The Yellowstone Conundrum

Warning Advisory Please Read

  The Characters you are about to meet—regular people put into extraordinary situations—have asked me to warn you, the faithful reader, that they are guilty of using “sporty” language on more than one occasion.

  Oh, you thought I was in charge of the characters!  Clearly, you’ve never tried writing fiction before. The characters themselves are in charge. They decide if they want to continue on the narrative, or disappear
.  They decide if they want to get into a bar fight or drive a loaded gasoline tanker into a tunnel during an earthquake.

  I however, as author, freely admit to the conjugation of the f-word in its verb form on those occasions when I thought it was appropriate.

  Some of your characters also enjoy adult companionship (sex).  If you don’t want to read a book with sprinkles of sporty language and healthy sex, then please DO NOT BUY THIS BOOK.  If you have bought this book by mistake, there is a method by which you can return it and get your three bucks back.

  Otherwise, have a good read. We have a long journey ahead of us in the “Is this it?” series.

John Randall

  dedicated to—

My loving wife, Linda—who has

put up with so much for so long
             

And behold when he had opened the

sixth seal, and lo, there was a great

earthquake; and the sun became black

as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became

as blood,
And the stars of heaven fell unto

the earth, even as a fig tree casts her

untimely figs, when she is shaken of a

mighty wind.  And the heaven departed as

a scroll when it is rolled together; and every

mountain and island were moved out of their

places.  And the kings of the earth, and the great

men, and the rich men, and the chief captains,

and the mighty men, and every bondman, and

every free man, hid themselves in the dens and

in the rocks of the mountains; And said to the

mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from

the face of him that sits on the throne, and from

the wrath of the Lamb.

Revelation 6:12-16

            BOOK 1

The **** Hits the Fan

Bainbridge Island, Washington

February 20
th
, 5:15 AM PST

  Ray Spaulding awoke ten seconds before his alarm would have gone off. It was the same sequence every day he set the alarm; even though on weekends he could sleep all the way to seven-thirty, later on Sunday; but on weekdays his system was set, as it had been forever. He snapped the alarm off before the annoying buzzer went off.

 
It was dark outside. It was end of February, or maybe December; dates in the Pacific Northwest tended to blur once you passed the Apple Cup, normally the last Saturday in November. There was Christmas and New Years’, but the dates and days all seemed to be the same. Still, by the end of February there should have been more promise if not the future, then at least for today. Yet today there was no sunrise. It was just another dreary, rainy-ass day; raindrops on the droopy mountain hemlocks, the morning sky full of cold mist, which wrapped itself around everything; from the tall buildings in Seattle to the neighborhood stores in North Bend at the foot of the snowbound Cascades.

 
Awake quickly, he did his shit-shave-shower in less than fifteen minutes, everything right on schedule, just like the Army grunt he’d been, and probably would always be, at least mentally. At age 38 Ray was an Army veteran of two tours in Kuwait, six tours in Iraq; two in Afghanistan. He’d entered the Army right out of Bainbridge High School at age 19, single with no babes attached, and had returned fifteen years later knowing how to kill and to say yes sir no sir. 

 
He had been promoted several times over the years; but had left the Army after as a Sergeant First Class, never having reached the true “management” level. Fortunately, the VA Puget Sound Center had been available for him; otherwise, his dreams would have overtaken reality. The dreams had started after the April 28, 2003 takeover of the city of Fallujah, Iraq.

 
I hate repetitive dreams. Sometimes I have dreams about my teeth breaking up, disintegrating as I try to get rid of the pasty goo in my mouth. Sometimes I dreams shit I know I’ve dreamt before; maybe years ago, or fifteen seconds ago, I don’t know. Sometimes I pick up dreams that I awoke from and I swear it had been ten years since I’d dreamt it. 

 
But, mostly I have dreams about the battles of Fallujah.  Baghdad had fallen. Fallujah was a NW suburb. We had confidently moved forward through the town, mostly abandoned; like what’s the deal? The son of a bitch mayor, a tribal leader named Taha Bidaywi Hamed, a Ba’ath leader, had welcomed us into his city with open fucking arms. How stupid were we?  Come on in, we need your help with the insurgents; knowing full well he was the spider and we were the simple moths.

 
Well, we just waltzed on in; happy as could be.

  “Lieutenant,
I don’t like this, sir,” I said.

 
They were going down a street, reminded him of Black Hawk Down, a one-way trip. No!  But things settled, at least in his dream. But then after dinner, just as we were making happy camp, this crowd of two hundred or so pajama-jamas carrying guns starts to yahoo its way up Main Street. Hold on dudes Lieutenant Jerry says; next minute he’s dead in my lap. Then all hell breaks loose. They’re comin’ at us from everywhere; guns, rocks, grenades, you name it. 

 
By the next day the pajama-jamas had retreated; but that was the start. We were so surprised. They didn’t want us. This wasn’t like liberating France in 1945. This was real war. It wasn’t Saving Private Ryan it was Saving Sergeant Ray Spaulding.

 
For the better part of two years after discharge Ray had spent in and out of rehab at the Seattle VA Hospital on 9
th
Ave. Now four years later, he was on a regular six-month follow-up program. While Ray had been at war, his parents had died within six months of each other; and he hadn’t been home for either funeral. They had left him a small inheritance and a paid-for bungalow on an ample lot with a nice view of the Sound and a peek-a-boo view of the Mountain when it was out. Ray was a lot better off than most of his fellow veterans. 

 
There weren’t enough people to help.

 
Instead, doctors were forced to dive into the Halloween bag of let’s-see-if-this-shit-sticks-on-the-wall treatment of : Celexa, Lexapro, Luvox, Luvox CR, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, Adapin, Anafranil, Aventyl, Evavil, Ludiomil, Norpramin, Pamelor, Sinequan, Surmontil, Tofranil, Vivactil, Marplan, Nardil, Parnate, Cymbalta, Desyrel, Effexor, Remeron, Wellbutrin, BuSpar, Ativan, Dalmane, Klonopin, Halcion, Librium, Restoril, Serax, Tranxene, Valium, Xanax, Atarax, Vistaril, Gabitril, Neurontin, Depakote, Lamictar, Topimax, Inderal, Tenormin, Minipress, Catapres, Tenex, Abilify, Geodon, Risperdal, Seroquel, and good ‘ol Zyprexa.

 
The pharmaceutical companies of America had been free to experiment developing their mind-controlling products on live human beings, the returning veterans of America’s oil wars. It wasn’t fair, nor was it right. 

 
At 5:35 Ray donned his lightweight rain suit, strapped on his helmet, and shouldered his backpack with today’s lunch that he’d prepared last night along with a thermos of hot water, two packages of Ghirardelli hot chocolate powder and a single pillbox containing the medicines he needed to take today; drugs he needed to take like a Dr. Pepper—10:00, 2:00 and 4:00; drugs that got him from day to day.

 
Off he went into the morning mist, peddling his old Diamond Back Mountain bike which he’d bought at a yard sale three years ago. The feel of bike was so familiar; he hadn’t minded it was so old. But, after all, he only had three miles to bike on a flat surface; ride the ferry across Puget Sound to Seattle, then peddle his ass off uphill to the Seattle Library, where he was one of the I/T Guys. The library had over 400 computers available for public use and keeping them up and running was an everyday battle.

 
As far Ray was concerned, the VA had been a God-send; they’d found him a job and managed to keep the Darkness away. Thank God for the VA and the City of Seattle. There were times when he found himself slipping into Fallujah time, mixing up current time and
back then
time.

 
Ray waved and nodded to the familiar group of regulars who were boarding the 6:00 ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, riding his bike through the ferry to the exit ramp on the opposite side; bikers received first entrance and first exit.   

 
Even on a miserably misty day as today, January 53
rd
or whatever; the eastern sky dimly less gray than the darkness behind him; life was good. Where else do you get to ride your bike to work? Although not cheap, $7.50 one-way plus a one dollar surcharge for the bicycle; regardless, it was a heck of a lot better than driving to work; bike three miles on good flat roads, take the ferry, bike uphill four blocks to the library, be the I/T guy for eight hours and return home to his small, comfortable home. 

 
Repeat day after day.  Life was good.

 
Ray wasn’t quite ready for a driver’s test.

 
Most of the Dawn Patrol regulars nodded and exchanged meaningless chatter; the others, not being terrific morning people, moved along with the slumped grumpiness of the Living Dead.

 
Shouldering his backpack, Ray went inside and found his regular seat toward the front of the main level, as did all the other Dawn Patrollers, while the Dead lined up at the coffee kiosk on the second floor.

 
Cast-iron in construction and painted in Washington State green and white, the ferry Wenatchee, along with sister ferries Puyallup and Tacoma were the largest in WSDOT’s fleet and could accommodate 2500 passengers and over two hundred vehicles. Captain Duvall started the 35 minute trip right on time at 6:00. There was a comforting familiarity to the routine of the passengers. Laptops were everywhere, keyboards clacking, mail and phone messages being answered, fantasy sports league lineups being updated. Over in the corner were Aunt Betty and the biggest damn dog you ever saw in your life. Everyone knew Aunt Betty and tried to help her and her seeing-eye monster however they could.

 
The craft was no toy; four hundred sixty feet long with a beam of 90 feet, the Wenatchee needed over 18 feet for minimum draft. The boat weighed a hefty 12,600 tons and was driven by four 16,000 horsepower engines, which is a lot of horses. Many of the auto passengers simply stayed in their cars, some able to grab another 30 minutes of shut-eye, packed in as they were; a few would join the bikers and walkers in the second- and third-level seating areas; a hardy few climbed to the top desk to view the incoming lights of Seattle, which were very faint this morning.

 
With the loading ramp stowed and the thick tie lines secured, the Wenatchee growled away from the Bainbridge Island dock and slowly but effortlessly moved across the Puget Sound, cutting through the water’s light chop toward Pier 52 and the main ferry terminal.