Free The Yellowstone Conundrum by John Randall Page B

load, Sharon! I mean, you need to shed load starting NOW!”
      “Ben, you can’t—“
      “In ten..nine..eight..goodbye, Sharon—“
      Goodbye, California .
     

Glasgow, Montana
     
      At 6:40 MST Robert O’Brien, 52, Undersecretary of the Bureau of Land Management, Department of the Interior, stepped out of the Campbell Lodge in Glasgow, Montana, clean, comfortable and connected their motto, and into the -5 degree early morning. On the road after a McDonald’s breakfast, complete with piping hot coffee, now not so hot to burn the roof of your mouth, your esophagus and your fucking left nut, but close.
      The two-day update session in the regional office in Billings concluded yesterday afternoon and had gone well.  Changing his plans, Robert decided that since there was good weather in the forecast that he’d “do the circuit”, visit the six hydroelectric facilities along the Missouri River; talk to the workers, hear their gripes, their concerns, talk to management; in other words, to do what upper management was supposed to be doing.  
      He’d start with the Fort Peck Dam in Montana, then east to Garrison Dam in North Dakota, the Oahe Dam near Pierre, South Dakota, nearby Big Bend Dam, the Fort Randall Dam on the South Dakota/Nebraska border and the Gavins Point Dam, further downstream; then take a flight back to Washington from Omaha. Fort Peck Dam had been “his” dam ten years ago, before he’d been promoted to Regional Administrator in Billings, then to DOI in Washington, finally to Undersecretary of the Bureau two years ago. It was life on the fast track. If the current administration won another term, Robert was in line to be Secretary of the Interior.
      From Glasgow he drove ten minutes into the relentless morning sun to an intersection with a county road that led straight south from nowhere, then further into the middle of nowhere. He turned right and followed the single sign that read “Fort Peck Dam, 35 miles”. The 35 miles to the lake crossed some of the most desolate miles in the lower US.
      At 7:20 the two-lane road began to vibrate, first up-and-down, then left-and-right. 
      “Whoa!” he shouted, snapping to attention as his rental Ford Explorer started to do the boogie. This was immediately followed by shit shit shit shit as the earthquake refused to stop. Robert could do nothing but steer, like he was in a dodge-em at the county fair.
      Holy shit! Jesus buddy! The Explorer spin off the road did a neat 360 and somehow ended up sort-of headed in the same direction he was originally heading. The GPS lady on his car sounded like she had a corncob up her ass, changing directions so fast that she sounded more like Daffy Duck.  
      “Recalculating.”
      Shut up.
      Robert turned the ignition off and opened the door.   What should have been no noise but the wind whistling across the sagebrush, instead was a deep rumble. It was hard to tell from where or where it was headed. In the distance he saw a herd of elk, terrified and headed anyplace but where they were. The sunlight from the east lit a cottonwood bunch that hadn’t surrendered its leaves from the previous season; with the violent shaking of the ground, the cottonwoods seemed to explode. 
      Why did I take that job in DC?  
      But, he knew the reason. Dr. Nancy was his love and his entire life. That sweet woman was the reason he existed on earth. She had said it was OK; that they’d see each other soon and I love you, darlin’; we’ll live apart for a while, ‘til I catch up with you in D.C.; besides, that’s why they make airplanes. Everything will be all right. 
      Maybe it would be all right, but not right now.  Something terrible had happened. Robert listened for a few minutes. The ground shook softly now. Rumble rumble rumble .  The elk were gone. What happened to the road? Robert headed toward the road, maybe thirty feet away; the YOU’VE LEFT THE FUCKING DOOR OPEN sound from his car was