Out of Crisis

by Richard Caldwell

  Jeremy stepped out of the truck and helped Fiona out of the back seat as Brandon, Sophie, and Hunter crawled out the passenger side. Trudging through a foot of ash, they made their way back to the Airstream and, as Judy held the door open as little as possible, went inside.

  Judy, Sophie, and Brandon wedged themselves onto the couch. Ellis and Fiona took a squirming Hunter and plopped onto one of the twin beds at the back of the camper. All seemed to feel a sense of relief at getting out of the truck. Among the adults there was also a sense of dread that this might not be the worst to come.

  From the rear of the RV, Fiona consoled a whining Hunter. “Don’t be scared, little man,” she said. “Our dad has things under control.”

  “Yuck!” Ellis pointed at Hunter’s diaper. “He’s not scared. The kid needs an oil change.”

  Both twins burst out laughing. Sophie wiggled out from between Judy and Brandon and changed Hunter’s diaper.

  Jeremy took a small folding chair from its storage space next to the door, opened it up, and sat down between the stove and refrigerator, facing the couch. “I think we all knew it was only a matter of time before we were forced to stop. I was hoping we would either run out from under the ash cloud or make it into Jackson Hole first. But that didn’t pan out, and here we are. Like it or not, we’re stuck here until emergency responders find us.”

  “That could be days from now,” Sophie noted. She held up Hunter’s neatly folded dirty diaper. “In the meantime, what do I do with this?”

  “That’s a good question, Sophie. We’ve got a stash of bags below the sink. For now, just wrap it up in one of those, and we can bury it outside later. We need to make a field latrine anyway, and that can be our first deposit. But that brings up a housekeeping point. Since we don’t know how long we’ll be holed up here, you need to think about diaper substitutes, unless you’ve got a lot more in your bag than I suspect you have.”

  “You’re right.” Judy turned to the twins. “Ladies, grab a spare sheet out of the cabinet over the bed and start making some old-fashioned diapers. It’s time to get back to the basics.”

  Sensing a break in the discussion, Jeremy picked up where he had left off: “It would be suicide for any of us to try to hike out of here. Hell, it was hard enough just to walk from the truck back here. Maybe if we had snowshoes and could see more than a hundred feet. But right now, we don’t and we can’t. I’ve been thinking about what we’d need to do when we got to where we are now. Let’s assume the worst-case scenario, that we’ll be stuck here for ten days or longer. We’ve got thirty gallons of fresh water in the holding tank, and the Snake River should be less than one hundred meters west of here. That should be enough.

  “The refrigerator is designed to run on propane and a trickle of current from our storage batteries for a while. I don’t know for exactly how long. There are eggs, sandwich meat, frozen hamburger patties, and hot dogs in the fridge. There’s also a little milk. We should have enough to last for several days if we ration. We should eat cold food first. We’ll save the milk for Hunter. We have two tanks of propane that are almost full. Even accounting for the fridge and stove, that should last for weeks. The Airstream has two twelve-volt storage batteries that are charged when the truck engine is running or by its roof-mounted solar panel.

  “Now herein lies a problem. The solar panel is covered with ash. Who knows how much? Somehow, we have to get up there with a broom and sweep it off every few hours. Even then, there won’t be enough sunlight penetrating the cloud to generate much more than a trickle charge. Still, we have to try. Worst case, we start the truck every few hours and let it charge the batteries. Since we’ve driven less than forty miles and at less than twenty miles an hour, the gas tank should be almost full.”

  “Dad,” Ellis blurted, “if you took the screen off the inside of the skylight, Fiona or I could open the cover, crawl up through the opening, and get on the roof, then use the broom to sweep it off like you said.”

  Jeremy turned to face his daughters crouched on the bed, leaning into the conversation. “That’s a great idea, Ellis. I’m sure your mother doesn’t relish the thought of you getting up on the roof, but I’m afraid we don’t have many other options. And even your mom is too big to get through the opening.” He shrugged at Judy apologetically. “No offense, honey.”

  Judy playfully punched his shoulder and fired back, “None taken, Foul Ball. But I’m adding that comment to the list.”

  “Now back to my survival assessment,” Jeremy said. “We’ve got camp food‍—Spam, canned tuna, pork and beans, and my personal favorite, corned beef hash. We also have a couple loaves of bread, chips, and a relatively large bag of rice. The bottom line is that, even though there are seven of us, with a reasonable amount of discipline we should be able to survive for quite some time. So, unless someone has a better idea, I’m going to ask Judy and Sophie to take charge of our food and water supply.”

  Sophie waved her hand in the air. “Speaking of water, I suggest everyone take advantage of the great outdoors when you have to use the bathroom. Those chemical toilets are convenient, but they get downright nasty if you don’t flush them every time. And when you do, there goes our freshwater supply.”

  Jeremy gave Sophie a thumbs-up. “That’s a good point, Sophie, and it reminds me to mention that when you do need water, you will need to turn on the pump. There is an on-off switch above the stove. The pump runs off our storage battery. There are also lights next to the switch. They indicate the level of charge on our batteries and how much water is left in the freshwater tank. We need to check this a couple of times a day, and if the battery level indicator turns yellow, we’ll have to sweep off the solar panel or run the truck’s engine long enough to charge everything.

  “Last but not least, we need to talk about security. One adult needs to be in the front seat of the truck at all times to keep an eye out for rescue parties. It would really ruin my day to think that a ranger or a sheriff’s deputy drove by looking for survivors and missed seeing us. And in this stuff, that could happen.

  “I think we need to pull watch from six a.m. until around six p.m. each day, in the daylight. With these conditions, I don’t foresee search parties out after dark. They won’t want to lose any of their own people looking for survivors who may or may not exist. That means each one of the five of us will be responsible for manning the cab for three hours a day. Three hours is a pretty long time to sit and stay alert, so I suggest we take one-and-a-half-hour shifts. Any objections?”

  “I don’t have any objections,” Brandon said. “That’s a good plan. Actually, everything you’ve said makes good survival sense. I would also recommend that whoever is on watch have your pistol readily available. I’m not too worried about that psycho finding us, but stranger things have happened. And he and his girlfriend will be pissed, big time.”

  “Good idea, Brandon. Will you and Sophie be able to use a gun if push comes to shove?” Jeremy asked.

  “We don’t have a problem at all,” Sophie replied. “You didn’t ask, and we didn’t volunteer any personal information about ourselves, but there are a couple of things you should know. Brandon is a detective in the Duluth PD, and I’m an assistant DA. We met when I was leading the prosecution on a murder trial. Brandon had arrested the suspect, and I was interviewing him as the arresting officer in preparation for court. So the answer to your question is an unqualified yes.

  “Brandon typically has a sidearm on his hip except when he’s in the shower. And in my business, with the objects of my affection, I always have one within arm’s reach. With that said, I’ll volunteer for the first shift. It’s right at the hour, so the three of you can decide among yourselves who will be next in the barrel and come relieve me when the time comes.”

  Sophie stood up, pulled her makeshift mask back over her nose and mouth, and, still holding Hunter in one arm, started for the Airstream’s door.

 
Brandon’s eyes followed his wife. “Soph, if you see anything or need to get our attention, just get down on that horn, and we’ll come running.”

  “Will do. I’ll give it short blasts if there is some kind of danger and long ones if I see a rescue party. Now I’m outta here. I’ll see one of you in an hour and a half.”

  With that, Sophie handed Hunter to Brandon, gave each of them a kiss, took the pistol from Jeremy, and went out the door.

  33

  Washington, DC

  Tuesday morning, two years before the day of

  The World Is Stunned, Then Saddened by the News from the White House.

  That headline and hundreds just like it adorned the front page of newspapers across the nation and around the world on Tuesday morning.

  As the new POTUS, Jim Phillips sat behind his desk in the Oval Office with his secure phone pressed to his ear, complaining to the caller on the other end. He angrily tossed his copy of the Washington Post to the floor.

  First, President Matt Sheppard had announced that he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, then he shared his resignation as POTUS, and then, in his most profound declaration, he let it be known that he endorsed David Stakley, not his VP, Jim Phillips, in the upcoming presidential election.

  Finally, less than two hours following these precedent-shattering proclamations, the president was found dead, the victim of a massive myocardial infarction. All of this in one day, a day already being called Gray Monday.

  Complete and utter chaos consumed the White House.

  In a hastily convened ceremony that had taken place at nine o’clock the previous night in the Diplomatic Reception Room of the White House, Vice President Jim Phillips had been sworn in as president of the United States by the chief justice of the Supreme Court. It was a struggle to put on his game face and appear to mourn the loss of President Sheppard throughout the proceedings.

  Internally he was seething. Thoughts of revenge raged through his mind as he spoke in somber tones with a wistful, melancholy expression plastered on his face. If nothing else, he was a master of deceit, a trait for which he was well known and which, among his opponents, had garnered him the nickname “Smoke and Mirrors” Phillips.

  Now, Phillips spoke into his phone with a hushed voice bubbling with hatred.

  “That deceitful son of a bitch stabbed me square in the back. Sheppard didn’t say a word about being sick, much less terminal. And adding insult to injury, he pledged his support to that dipshit Stakley. Somebody on this staff knew what was going on, and, by God, I’m going to find out who they are and make their lives miserable.”

  On the other end of the line, a male voice spoke with a heavy Brooklyn accent: “Just gimme the word, Mr. President; he’ll never see it coming. But we need to move fast. Now that he’s an official candidate, the Secret Service will be crawling around him like ants at a picnic. What do you want we should do?”

  “Nothing just yet. I don’t want the guy whacked. That’ll just make him a martyr. Better to find a way to make him drop out of the race. I’ll circle back with you between now and this time tomorrow.

  “In the meantime, put a tail on him and his wife, but back off if you see the boys in black Tahoes snooping around. I don’t want to do anything that even appears to be threatening. Keep your burner phone within reach and go somewhere secluded for the next twenty-four hours. We don’t want anyone overhearing even a snippet of our conversation.”

  “Will do, Mr. President. I’ll be waiting on your call.”

  After that phone call, the new POTUS met with his chief of staff over breakfast to begin discussing plans for President Sheppard’s funeral and President Phillips’s transition into the office of chief executive.

  “Mr. President,” the chief of staff asked, smoothing her hair, “I know we are all still in shock, but have you given any consideration to who you might nominate as vice president? You know, of course, that your nominee must be confirmed by a majority of both houses of Congress.”

  “Yes, I know, and that is one of the reasons I don’t plan to nominate anyone, at least not now. I’ve got to focus all of our energy and resources on the next election. It’s too close to stir up the shit-slinging pot and make any more enemies than I already have by chasing after someone to fill a do-nothing job.

  “I’ll let a name for the new VP come out of the national convention process,” Phillips continued. “It’s just around the corner. If something happens to me, the constitutional order of succession takes over, and the Speaker of the House takes the reins just as fast as I did when Sheppard checked out. This ‘let the pot simmer’ strategy was set before you or I were even born. Between the assassination of JFK on November 22, 1963, and January 20, 1965, President Johnson didn’t have a VP. Say what you like about that old crook, he was a politician’s politician.

  “I want you to focus on arranging Sheppard’s funeral. Once we get him in the ground and an appropriate number of days of mourning have passed, we’ll throw ourselves into the business of getting me formally elected as the next POTUS. This succession thing is all well and good, but you know, it’s just not the same.

  “Oh, and get your little staffer monkeys started on some emotional, heartfelt words for Sheppard’s funeral. And start drafting my acceptance speech for the national convention. I want tears and cheers, respectively. Now, let’s get to work.” President Phillips pushed back his chair, not giving the CoS time to finish her breakfast.

  “Yes, Mr. President, I’m on it,” the CoS replied. A look of distaste flickered across her face.

  Bitch, Phillips thought. He’d replace her ass as soon as he could get his head above water.

  An hour later, President Phillips’s intercom buzzed. “Yes, Lizbeth.” The POTUS swiveled around in his chair, the one he’d had delivered from his old office this morning. He wasn’t about to conduct business from Sheppard’s stool.

  “Mr. President, the chief of staff is on line one.”

  Picking up the handset from his desk, President Phillips snapped, “Let me guess: you have questions about the eulogy I need to deliver.”

  “No, sir, I don’t have any questions, but I do have news. I just spoke with President Sheppard’s wife. She says there won’t be a funeral. According to her, he didn’t want one. And he didn’t want to be buried in Arlington. His last wishes were that he be cremated and his ashes, along with those of his son Matthew, be scattered over Bodega Bay by his wife, his two sons, David and Kelly Stakley, and some minister friend of the family. No public ceremony, no fanfare, and absolutely no news coverage whatsoever.

  “I tried to reason with her and suggested a public remembrance ceremony of some kind. But she was adamant, and fiercely so. She flat-out refused to discuss any other options.”

  “What’s your take? Would it help if I called her?”

  “No, sir. In fact, it would inflame her. I don’t know what’s going on, but she was verging on hostile when I tried to discuss other options. I’ve never seen her like this.”

  Phillips slammed the phone down. “Shit!” The guy was dead and still managing to stiff-arm him.

  34

  Germantown, Maryland

  Two years before the day of

  “Senator Lopez’s office. This is Tammy. How may I direct your call?”

  “Tammy, this is David Stakley. I believe Senator Lopez is expecting my call.”

  “Yes, sir, she is. If you hold for just a second, I’ll let her know you’re on the line.”

  “Thank you, Tammy. I’ll hold.”

  Seconds later, a firm, feminine voice with a hint of Texas twang purred in David’s ear.

  “Good morning, Mr. Secretary, rather, David. Or, better yet, Mr. President. With everything that has happened the last few days, I’m not sure what to call you.”

  Laughter burst in David’s ear. He smiled and spun his chair to face the window
. “If it’s OK with you, Senator, let’s go with ‘David’ and ‘Mia,’ respectively. I just spoke with President Sheppard, and he told me I’d better call you before you changed your mind about hitching on to my wagon. I’ve always respected his council and decided it would behoove me to continue that trend and to call and make things official.”

  “I’m thrilled and excited, but pretty darn apprehensive,” Mia responded.

  “Well, Senator, let’s make it official. I would be honored if you would join me‍—no, partner with me‍—in my bid for the presidency. I know you have a lot going on with that healthcare bill, but quite frankly, I think you would have a more significant impact at the executive level.”

  “You don’t have to sell me, David. President Sheppard has already plowed that ground. From what he told me about Envision-2100’s support, we wouldn’t be spinning our wheels scraping for funding. We could actually focus on policy development and communicating our vision to America. I’m ready, David, and if you tell me this is the official green light, I’ll prepare my own announcement. I don’t know how much more news this town can take, but we might as well push the limit.”

  “The green flag has officially dropped, Mia. As of this minute, on this day, the race is on. Our next step will be a kick-off meeting with Envision-2100 leadership and the campaign team they have already started to assemble. Milt Freeman has been designated as the point man and will most likely assume the role of campaign manager. He’s a brilliant tactician and political strategist. Plus, he and others in that group have already done a lot of work on what will become the Centrist Party foundation and our campaign platform. You and I just need to grind the burrs off and sell it to the voting public.”