Out of Crisis

by Richard Caldwell

  21

  Station KIFI, Idaho Falls, Idaho

  22:48 the day of

  The KIFI News Team Six driver paused the game of solitaire on his office computer and answered his phone on the second ring. “KIFI Dispatch, Kevin speaking.”

  “Kevin, this is Martin. Throw the camera and all your shit in the satellite van. There’s a story breaking in Yellowstone, and it could be huge. We need to go to the West Yellowstone entrance. If we hurry, we might just beat the crew from Bozeman. Pick me up in front of the station. I have to grab a mic. Oh, and don’t forget your badge.”

  “I’ve got it around my neck, Scoop. I’ll be out front in thirty seconds.”

  Martin hit the “end call” icon on his phone, snatched his mic from its place on the wall, and stuffed them both into a canvas KIFI travel bag he kept under his desk. Moving as if his feet were on fire, he headed for the door leading to the station’s parking lot. He smiled at Kevin’s use of his nickname, “Scoop.” If this thing was anywhere near as big as he thought it was going to be based on what he’d heard on the scanner, it could get his foot in the door with some of the West Coast stations.

  Martin knew that he should call Micca Corbin, the station manager, and update her on what was without a doubt the biggest breaking news story since ever. But she’d be sound asleep at this time of night; otherwise, she would have already called him for a sitrep. Knowing her overachieving, type A personality, he suspected her alarm clock would go off between five and five thirty. That meant she would be blissfully unaware that nature had decided to wake up one of the only two supervolcanoes on the planet from its 650 million year nap. And she would be pissed!

  On the other hand, if he had called her when he got his first sniff of the story, she would most likely have brought in KIFI’s reporting A team and he would have been relegated to watching the story break from his apartment. No, he would wait until he and Kevin were past the point of no return, when they were far enough up the road that the bitch would have to let them run with the ball.

  It was a gamble he was willing to take. The worst case: Corbin would fire him from his dead-end cub-reporter job at a pissant television station, in a one-horse town, in fucking Idaho. But if he pulled this thing off, like he knew he was going to, he could leapfrog straight from being a nobody to the twenty-first century Walter Cronkite.

  Martin got to the parking lot just as Kevin pulled in. He jumped in the van, put his bag between his feet, and fastened his seat belt. “Drive it like you stole it, Kevin,” he growled. “For once, we’re gonna be the first on the scene.”

  “You got it, Scoop,” Kevin shot back. “Just hang on and don’t scream.”

  Kevin screeched out of the lot toward US 20 North. As he slowed without stopping at the first stop sign, Martin switched on the van’s scanner. There was hardly a break in the radio traffic. Having been monitoring KIFI’s scanner for over a year, Martin had learned to identify not only sources of communication, such as the Idaho Falls Police Department, but also many individual dispatchers, at least those on his shift.

  At this time of night, there was usually very little chatter. Just the occasional 10-66, suspicious person, or 10-70, prowler, coming from the old female sherrif’s department dispatcher. Martin had never seen her but had formed his own mental image of a chunky, bleached-blonde Marlboro smoker sitting behind a battered old radio with a tall aluminum microphone on a vinyl-covered ledge in front of her.

  Probably nothing like that at all. Over time Martin had formed a different mental picture for each of the regulars, and since they never used their own, he had given them names. The third shift operator at the sherrif’s department was Shirley. And she was busy tonight.

  There was almost no traffic on US 20 at this time of night, and with every on-duty law enforcement officer glued to their radios, Kevin was able to drive like the NASCAR racer he fantasized of being.

  “OK, Kevin, I’m trying not to scream, but damn! You do realize we’re not wearing helmets, and this thing doesn’t have roll bars.”

  Not taking his eye off the road, Kevin replied jokingly, “You said we wanted to be first on the scene, we’re gonna be first on the scene. Now quit nagging. If I’d wanted a wife, I would’ve ordered one from Amazon.”

  One hour and twenty minutes later, after passing through the Caribou-Targhee National Forest, the pair started seeing grains of ash and pumice falling through the beams of the van’s headlights. Just a smattering at first but getting noticeably thicker the farther north they drove. As they neared the intersection of US Route 20 and Idaho 87, the ashfall grew thick enough to seriously interfere with their visibility, and Kevin had to slow down well below the speed limit.

  It was here that they also started seeing the first of what would turn out to be a long string of vehicles heading in the opposite direction, each covered with a thick layer of glittery ash‍—and each with a shell-shocked look on the driver’s face when it was illuminated by the van’s headlights. Martin assumed they were fleeing the eruption.

  By the time they crossed into Montana from Idaho, the visibility was so poor that, despite the road being straight and flat, the van barely managed twenty miles an hour. By now, there was virtually no westbound traffic. Apparently, everyone who could have had evacuated the town of West Yellowstone. A sign just past the state line marker proclaimed, “Yellowstone National Park, 10 miles.”

  As they crept east toward the park entrance, Martin saw a red-orange glow on the horizon, even though it was hours before sunrise. Still-smoking boulders appeared every few hundred feet, as well as wrecked and abandoned cars and trucks. One late-model, jacked-up Jeep had managed to run off the road and hit dead center on a sign that read, “Entering Motor Vehicle Restricted Area.” Ironic. If he and Kevin hadn’t been in such a rush to get closer to the volcano, they would have stopped and filmed the wreckage. It would have made a catchy side note on the early-morning news.

  Martin looked at his watch. It was 2:48 a.m. He figured they couldn’t be over a couple of miles from the edge of West Yellowstone. Time to call the station manager, wake her ass up, and let her know that her newest star reporter was two miles west of a story that would have KIFI on national‍—no, international‍—headline news.

  Martin dug his company cell phone out of the travel bag sitting between his feet. “Siri, call Micca Corbin, mobile.” A second later, a familiar robotic voice responded: “Calling Micca Corbin, mobile.”

  Four rings later, a surprisingly alert-sounding voice blared, “This is Micca. Go!”

  Martin had never had an opportunity to call his boss’s boss before, and for just a second, he was taken aback by the sharp manner in which she answered the phone. But he wasn’t surprised. He got cold chills every time he encountered the woman. He had always thought she was a bitter, calculating shrew with a pot full of dead-daddy money. Oh well, maybe she’d warm up to him now. “Ms. Corbin, this is Martin Driggs, from the station.”

  “That’s great, Driggs. Did you butt-dial me, or is the station on fire?”

  “No, ma’am, neither of those. I called to tell you that, apparently, the Yellowstone supervolcano blew its top.”

  “Well, hang up the phone and get our news team up there immediately. And tell the lead reporter to call me as soon as they’re on the road.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the thing, Ms. Corbin. We is the news team, and we is on the road, and from the looks of things, we is going to be the first and onliest television crew on the scene, at least for a while.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Martin pictured Micca Corbin scowling as she collected her thoughts.

  “OK, smart-ass, but don’t you fuck this up,” she snapped. “Start the satellite uplink as soon as you find something worth looking at. And round up a couple of Skoal-spitting locals to interview. A little hometown color is always fun to watch.”

  “Will do, boss lady, but
that might be tough. From where we are right now, it looks like the town is deserted. We’ll drive as far as we can toward the volcano and see what we can find on our way.”

  “OK, Driggs, and call me every half hour until I can—”

  The cellphone connection died. Martin looked at his phone. There were no green signal bars, which meant that the cell towers in this area weren’t working. He made a mental note to dig the satellite phone out of the back of the van as soon as they stopped and raised the communication dish.

  Nothing moved as Kevin eased the van into the outskirts of town, crossing Iris Street and rolling past the Rustic RV Campground entrance. Rocks the size of trash cans had peppered the street, creating a driving obstacle course. “They don’t pay me enough to do this shit!” he muttered as he swerved left, then right, trying to miss one bolder after another. “The first couple were kind of fun, but this is fucked up big time!”

  Martin paid scarce attention to what was now an endless string of obscenities spewing from his driver.

  Even in the almost nonexistent visibility provided by the van’s headlights through the ashfall blizzard, gaping holes appeared in the buildings on the left and right sides of the street. Every window in all the shops and houses had been blown out. Not a single pane of glass remained.

  It was 3:27 when they finally reached the corner of Town Park. There, US Route 20 intersected Route 191, which ran north toward Bozeman, Montana. The ashfall was impossibly heavy now. Straining headlights revealed enormous smoking boulders and other forms of debris sprinkled all over the ground. The dash-mounted GPS indicated that they were only three miles from the official park entrance.

  Kevin stopped the van. “Looks like we are at the end of the road, Scoop.”

  “You’re right, Kev. I’m surprised we made it this far. Since we’ve got what’s left of the road to ourselves, let’s set up here. If you’ll raise the dish pole and make a satellite link, I’ll set up the lights and fire up the generator.”

  “Will do.” Kevin unsnapped his seat belt. “But first I’m going to break open the hazmat kit we keep in the back of the van. I know there are some surgical masks in there as well as a few plastic decon suits. We’ll need all the protection we can wrap around us once we go outside.”

  Ten minutes later, wearing full-body white plastic coveralls and blue surgical masks, the two men opened the side door of the KIFI News Team van and went outside.

  22

  Washington, DC

  Two years before the day of

  David climbed into the back seat of the imposing black Chevy Suburban that served as the secretary of state’s official vehicle.

  After the driver took his seat, David watched him go through a “preflight” routine. He radioed the Secret Service control center and let them know the SecState was on board and that they were en route to the “House.” He gave them the code for the predetermined course they would follow from the Truman Building to the nondescript alley entrance between Fifteenth Street NW and Vermont.

  When they stopped at the first of three security checkpoints on White House grounds, a guard checked the driver’s and David’s identification cards and compared their names to a visitor manifest. While she was doing this, another guard used a long pole with mirrors attached to one end to look underneath the Suburban. Once the security team was satisfied that the SUV contained who it was supposed to be transporting and that it wasn’t concealing any explosives, they waved the driver through the checkpoint gate. The vehicle maneuvered around to the West Wing entrance, next to the vice president’s office.

  David got out of the Suburban and walked to the small, “authorized staff only” entrance, where he was required to pass through a metal detector and issued a personalized Secretary of State White House visitor pass. A White House intern then escorted him down the hall, past the Roosevelt Room, to the outer office of the president’s secretary.

  “Good morning, Mr. Secretary. It’s good to see you again,” cooed the most powerful administrative assistant on the planet, without getting out of her chair.

  “And you as well, Lizbeth,” David replied. “I trust my timing is good.”

  “Just about perfect, Mr. Secretary. The president is on the phone but should be with you in just a few minutes. Please have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  David sat down on one of the straight-backed chairs on either side of the main entrance. Lizbeth sat in front of the two computer monitors on her desk and clicked her mouse. He knew that would turn on one of the lamps that were mounted above a bookcase recessed into the wall in the Oval Office, to the left of a portrait of Abraham Lincoln. This discreetly let the POTUS know a scheduled visitor had arrived.

  Four minutes later, the small door leading into the secretary’s office opened and President Sheppard, ignoring long-established introduction protocol, came out and greeted his friend. “Mr. Secretary‍—David‍—thank you for coming on such short notice. Please come in. We have a lot to discuss. Lizbeth, would you order us a pot of coffee and a tray of whatever breakfast pastries Antoine has to offer. Then, after they are delivered, no interruptions until I say so. No intercom, no taps on the door, nothing. And kill the video-voice recorder.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Lizbeth replied, already calling the kitchen.

  The president ushered David into the Oval Office and motioned for him to sit on one of the two couches that faced each other across a small coffee table. The couches flanked the presidential seal embedded in the floor in the center of the room, and in front of the president’s massive wooden desk.

  The POTUS sat down on one end of the couch, directly in front of David. “Well, if my sources are correct, and I know they are, you spent most of the day yesterday with my oldest friend and confidant, Judson Ballard, and the other members of the Envision-2100 board.”

  “Yes, sir. It was, without a doubt, the most intense day of my life. And, Mr. President, if you don’t mind me crawling right on top of the elephant in the room, I can’t express in words the grief I felt when I learned of your situation.”

  “My situation? No use spouting those diplomatic euphemisms with me, David. I remember the Bulldog telling the story of a construction foreman who was doing some work at a Catholic hospital. The Mother Superior was rapping his knuckles about the language his men were using on the job. After she dressed him up one side and down the other, he sheepishly says, ‘Come on, Sister, the boys just call a spade a spade.’ But the nun replies, ‘Yes, but most of the time, they call a spade a fucking shovel.’ No use tiptoeing around it, David. I’m dying. There. We’ve got that nasty pachyderm behind us. Now we can get on with the business I called you here to discuss.”

  There was a serene look on the president’s face.

  “Judson and I have been planning for this day for a long time. Well, not me and not my cancer. I’m speaking figuratively now. Despite being the poster child for my political party for the past forty years, I’ve come to realize just how flawed our two-party system is. This country was founded on the concept of democratically elected representation. But we don’t represent the people. A two-party system, our system, shoehorns them into diametrically opposed political extremes. In reality, our process boils the field of pampered, wealthy candidates down to a single pair who represent not the voters but the financial interests of the power brokers who put them in office. Our system forces ninety percent of the voters to cast ballots not for their candidate of choice but against the other one. I know because I’m a product of that machine.

  “You don’t have to search far and wide to find the perfect example of what I’m talking about. I guess you can call it a good bad-example. Just look at the election that put the previous administration into power. You had a card-carrying moron eke out an Electoral College victory over a generally despised opponent who rode a political-correctness horse to the party finish line. Most people didn’t vot
e for the winner, they voted against the loser. Inadvertently, I guess, we forced the American voter to choose what they thought was the lesser of two evils.

  “Man, that turned out to be a joke. As just one result of that fiasco, I’ve had to spend the last three years trying to clean up the economic damage caused by the wake of an ignorant, out-of-control narcissist running roughshod over the constitution and the rights of the people who put his ass in office. And just to remind you and everyone else, it was less than a majority of the people. Plus being forced to suture the wounds the arrogant clown inflicted on literally all of our allies while kissing some twenty-first century tsar’s ass. Hell, it’s a wonder I was able to accomplish anything other than fix what that sociopath broke.”

  The president gazed wistfully at the massive wooden desk at the far end of the Oval Office, the symbol of his position. David sensed a feeling of relief and melancholy.

  “I’m sorry, David. I haven’t been able to vent like that in years. It’s a relief to finally be able to get things off my chest and not worry about having my comments splashed across the front page of the Post. More importantly, I treasure having you as a friend. Someone I can open up to besides my wife, especially as I head into the home stretch of this life. You can’t imagine the comfort I get from knowing I can always be brutally honest with you and Judson.”

  With a tap on the door, Lizbeth entered the office, escorting a white-jacketed steward pushing a small serving cart.

  The steward nodded. “Good morning, Mr. President, Mr. Secretary. I have your coffee and a selection of breakfast pastries right out of the oven.”

  “Thank you very much, Jacob,” President Sheppard said sincerely. “Just put the cart here to Secretary Stakley’s right, and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jacob positioned the cart as the president had requested; then he and Lizbeth hurriedly exited the Oval Office.

  President Sheppard picked up one of the coffee mugs, dropped in two cubes of sugar using a small pair of tongs lying next to a sterling-silver bowl, filled the cup with steaming coffee, then handed it to David. “Here you go, my friend. Help yourself to the goodies.” The president poured his own coffee and loaded a small plate with two cheese Danish. “You may have to watch your schoolboy figure, but I don’t.”