“What are the odds?” several shouted.
“At this point . . .” Concetta’s mouth had gone dry. “With all the computer models we’ve run . . . we’re estimating about a sixty-seven percent probability of a collision with Earth.”
A gasp came from the off-camera reporters as well as all of us in the makeshift field hospital. The news reporters all began shouting at once, “Do you have an exact—” “If it’s so far away, how can you—” “Do you know when it—?!”
I could see that poor Concetta felt overwhelmed by the tumult, and I greatly sympathized with the beleaguered young scientist. But she steeled herself, firmly held out both hands for silence, and waited until the gathering complied. Then she said, “Let me give you an overview. Earth moves at roughly seventy thousand miles per hour in its orbit.” She brought up a graphic that visualized her description.
Courtesy Concetta Cordaro, PhD, MIT; Uday Shankar & Justin Atchison, JHUAPL
“Think of Earth’s orbit as a clock. On this diagram, Earth right now, today, is currently at approximately the two o’clock position, labeled ‘11/2019.’” A blue-green disk representing Earth appeared on the upper right of its orbit line. “Avery’s Comet will be approaching from way off on the upper right side.” A red disk appeared at the extreme upper right edge of the screen, also labeled ‘11/2019.’ “So right now Earth is moving toward the comet.” The blue-green Earth disk began moving counterclockwise toward twelve o’clock, then down toward eleven o’clock. “At about ten o’clock, roughly mid-March, next year, Earth begins moving away from Avery. But as we continue on around the sun, passing six o’clock, in mid-May next year, and Earth begins curving up toward five o’clock”—the earth’s symbol moved accordingly—“the oncoming comet will pass its perihelion, where it’s closest to the sun, and slightly decrease its speed because of the sun’s gravity as it closes in on Earth from behind.”
There were overlapping shouts of, “How long will it—?” “What speed will it—?” “Do you have a date when—?”
Dr. LaPorta stepped up beside the young astronomer and held his hands out to quell the reporters. “Please. Please. Give Dr. Cordaro a chance.”
She drew another deep breath and leaned closer to the microphones, speaking more quietly. Lauren, our Bangladeshi aides, and I also leaned closer to hear her words. “Again let me emphasize that our calculations and models are based on the most accurate data currently available. The situation may improve, it may remain the same, or it may deteriorate. Whichever happens we estimate that the comet’s speed toward us will be in excess of twenty-eight kilometers per second, that’s over sixty-three thousand seven hundred miles per hour, by the time it intercepts our Earth.” Concetta paused, inhaling with her lips tightly together, then she said, “And that will take place in seven months and thirteen days. On the tenth of next July.”
2
DEFENSE
Concetta Cordaro. . .
Naturally there were skeptics, particularly among the governments of Russia and China, who instantly scoffed. They doubted the declaration, particularly one originated by “a junior-level, publicity-seeking, potentially hysterical female astronomer.”
Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence, gentlemen. They also raised suspicions of it being merely political subterfuge giving the US an excuse to enhance our nuclear arsenal. They presented scientists of their own, many who dismissed our predictions in their entirety. Other scientists in those countries, if admitting the remotest possibility, argued that our calculations were simply wrong. That it would be a near miss, certainly close enough to be frightening, but nonetheless a miss. They argued that at most there was only a 40 or 50 percent chance of actual impact.
But for the US government, NASA, and ESA (the European Space Agency) those odds were more than strong enough to call for defensive action. They began scrambling to make immediate preparations to try to prevent such an irreversible catastrophe. Research had been ongoing for several years about dealing with such an incoming object by somehow creating an explosive shockwave nearby to alter its path, but as yet we had neither the technology nor the time to pursue that course. So a direct confrontation was the only choice.
The basic game plan they put forth sounded relatively simple and achievable: launch a number of rockets armed with nuclear warheads to intercept and explode the incoming comet before it could strike Earth. Many thought that was a good idea. We certainly had many intercontinental ballistic missiles sitting around at our disposal.
Or did we?
TELCOM UNIDIR0686118;
Transmit Date & Time: 12/12/19 17:09:32 GMT
Sender: UNIDIR
Recipient(s): POTUS, SECDOD, NASA, ESA, USAF Centcom, USN Centcom,
NSA, NRC, UNSG
Re: Project on Transparency & Accountability in Nuclear Disarmament
In response to numerous interdepartmental and interagency inquiries regarding the number of USA ICBMs currently armed with nuclear devices and ready to deploy, the most recent UNIDIR assessment (Blk # E76634, File doc UNADIR-7117693625) estimates 557. This includes both land-based and submarine-based missiles.
>>> USAF Centcom, USN Centcom, SECDOD please confirm.
VERIFY RECEIPT - TELCOM UNIDIR 0686118
END TRANSMISSION
Courtesy UNIDIR Information Office
The Documentarian. . .
The number of missiles was actually correct. But there was a major problem.
From: [email protected]
To: POTUS, ESA, USAF Centcom, USN Centcom, SECDOD, NSA, NRC, UNSG
Date: 12/14/19 13:22:56 ZULU
Subject: Defense against Comet Avery
Mr. President et al.,
It must be immediately understood that all the ICBMs described in UNIDIR**6118 had never been designed for, nor are they capable of, penetration deeply enough into space to accomplish the extraordinary mission at hand. None of them have the size or thrust necessary to do the job.
They are therefore all useless for this mission. Instead, essentially starting from scratch, an entirely different fleet will have to be created and deployed. What is needed is a number of multistage rockets with heavy-lift thrust capabilities such as carry payloads into orbital insertion. And not merely into low Earth orbits (LEO) of 200+/- mile altitudes where the International Space Station operates and many shuttles have flown.
This special mission requires much more powerful rockets such as (at a minimum) those used for lifting payloads into geosynchronous transfer orbits (GTO) some 26,000 miles above the earth.
These would include specially modified versions of the Delta IV Heavy, Vulcan two-stage, or SpaceX Falcon 9 heavy-lift vehicles.
Between NASA, the US military, SpaceX, and ESA (Elliot Kinsmore-Smythe please confirm) there are at this moment only perhaps four such launch vehicles that are even close to being ready for fitting with nuclear warheads and deployed against the comet.
Benjamin Lancaster
Chief Administrator
Courtesy NASA
Concetta Cordaro. . .
So the obvious, but seemingly impossible, challenge was to create as many more of these massive 240-foot-tall launch vehicles as possible. I was kept closely in the loop while I led the team that continued to refine the comet’s orbital assessments. There were seven active launch complexes at the Kennedy Space Center (KSC), but never had more than two such rockets been launched anywhere near simultaneously. Even assuming that the necessary number of rockets could be constructed, transported, and readied, the launch of seven at once would require an enormous, probably impossible, expansion of KSC’s ground facilities and Houston’s Mission Control to accommodate the necessary command and control hardware plus all the personnel.
Vandenberg Air Force Base on California’s coast could host three, perhaps four, of the SpaceX Falcon launches. ESA’s facility, Guiana Space Centre near Kourou on the Atlantic Coast of French Guiana, could handle two of the Ariane 5 variety and also had the abil
ity to launch Russian Soyuz-class rockets.
Taken together it might be possible, though infinitely difficult, to launch from those three facilities as many as twelve or thirteen rockets targeting the comet; however, the odds were outrageously long that all the rockets could be constructed in time, readied for launch, and also perform reliably. NASA’s chief administrator, Dr. Benjamin Lancaster, put the probability of all vehicles reaching the target at 62 percent. Major General Maxwell Kent, US Air Force chief of staff, wasn’t as optimistic. His prediction of successful missions was only 48 percent.
Nonetheless the wheels began moving on the unprecedented project that was given the combined mission name Operation Home Run. About ten days into the undertaking, my colleagues and I used new data to refine our calculations, and MIT released the statement that the probability of collision had risen from 67 percent to 71 percent.
Later that same week 107 concerned Russian scientists under the leadership of Nobel astrophysics laureate and president of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Dr. Dimitri Kutuzov, descendant of Prince Mikhail Kutuzov who had defeated Napoleon, petitioned Moscow to accept that the Americans’ dire predictions were correct. Three days thereafter the Kremlin announced that they would join the mission. They made it sound as though they had actually been working on it internally not just since the initial finding but perhaps they had discovered the oncoming calamity before the United States had. They were preparing two Soyuz- and two Progress-class rockets for launch from their Baikonur Cosmodrome, the Russian spaceport in the steppes of Kazakhstan. Additionally, they would transport another Soyuz to ESA’s launch facility in French Guiana.
It took two more weeks for the Chinese to see the light, but finally they committed to launching two Chang Zheng 7 (CZ-7 or Long March 7, comparable to the US Delta IV) missiles from Jiuquan Dongfeng Space City north of Beijing. They would also endeavor to prepare and launch two others from their newest facilities on Hainan Island, which lies north of Vietnam on the South China Sea.
The USA, China, and Russia all surprised each other by how quickly each was able to mount such a massive offensive and get such heavy-lift rockets in the production line to face the challenge. It was clear that some secrets about their capabilities had been closely guarded all along until the very survival of the entire planet was in question. Hopes were held that there might possibly be a total of twenty-one rockets. But only in a perfect world.
Unfortunately the world was imperfect. Despite everyone’s best efforts there were international bureaucratic tangles, miscommunications, systems incompatibilities, unforeseen complications, industrial accidents, including some that cost lives. Ultimately far fewer rockets would ever reach a launch pad. But all the scientists, technicians, and everyday workers involved dusted themselves off from each grave disappointment and redoubled their efforts.
Signs and bumper stickers appeared in many languages around the world, expressing the same sentiment: “We All Need a Home Run.”
Meanwhile I pictured Avery’s Comet in the vast blackness of space, relentlessly torpedoing toward its rendezvous with the third planet.
Lisa McLane, 17. . .
A few days before we heard about the comet, my eleventh-grade English teacher, Ms. Banakowski, told me to stay after class. I was totally freaked because I’d like never been the world’s greatest student. Always had to struggle for just a 3.0. My friend Stephanie and some others always made it seem effortless. I have to admit I was a little jealous of them. So it surprised me when Ms. Banakowski said the short story I’d just written was very good. That I had “extremely interesting insights and excellent possibilities as a writer.”
She suggested I start keeping a diary where I could like “carefully document my observations of people and places” and train myself to select the words that described them “most evocatively.” She said it would also be a great way to like explore my innermost thoughts and stuff and “find my voice.” Then see what stories might come out. I got excited thinking about it. How cool would it be if I turned into a famous novelist? Made lots of money. Fat chance, I knew. But still . . . Anyway, here’s how my diary began:
I, Lisa Anne McLane, entered this world in Ashton, Georgia, seventeen years ago, and I still abide there, the daughter of Eileen and Jason McLane who were unpleasantly separated eighteen months ago. My father has chosen to live in Atlanta with his GF, and I only see him occasionally. My mother still misses him dreadfully, and deeply yearns for them to be reunited.
It has been said that I am not unattractive, though I often feel inferior to several of my friends. I have but one sibling, Katharine (Katie) who is fourteen, though she seems younger and prefers remaining a tomboy rather than maturing.
Naturally the first person I want to write more deeply about in this diary should be Charley Flinn. He would so be like such a good, big-hearted character in a book. Charley and I grew up together in Ashton, which is one of those small American towns like you see in old movies. He’d been my best friend since we were tiny children. We were like Velcroed at the hip. We were playmates and confidants, like fond siblings. Except that Charley and I never had disagreements. Our parents called us Chip ’n Dale, a nickname we later bequeathed to my younger sister Katie and her own best friend, Darren Green. Charley was my age, with a hardy, Irish American, farm-boy freckly face and thick sandy hair. He was a good, honest person. When other elementary school boys teased him about his best friend being a girl, Charley ignored them and stuck by me. He was only an average student like myself, but he always tried hard in school. Now in our junior year he was like totally determined to finally make first-string quarterback on the football team next fall. I cheered him on, although I privately feared that the odds would not be ever in his favor.
When dating age came upon us, we each went out with others, but Charley and I remained the very closest and most faithful friends. When Charley told me he’d gotten a crush on one of my best girlfriends, Jenna, I was worried Charley might not stay such a close friend to me if they developed a serious relationship, but they didn’t. Charley and I remained steadfast, truest friends to each other. We continued sharing our private jokes, multitudinous laughs, glorious dreams, and endless confidences.
Until mid-November of this, our eleventh-grade year, when Charley suddenly became shy around me, not conversing like we used to, even going out of his way to avoid me. My calls or texts often went unanswered. I was confused, then hurt, then worried. Finally on one quiet winter evening, I caught up with him walking home beneath the moonlit maple trees that stood as proud, leafless sentinels along our street. “Charley?” I caught the maroon wool sleeve of his varsity jacket and cautiously inquired, “What’s wrong?” He slowed to a stop. I intuited from his uneasy frown and unusual awkwardness that something was indeed troubling him deeply. He couldn’t look me in the eye. He shifted from one foot to the other. Had I done something wrong? He shook his head negatively, causing one lock of his sandy hair to drop tres adorably across his forehead. With his eyes downcast and a very small voice, Charley confessed to me how he had chanced to glimpse a young woman silhouetted by the playground lights outside our old brick gym after the dance last month. He had known in that moment that she was the love of his life.
I was apprehensive, barely able to breathe, whispering, “Who . . . who is she, Charley?” He said nothing. Then slowly he shyly raised his head until his liquid, warm brown eyes were looking into mine. I stopped breathing altogether.
Suddenly I understood. I felt a wave of surprising warmth well up within my throbbing heart. I’ll forever remember Charley gazing at me with the moonlight bathing his sweet befreckled face. We stood there silently for an eternal moment. Then from his varsity jacket he withdrew a slightly wrinkled piece of three-ring notebook paper. I perceived that his young but strong hand was shaking slightly as he held it out to me. Unfolding it, I recognized his charmingly boyish handwriting. He had composed a poem about the girl he’d seen that homecoming night: she was I.
His poem was uneven, even slightly awkward, but the lines mostly rhymed, and it flattered my “lithe form” and “lovely face.” Happy, balmy tears welled in my eyes. And also in Charley’s. It was a magical, mystical moment. That comprehension of first true love opening up my heart. A love that had been there all along, waiting to be discovered and that matched his equally.
Our lives had forever changed.
And they changed again drastically the very next day when we learned about the comet.
Jimmy-Joe Hartman, 19, unemployed. . .
It wuz gettin’ on toward April, ’bout four months since we heard that astrologer woman tellin’ ’bout the comet comin’. I wuz on the front porch of the old frame house we’d always lived in down on Sylvan, south of the railroad tracks. Shit, our old rundown ’hood wuz south of ’bout ever’thing in Atlanta.
I wuz talkin’ to my bud Scooter. He’s a little half-pint who says he’s a white dude like me, but I think back in his gramma’s day, maybe somebody picked up a little bit of some other color. It’s all good, though, ’cause Scooter’s sharp. Got hisself a sweet little home garden. Raisin’ him some first-class, dee-lectable weed. He gimme lotsa free samples. That day he wuz after me ’bout helpin’ him move new TVs that he said “fell offa truck.” Way he was grinnin’ kinda sideways, I knew he’d boosted ’em. He done it before. Sometimes I helped him out fer a cut. He appreciated it ’cause I had ’bout twenty pounds on him, and he didn’t have no muscle.
It wuz gettin’ toward sundown, so I told Scooter to come off the porch. My sister, Claire’d, be home soon from her shift at county hospital. She didn’ like Scooter none, and I didn’ want her gettin’ in his face. Or mine.
The Darwin Variant Page 3