland glanced at a Ring of Fire map on his wall to the right of the monitors. Nearly five hundred active and dormant volcanoes and continuously shifting tectonic plates were included. The wonderfully dangerous natural phenomenon, its aura and scientific mystery, still fascinated him.

  Roland was twenty-six by the time he had earned his BS and MS and completed the coursework and research required for his PhD from the University of California, Berkeley. In retrospect, he knew that he had decided on his PhD dissertation, or at least part of it, on that tour with his family.

  While pursuing his master’s, Roland had convinced himself that the Ring of Fire sat atop a contiguous stream of magma, plumes of molten rock that continually rose from the earth’s core and flowed through the mantle, just below the crust. He theorized that this river was confined by the oceanic and continental plates, and it lay much closer to the earth’s upper mantle than previously thought. Documenting and attempting to prove this theory became an obsession that naturally evolved into the topic of his PhD dissertation. The mathematical model Roland developed to support his “rising magma plume” theory while conducting the research also led him to a serendipitous discovery. If his model was correct, it provided geometrical proof that the magma plume and concomitant changes in the earth’s mantle contributed to a recently discovered, ever-increasing wobble to Earth’s rotation axis.

  Roland was ecstatic. So much so that he decided to incorporate both theories into his dissertation. That was a risky proposition, but if accepted, it could guarantee him a footnote in some never-to-be-read Journal of Geophysics article. Nerds lived for such obscure notoriety, and if there was
one thing that Roland knew for sure, it was that he was the crown prince of nerds‍—not just an athletic body and a pretty face.

  In addition to his advisor, there were four other people on Roland’s PhD committee, each with theories on magma flow and tectonic plate movement that did not align with his. However, his dissertation presentation was so convincing that he received a standing ovation at its conclusion. Since UC Berkeley did not award Latin honors to graduate or doctoral students, this was as close to summa cum laude as Roland could expect. It gave him the support he needed to pursue his mission.

  Roland’s eyes flew between two of the four monitors attached to his desktop computer. He clicked his pen. The monitors were controlled by programs that reported measurements from remote seismic detectors.

  Every time the San Andreas monitor needle had twitched over the last seventy-plus hours, the indicator on the Cascadia Subduction Zone, CSZ, moved as well. By now, they were in virtual lockstep. There appeared to be a shrinking seventy-minute-or-so separation. The CSZ activity wasn’t as intense at first, but it grew stronger with each cycle. The most troubling observation was that the CSZ tremors seemed to be waking up sleeping giants. Both Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens had started rumbling. That was not a good sign.

  The CSZ started just north of Vancouver Island, in Canada, and ran almost seven hundred miles south, past Mendocino, California, making it the most extensive fault line in the Northern Hemisphere. And that was just what could be sensed and mapped by the North American Geological Society’s equipment. Scientists believed that the San Andreas and CSZ were independent fault lines with no physical connections.

  They were wrong.