An Excerpt
(continued)
by Jack McDevitt
TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT (11:36 p.m.)
“This is Bruce Kendrick in our New York studios. We have more information now on the events at Carlisle, Pennsylvania, where Angela Shepard is standing by. Angela, what’s the situation?”
“Bruce, early estimates are that hundreds died here when at least seven objects struck the ground in and around Carlisle at a little after eleven o’clock this evening. One demolished the center of town, which is now, as you can see, little more than a smoking crater. The town itself has been destroyed. An estimated three thousand victims are being evacuated to area hospitals.
“The Red Cross is setting up an emergency shelter and the number that’s running across the bottom of the screen can be used to get information about relatives. The military responded within minutes and is out in force.
“We’re panning the area for you now and you can see there are fires everywhere. The devastation is unlike anything you’d expect to see in peacetime. Everything’s down, power’s out, water’s out. When we got here people were wandering the streets, trying to help where they could. One man told us that the meteors just kept coming. Every couple of minutes, he said, another one would fall out of the sky.
“We have a video of one of them. Or we will have in just a moment. It was shot from a passing car in the northern part of town. Okay, there it is: you can see it coming in over the telephone lines. He loses it for a moment here. But there it is again. It looks as if it’s approaching at about a forty-five degree angle. This appears to be the one that hit the center of Carlisle, Bruce.”
“Angela, let me break in for a moment. We’ve just been informed that the President will address the nation in twenty minutes, at 11:45. This has to be the shortest notice for a presidential address in U.S. history.
“We’ve also received reports that waves have struck Caracas and Trinidad. Everything so far has been in the western hemisphere. I assume that’s because this is the part of the Earth that’s turned toward the Moon tonight.
“We’ll be staying at the Transglobal Newsdesk throughout the night with this developing story. We hope you’ll stay with us. Now, while we’re waiting for the President’s statement, we’re going to switch to Charleston, South Carolina where Peter Barton is standing by....”
Coast Guard Activities, Staten Island, New York. 11:44 p.m.
Captain Lionel Phillips looked up from his desk. The duty officer had burst into his office with a single sheet of paper. “Tidal wave, sir,” she said. “Coming this way.”
He snatched the paper:
YY 140442Z
FROM: USCGC DILIGENT
TO: BREAKWATER
SUBJECT: TIDAL WAVE ALERT
WAVE ENCOUNTERED 41.3° N. LAT. 72.8° W. LONG. 140448Z X APPROX FORTY FEET HIGH, SPEED 200 KNOTS RPT 200 X COURSE TWO NINE ZERO
He looked at it, felt his stomach go cold, and pushed the button. The klaxon began to wail. Everybody out. He’d not believed for a minute any of this sky-is-falling bullcrap, and consequently he’d encouraged his wife to ignore the threat. She was at this moment sitting with their five-year-old grandson in a pleasant Tudor home on Hylan Boulevard off Hugenot Park. Roughly ten feet above sea level.
The wave was four, maybe five, minutes away.
But thank God he’d been directed to assume the worst here and make preparations. “Janet,” he said to the officer, “have we sent the general alert?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Let’s go.” He got out of his chair, headed for the door, and grabbed his jacket on the way past the clothes tree. “Everybody out,” he said unnecessarily to the four others scrambling to shut down the center. “Go to mobile.”
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, punched his home key and listened to it ring. His own voice clicked on: “You’ve reached Captain Phillips’s residence. Speak if you wish.” And the beep.
“Myra,” he told it, “for God’s sake get out. Wave coming.”
Then he was half-walking half-running, locking doors as regulations required, listening to the thwip-thwip-thwip of rotors. His people were all out now, scattering across the tarmac and climbing into the chopper. Except Janet, who was drifting behind, keeping pace with him. Damned women. “Go,” he told her. She climbed aboard and he followed and the chopper lifted off.
Phillips looked east over the lights of Brooklyn toward the harbor entrance. Everything seemed normal. They activated Bluebell, the CG Command Center Aloft. One of the radio operators signaled for his attention. “Captain,” he said, “we’ve got reports from a couple of merchantmen too. They’re saying more like sixty feet.”
God help us. He directed the pilot to move south. At the same time he tried to call home again. Still no luck.
It was on the radio now, all stations warning people to get to high ground.
Phillips was trying not to give in to panic. “Janet,” he said, “get me Collins.” The FEMA regional director.
Collins already knew, of course. “Doing everything we can,” he said. The FEMA director had been another skeptic. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” he added. That sounded ominous.
They talked for a minute, and then Phillips tried again to call Myra. This time she answered.
“Whoa, Phil,” she said, “slow down.”
He was gazing across the bay from about a thousand feet. Lights were moving down there. Two miles ahead, at the Narrows, he could see the Verrazano Bridge.
“Myra, there’s a wave coming. Big one. Get out of there. Get on the interstate and head west.”
“How big?”
“Big.”
“How much time do I have?”
“None--.”
The phone went dead. He tried to call her back but got a recorded message from the telephone company telling him the line was under repair.
Janet stared at him and said nothing.
He was trying to get the operator to check the line when the lights on the bridge blinked off.
SPECIAL BROADCAST FROM THE WHITE HOUSE
(11:45 p.m.)
“My Fellow Americans,
“As you are aware, several tidal waves have struck the east coast of the United States. The collision earlier this evening between the Moon and Comet Tomiko has filled the sky with debris. Pieces of the disintegrating Moon have been falling on land and into the ocean. Waves caused by these objects have struck several of our cities. New York, New Orleans, Charleston, have all been hit very hard. Even inland cities have been struck. So far most of the damage has been in the western hemisphere, because our side of the globe is presently turned toward the Moon.
“We have reason to believe the worst is over. And the news is not all bad. The west coast, so far, has been spared. The nation’s heartland is almost untouched.
“Tonight we will do what Americans have always done in times of crisis: we will draw together, and we will survive. We will work through this, we will maintain our faith in God, and we will still be here when the sun comes up.”
Later, Henry regretted that last line. Al had resisted it, but the President thought it had power and would become memorable. A line often quoted, and perhaps appealed to in future emergencies.
In fact, he realized too late it sounded unduly pessimistic.
Micro, flight deck. Sunday, April 14, 2:10 a.m.
“How about the g-suit?”
The ‘g’ stood for gravity, and the suit was a kind of underwear worn inside the pressure suit. It was designed to keep blood from pooling in the extremities under high gee forces. They had only the one she’d been wearing, now hung in a storage locker. He opened the locker and measured himself against the leggings. The suit was several inches too long. “I think I can manage without,” he grinned. “Anyway, I’ll be out and back in a few minutes.”
The air in the cabin had become oppressive at about midnight and Saber distributed masks and air tanks. They switched to a second round of tanks just after two o’clock. By then, the radar screen was quiet and Tony decided it would be reasonably safe to venture outside.
He climbed into the p-suit (it too was a bit large), descended to the passenger cabin and assured everyone there was nothing to worry about. Then he put on the helmet, did a radio check, stepped into the airlock and closed the inner hatch behind him.
“Tony?”
“Go ahead, Saber.”
“We’ve got a couple of pings on the screen.”
“Anything to worry about?”
“Negative. But the neighborhood’s not clear.”
That was of course the danger: if something came at them she’d have to start the engine to evade. Wouldn’t be a happy situation with him on the outside. “Okay. Let’s get it over with, babe.”
The outer hatch opened. He clipped a tether to his belt. The tether would unwind as Tony moved, and it was long enough to allow him to get inside the cargo deck. He snapped the torch onto his wrist, turned it on, reported himself ready to go, and stepped outside.
The hull was pocked, chipped, and scorched. He surveyed it and shook his head. The hatch closed behind him. “We’re a little beat up out here,” he told Saber.
The ‘C’ deck airlock was out of sight below the curve of the hull. He pushed off, moved quickly down the face of the bus, aided by strategically-placed handgrips. ‘Down’ was the direction of the nozzle, and of the Moon, which came into view as he neared the cargo deck hatch. He could see the damaged tread, floating off its mount like a broken leg. The entire lower section of the micro had been battered, both by debris and apparently by the broken tread, which might easily strike the vehicle during sudden turns. He’d need to come back and get rid of it.
The hatch itself was bent; nearby there was a baseball-sized eruption in the hull. A rock had gone in the other side and come out here. The metal was seared. He held the torch to the opening. “I can see in,” he told Saber.
“Do you see Bigfoot?”
“No. But there’s something reflective.”
“What?”
In the darkness, Tony smiled. “It’s a plastic bag.”
“Oh,” said Saber. “He brought a lot of stuff on board in plastic bags.”
It drifted away from the light beam and then he could see only the far bulkhead. “Okay,” he said, turning off the lamp, “time to get to work.” He had just started for the hatch when something whispered against his faceplate. It might have been a handful of sand.
“Something just happen?” asked Saber.
“Negative,” he said.
“Okay. Try to get inside as quickly as you can.”
“Working on it.” He reached the hatch control panel, opened it, and twisted the key. A white lamp blinked on. Good: at least he had power.
He punched the ACTIVATE button and the status display lit up red. DEPRESSURIZING, it said.
His suit registered a vibration. “More rocks?” he asked.
“Never saw it coming, Tony. Under the radar.” The unit just didn’t pick up pebbles. “Are you almost in?”
He was watching the display and the hatch. “I’ll be inside in a minute.”
“Roger.”
He was thinking about Bigfoot. They’d never socialized, never spent time together, never even talked much, really. Just to say hello. There was a tendency among the operational types to spend time with their own kind. Tony fraternized with the pilots, and he assumed Bigfoot would have spent his time with flight operations personnel. Or with the managers. Probably the managers. He wondered what he’d been doing when the rock came through the bulkhead, what he’d been thinking. Tony hoped it had been a quick death. But there must have been a few moments....
The lamp was still red.
His suit display had no timekeeping mechanism but the process seemed to be taking a long time.
“Tony?”
“Yo.”
“Can you hurry it along?”
“Still recycling.”
The red lamp went out, and the legend in the display changed: DEPRESSURIZATION COMPLETE.
He shifted his position, hanging onto the grip with his right hand, ready to slip into the airlock as soon as it opened.
But it stayed shut.
“Saber, I don’t think this thing’s going to work.”
“It has to open.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He switched to manual, took out the handle, turned it, and pulled.
Nothing.
He shifted his position and tried again. This time he felt something give. “Okay,” he said. “Progress that time.” He had a little space now between the edge of the hatch and its seating. He pulled the bar out of his belt and worked it into the space and began to lever it back and forth.
“Tony, you need to hurry. We’ve got stuff coming up on the screen.”
“I hear you.” He pulled hard.
“Maybe you should come back. Try again later.”
He couldn’t get good purchase, and when he pushed at the hatch it pushed back. The problem, he decided, was that he was trying to do the job while hanging onto the grip. So he let go, braced both feet on the hull, wrapped both both hands around the bar, and pulled. It moved some more.
“It’s coming now,” he told her.
“Running out of time, Tony.”
He set himself and tried again but the bar slipped and he floated away. “Uh-oh,” he said.
“Uh-oh? What’s uh-oh?”
“I’m adrift.”
“Tony? I’ve got to move.”
“Go ahead.” He shoved the bar into his belt. “I’ll be okay.”
The engine lit and the bus leaped away. He plummeted backward until the tether caught and dragged him. It was short enough to prevent his getting fried by the main engine. But he crashed hard into the hull and jammed a wrist.
“You still there?” Her voice, worried, in his earphones.
“Yeah.” He had to struggle to get the response out, and it occurred to him that he had the only suit and if he got in trouble out here there was no way anyone could come after him.
“More coming in, Tony,” Saber said. “We have to get clear.”
“Okay. I’m fine.”
Something splashed across his visor.
Liquid. He tried to wipe it away. But nothing happened and in the strange light his arm didn’t look right.
The liquid was coming out of his sleeve and he couldn’t see his left hand.
Couldn’t feel his left hand.
Darkness welled up around the edges of his vision. There was pressure in the sleeve. The suit was sealing.
But the light was slipping away.
Micro passenger cabin. 2:31 a.m.
Charlie was well along on his second oxygen tank. There were only a couple more available, which meant, unless they restored life support, they would begin to have problems around four o’clock.
It was impossible to see what was happening from the windows of the passenger cabin. Tony had gone down below the curve of the hull, and they’d heard the banging while he worked on the hatch. Charlie wanted to ask Saber how the operation was going but he was reluctant to distract her. He’d learned the hard way that ordinary people can ask questions or make complaints and nobody thinks much of it. But a person with political standing becomes a jerk very quickly. So he waited, trading anxious glances with Evelyn, who was also trying to stay out of the way.
Morley sat gloomily, his hands pressed against his oxygen mask. He looked defeated, a sharp contrast to his positive and energetic on-air personality. The chaplain had been trying to adapt a fatalistic attitude to insulate himself against emotional rushes. “Not much we can do except ride it out,” he’d say, or, “We’re in the hands of the Lord.”
They certainly were.
Charlie’d been surprised when Saber warned them that more turbulence was coming. Turbulence was a funny name for the rocks he watched whistle past his window. But when she’d started the engine and rolled to one side, he’d concluded that Tony must have got inside.
But now the engine was quiet again. There was no sound below decks, and the micro rode through an ominous silence.
Evelyn tried to radiate confidence. “It’s okay,” she said. “They know what they’re doing.”
Might not make any difference, Charlie thought.
The p.a. system clicked on, but no one spoke. Evelyn glanced at him again. The delay drew out until Charlie knew it could only be bad news.
The chaplain was peering through his window. “Houston, Houston,” said Morley softly, “we have a problem.”
The chaplain caught his breath. “Outside,” he whispered.
They were dragging Tony at the end of his line. He looked deflated. Inanimate. He was spinning slowly, hands over feet.
As the angle changed, and the illumination from the ship’s outboard lamps crept over him, Charlie saw that his left hand was missing. At first he thought it was a trick of the light. But it wasn’t.
Charlie Haskell wasn’t yet old enough to have confronted, before this week, the imminent possibility of personal death. He assumed there’d always be a tomorrow. Now he looked out at Tony Casaway, thought about Bigfoot in his airless compartment, and he shivered. Casaway had come back for him. Bigfoot had stayed behind to give them a chance.
Charlie was not a believer. He did not expect to be called to account and assigned a score for what he had done or left undone. His parents had believed in a mechanical world, a place of evolving hardware and software, no deities need apply. We just haven’t figured it all out yet, his father was fond of saying. Things get more complex and we don’t know why. But that doesn’t mean we have to ascribe it to divine providence.
Charlie had endured a brief flirtation with Lutherans, as a result of joining a church basketball team. He’d been glad to escape. Later, when he entered politics, he’d been advised to pick a church. Any church. And just show up once in a while. He’d taken the advice and picked several. He could never take them seriously, but he discovered that they became more significant to his success as he moved higher in public office.
The bottom line was that if Charlie died out here, in his view it was all over. He envied Mark Pinnacle, who could face the worst dangers with relative equanimity because he believed that Paradise waited beyond the gate. He had only to explain to himself why Jesus had sent the comet. No big deal for a Christian.
For a realist like himself life was a more complex game, in which one occasionally got run down by the software. Nothing personal.
“I have to tell you,” Saber’s voice said, breaking through his reverie, “that Captain Casaway is dead. I monitor no life signs from his suit.” Her voice trembled.
The chaplain unbuckled and would have gone to her assistance, but Evelyn touched his arm and went up the ladder.
Nobody said much while she was gone. Charlie, Mark Pinnacle, and Morley ostentatiously avoided looking out the window. They heard low, intense conversation on the flight deck.
Morley’s gaze touched Charlie’s. “He never got to ‘C’ Deck,” he said.
Charlie nodded. “I know.”
“He didn’t get to the air lines.”
“I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
It was a good question.
Copyright © 1998 by Jack McDevitt
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