Danny quickly googled Utah Department of Public Safety at publicsafety.utah.gov/#1, then took the link to an odd web page with moving icons that sat on top of a very scenic backdrop of the Wasatch Mountains; with buttons at the Featured Online Services subpage that connected users with drivers licensing information, fingerprinting appointments, concealed firearms; then with luck he clicked on an empty space on the page and saw a button for Emergency Contacts; only to be taken to a page with a form that needed to be filled out. There was no information on how to contact a real person.
Sorry. I’m working on it.
Meanwhile, Nancy found the after hours number for the Wyoming Office of Homeland Security and dialed 307-777-4321. She still had to get in touch with Montana’s office in Fort Harrison, about three miles SW of Helena.
“Homeland Security, how may I help you?” the phone had barely rung twice.
“Good morning. This is Nancy O’Brien. I’m the Director of the Geologic Hazards Center in Golden, Colorado. I need to talk to the Duty Officer, please.”
“One moment,” was the efficient reply.
“Good morning, this is John Temple. How may I help you?”
“Mr. Temple, I’m the Director of the US Geo Survey Geological Hazards Center in Golden Colorado. . .“
The line went dead.
The White House, Washington DC
9:15 EST
“You know, one of the really neat things about being President is that you get to walk around this huge home in your pajamas and can walk into the kitchen any time you want and order up some pancakes.”
The President laughed as he pulled up a chair in “the family room” not exactly away from the activity of the kitchen, but at least not in the way. Space was limited in the White House kitchen, but there was always room for the President and one or two others.
“Jimmy, I’d like a really high cholesterol breakfast if you don’t mind; four crispy slices of bacon and some of that hot Tennessee sausage; no sense trying to get me to take any of that fake syrup. It’s like drinking a diet Coke with a cheeseburger and fries.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, and I won’t tell the boss.”
“I knew you wouldn’t, Jimmy!” The President laughed.
It was a free day. The Republicans had been beaten around the head and shoulders and were running amok; no foreign wars going, nobody angry at the US, at least no more than usual, and no protesters on the front lawn.
Bowling and basketball were on tap. Bowling was an unnatural act for him, one that he knew he had to work on because sure as shit he’d be in Ohio someplace shaking hands and he’d find himself whisked off to glad-hand at the Big Top Lanes and have to bowl a couple of lines while cameras took pictures of his lanky, uncomfortable style. Practice, practice, practice; and off to the gym for some serious head-banging with his posse-for-hire on the basketball court, a place he felt much more comfortable.
As if conjured, USAToday , the Washington Post , the New York Times and the LA Times all appeared on the table; the President went straight for the USAToday sports page, turned to page 4 and started reading last night’s NBA box scores. Box scores for basketball were a lot less fun than reading a baseball box score; reading a baseball box score was almost like being at the game itself. It took a bit of practice, but a serious box-a-holic could almost replay a game pitch-by-pitch.
Outside the window the White House Garden was under winter protection; still providing all of the vegetables and spices for the kitchen.
It was going to be a good day, the President thought; a good night’s sleep and no fixed agenda; a rare day, indeed.
Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming
7:20 AM MST
Randy Crowe trudged forward one slow step at a time, his new LL Bean BearStomper boots making a scrunching sound on the hard-packed
Peter Dickinson, Robin McKinley