“You can call me Major, Mr. Driggs. Where are you two from, how long have you been here, and what is your assessment of the situation from a disaster perspective?”
Martin slid his surgical mask and goggles back on. “ABC affiliates out of Idaho Falls. Got here last night. Made it as far as West Yellowstone and started broadcasting live from there. Then the thing blew its top again, and we left. We’ve been here for less than an hour.”
“Your assessment?” the major repeated.
“Shit, Major, this is ground zero, the biggest natural disaster in our lifetime, maybe ever.” Martin pointed toward the smoking mountain. “That wasn’t there yesterday morning. Your convoy won’t make it much farther south, but if you don’t mind, we’ll tag along.”
“You can fall in behind my Humvee. Just make sure your driver watches our cat’s eyes and keeps proper convey distance. We don’t need anyone getting rear-ended during all of this.”
Martin recalled one of his army buddies telling him that the taillights on military vehicles were equipped with two small red bulbs. At night, if a driver could see both of the red lamps on the vehicle in front, they were too close and needed to back off until only a single red blur was visible. This amazingly simple technique, which had been around since WWII, helped prevent rear-end collisions.
“Yes, ma’am,” Martin replied, “we’ll keep an eye on your rear.” He couldn’t see the glare coming from Major Kohler, but he could sense it.
“A couple of other things,” Major Kohler said sharply. “First of all, don’t go poking that microphone in front of any of my troops. If you feel the need to interview anyone, talk to me first. Also, like I said, we’re an advance party. The governor has already declared a state of emergency and is mobilizing an MP company and a battalion of combat engineers. They should start rolling in here in a few hours. The governor will be coming with them and could very well place the region under a state of martial law. If she does, your invitation to join the convoy may be off the table.
“Finally, the word is that President Stakley may be coming out later. Not sure when or even if, for that matter. I’m just telling you because that will bring about a whole new ballgame, security-wise. Since the airspace is shut down over three states, he can’t do the normal flyover, and I seriously doubt that the Secret Service will drive him too close to this stuff. This is a dangerous and fluid situation. They won’t put the POTUS’s life at risk for a photo op.
“So, Mr. Driggs, it looks like you are at the right place at the perfect time for a news reporter.”
Yes, it certainly did. Martin smiled at the major—for more reason than one.
“Saddle up!” Major Kholer barked into the radio microphone set attached to the collar of her BDU blouse. “Let’s see if we can get a little closer to the action.”
28
Washington, DC
Two years before the day of
Secretary of State Stakley Resigns, Announces Intention to Run for President.
The news exploded within every media agency and across the internet. At President Sheppard’s direction, White House Press Secretary Preston Woods orchestrated first a leak and then the official announcement at a hastily arranged briefing.
From the front row in the briefing room, a Post reporter caught the press secretary’s eye. “Besides announcing his candidacy, did Secretary Stakley give any other reason for his sudden resignation? Is there a rift between President Sheppard and Mr. Stakley?”
Using this first question as an opportunity to take control and set the tone for the briefing, Preston calmly replied, “Ladies and gentlemen, please, only one question at a time. No, the secretary did not give a reason for his resignation other than his intention to run for office.” He pointed to a tall brunette in the third row. “Darlene.”
“Thank you, Preston. It’s common knowledge that President Sheppard and Secretary Stakley are close personal friends. What was the president’s reaction to the resignation?”
“The president hasn’t made an official announcement, nor have we had an opportunity to discuss the situation in any detail. I take it he was just as surprised as everyone else,” Preston said. “Josh.”
“Thanks, Preston. The SecState is a key cabinet post. Has the president given any clues to who he may be looking at to replace Mr. Stakley and when he plans to do so?”
“Josh, were you just not paying attention?” Preston replied jovially.
Laughter rippled through the room, and from the left, someone chided, “He’s with the Times, Preston. They’re required to have a short attention span.”
“In answer to your question, Josh—rather, questions—the president hasn’t had time to discuss Secretary Stakley’s replacement with any of his advisory staff,” Preston continued. “I’m sure he is doing so as we speak, and that information will be forthcoming. But I don’t have anything to share at this time.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the press secretary shared what scant details he had about the situation. Over the previous three years, White House briefings had been cordial and informative. Nothing like the contentious bickering prevalent in the last administration. They reflected President Sheppard’s style: respectful and open.
Glancing at the Brady Room’s wall clock, Preston said, “Fran, you have the last question.”
A stocky, early-forties black female armed with a pen and spiral notebook peered at the press secretary over her bifocals.
“Thank you, Preston. I was beginning to think you were going to skip me. There has been no shortage of formally announced candidates in the last three campaigns. However, President Sheppard has earned one of the highest approval ratings on record. Has he ever, even privately, voiced concern about a challenger, from either party, at this stage of his political career?”
“Fran, you know the president. He’s never been one to strut around or to display any degree of overconfidence. I personally think he sees the potential in everyone, and as such, he would tend to take any opponent seriously, especially someone with David Stakley’s reputation and qualifications, if that’s where you are going with that question.”
“That’s precisely what I was asking, Preston. Along that line, to the best of my knowledge, Secretary Stakley, like his predecessor, has never formally acknowledged membership in any political party. On the heels of his announcement, will he do so now, or do you see him running as an independent?”
“That’s an excellent question, Fran. There is nothing in his letter of resignation that indicates his intentions. So the answer at this time is, I don’t know. Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes today’s briefing. Thank you for your time.”
Press Secretary Preston closed his notebook, left the briefing room, and walked back to his office. It was tucked into a corner of the West Wing, directly across from the Cabinet Room, and only a few steps down the corridor from the Oval Office.
Minutes later, there was a tap on his open office door, and President Sheppard walked in. The press secretary stood up, but the president motioned for him to sit back down.
Maybe it was his imagination, but Preston thought he detected a slight yellowish tint on the president’s face. Perhaps it was just the light in his office. Maybe the POTUS was experimenting with makeup or some type of tanning lotion. No, he wouldn’t be caught dead doing anything like that. Not President Sheppard.
But there was also something else. The president almost seemed to be moving in slow motion. He looked tired. The spring was missing from his step, and his eyes looked dull and listless. Preston couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was akilter.
The POTUS pulled a chair away from the small conference table, moved it close to Preston’s desk, and sat down. “Well, how did it go, Preston? Were they civil, or did they go into a feeding frenzy? You can never tell with the press once they smell blood.”
“As well as could be expected, Mr
. President. Especially considering we didn’t have much information to share, except for announcing the secretary’s resignation itself. They were pretty constrained. They should have a field day writing their own speculations around the announcement. Some of them never let a lot of facts get in the way of a good story. Especially CNN and the New York Times.”
“We’ll let ’em simmer for a couple of days,” President Sheppard replied. “A little wild-ass conjecture makes good press, and the public loves it. We’ll let the rumor embers smolder over the weekend. Now I have another short-fuse mission for you.
“Tomorrow afternoon, I want you to schedule a special press briefing for Monday morning. You can let it be known that it will be my dog-and-pony show. If Vice President Phillips, or anyone else for that matter, asks what it’s going to be about, you can tell him you don’t know. That should be easy because you don’t know and I’m not going to tell you.
“I want you to schedule it in the Rose Garden. You’ll invite foreign as well as domestic press, so we’ll need more space than we have in the Brady Room.
“I know I don’t have to tell you how to do your job, but my message to you is that I want this one to get maximum exposure. I want every major news agency that’s still in business to be here. Take it from there and plan accordingly. Any questions, Preston?”
“No, Mr. President. I’ll take it from here.”
With an uncharacteristically weak smile, the POTUS muttered, “Thank you.” He turned and left Preston’s office.
…
At the end of the corridor, President Sheppard turned left and walked through his administrative assistant’s office, stopping in front of her desk. Unlike every other person in Washington would have done, she adhered to the president’s order from day one and didn’t stand up.
“Lizbeth, two things. First, Preston is going to schedule me to do a press conference Monday morning. I have a boatload of crap on my calendar that day. Cancel everything. I also want you to schedule a meeting for myself and Senator Mia Lopez for early Monday afternoon. Better yet, make it lunch, just me and her, in my dining room. If she’s not in town, we can do a phone call or secure Skype. But I suspect that if you get in touch with her today, she will arrange to be here Monday.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Will that be all?”
“No, Lizbeth.” The POTUS turned and headed toward the side door to his office. “Clear my calendar for the rest of today and all weekend. And don’t schedule me for anything past Monday unless I say otherwise.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Lizbeth’s voice trailed behind him as he closed his office door.
29
US Route 191 approximately twenty miles north of Jackson Hole
The day after the day of
“Dad, I gotta pee,” Ellis moaned.
Despite well over twelve inches of volcanic ash on the road and poor visibility, the F-250 continued to bulldoze its way forward, albeit slowly. Although they had been moving for almost two hours since picking up Brandon and Sophie, they had only traveled a little over five miles.
Nevertheless, Jeremy knew they needed a bathroom break, and he needed to change out the pillowcase covering the engine’s air filter. “OK, ladies, the Glacier View Turnout is just ahead. We’ll stop there. Stay with your mom, do your business, and then get back in the truck.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Fiona said. “Not with those two goons in the back.”
A few minutes later, Jeremy stopped the truck but, as before, didn’t turn off the engine. Once the transmission was in park, he attached the pistol’s holster to the left side of his belt, with Judy quietly watching. Grabbing the clean pillowcase from the space between him and Judy, he popped the truck’s hood latch and got out.
At the same time, Judy got out on the passenger side. “Ellis, hand Hunter to me, and you girls get out on this side.” Hoisting Hunter over her left shoulder, she shepherded the twins out of the truck and toward the edge of the road, continually glancing back at the truck. They disappeared into the ash-thick air.
As Jeremy replaced the clogged pillowcase covering the air filter with a clean one, he heard the truck door slam. Good. That meant Judy and the kids were back from their pee break. He closed the hood and took the opportunity to urinate.
“What the . . . Get your hands off me!” Judy snarled.
Jeremy zipped up his pants and tore around the front of the truck to the passenger side.
The biker stood by the rear cab door, clutching Judy in his massive left hand, his tire-tool weapon in his right. “Hold this bitch, Rose,” he growled, shoving Judy toward his “old lady,” standing slightly behind and to his left.
He turned to Jeremy. “We’re gonna be needing your truck, hillbilly. You drive like old people fuck. Me and Rose can make better time if we don’t have to stop every ten minutes so the women can make peepee. You and your pretty little wife, those two in the back and their snot-nosed shit machine, you can wait here. We’ll keep the two brats for insurance. Once we get clear of this shit storm, we’ll send somebody back for you.”
Rose dug her fingernails into Judy’s arms.
“Let me go, you slut!” Judy growled with no hint of fear.
“Smack her in the face, Snake,” Rose screamed. “That’ll shut her up.”
Brandon and Sophie clambered out the back of the truck, alarm on their faces. Brandon crouched behind the tailgate, a few feet behind Snake, and motioned for Sophie to get back.
Ellis and Fiona pressed their faces to the window, clearly terrified.
“Take your bitch and get over there,” Snake barked at Jeremy. “Brandon from Minnesota, get your little larva outta the truck and go stand with these two. We’ll add Miss Sophie to our insurance policy. Go! I ain’t got all day.”
Brandon glared at Snake and clenched his fists.
Judy twisted violently to her right, shot her left arm forward, then slammed her elbow back straight into the bridge of Rose’s nose. With a soft, almost inaudible crunch, blood gushed down the biker chick’s face.
“I’ll murder you, bitch!” Rose screamed, cupping her hand over her now oddly angled nose.
Snake raised his right hand up and across his chest, clearly preparing to smash Judy’s face with the tire iron.
At the same time, Jeremy pulled the .357 out of its holster and, in one smooth, well-practiced move, cocked the hammer back, pointed the pistol toward Snake’s stomach, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion was deafening.
One hundred fifty pellets burst out of the gun’s two-inch barrel and burned their way into the flesh in a pie-plate-sized pattern around Snake’s navel. The combination of the pistol’s short barrel, the low-mass birdshot, and the distance between Jeremy and Snake kept the pellets from penetrating more than an inch into his fleshy belly.
Snake screamed like a banshee. He dropped the tire iron and fell to the ground, clutching his stomach. Rose cupped her hand over her still-bleeding nose and knelt on one knee beside him, placing her free hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t have to shoot him!” she cried.
“Brandon, you and Sophie get in the back seat with the twins,” Jeremy ordered. “We’re leaving now.” He opened the passenger door and ushered a still-steaming Judy inside.
“What about us? You can’t leave us here. We’ll suffocate in this stuff!” Rose wailed. Then, standing up, she started for the truck. “Take me with you.”
Jeremy got behind the wheel, put the truck in gear, and started driving. Sophie, Brandon, and the twins looked out the rear window and watched as Rose stumbled forward a few feet, then stopped and started back toward Snake.
“Wow! Dad popped a cap in his ass,” Ellis whispered to Fiona.
“Those idiots,” Judy fumed. She twisted around, facing the twins for a second, then turned back around and stared out the windshield. “Yes. Yes, he did.”
30
The White House
Two years before the day of
President Sheppard stared through the windows behind his desk in the Oval Office, lost in thought.
“Ready, sir?” Press Secretary Preston asked.
President Sheppard turned and nodded. Then he, Vice President Phillips, and the chief of staff followed the press secretary out the rear door of the Oval Office, turned left, and walked along the West Colonnade to the entrance to the White House Rose Garden.
Despite scant advance notice, the chairs on the lawn’s briefing area were packed with cellphone-wielding reporters, and in the back and along each side, cameramen. There was literally standing room only.
The press secretary walked through the double doors first, took two steps, stopped, and stood at semiattention, then announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
The crowd rose as the press secretary moved to the left, the vice president to the right. The president stepped to the lectern in the center, empty-handed, his face uncharacteristically grim. “Please, take your seats,” he said brusquely.
As the press members took their seats, President Sheppard grasped the lectern with both hands. He took a deep, audible breath and looked slowly from his left to his right at those sitting in the front row. “My fellow Americans, I know today’s press conference comes without a lot of notice and even less fanfare. That was my intent, the reasons for which you will learn in the next few minutes.
“The information I must share with you today came the same way to me, as a total and complete surprise. Only my wife and five other people are aware of what I’m going to announce. Not my chief of staff, not Vice President Phillips, and not the news agencies that are broadcasting this conference.
Out of Crisis Page 19
