Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

Chief of the Secret Service presidential detail, Rocco Lapides, opened the door of his outer station to allow Darnell Jefferson in. Darnell was extremely wobbly, Lapides noted, as he knocked on the President’s door.

“Lapides, don’t answer the door until I tell you. We have to keep the lid on some news for ten or twenty minutes,” Darnell rasped.

No inquiries, ears, eyes, and mouth covered, the Secret Service man took his instructions.

“Mr. President,” Darnell said, addressing Thornton formally, as he always did in the presence of a third party.

“Everything in order?” Thornton asked.

“Not exactly.”

“You look horrible. What did you do? Tie one on last night?”

“We have received confirmed reports of a cataclysmic event. One of the columns of Eagle Scouts moved up a canyon, and the canyon walls collapsed on them.”

“Jesus! How long ago?”

“Maybe forty minutes. The Navajo police say it struck like a nuclear bomb. They flew a chopper to it, but there was such a cloud of dust over the area, they were prevented from taking a close-down look.”

“Oh, my God!” Lapides said, breaking his vow of silence.

“Just how many of these scouts were involved?”

“We don’t know, sir. We’re trying to glean a number. So far the news is frozen, except for a Four Corners emergency network in to us.

Mendenhall and I set up a communications system. The press plane

smells something—“

“They always smell something!”

“Mendenhall is holding them off. As soon as we have a hint of any casualties, you should have a tactic for announcing it to the people.”

Tomtree tried to screw down his focus to laser sharpness, winging through a dozen possible scenarios to hold the information from pouring over the floodgates. Thank God it was an accident! Tomtree immediately thought of his personal position in all of this. In a week he was to announce he was running for reelection in 2008 in order to short-circuit any overly ambitious Republicans from the Baptist crowd.

Mendenhall, who could perspire on an iceberg, was drenched as he came in.

“CIA satellite confirmation,” he rasped. “The canyon walls collapsed along a two-mile stretch. The path is under millions of tons of fallen rock.”

They all feared the next question:

“How many scouts were in the canyon?”

*

“We aren’t sure, Mr. President. There were three columns converging on Mexican Hat for a total of fifteen-sixteen hundred Eagle Scouts.”

“Well, goddammit, divide fifteen hundred by four. That’s four hundred in that column. That doesn’t mean, by any stretch of the imagination, they’ve all been hurt. In any event, it was a natural disaster. I should be able to rally a great deal of sympathy.”

Good Lord, Darnell thought, he’s acting like divine providence was taking him to the Four Corners. Maybe he could make his presidential reelection announcement right after they reached Four Corners.

Darnell Jefferson had all but collapsed in his armchair. The President and Mendenhall turned Air Force One into a flying White House, sizzling out instructions to the armed forces and connected agencies. . Information went in and out from a dribble to a rush .. .

“Christ, Mr. President. The Internet is running pictures of the canyons near Hovenweep National Monument, Utah. National Geographic is leading the charge.”

“Mr. President,” Darnell said hoarsely, “you’ve got to talk to the press plane.”

“Mr. President, confirmation from the scouts’ supply truck drivers that plans were changed in the morning and the column entered Six Shooter Canyon!”

“How many?”

“We don’t know, sir.”

“Mr. President, Boy Scout Headquarters confirms the column entered Six Shooter Canyon with four hundred scouts and masters. They are from thirty-seven states.”

“Sir, we are hooked up to the press plane.”

“This is Thornton Tomtree. An avalanche of unknown origin apparently

took place in one of the canyons near the Hovenweep National Monument

in Utah. It appears that a number of Eagle Scouts hiking to their

jamboree at Mexican *

Hat might have been trapped. Air Force One is now en route to Albuquerque, where I was to give a Labor Day address. I ask our beloved nation to join hands and pray.”

The emergency team of White House Chief of Staff Tony Rizzoli, Darnell Jefferson, Mendenhall, and political strategist Turnquist had free access to the President. . Get a list of names of the people in that column .. . . The President needs a legal staffer up here to give us a picture of possible government responsibility .. . . Also send up Jacob Turnquist, the political spin meister, to set up damage control and estimate political fallout. Better to announce for reelection now as a calming gesture to the public, or better to announce after the first of the year? .. . . “We can’t say until we have all the facts.”

Admiral Wall, the President’s personal physician, checked blood pressure and pulse rate. “High, but okay.”

“Where in the hell is the vice president?”

Mendenhall eased into the crowding room. He leaned over and whispered in Tomtree’s ear.

“I’m going to ask everyone to clear out for a few minutes except the emergency team. I don’t want to be called until I give you orders. So?”

When the door closed Mendenhall’s expressive face showed terror.

“I just spoke to the Navajo chief of police by cellular. He rounded up a half dozen helicopters and landed at a place called Bloody Gulch inside the canyon. A party of ten pressed down Six Shooter .. . and they ran into a fifty-foot-high wall of fallen rock.

“They climbed for a better view and saw no signs of life. Further here, apparently hundreds of people in the region heard voluminous gunfire around zero seven three zero this morning.”

“Are you saying,” Darnell said, “that the explosion was set off?”

“According to the Navajo police, the adjoining property, a White Wolf Ranch, was headquarters for a Four Corners militia group.”

Admiral Wall gave the President another blood-pressure check, quickly prepared a syringe, and asked the President to lower his pants so the shot could go into his butt.

“Which camera crew is aboard?”

“CBS from the pool.”

“Have them wait in the hall. I’ll be making a statement in ten minutes.”

“Latest report, Mr. President: Navajo police report is confirmed. It is possible, even probable, that no one in the canyon escaped alive.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Larry Merton aboard Helicopter One, KTM,

Salt Lake City. The clouds of dust over Six Shooter Canyon seem locked

in. In a matter of moments medical teams and mountain rescue will try

to enter the canyon. There have been no signs of life. The canyon

continues to rumble and slide. We are going to try to fly under. Oh,

my God! It is a catastrophe down there. All buildings at the site of

the ranch house and mine have been eviscerated—“

“We interrupt to switch you to Air Force One, en route to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to bring you the President of the United States.”

“My fellow Americans, a great tragedy has befallen our nation. A column of approximately four hundred Eagle Scouts and their scout masters from over thirty states were hiking to a jamboree at Lake Powell. As they passed through a deep ravine known as Six Shooter Canyon, the walls imploded on them.