Out of Crisis

by Richard Caldwell

  When he returned, Judy and the twins had finished donning their towel masks and were making their way outside to pee. Once they’d finished and everyone was back in the truck, Jeremy opened the driver’s door and tossed the food and canteens onto the storage console. He then reached down to the lower left side of the dash and tugged back on the hood latch.

  From her position in the passenger seat, Judy gave Jeremy a puzzled look. “Is something wrong with the truck?”

  “Well, let’s see. The sky seems to be falling, the ground takes a leap every five minutes, and we can’t see more than twenty feet in front of us,” Jeremy replied. “Other than that, things are peachy. But it dawned on me that if this stuff makes it hard for us to breathe, it’s doing the same thing to the truck”‍—he held up the pillowcase‍—“so I’m making it a mask.”

  Taking the pillowcase by its open end, Jeremy stretched it over the F-250’s air filter, then knotted the bottom to keep it tight and away from the engine block. He then closed the hood and got back into the truck.

  “So, for the benefit of those of us who aren’t mechanics, elaborate . . . smartass,” Judy said.

  “I more or less added another external filter to keep the ash from clogging up the air intake, or at least keep it from getting any worse than it already is. If air can’t get into the intake manifold, the engine chokes and dies. If the engine chokes and dies, well, you get the picture. Anyway, the pillowcase will keep the ash out for a little longer. At least until the stuff sticks to it as well. Then we replace the dirty one with the one from your side of the bed.”

  “I’m impressed that you still have your sense of humor, but I’m glad you do. It will help keep our minds off the shitstorm we’re in.” Judy glanced into the back seat. “Oops, pardon my French, girls. I guess I owe you one, but wait until you turn eighteen to collect.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  Jeremy put the truck in gear and slowly, carefully pulled back onto US 191. They continued south at a rate that barely registered on the speedometer. At least they were moving away from the volcano. Surely either they would get out from under the ash cloud soon or seasonal winds would blow it off them, toward the mountains to their east.

  Jeremy simply couldn’t comprehend the size and scope of the disaster that loomed over him and his family. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

  With the day’s excitement, Jeremy’s body had dumped a load of adrenaline, and he knew he was starting to physically crash and burn. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The twins were sitting up but slumped together, fast asleep. He glanced at his wife. Judy’s eyes fell closed, her head bobbed, and her eyes popped open again. Not alert, but awake and doing her best to help watch the road.

  They would have to stop soon and get a couple of hours of sleep. But visions of a rooftop in Pompeii collapsing from the weight of five feet of pumice kept him going. At least for a little longer. They crept through the Moran Entrance on the southern border of the park. Jeremy knew there was a ranger station somewhere off to his left, but he couldn’t see the building, and there were no lights or activity. Of course there wouldn’t be: the rangers were long gone, or so he hoped for their sake.

  After inching along for another hour, they came to an intersection. Jeremy had memorized the map, which wasn’t all that difficult given the absence of towns and roads in this area. US Route 287/26 to his left would take them over the mountains and almost due east. Continuing on US 191, to his right, would take them southwest toward Jackson Hole, forty miles away. Going through Jackson Hole would be the safest choice.

  Jeremy turned right.

  The ash kept falling, but Judy was the first to notice that there seemed to be less of the course-grained pumice peppering the truck. “It looks like either the deep-earth ejecta is tapering off or we are finally moving out of the heavy stuff. This is almost all ash. Just an observation; I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “Yeah, me neither, but it’s reassuring to know that you’re awake enough to notice. I’m telling you, babe, we’ve been up and going for a long time. That plus the shear stress is starting to kick my ass. I can barely keep my eyes open. The Elk Ranch Flats Turnout shouldn’t be too much farther down the road.” Jeremy yawned, then shook his head. “When we get there, I’m going to pull in the parking lot and get some sleep.”

  “Totally agree. I’d offer to drive, but I can barely make vowel sounds. It will be daylight in a couple of hours. It won’t make much difference, visibility-wise, but a couple of hours of sleep will help keep us between the ditches.”

  The falling ash seemed to grow thicker as they continued. Jeremy recalled that this section of 191 was reasonably straight. This was a blessing since, in his current state of exhaustion, he was nowhere near vigilant enough to negotiate the hairpin turns and switchbacks he would have encountered on the eastern route had they turned left at the Moran Entrance.

  Despite the relative safety of this section of the highway, they passed several wrecked and abandoned vehicles. Jeremy stayed in what he thought was the middle of the road. The lines had long since disappeared, buried under what he estimated to be ten inches of ash‍—and growing deeper every second.

  He had lost his sense of time, but finally, after what seemed like hours, Judy pointed out a sign: Elk Ranch Flats Turnout, 500 feet. It was barely visible even though it was mounted less than twenty feet from the side of the highway. Regardless, it lifted their spirits, even if only a little bit. At least they could get some sleep, and once the sun came up, see what daylight would bring. Jeremy subconsciously increased the speed of the truck.

  Ten minutes later, the turnout entrance appeared on the right. Jeremy eased the F-250 into the turnout’s abandoned parking lot. He really couldn’t tell if anyone else was parked there or not. He couldn’t see another vehicle, but he didn’t hit anything, so as far as he was concerned, they were home free.

  After pulling forward a short distance, Jeremy stopped, put the transmission in park, and killed the engine.

  “Well, it’s not near as nice as Motel 6,” he said to Judy, “but it will do for now.” She was already sound asleep.

  Reaching to the left side of his seat, Jeremy pulled up on a lever and angled the seat back to an almost prone position. He couldn’t go all the way back without bumping Fiona’s knees, which he feared would wake her up.

  As Jeremy manipulated the seat, his right hand brushed against the butt of the .357 Magnum revolver that he kept tucked in a holster wedged next to the front console. Although neither he nor Judy was a gun enthusiast, by any stretch of the imagination, they both felt safer keeping one in each of their vehicles and at home. This decision came after burglars had murdered a young father in their neighborhood, then proceeded to brutally rape and repeatedly stab his wife and daughter. Despite their mutual misgivings, they bought three pistols and enrolled the twins in a firearms safety and training course.

  This morning Jeremy wasn’t worried about criminals or raging grizzlies, but for some reason, he did feel reassured. As it would turn out, his instincts were amazingly accurate.

  20

  Germantown, Maryland

  Two years before the day of

  David opened his eyes and looked at the clock next to his bed. It was five thirty. He never needed an alarm clock. Apparently, he was genetically wired to wake up within minutes of the time he set in his consciousness before he went to sleep. Something about his circadian rhythm. Kelly did not suffer from this affliction. Each night she would set the alarm to go off after he planned to get up. She was like that: always thoughtful and always thinking of him first.

  As he put on the robe he kept draped over a bedpost, and slipped on the houseshoes sitting next to his side of their California king, David mentally mapped out his plans for the day.

  The first order of business was his meeting with the POTUS. He wasn’t really sure what to expect, despite Judson’s as
surances. He had grown about as close to the president as you could get to someone in that position. Yet the man was sick, most likely in a lot of pain, and very possibly on the fringes of medication-induced confusion and an altered mental state.

  Then again, he could be perfectly normal, from a psychological perspective. Or as normal as you could be when you were standing toe-to-toe with the Grim Reaper. David had to prepare himself for either eventuality.

  As he started down the stairs to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee, the alarm clock started its opening notes, softly at first, then increasing in tone and tempo. That would be enough to rouse Kelly out of what was almost a coma. She loved to sleep. Years earlier, David had learned that life was a whole lot better if you weren’t anywhere in her vicinity for the first thirty minutes or so after she woke up.

  David made his way to the kitchen and hit the brew button on their Keurig. As was his practice, he had placed the Columbian Blend pod and his favorite cup in the machine the night before. He then walked to the front door and went outside to try to retrieve the day’s copy of the Post from wherever the delivery girl had thrown it as she whizzed past their house. He went back inside and laid the paper on the kitchen table. Typically he would have read most of it while he sipped his first cup of coffee. But not today. He would leave it there for Kelly while he got dressed and cleared his mind for his meeting with the POTUS.

  David took his cup from its place on the Keurig, put in a fresh pod for Kelly, and started back toward the bedroom. Kelly was stumbling down the stairs as he headed up. She groggily mumbled, “Good morning, dear,” as he moved aside to let her pass.

  It would be another fifteen minutes before she was ready to have a decent conversation. This was one of those mutual idiosyncrasies they had learned about each other early in their marriage.

  David put on a white Brooks Brothers shirt, a navy-blue Hart Schaffner Marx suit, and a red tie with old-style blue and gray stripes. He then slipped on his black Allen Edmonds oxfords, completing what was pretty much his Washington, DC, uniform. He didn’t vary his standard office dress very much except for a different color or pattern of his always bright but conservative tie. He went downstairs intending to retrieve his briefcase off the desk in his home office but then remembered he had left it in his real office in the Truman Building.

  He returned to the kitchen and walked up behind Kelly’s chair, put his hands on her shoulders, bent down, and kissed her cheek. “Good morning, gorgeous. Any earth-shattering headlines in the news this morning?”

  Kelly looked up from her newspaper and mustered an early-morning smile as David slipped another pod in the coffee maker. “Just the usual rhetoric from the ayatollah du jour, another singer that’s fucking everyone in LA, and a suspicious plane crash in Venezuela,” Kelly replied. “Business as usual. Things sure have calmed down since your old boss scrapped North Korea off the map and we got in bed with Russia and China. Oh, there was an article about Mark Littleton and the situation in the Mexican Yucatán Peninsula.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s been another kidnapping.”

  “Yep, some advertising exec’s wife. And things didn’t go so well. The Policia Federal Ministerial is reaching out to Mark to have the FBI assist with their investigation.”

  “Well, despite my confidence in Mark, I’m going to have to get involved in that mess ASAP. On the bright side, the Asian Independent Free Trade Union has turned out to be a real plum,” David said. “It’s starting to turn a profit, which means the United States, Korea, Russia, China, and our other shareholders are making money. The remaining North Koreans are happier than they have been in decades, and the three-nation arms race has tapered off to a walk. Now we can focus on feeding the planet’s eight billion bellies. And a couple million other global issues.”

  Kelly folded the paper, stood up, and gave David an I’m-awake-now-and-you’re-looking-damn-good kiss. “Well, honey, you can take credit for a good ninety percent of the AIFTU’s success since it was your brainchild. That’s evidenced by the fact that you’ve got a pack of heavy hitters begging you to run for president, not the other way around.”

  “You sweet talker, you!” David grinned. “I may have to tell the pilot not to get over ten thousand feet, or my head will explode. Of course, we will barely top two thousand between here and DC, so I guess I’m safe.”

  Just a few minutes later, as they were finishing their coffee and after David had wolfed down two bananas and a toasted bagel with cream cheese, the windows and kitchen dishes started to rattle.

  David glanced at his Apple Watch. It was 6:55. Through the kitchen window, he saw the AW160 glide in from the east, pivot, and drift down, tail wheel first, in his back yard. “It looks like my taxi is here. I hope the neighbors aren’t trying to sleep in. I’ll call you later today and let you know how things went with President Sheppard. Despite what Judson has told me, I am a little apprehensive. He could always change his mind about supporting me. Hell, he could be out of his mind by now, even though, according to Judson, he’s not going to do chemo. I guess I’ll have to wait and‍—‍”

  “Hush, David. Get your tight ass out the door, meet with the POTUS, and start thinking about who we’ll invite to the inauguration.”

  David started for the door, then turned around, kissed Kelly, and headed outside. She laughed and smacked him on his butt.

  It was only a twenty-six-mile flight from David’s house in Germantown to the State Department headquarters in the Harry S. Truman Federal Building in the Foggy Bottom section of Washington, DC. The offices wouldn’t officially open and support staff wouldn’t arrive until nine, but a maintenance and security skeleton crew worked twenty-four seven. As soon as they were airborne, David called the security office to let them know he was inbound and to have someone open the helipad access door on the roof. He was only mildly surprised to learn that the AW160 copilot had already made the call and had provided precise approach directions and landing times.

  It was almost eight o’clock by the time David made it through the labyrinth of the Truman Building’s hallways and to his office on the seventh floor. A small trash can was turned upside down on the center of his spotless desk. He and all senior State Department officers used this simple approach to ensure there were no loose or unaccounted-for documents available to prying eyes.

  As he removed the trash can and unlocked his desk, Trish, his administrative assistant, tapped on the frame of his open door. She entered the office carrying a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a folder in the other. “Good morning, Mr. Secretary. I trust you had a nice visit with Mr. Ballard and the Envision-2100 folks. You’ve upped your game when it comes to rubbing shoulders.”

  Trish set the coffee on David’s desk, then handed him a green manila folder and a sealed white envelope with TOP SECRET stamped across its front and back. “Here is yesterday’s PDB and a couple of documents that need your review and signature.” Trish placed both items in the center of David’s desk.

  The PDB, or the President’s Daily Brief, was a top-secret document prepared by the director of National Intelligence and provided to the POTUS, select senior officials, and Secretary-level cabinet posts. It summarized ultraclassified intelligence and information about covert operations directed by the CIA and other US and foreign agencies.

  The PDB was first produced at the direction of President John F. Kennedy in 1961 and made available to every subsequent president. The previous POTUS had the reading comprehension and attention span of a fifth-grader. Much to the chagrin of the administrative staff, he found the PDB boring and a waste of time.

  Immediately upon his election, President Sheppard began receiving the PDB electronically every day, and following his inauguration, via a face-to-face meeting six days a week.

  David scooted his chair a little closer to his desk and broke the seal of the white envelope containing the PDB. “Thank you, Trish, I should have just
enough time to scan the PDB and sign whatever you’ve got stashed in the Green Folder before I have to leave to meet with the POTUS. If I didn’t know you were as efficient as you are, I might be tempted to ask if you have my transportation arranged. But I know better, right?”

  “What? You have a meeting with the president this morning?” Trish asked, feigning surprise. She smiled. “Yes, sir, the driver will be here to escort you to the car at nine o’clock. That should get you to the House in time to hang around outside the Oval Office before your ten o’clock meeting with President Sheppard. Oh, I’ve already told the driver, but the chief of staff asked that you come in through the bathroom window.” Trish sounded puzzled.

  “Ah, of course,” David said. To “come in through the bathroom window” was code among insiders to use the lesser-known H Street entrance to the White House. The phrase was from an old Beatles song written by Paul McCartney. That entrance had been used for years by the Secret Service to steer clandestine visitors, or those the POTUS wished to shield from public exposure, to what was known as the “back door” of the White House. An inconspicuous but discreetly guarded alley off H Street wound between other federal buildings until it ended at the East Wing of the chief executive’s headquarters. President Sheppard would want to keep his meeting with David on the down-low, at least for now.

  “Sir?” Trish questioned.

  “Never mind, Trish. Thanks for the coffee. Let me know when the driver gets here. It’s easy to lose track of time when I’m reading the PDB.”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary.” Trish left the office, softly closing the door behind her. Thirty minutes later, she buzzed David on his intercom. “Sir, the driver is here and ready whenever you are.”