9
Despite the growing list of unanswered questions and unvented anger, I fall asleep only five minutes after liftoff. Rest had been impossible on the flight from Iceland. Frenetic energy buzzed through the passengers like an agitated specter, keeping eyes wide and mouths speculating. So when I leaned back in the plush executive chair, a remnant of this vehicle’s former corporate life, blanketed by the white noise of the engines, I closed my eyes. For the first time since wrapping my hand around that black and red spike, I rested.
Briefly.
I jolt awake as the wheels touch down, frantically clawing at the armrests as inertia pulls me forward. I’m held in place by a seatbelt I don’t remember buckling. Before we’ve come to a complete stop, the two Marines seated in front of me unbuckle, stand and turn around, with the single-minded efficiency of synchronized swimmers. Then they separate, one headed for me, the other for Holly, who just woke up.
“Come with me, Mr. Wright,” the nearest of the two big men says. His tone suggests I better find my legs, and fast, or he’s going to manhandle me. But is he an ass, or just in a rush? Either way, I don’t want to know what his meaty hands feel like, so I push myself up with a groan. My knees wobble for a moment, but I remain upright, clinging to a seatback.
“Move it, Mr. Wright,” Holly says in a deep voice, hobbling past me with a grin. The Marine following her doesn’t seemed pleased by the impression, but it lightens my spirits and ignites my competitive spirit. If Holly can walk on her own, so can I.
Limping on both legs looks funny, like a tall, Indian Runner duck, wings folded down, body wobbling from side to side. It hurts, but the image keeps my spirits lifted. Slightly. I still don’t know what’s happening, or where my family is.
We’re whisked into a black SUV with tinted windows. I half expect to be greeted by some shady Smoking Man, but the back seat is empty. Blue and red lights strobe from the windshield, pushing traffic out of the way, and we’re treated to a very fast, psychedelic, tour of Washington, D.C. And then we’re underground. It happens so fast, I miss the transition, and I flinch back as we race down the well-lit concrete tunnel.
Tires screech. Doors open from the outside. Men in suits, wearing coiled white comms in one ear, motion for us to exit.
“This way,” one of them says, leading us to an elevator, its doors already open and waiting.
“If you all went into fast food, you’d make the—” A glare silences me.
Inside the elevator, I take a moment to stretch my legs, pulling my feet up behind my butt. Before I’m done with the second, the doors open and the agent steps out, motioning for us to follow. Holly gives me a nervous glance, but then follows the man.
On slowly limbering legs, I follow. The journey is a short one, ending at a door guarded by two more Secret Service agents. One of the two agents twists the knob slowly and pulls the door open without making a sound. Commingling voices slide out of the room beyond.
It sounds like a party,
I think, and then I step over the threshold and realize there is nothing festive about this room, or the people in it.
The long, rectangular room is occupied by a large wooden table, currently covered in open documents and laptops. Flat-screen monitors are mounted around the room, taking up wall space like a grandmother’s family photos. White light from the ceiling makes most of the room’s occupants—generals, advisors, elected officials, some of whom I recognize—look pale, even those who aren’t already white. When I see what’s on the monitors, I realize it might not be the light making them look pale.
Scenes of death and destruction surround the room, displayed on the monitors. Some are newsfeeds from around the world. Some are satellite images, though many of those are blotted out by clouds of ash. I saw the eruption first hand, and understand its destructive force, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen the fallout.
“Oh, god,” Holly whispers next to me.
I keep my mouth shut, but share the sentiment. This is unreal.
Our escort motions to a line of chairs against the wall. All but two, at the far end, are occupied. Traversing the maze of limbs and moving bodies would be a challenge if I felt fresh. I get more than a few annoyed looks as I bumble my way to the far end of the room.
My legs quiver as I lower myself into the seat. Then everyone stands up. Before I comprehend why, Gerrald McKnight, the President of the United States, walks in and stops by his chair, which is directly across from me. He pauses long enough to give me a sidelong glance, no doubt wondering why I’m the only person who didn’t stand upon his entrance, and then he takes his seat. Relief settles over me when the room sits with him.
The President looks tired, but nothing close to how I feel. Sure, he’s pushing seventy-five and has a roller coaster of wrinkles and honest-to-god jowls, but his sharp blue eyes say he’s also hopped up on coffee. Probably the best coffee money can buy.
“What’s the latest?” McKnight asks, his voice deep and rough.
“Sir,” says a man seated beside the President. His face looks familiar, but nothing else about him stands out. His light blue shirt, loosened tie and gray hair match more than half the men in the room. He clears his throat. “Casualties are estimated at upwards of ten million.”
The President wilts, sickened by the number. “Anything they need. Offer it. I don’t care how much it costs and whether or not they’re an ally. In a situation like this, I don’t care about borders.”
Two men in military dress, the only two still wearing their jackets, sit up a little straighter, but keep their mouths shut. Open borders flow in both directions, and there are bound to be refugees.
“Uh, sir…” The man speaking is Harry...Something, the Homeland Security Advisor. “We don’t know how this is going to play out yet. Russia could—”
“Harry,” McKnight says.
“Sir. If the winds change direc—”
“Harry.” The President leans forward on his elbows. “While I recognize your concerns, I really do, we cannot turn our backs on a crisis this vast. Wind shift or not, we are in a position to provide aid and save lives. How many nations have agreed to take part in the aid coalition?”
“Twenty-two,” says the President’s Chief of Staff, Sonja Clark, who looks fresh and poised. “China is still on the fence.”
“I want aid on the ground in the hardest hit regions by nightfall. If you have to fly in from the Mediterranean and drive the rest of the way, so be it. Everywhere else by morning. Ted, John, make it happen. Now.”
The two military men stand and offer a synchronized “Yes, sir,” before heading into an adjacent room.
“Now then, let’s get back to the matter of what the hell happened.” McKnight motions to the man I recognize most in the room, Robert Scarlato. He’s the Assistant to the President for Science and Technology, Director of the White House Office of Science and Technology Policy and Co-Chair of the President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology. Basically, he is the guiding force behind the United States’ scientific programs, and I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing him three times. He’s progressive, kind and brilliant, but like most scientists, he’s a specialist—plasma physics and astronautics—which has resulted in a budget increase for NASA.
Scarlato scratches his gray beard with both hands, adjusts his glasses and takes a deep breath. “I’m afraid we don’t know much more than we did an hour ago. A massive Icelandic eruption involving a chain of volcanoes has sent a plume of ash over most of Europe, grounding flights. It also unleashed an invisible cloud of chlorine and CO2, which made landfall in the UK shortly before Iceland experienced a series of earthquakes, resulting in a tsunami.”
“We’ve heard all this,” McKnight says, sounding weary. “Is there anything new? Anything at all? Is this done? Are we out of the woods?”
“When Eyjafjallajökull erupted in 2010 it lasted four months.” All eyes in the room, including mine, turn to Holly. She purses her lips for a moment, caught off guard by the shifting attention, or perhaps her own blurted words. She straightens herself, and continues. “That was a relatively small eruption from a single volcano. What we have here is a major eruption from more than thirty volcanoes, all buried beneath a massive glacier. There’s no way to know how long the eruption will persist, but even if it stopped now—and it’s not about to—the effects will be felt around the world.”
“And you are?” McKnight asks.
“Uh,” Scarlato says. “This is Dr. Holly Interlandi, a volcanologist, and Mr. Abraham Wright.”
I lift a few fingers in greeting. “I know a lot, about a lot, I’m told.”
Scarlato’s smile makes him look like he just crapped his pants. “They were studying Bardarbunga when the eruption began.”
“The survivors I’ve heard about,” McKnight says.
Scarlato nods. “I asked for them to join us. I thought they might have insight about—”
“Understood,” McKnight says, and then he motions to Holly. “How did we not see this coming?”
“There were no warning tremors. Bardarbunga was quiet.”
“Isn’t that unusual?” McKnight asks.
“Unheard of,” Holly says, “but no longer important. The poison gas cloud and tsunami, not to mention the glacial flooding scouring Iceland clean, are tragic. The loss of life is astronomical. But I’m afraid it’s just the beginning. The ash cloud covering Northern Europe is going to spread. When Eyjafjallajökull erupted, the ash cloud reached Siberia, rising 30,000 feet and blocking the sun for a week. Twenty countries closed their airspace. Eyjafjallajökull ejected 9.5 billion cubic feet of ash. Yesterday’s eruption has likely already eclipsed that number, and over the coming months we’re likely to see upwards of eight hundred billion cubic feet of ash, reaching far higher into the atmosphere. It will cover the
entire
northern hemisphere, including Canada and the United States. It’ll take years to settle.”
“What exactly are you saying?” McKnight asks.
Holly squirms in her seat. She doesn’t want to say. Who would? So I decide to bail her out. I raise my hand, “An ice age, sir.”
“You’re shitting me.” McKnight turns to Scarlato, but the science advisor looks like a wide-eyed ghost. The physicist hadn’t figured this out yet.
“Without sunlight,” I continue, “temperatures will drop. Fast. Crops are going to fail. This year. Famine will follow, affecting the entire northern hemisphere. This coming winter will be the worst in recorded history, and probably won’t end. Not until the ash settles and temperatures rise. Glaciers will return. Landscapes will be remade. Some of the southern states might be sustainable, but the North is going to ice up. Anyone who doesn’t migrate south risks starvation and freezing. If I were you, Mr. President, I would hold off on sending aid to other nations. There’s a good chance you’ll need it here in the next few months, if not sooner. And you can bet that once the Aid Coalition members south of the equator realize they’re about to receive billions of refugees, they’ll be putting their time and money into sealing up borders.”
That’s dire enough
, I decide, and I leave out what will likely follow all of this. When the planet’s most powerful nation, with a military capable of taking on the world, no longer has a place to call home, you better believe we’ll take a new one. Central and South America won’t stand a chance. Europe will colonize Africa once more. Russia will invade Asia. While half the world freezes, the other half will be consumed by the fires of self-destruction.
“Does anyone disagree with this?” McKnight asks, searching the faces around the table. Some shake their heads. Some stare down at the table, no doubt thinking about what my news means for them and their loved ones. “Robert?”
“Sorry, sir,” Scarlato says. “I should have—”
“Save your apology,” McKnight says. “Is he wrong?”
“No,” Scarlato says. “I don’t think so.”
“Let’s meet again in an hour. I want ideas. Contingency plans. Get me more people like them.” He points at Holly and me. “We need to get ahead of this. Today. You’re dismissed.”