James Rollins - THE DEVIL COLONY

Chin's finger came to rest on that lake. His eyes rose to Painter's face. "But deeper underground, the pressure keeps slowly mounting as the molten mantle rock rises, building up inside that colossal magma chamber."

"Until it eventually explodes."

"Which Yellowstone has done three times over the past two million years. The first explosion tore a hole in the crust the size of Rhode Island. The last eruption left most of the continent covered in ash. These blowouts occur on a regular basis, as steady as the blasts from Old Faithful geyser. They occur once every six hundred thousand years."

"When was the last one?" Painter asked.

"Six hundred and forty thousand years ago." The geologist looked significantly at Painter. "So we're overdue. It's not a matter of if that supervolcano will erupt, it's a matter of when . The eruption is inevitable, and geological evidence indicates that it will be soon."

"What evidence?"

Chin reached and pulled up a sheaf of U.S. Geological Survey studies and seismographic reports from the volcano observatory. He shook the pages in his hand. "We've been collecting data going back to 1923. The land around here has been steadily rising as pressure builds below, but starting in 2004, that bulging of the land has surged to three times the annual average, the highest ever recorded. The bottom of one end of Yellowstone Lake, which overlies the caldera, has risen enough to spill water out of the other end, killing trees. Other sections of forest are dying because their roots are being cooked by the subterranean heat. Hot springs along trails have begun to boil, severely injuring some tourists, requiring some paths to be shut down. Elsewhere, new vents have been opening deeper in the parks, observed by passing airplanes, spewing steam and gouts of toxic vapors that have killed bison on the spot."

Chin slapped his papers down on the table. "This is a powder keg waiting to explode."

"And someone just lit the match," Painter said.

He pictured the massive waves of neutrinos flowing from somewhere inside that park, counting down to an inevitable explosion, one a hundredfold larger than the one that had occurred in Iceland.

"What can we expect if we fail to stop this?" Painter said. "What happens if the caldera does erupt?"

"Cataclysm." Chin stared at the spread of reports and data sheets. "First, it would be the loudest explosion heard by mankind in over seventy thousand years. Within minutes, a hundred thousand people would be buried by ash, incinerated by superheated pyroclastic flows, or killed by the explosive force alone. Magma would spew twenty-five miles into the air. The chamber would release a volume of lava large enough, if spread over the entire United States, to cover the country to the depth of five inches. But most of that flow would be confined to the Western states, wiping out the entire Northwest. For the rest of the country-and the world- ash would be the real killer. Estimates say it would cover two-thirds of the country in at least a meter of ash, rendering the land sterile and uninhabitable. But worst of all, the ash blown into the atmosphere would dim the sun and drop the earth's temperature by twenty degrees, triggering a volcanic winter that could last decades, if not centuries."

Painter imagined the worldwide starvation, the chaos, the death. He remembered Gray's description of the Laki eruption in Iceland shortly after the founding of America. That small-by-comparison volcanic event killed six million people.

He stared at Chin's ashen face. "You're talking about an extinction-level event, aren't you?"

"It's happened before. Only seventy thousand years ago. A supervolcano erupted in Sumatra. The volcanic winter that followed in its wake wiped out most of the human population, dropping our numbers down to only a few thousand breeding pairs worldwide. The human species survived that eruption by the breadth of a hair." Chin fixed Painter with a dead stare. "We won't be so lucky this time."

12:28 A.M.

Seated in the back office, Hank listened to Chin's dire prediction.

His hands rested on the computer keyboard, but his eyes had gone blind to the screen. He imagined all of civilization wiped out. He remembered the Ute elder's apocalyptic prophecy concerning that cave up in the Utah mountains, how the Great Spirit would rise up and destroy the world if anyone dared trespass.

It was now coming true.

A shadow stretched over his long, knobby fingers. A warm hand, unlined by age, squeezed his own.

"It's okay, Professor," Jordan said. The youth was seated beside him, where he'd been collating pages from a laser printer. "Maybe Yellowstone isn't even the right place."

"It is."

Hank could not shake his despair, made worse by his memories of Maggie and all of the others who had died.

All this death.

He grew suddenly resentful of his companion's youth, of his unflagging optimism and his steadfast belief in his own immortality. He glanced up at Jordan-but what he found in the young man's face told a different story. The black eyes, the bruised features, the fear expressed in every muscle-it was not a lack of maturity that engendered such hope in the young man. It was simply who Jordan was.

Hank took a deep shuddering breath, casting back the shrouds of the dead. He was still alive. So was this resolute young man. A tail thumped under the table.

You, too, Kawtch.

Hank returned Jordan's support, momentarily sharing that warm squeeze, before his focus returned to the situation at hand. He still hadn't changed his opinion concerning the final resting place of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev . Painter's colleague out east had read that golden map correctly.

At least, Hank believed so.

"What did you find?" Jordan asked.

"I've been reading through reams of Native American lore concerning Yellowstone, attempting to discern possible correlations among the various myths and legends that would support the existence of a lost city hidden in that valley. It's been frustrating. Native Americans have been living in this region for over ten thousand years. The Cheyenne, Kiowa, Shoshone, Blackfeet, and more recently, the Crows. But so little is spoken among all these tribes about this unique valley. It's a resounding and loud silence, suspiciously so."

"Maybe they didn't know about it."

"No, they had names for it. The Crows called it land of burning ground or sometimes the land of vapors . The Blackfeet described it as many smokes . The Flatheads used the phrase smoke from the ground . Can't be more accurate than that, can you? Those early tribes definitely knew about this place."

"Then maybe they didn't talk about it because they were scared."

"That was the view that was held for the longest time. That Indians believed the hissing and roaring of the geysers were the voices of evil spirits. It's still bandied about in some circles, but it's pure hogwash. The newest anthropological studies have revealed that not to be the case. The early Indians had no fear of this steaming land. Instead, that false story got told and retold, mostly by early white settlers, perhaps to make their savage neighbors appear foolish and dull of mind... or maybe to help justify the taking of their lands. If the pioneers could claim that Indians were too scared to enter Yellowstone, then the entire territory was up for grabs."

"Then what is the true story?"

Hank pointed to the screen. "The evidence confounded the scholars of the time. This is what historian Hiram Chittenden wrote about it back in 1895. 'It is a singular fact that in Yellowstone National Park, no knowledge of the country seems to have been derived from the Indians... Their deep silence concerning it is therefore no less remarkable than mysterious.' "