Paricutin: The Miracle of Daniel Pulido

Prologue

Volcanic eruptions are commonplace around the world, but the birth of an entirely new volcano, marked by a distinct vent from the magma chamber, is genuinely rare. In North America only two new volcanoes have appeared in historic times. One of them was western Mexico’s Jorullo, born 1759. The second one appeared 183 years later in the cornfield of Dionisio Pulido, fifty miles northwest of Jorullo. On the afternoon of February 20, 1943 Senor Pulido, a farmer in the state Michoacán, was readying his fields for spring sowing when the ground opened nearby in a fissure about 150 feet long. The scientific world was almost as stunned as the hapless farmer, himself, by the volcano’s sudden appearance. It was named Paricutin for a nearby village it eventually destroyed.

— National Geographic Society

The Wonders of the World (1998)

The National Geographic Society was essentially accurate in its account of the birth of the Paricutin volcano, except it omitted that Dionisio’s son, Mariano, was with his father in the field the moment the volcano was born. And Mariano, unlike his father, had not been stunned by the volcano’s sudden appearance. He was at that exact spot, at that precise moment, because he had had a premonition, directly from God—so he believed.

— Jerome John Dobson

Paricutin (2018)

1

Daybreak, September 19, 1985, Mexico City, Mexico

The residents along Paseo de la Reforma, east of Mexico City International Airport, awoke to the sound of hutched rabbits crying and throwing themselves at the sides of their wire pens. Less than a mile away, the night guard at the Hipodromo de Las Americas, Mexico City’s thoroughbred racetrack, was confronted with two dozen desperate horses frantically kicking and butting the gates of their stalls.

At the same time, scores of people witnessed sixteen-year-old Daniel Pulido—the son of Mariano Pulido—lean as a greyhound, running barefoot down Caizada Legaria. Straight ahead was the art deco Hippo-drome, with its massive parking lot and racetrack stables. His destination: the hospital, a mile beyond the racetrack, where his mother was finishing the last hours of her night shift. Nearing the stables, Daniel heard the horses and veered in their direction. He had lived with horses for sixteen years, so their screams cut through his heart. Barely slowing, he ran past the petrified watchman, unlatched each stable door, then continued running toward the hospital.

Two months later, the owners of the horses agreed to provide scholarships for the six children of the night watchman, Hidalgo Rodriguez. Señor Rodriguez’s body had been found near the front entrance to the stable covered with bloody hoof marks. The owners believed he had sacrificed his life to save their animals. They allocated extra money for an impressive tombstone to mark his grave. It was purchased from the Carrara marble quarries in Tuscany, Italy and carved to tell the world that Hidalgo Rodriguez was the first known casualty of the great 1985 Mexico City earthquake.

Eight days later, September 27, 1985, the Los Angeles Mirror printed the following story on its front page:

A VOICE IS HEARD

MEXICO CITY (AP) — At 4:30 p.m. (CST) almost 192 hours after an 8.1 earthquake leveled parts of Mexico City killing over 9,000 people, an electronic listening device, in place for only a few minutes, picked up the faint sound of a voice in what had been Our Lady of Guadalupe Children’s Hospital. The discovery has given renewed hope to thousands of rescuers digging in the city’s rubble. With teams from nine countries combing more than 1,000 heavily damaged buildings, this is the first sign of life discovered in the last sixty-four hours.

Another surprise: the words, though hard to understand and making very little sense, are in English. Surviving hospital officials are being questioned about staff members or patients whose first language could be English.

The hospital, formerly five stories of reinforced concrete, was designed to withstand earthquakes of up to 8.0 magnitude on the Richter scale. Observers recount how the hospital floors swayed—then collapsed one on top of the other—and pancaked into the basement.

A tape recording of the voice of the survivor was played during the press conference. Since the words are faint, it is difficult to say if the speaker is male or female, an adult or a young person. Some of the listeners thought that the speaker had a slight British accent.

Dr. Bernardo Alvarez, Chief of Medicine at the Hospital of Jesus of Nazareth, said during the press conference, I am a doctor, and the truth is that it is a miracle this person is alive at all, a genuine miracle. We all bear witness. Only God could have made this possible, after so much time has passed.The following are the few recognizable words as spoken by the survivor: Tin . . . war . . . aid . . . stench . . . second . . . zips . . . enemy . . . miles . . . roar . . . hell . . . cold.

2

For Faith Hannah, it was just blind-fool luck that she learned about the words. That’s what she kept telling herself. If she hadn’t been trying to fix her mother up, again—for the umpteenth time—well, maybe she would’ve read the words on another day, somewhere. Sure. Over the years she worked hard to believe that. But alone, staring off into space, or deep into a restless night, she grew to believe that what happened was just too magical and wonderful to have anything to do with some blind fool.

On the morning of September 27, 1985, Faith had decided to make one last crack at finding a man for her mother. This meant shading the truth, somewhat. First little lie: she told her mother she needed some new clothes for her senior year in college. There was a new boyfriend she said she wanted to impress. A professor, she embellished. Her mother, Beth, seemed convinced. She said, Well then, let’s get you some new clothes, heck yes. Which was why, September 27, the two girls drove the company pickup sixty miles north from their cattle ranch in the Sand Hills to Valentine, Nebraska, the nearest town with more than one women’s clothing store (and a daily newspaper).

Lie number two: Faith’s real reason for the trip to Valentine was to get her mother into old-man Alderson’s Hardware Emporium. Why? Because Faith’s spies had told her that the old man and his wife had moved to Phoenix. So their son, Howard, a lawyer from Omaha, had moved back home and was now running the company, a chain of stores across northern Nebraska. The recently widowed Howard had been a classmate of her mother’s, way back when, and, according to Faith’s spies, hadn’t let himself go.

He would be Faith’s latest effort to fix her mother up with a replacement for her father, Barrow, whom Beth had sent packing years ago. The divorce had been sudden and painful, an explosion for which young Faith—through waves of tears when no one was watching—wondered if she was to blame. Yes, she’d listened to her mom explain about Barrow’s multiple women, but she had doubts. Behind closed doors she’d heard her name thrown around in more than one of their arguments. It was always Beth and Faith against Barrow—according to Barrow. Sometimes their words were so painful she had to go outside to the barn and hug Peaches, her horse.

So, after two years of watching her mother take on the world by herself and ignoring the opposite sex, thirteen-year-old Faith began to scout around for possible suitors. Anyone who seemed smart, could laugh, and looked like he’d be good in bed. Not that she had any firsthand knowledge of bedroom behavior, but, heck, she thought, she was loaded with secondhand knowledge. She’d listened to girlfriends’ gossip for years, and had been observing Mother Nature—the ranch bulls, horses, etc., etc. Not to mention the well-earmarked copies of the Story of O, Masters and Johnson, etc., etc., which she devoured when her mother wasn’t around.

Stealth matchmaking became Faith’s specialty. There was the John Wayne look-alike John Deere tractor dealer who had delivered them a set of mower blades and stayed for dinner, thanks to Faith’s wheedling. Next, came the widowed, two-spreads-over rancher who could bend horseshoes with his hands. He stayed for dinner, too, with Faith urging him to sit at the head of the table, Barrow’s chair. Not exactly subtle, Beth, had said later with an eyebrow arched to the heavens. The widower was followed by the ranch veterinarian, Dr. Stan, who owned his own planes. Faith called him, saying Peaches might be coming up lame. The doctor was there in a jiffy, landing on the home pasture and taxiing practically into the barn. Thirty seconds into the exam he pronounced Peaches, Healthy as a horse. Beth and Faith were over-the-top apologetic for the call and grateful for his effort, with Beth trying to pay him, which he adamantly refused. Dr. Stan was pleased to stay for dinner—that was the least they could do—and Faith got her hopes up, again, because everyone seemed to be having a fine time. But as Stan’s plane headed back north Beth said, Honey, good try. Now, please stop. I’ve got the best life in the world. I don’t need a man, not anymore.

Faith nodded and said the right things about how glad she was for her, but, secretly, she didn’t believe a word. Wiser now, well-seasoned by several more failures, it didn’t matter. Faith still hoped this Howard guy in Valentine might be the one.

For most of the drive, the windows down and their hair flying, Faith kept her mother laughing, ribbing her about never having a TV and turning on the radio only to catch the morning cattle futures report at a quarter to six. Even as they gabbed Faith was scheming; how to get Beth into Alderson’s. Jumper cables? Why not? She told her mother it was time she had a set for her long trip west. Right? Beth seemed to agree. Alderson’s it is, she said, not evidencing a shred of suspicion.

As they ran Faith’s pseudo errands, mother and daughter made a stunning pair of frisky, very pretty cowgirls. Faith was blond; Beth, auburn haired. Both were intimidatingly tall and willowy, except in the right places, with freckles everywhere you looked. Walking arm in arm, like Europeans, wearing beat up cowboy boots, well-worn jeans, and cheerful mother-of-pearl snapped shirts, they were full of smiles and jokes and pleasantries with everyone they saw, because they knew everyone. Welcome to small-town America.

Eventually, almost holding her breath, Faith guided her mother into Alderson’s. What if Howard had taken the day off? Faith’s sudden panic morphed into hey, this might work. Her mother saw Howard right away and—even before Faith found the jumper cables—the two of them were into their Not since Hector was a pup . . . and How’ve you beens . . . Hmm, Faith thought, her sources had been right: Howard was almost tall enough, looked outdoorsy, and had an easy laugh. Watching the two do their getting-reacquainted dance, Faith even gave a couple—but only a couple—of thoughts to the good in bed requirement, before she had to wrinkle her nose. Trying not to stare at the two, Faith noticed the local newspaper lying half open on Howard’s desk with something about a devastating earthquake in Mexico City. She was reaching for the paper when Beth grabbed her and said it was time to go.

Back out on the street the two walked a block before mother said to daughter, You’re still at it aren’t you?

What? Me?

You little liar. Jumper cables?

Well . . . shoot. So?

Thank God you’re off to school tomorrow. I can relax.

You know he’s been available for over a year.

Faith—

Mom, the last time you went out with anyone was back in the Jurassic.

They argued Howard’s pros and cons as they walked Main Street until they decided to give the newly opened Dairy Queen a try. While Faith was picking up their order, she looked around for a copy of the newspaper she’d seen earlier. Finally, she had to paw through a trash barrel to find that day’s issue. There it was with the earthquake headline. As she munched her burger she read the AP story, A Voice Is Heard, to her mother. Faith didn’t particularly focus on the last paragraph that listed the words heard from the bottom of the destroyed hospital. Even so, something about them sent a hum through her. Her face became warm, flushed. She had no idea why.

Since she was majoring in geophysics at Stanford, Faith started to pontificate about the sediment basin under Mexico City and how it magnified earthquake damage. Though she knew her mother was interested, something made her stop midsentence. She found herself rereading the newspaper report, those words at the end.

Beth said, What?

Faith shook her head. Something. I don’t know. Forget it.

They settled in, finished their burgers, and left. They were halfway back to their pickup when Faith said, I’ll catch up with you. Beth watched her turn around and break into a jog.

Three blocks later Faith pushed back into the Dairy Queen, found the trash barrel and, ignoring customer stares, fished around until she found the newspaper she’d been reading. It was still folded to the page with the news of the earthquake.

Back at the pickup Beth was waiting for her. Okay, daughter, what’s going on?

Faith said, Don’t ask. Something’s weird. It’s those words I read to you. Something about them. I have no idea.

3

At the headquarters of Candler Research and Development (CRD), located in the Los Angeles neighborhood of Northridge, fifty-four-year-old Timothy Park Brown, one of six vice presidents of CRD, was on his way to the biweekly breakfast meeting with the company department heads when his secretary, Marge, caught up with him and thrust that day’s Mirror under his nose. She had circled the story A Voice is Heard and underlined the mention of the surveillance equipment.

Looks like they found somebody because of your stuff. Her voice was low, conspiratorial, and breathless from trying to stay up with her always hustling boss. This has been your project from the start, but you’re not given credit, and neither is CRD.

Good morning, Marge. Tim slowed to a stop to let her catch her breath.

Marge, three years from retirement, slim, tastefully dressed in gray to match her hair, was spoiling for a fight. She said, For that matter, you and Mr. Candler never let us publicize any of our mercy flights, two so far to Mexico. Not to mention last year in Turkey and the year before in Armenia. Can’t we turn PR loose on this one, at least? Mr. Brown, this is our chance to be known for doing something that doesn’t actually kill people.

Tim smiled, but shook his head. He told her he already knew about the survivor. He’d been called by his people at the scene. He had had to admit to himself that it was a good feeling being involved with saving the boy. Still, that wasn’t going to change the course of his day. Why should it? As usual, he’d take meetings, brainstorm problems, get harangued by his boss—Grayson Candler—and dictate to Marge his update on the military deficiencies of a dozen countries. The usual. Nothing was really going to be different—that’s what he thought.

He said, And we tell no one about our equipment, most certainly not the press. And the mercy flights? Not a chance. Low profile is our middle name, you know that. In fact, I’m thinking of recommending to Grayson that we pare down our public relations department. Once in a while he had to push Marge’s buttons.

What? No, you’re not.

I’m not?

"Low profile, did you say? Four years ago? A Time cover? Hmm?"

Tim said, You know that wasn’t my idea.

Oh?

It wasn’t . . . but okay, no budget cuts. Jeez. They smiled at each other, Marge’s tinged with victory. Tim took the newspaper and stuffed it into his briefcase.

Marge said, Shouldn’t you be wearing at least a jacket? And for later, with the German satellite people?

Tim was wearing his usual Sears polo shirt and Levis. He gave himself a glance. He looked fine, what was her problem? The queen’s not coming for lunch is she? he asked as he pushed into the company’s steel and glass executive dining suite.

The once-a-week get-togethers with all the company department heads were always productive. Tim’s area of expertise was the ongoing problem of integrating CRD military hardware into the outdated weapon systems of Saudi Arabia, Israel, Jordan, France, India, Britain, and another dozen or so countries. To each problem, Tim brought patience and a fascination for the smallest technical details.

It wasn’t until six hours later that he had a chance to even think about the newspaper account of the discovery of the survivor. He had taken the newspaper out of his briefcase, leaned back in his office chair, put his feet up on his desk—the first time he’d done that in forever—and gave himself permission, finally, to savor the pride he felt that his equipment had saved a life. The company 747 carrying tons of medical supplies, food, communications and water purification equipment, money, and a team of CRD engineers, had been the first plane to land at the Mexico City International Airport after their longest runway had been hastily repaired. They were ahead of US and Red Cross aid by over half a day.

Also on board was the prototype of the top-secret, electronic surveil-lance equipment the Defense Department had contracted CRD to design, build, and install, surreptitiously, in several of the USSR embassies and consulates worldwide. Tim, the project supervisor and lead engineer, had given Charles Sutton, his assistant, instructions to use the government’s electronics only if conventional listening devices were deemed inadequate. But call first. Eight days later, Charles did call and described the situation at Our Lady of Guadalupe Hospital. Tim didn’t hesitate; he said go ahead, use our stuff.

But come on, he added, No one could be alive after all this time. No one.

Charles asked, So, you don’t want me to try?

No, I didn’t say that. Try, of course. Do everything you can. I mean it.

He was reading the last paragraph of the newspaper report when Marge knocked and came in carrying what appeared to be a two-foot-high pile of binders.

The Pentagon’s latest, she said breathlessly.

Tim glanced up, guiltily took his feet off his desk, folded the paper, and slipped it back into his briefcase. As he stood up to get out of Marge’s way he suddenly felt disoriented. He swayed back against his chair. He was looking at Marge and the paperwork she was stacking on his desk, but he saw only vineyards. He smelled orange blossoms and eucalyptus, pepper trees and new-mown grass, and heard his grandfather crisply close the book he had been reading to him. There was laughter in the air. It was so real Tim thought he was having some kind of stroke.

Marge was in the middle of saying something about how this was Tim’s next big chance to cut back on CRD’s military business. She lowered her voice to a whisper. Don’t you think? Thanks to you we’re down 9% in the last four years.

Tim nodded, but was barely listening, trying not to panic. After all his workouts, and after his doctor’s recent comment that he had the body of a thirty-year-old triathlete, how dare he be having a stroke! He managed to give Marge an answer. Okay, I’ll think about it.

Marge caught Tim’s lackluster response. Lowering her voice even more she said, Mr. Brown, it’s wonderful how you have been moving us into energy and away from armaments. I don’t think Mr. Candler has caught on yet.

Tim tried to focus. He ran a hand through his thick hair. Was he feeling any better? He looked around and gestured. There’s no one here, Marge. What in hell are we whispering for?

Marge lowered her voice another ten decibels. I . . . I sometimes think Mr. Candler can hear us. I know he’s back in Washington now, but . . .

But Tim stood frozen, his mouth half open, his arm still pointing toward the distance. Once again, all he could see were rows of emperor grapevines running away to the distant Sierra foothills and his grandfather holding a thin, worn book he had been reading to Tim.

Mr. Brown? Sir? Marge was alarmed. Tim? She grabbed his arm and gave it a shake. Tim?

Tim squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them wide with a start. It was all falling into place. He turned and set his briefcase up on his desk. He snapped it open. The newspaper was on top. Hurriedly he smoothed it down. He found the passage with the survivor’s words. His hands began to shake as he reread the words. He said, Yes! That’s it! That has to be it. Amazing. My God, just amazing! He smacked the newspaper with his hand and laughed, a short, manic burst of incredulity.

Wait a minute. He began to reread the report. Didn’t it say something about a British accent? Yes, by God, it did. That would be . . . that would be utterly and completely and totally impossible! All of it.

Marge couldn’t help herself. She started to back away. She said, Sir, I’m really worried about you. Sir?

But Tim was reading the paragraph again. He ran his finger along the list of words. Here, this is wrong. ‘Zips’ is wrong. Wrong. It’s gotta be . . . what? . . . what? Ah, ‘zeps’!—the dirigibles. Yes, that’s it. Incredible. Utterly incredible.

4

The ride back to the ranch from Valentine was much quieter for the two cowgirls. For some reason Faith was driving faster than normal. The breeze from the open window ruffled their shirts, kept after their hair. Beth gazed out at the treeless, soft-green hills and the pure-blue lakes of the Sand Hills, speckled with black-necked stilts and blue-winged teal, and loved the view. She must have seen it a thousand times and had never taken it for granted. But this time it didn’t look quite the same. Beth realized that Faith’s effort to fix her up was halfhearted: Faith hadn’t even personally met Howard Alderson; just took her friends’ word about him. Beth sighed. Faith was going to graduate this year, probably land a nice geophysics job, and be out in the world, beginning the next phase of her life—a phase that no longer involved her mother. Beth looked over at her beautiful daughter. She realized this might be the last time she would see her looking the way she did: interested in everything under the sun, but naive about life and men and her own possibilities. Beth reached over and gave her a quick hug.

Faith smiled and kept the pickup on the road.

What was that for?

Beth turned her head away to look out her side window. I don’t know, she said. Thanks for trying again. Faith nodded and smiled.

Normally, the two would’ve talked each other’s heads off by now. The radio was on, but losing out to the breeze.

Finally, Faith did say something. Mom, it’s those wonderful damn books of yours. Nobody around here is ever going to live up to any of the men we’ve read about. I mean, I’ve read most of the books twice. And why don’t you get a plane, like Dr. Stan’s Piper Cub? Besides the ranches, you’ve got state ag meetings, Farm Bureau stuff, all the auctions.

Beth said, No, not a chance. I’d need this year’s steers to weigh way up or I couldn’t even give it a thought.

Faith said, Yeah, yeah. She wasn’t listening. She turned the radio higher and started working the stations. She wanted to hear more about the earthquake. Every so often she would mumble something: Buried almost two hundred hours? Still alive? Come on.

They turned off US Route 83 and were approaching Brownlee when she caught a newscast out of Alliance. The anchor was in the middle of recapping the details of the triumphant, against-all-odds extrication of a Mexican boy, the owner of the voice heard from the basement of the hospital.

Faith shook her head. A boy? Mexican? Are you kidding? She had to raise her voice to be heard over the open windows and the radio. What are the chances? A Mexican kid saying those words? Come on. And they said something about a British accent. Are they kidding? There’s no way the Mexican kid could’ve said those words. He probably doesn’t speak English, and how could he be alive, anyway?

She barely slowed for Brownlee, population forty-five. The ranch was another ten miles. She rapped the steering wheel with her hand. "The first thing they’ll do after they feed and hydrate the boy is ask him about what he said. We’ve got to stay tuned. For God’s sake, Mom, would you break down and get a TV? And get the Times from Omaha. It would only be a day late. You’re supposed to be this big-wheeze cattle baron, you’ve got meetings all over the state and in DC, and you’re still living in the Dark Ages. Get a Piper Cub, like the Doc’s."

Beth said, I’d have to learn how to fly—

Faith interrupted. Mom, those words the boy said. I’ve seen them somewhere. It’s crazy, but they ring a bell. I can’t stand it. I’ve gotta figure it out.

5

After Daniel Pulido had been moved from the operating table to the recovery room, then to his private hospital room, it didn’t take long for the conversations around his bedside to echo Dr. Alvarez’s speculations to the newspapers. The nuns and priests, flapping their black robes like vultures, agreed Daniel’s life was a miracle. Buried alive for eight days! They also agreed God must have come to Daniel, and the words Daniel spoke—the words published in the world’s newspapers—had to be His words. They couldn’t have been the boy’s. A barefoot kid? A peasant? In English? No. Hour after hour, they circled Daniel waiting for the next words, something, a syllable, anything from the Almighty, hopefully words that were in Spanish and made sense.

They waited in vain—the boy was silent; he didn’t open his mouth. He didn’t sing hymns with them, nor repeat the Lord’s Prayer with them as they stood in a semicircle around his bed. He ignored paper and pencils thrust into his hands. His eyes remained unfocused, staring off into nothingness. All they knew about him was his name, and that only because they had found his library card in what was left of his clothes, which had to be peeled off his body with a scalpel.

The boy’s flesh had been sliced, gashed, burned, and, in places, cut through to the bone. X-rays revealed a crushed sternum, six broken ribs, and a punctured lung, but no other breaks. He had lost so much weight he barely made a dent in the hospital bed. The initial test results on his blood and urine pronounced him extremely dead. Doctor Alvarez was shocked. To him—and to the very few people who were allowed to see Daniel—he truly was the miracle the Church had been trumpeting to the world.

The archbishop and the mother superior in charge of the hospital assumed that the horrific trauma Daniel had endured—the deaths of so many children—had rendered him temporarily deaf and mute. Given some time he would speak. Dr. Alvarez, however, looked into Daniel’s eyes with a scope, tested his reflexes, and said he couldn’t be sure, but there might be brain damage—Daniel had gone too long without water and food.

Do you think the doctor could be right? the mother superior asked the archbishop. Could our Daniel be brain damaged?

The archbishop gave her a sharp look, the veins in his emaciated, skim-milk face pulsing in anger. Absolutely not, he snapped. Not for the public’s edification, he isn’t. No. Do you understand me? No.

The panicked mother superior shut her jaw so emphatically she bit her tongue.

In the midst of their exchange both missed what they had been seeking, even though Our Daniel was only his bed-length away. A tiny, sad smile graced his face for an instant; then, just as quickly, disappeared to hide behind his injuries.

6

Timothy Brown had taken a call from Charles Sutton, his engineer in Mexico City, the moment the Mexican boy was pulled free of the rubble. Charles described how two cranes had maneuvered battered steel beams until a very-thin Mexican fireman was able to wiggle out of sight into the basement. Fifteen minutes later the boy, strapped to a stretcher, came into view. Later, the pictures in the papers confirmed what Charles had told Tim: the boy was just sinew and bone. Dirt and dried blood coated his face and body. The medical people had immediately administered oxygen, started an IV, and rushed him to the nearest intact emergency room. But it was Tim’s recognition of the words from the newspaper which galvanized him into action. The moment Marge left his office he called Charles and ordered him to stay close to the hospital. He wanted any news of the boy’s condition.

He thought, A Mexican and just a boy. It makes no sense. Those words . . . I must be losing my mind.

Several hours later Charles called again. Marge put him right through. He told Tim the boy’s name was Pulido, Daniel Pulido, according to his University of Mexico Library card. Evidently, he is still alive, but barely. But I’ve gotta tell you, he added, some of our friends from the Russian embassy were hanging around. They were pretending to be rescue workers. I couldn’t very well hide our stuff, given what we were trying to do.

Okay, thanks, Tim said. We’ll talk about it when you get back.

Right. Well, I’m taking off.

Wait! Charles, I’d like you to stay a little longer. I want to know if the boy is really going to make it. Okay? He spoke with new intensity. And while you’re there, do me a favor: find out about the library, and the books this Daniel Pulido checked out. Can you do that? I’ll get you some days off.

Really? May l ask why?

Indulge me. And, Charles, don’t tell anyone I asked you to do this.

When Charles called with the boy’s name, Tim had been writing and scratching out on a pad of paper, trying to remember a poem. He’d moved from his Swedish, modern, minimalist desk chair to his grandfather’s old, pre-Great War, brown leather chair with the cigarette-burn holes. After the call, he stopped what he was doing and stared into space. I’ve heard that name, Pulido, somewhere. What is going on here? He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed the red marks on his nose. The same marks his grandfather, E.P., always got from his own wire-rimmed glasses. Dear God, whoever the boy is, please let him live.

Tim shifted back to his desk, got on the phone and told Marge to reschedule: he didn’t want to see anyone for the moment. She protested, but he insisted.

Marge said, This isn’t you. You’re not feeling well, are you? Like earlier?

No, I’m fine. Better than ever. He hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Better than ever? Where did that come from? He began to smile as he remembered his grandfather reading the poem to him for the first time. He was only six years old at the time. They had been sitting out on his parents’ back porch with the view of the vineyards and the mountains. That moment—the smell of the trees and the grass, the Sierra, and E.P.’s laughter—had miraculously leaped out of thin air when he asked Marge why she was whispering. That innocent question, straight from the poem itself, had triggered it all.

Tim roused himself and looked over at the paperwork on his desk. Normally he would have attacked the Pentagon stuff—or General Electric’s, or Texas Instrument’s, or Rolls Royce’s—and not come up for air for weeks. For over twenty years, he’d learned to ignore the cosmic consequences of his involvement in the development of newer, faster—and more destructive—guns, planes, bombs, and the effect they had had on entire continents. He rarely, if ever, lost his train of thought. But today, this moment, he couldn’t wait to put his feet back on his desk again.

An earthquake, a boy, a poem—and that British accent. It was how E.P. had taught him to recite the poem. Whenever he recited it he always used that accent. Now, here was this Mexican kid using the same accent with the same poem. How could it be?

He closed his eyes and saw his grandfather in his chair out on the back porch, pulling at his mustache, his cane across his lap. He was gesturing at young Tim saying, Everything has a beginning. Imagine being there when the Declaration of Independence was signed, or at Kitty Hawk, or with Lincoln at Gettysburg, Einstein, Chuck Yeager. Find that beginning and look around. God will be right there. How many times had his grandfather badgered him with Go find where it all began . . . try to feel what it felt like to be at the beginning. But beware, at some moment there will be a beginning just for you. It will be all yours. And when that happens, remember, don’t forget to look around.

Tim’s secure line phone rang, startling him. The phone was out of sight in the bottom drawer of his desk. He didn’t want to answer it, but he had to. It would be Mr. Candler himself, chairman of the board, CRD’s majority owner. All the VPs had the special phone, a curse on their lives.

Tim picked it up. Before he even said Hello Candler said, Brown, I found out what you did down there in Mexico. Boyd’s foaming at the mouth. Cliff Boyd was the Pentagon’s under secretary for arms development, a chief buyer of CRD products. Candler steamed on. He’s going to be coming out with me when I finish up here. Don’t interrupt.

Interrupt Grayson Candler? Was he kidding?

You should’ve seen me tap dance in front of Boyd, and about an hour later in front of Secretary Quinn. You know how I’ve talked about hiring Quinn when he leaves Defense? Well, forget it. Candler took a deep breath. Tim knew he was just warming up. Now they’re trying to screw us over on our deal with Germany, the satellites, and Japan. They’re looking at everything. When I get back you better have a damn good reason for what you did with their electronics. I want paperwork, backup. Make me look like a genius. With that Candler hung up.

Tim was relieved when he heard the disconnect. He’d hardly focused on Candler, because the second line of the poem had materialized on the tip of his tongue. He hurriedly added the line to the first one on his pad, then read them aloud:

"The General came in a new tin hat

To the shell-torn front where the war was at;"

The boy had said tin and Tim thought there might not be another poem in western civilization that featured the word tin in its first line. He couldn’t stop now. What was the next line? He read the first two over again and pushed to get the next words.

Then, for a moment, he did stop. He realized he had almost totally ignored his boss, the not-to-be-denied Grayson Candler. Plus, Marge had someone waiting to see him, he couldn’t remember who. Then there was the Pentagon, practically sitting on top of him flashing CRD’s future in neon. Tim smiled and thought, Damn it, there’s not enough room on my desk for both the Pentagon and my feet. The next thing that happened: the list of multiple weapon specifications—running to five hundred pages—found itself shoved way off in a dark corner of his office. And his feet were back on his desk.

Tim thought, What the hell is happening to me?

He smiled as his last thought was pushed aside by the tumble of words from the poem, one on top of the other. He scribbled as fast as he could:

With a faithful Aide at his good right hand

He made his way toward No Man’s Land,

And a tough Top Sergeant there they found,

And a Captain, too, to show them round.

He believed he had the poem right so far—he was almost positive. He sat back and put his feet back up on the desk. He hadn’t had this much fun in who knows how long. Fun? No, not with this. That boy, those words; something very special was happening and he had no idea what it was. But there was no way he wasn't going to find out.

7

The morning of the earthquake Daniel had gotten to the hospital in time. He ran from floor to floor, desperately shouting his mother’s name, waking the children and staff. They told him she was in the basement. He dashed down the stairs and found her there, unloading a large cardboard box of donated stuffed animals to be distributed to the children. He told her something