The field below was not well known, at least to Morgan. He and the others had been briefed on their exact destination once they left Anchorage. Below was Sharomy, a former military base in Kamchatka Krai, Russia. Once it served two roles: one, as a traffic diversion airfield for the Petropavlosk-Kamchatsky Airport, and two, as a staging area for airstrikes against the United States. Th at had been during the Cold War, when Russia was the steering wheel of the former Soviet Union. When the Cold War had permanently warmed, such bases became useless and expensive. Especially expensive to a country in the throes of economic collapse, internal problems, failing infrastructure, and major crime problems. From the first pass over the field, Morgan could tell the runway had to be better than 10,000 feet in length. One didn’t spend millions of rubles on a runway that length unless they were planning on landing big birds— like long-range bombers.
From the air, the pair of long runways with a three-sided tarmac and hardstands for aircraft formed a shape that reminded Morgan of a tomahawk—apropos for a Mayan priest.
Everyone had returned to their seat and waited for the landing gear to touch down. The sooner the better for Morgan. He had grown weary of traveling.
Dr. Michael Alexander should have been happy. After all, the news was great. He had been up all night crunching numbers, talking to key astronomers around the world, and sifting data. The 2012 GA12 asteroid had become his baby to watch over—at least at the ESA. The leaders of the European Space Agency trusted him. His credentials were impressive, and his work was without blemish. They trusted him and his calculations. For the last year, he wished they hadn’t. Every night, he took the knowledge that a rock the size of small mountain had the earth in its sights. Moving at speeds measured in hundreds of miles an hour, the prospective impact was quickly branded a world killer.
Of course, there had been other such objects that, for a short time, looked as if they were on target with the earth. Each of those had missed by a wide margin, never coming closer than a couple hundred thousand miles.
But Alexander was a pragmatist. He didn’t believe in luck. He was a numbers man. Even so, he caught himself slipping into sloppy math, and one math myth kept percolating to the top of his mind, especially as he lay alone in his bed. If all the rest missed, then the odds were greater that the next space rock would hit Mother Earth right on the nose. In freshman statistics, he was taught that if a man flips a coin, the odds of it landing heads up was the same as it was for it landing tails up. If the man flipped the coin again, the odds did not change: They remained fifty-fifty. That was true for each individual flip.
But Dr. Alexander wasn’t dealing with a fifty-cent piece. He was dealing with millions of tons of rock. In the face of that truth, fifty-fifty were lousy odds. Sooner or later, a near miss was going to become a direct hit.
What had amazed Alexander was the success of the conspiracy of secrecy. Although the asteroid was large, it could not be seen with the naked eye. Space and ground telescopes could locate it easily enough, but they knew exactly where to look. The populace had no clue, and no country was willing to tell its citizens. Why would they? There was still some hope that the thing would zip by and continue on along its very elliptical orbit of the sun.
Alexander and other scientists had exchanged heated views about what should and shouldn’t be said. In the end, every head of government made it clear that a panicked population would not change anything. The US alone had 350 million people to worry about. The rest of the world approached seven billion. How does one safely shelter that many people? It couldn’t be done, and therefore it was agreed that it shouldn’t be tried.
Oh, heads of state would be fine. After all, the president of the US had his Mount Washington designed to protect him and the leaders of his country from nuclear attack and the nuclear winter that would follow. Millions would die, but the government would continue—even if it had millions fewer to govern. Other countries had similar arrangements. Those that didn’t were just out of luck.
Keeping such a large secret required more than a polite request. The US and the European Union had made it clear that anyone who leaked word of the possible disaster would be held liable for any property damage, injury, and deaths that came about from a global panic. Thousands could die from such turmoil. That would be a lot of murder charges.
Then there was the bribery. Worried leaders had thought ahead and arranged safe bunkers for the people in the know who knew how to keep their mouths shut. It might be scientifically unethical, but that was a small deterrent when it came to saving one’s spouse and children.
Some of his colleagues couldn’t stand the strain. Over the last few months, more than a dozen astronomers, physicists, geologists, and meteorologists—all working to estimate the damage the impact would cause—had disappeared or committed suicide. At least, Alexander hoped it was suicide that had taken their lives.
Last year, shortly after he let his superiors know of the “Hammer of God”—a name taken from the science fiction book penned by Arthur C. Clarke in 1993—Alexander began to suspect he was being followed. Like Mary’s little lamb, wherever Alexander went, the dark sedan was sure to go.
He no longer trusted his phone. That’s why the next call had to be made on a special device delivered by a man named Jaz. Inside the package was the latest Iridium satellite phone. Small scratches on the back casing told him the device had been modified. He was pretty sure it could call only one number, and it had been encrypted.
It was time to deliver the good news. He dialed a number he had committed to memory and waited. His stomach twisted, and his face grew warm. Why should he be so nervous? He was about to deliver good news. The Hammer of God would miss the earth by better than one hundred and fifty thousand miles. That would make anyone happy.
Right?
“Coming?” The only woman on the trip pulled on an orange parka so bright that Morgan felt the need for sunglasses. They were all wearing them—all but Morgan. He had yet to rise from his seat. The woman had long mahogany hair, which she wore in a style that would have looked good a few decades earlier. Her hair pooled in the hood of the parka. Morgan only knew her by reputation: She was known as the iron-willed woman who returned a faltering computer giant to a streamlined moneymaking machine. She had cut two thousand jobs, closed two overseas plants, and sued a half-dozen competitors until she achieved her goal.
“I’m coming. I’m old and slow.”
“Yeah, right. I got fifteen years on you easy, and I don’t mind it. Of course, it’s not one’s age that matters.”
She lifted a suggestive eyebrow. Morgan looked away. Sonya Ballios, CEO of Ballios Computers, was known for aggressive personal habits as well as business ones. In the last years, she had led her company into the third spot in sales of all similar companies, and she made no secret that she would not be happy until the likes of Hewlett Packard, Dell, and Apple were her footstools. Still, she had time to marry three times, destroy those husbands, and move on to a chain of other men—each now bobbing in her wake. Morgan had no desire to join her parade.
Morgan gave a friendly smile he didn’t feel, and he pulled on his parka.
“Don’t you want to know what does matter?” She took a step toward him.
He had watched her hit on the other men, married or not. “No. I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“Me too.” The other eyebrow went up.
The booming voice of Quetzal rolled down the cabin. “Every-one suited up? It’s a tad chilly out there. At the moment, it is a toasty twenty degrees.”
A chorus of groans filled the space. Morgan understood the sentiment. During his junior year of college, he had traveled to be the best man at his friend’s wedding—in Minot, North Dakota— in mid-January. He had traveled to many states, but none in the extreme north of the country. He had brought a light jacket, which he donned after the plane landed. He still remembered the amused looks on the faces of his fellow passengers, but he didn’t understand it until he ste
pped from the plane and walked to the small, freestanding terminal. The windchill factor was thirty below. The event created a lasting respect for cold.
Quetzal spoke over the grumbling. “You won’t be outside long. Just long enough to cross the tarmac to the waiting SUVs. We have about an hour’s drive. The cars will be warm.” He paused. “Ready?”
There were a few grunts.
The pilot and copilot moved from the cockpit, donned their heavy coats, and then the copilot opened the door. Cold air rushed into the craft and was greeted by several obscene remarks. One of which came from Sonya. The copilot deplaned.
“Watch your step, please.” The pilot, a tall, narrow man with gray hair, was courteous and cheerful. Morgan imagined the man was looking forward to some time away from the cramped cockpit.
Morgan was the last to leave the warmth of the business jet behind, and he stepped into a lively breeze that clawed at his face with icicle fingers. Before him, the passengers stepped quickly along the concrete runway lit by the landing field lights and toward a row of three large, black, foreign-made SUVs.
“They’re Russian UAZ Patriot SUVs.” Robert Quetzal stood just behind Morgan. “The Russians have a long way to go to match American or Japanese craftsmanship. Of course, considering the state of their economy, it’s a wonder they can make anything. And a bad economy for them turned out to be a good thing for us.”
Morgan faced the man and saw a gleam in his eye. “Sometimes the successful man must build on the broken dreams of another,” Quetzal said.
“That’s a bit harsh. Who said that?”
Quetzal grinned. “I did. And you’re right, it is harsh. I didn’t say the successful man should destroy the dreams of others. Just that he must, at times, build where others failed. The Russians need money, and we need something they have—which is why we’re here. Shall we go?” He motioned down the stairway. “Parka or not, I’m cold.”
“Must be that Mayan blood.”
Quetzal nodded. “Must be.”
Morgan had descended two steps when an electronic chiming caught his attention. He turned in time to see Quetzal pick up a thick phone. Morgan recognized it as a satellite phone.
Quetzal recognized the voice immediately. “This is an awkward time.” He started to use the man’s name, but the pilot and Morgan were still in earshot. He walked down the jet’s aisle, his back to the pilot. He turned in time to see the pilot motion to the cockpit and then slipped into the control area, closing the door behind, giving his boss the privacy he wanted.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quetzal, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“Know what, Dr. Alexander?”
“We have new numbers on the Hammer of God. There is good news.”
Quetzal doubted the news would be good. “Tell me and do it quick. I’ve got people turning into popsicles.”
“Really? Where are you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Dr. Alexander.” The man was stalling. “What have you found?”
“Our early calculations about the asteroid were less than accurate. I mean, they were as accurate as they could have been at the time.”
Quetzal closed his eyes. “It’s going to miss us?”
“Yes.”
“How far?”
“Most likely, it will slip by unnoticed, having come no closer than 150,000 miles. Still inside the moon’s orbit, but far enough away to present no danger.”
“I see. Who knows about this?”
“Just the inner circle of scientists assigned to this. Only my superiors here know. I can’t speak for NASA or the Japanese space agency.”
“When did you reach this decision?” Quetzal worked to keep his tone even.
“Earlier today.”
“Keep a lid on it.”
There was a long pause. “What?”
“Keep a lid on the information.”
“How?” Quetzal could hear the tension in the man’s voice. “I don’t have that kind of influence. Besides, it will be a relief to the world.”
“Don’t be an idiot. The world doesn’t know. And how do you think people are going to respond when they learn that their countries kept a potentially life-ending disaster secret? There’ll be riots in the streets, and your picture will be on the protest signs.”
“That might be an overstatement.”
“Use your head, Dr. Alexander. The only reason you’re calm about this is that you were in on the discovery and deception.”
“I didn’t deceive anyone.”
“You withheld information.”
The man stammered. “We let the proper people know. After that, it was out of my hands.”
“Which makes you a coconspirator with them. Look, keeping it secret made sense. It still makes sense. I kept it secret. I didn’t want to cause a panic any more than you did. I’m trying to save lives here—trying to assure that humanity has a future.”
“What do you want from me? I’ve done everything you’ve asked— everything within my power to do. You were the first one I called when the asteroid was discovered and its preliminary track determined. What do you want me to do? Push the planet into its path?”
Quetzal tightened his jaw so hard that his teeth ached. The asteroid had brought in more money than he could have hoped for. Sure, the meteor in Arizona had helped, El Popo near Mexico City had drawn the attention of the fence-sitters, as did a half-dozen other disasters, but the Hammer of God was a godsend. Even those who had only moderately bought into the story had taken to that bit of information like trout to cheese. The one thing he wanted to avoid was a few dozen billionaires with banks of lawyers asking for their money back.
Quetzal inhaled deeply and forced his shoulders to relax. “Look, Dr. Alexander, I know it sounds like I’m blaming you, but I’m not. I’ve been traveling nonstop for months and am well beyond tired. I just don’t want my people to get the wrong idea. The end is coming December 21, 2012. If not by asteroid, then by something else.”
“We still have a deal, right?”
“Yes, Alexander, we still have a deal. On December 20, I’ll transfer two million euros to your private account.”
“It’s three million euros, Mr. Quetzal, and considering things, I would like it a week earlier.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No. I need a safety net. I don’t want you disappearing on me. In fact, you’d better make it December 10. That gives me time to call all the people you don’t want me to call if you don’t deliver.”
If the astronomer were standing in front of him, he would slowly crush the man’s trachea. “Agreed. Say, how is that grandchild of yours? You call her Bluebird, right? I hope she’s been able to get the medical care she needs.”
“Watch yourself, Quetzal.”
“I always do. She lives in Trachoma, doesn’t she?”
Dr. Alexander switched off the phone and stared at the photo of his four-year-old granddaughter, snuggled beneath white hospital sheets. Her smile was weak but present. She held the teddy bear he had sent. Next to her sat her mother. Even in the photo, he could see the moisture in her eyes.
Kidney transplants were difficult to find for children so young.
Morgan stood a short distance away from the aircraft stairs and watched Quetzal pace the empty aircraft. Even through the small windows, he could see the man was upset.
“This way, Mr. Morgan.” Balfour appeared at his side. The parka he wore hung on his thin frame like a parachute. “You’ll be warmer in the car.”
Morgan climbed into the backseat of the UAZ Patriot and reached for the safety belt. Before he could snap it in place, Balfour slipped into the front seat.
“Good evening.” The Russian driver spoke English through an accent that made Morgan wonder how many marbles the man had in his mouth.
“Privyet,” Morgan said.
The Russian turned and smiled.
“You speak Russian? I’m impressed.” Sonya anchored the other end of the rear seat.
Bet
ween them was the very bald, very abrasive, and very brilliant Edward P. Rickman, president and CEO of E.P.R. Cellular, the newest cellular phone company. He was known to leave more debris in his wake than a category-five hurricane.
“I’m fluent in at least ten words.”
The crack made Rickman laugh. “That’s more than me.”
Balfour turned to face the three in the back. “All of our hosts speak English. In Europe and Asia, almost everyone is bilingual or trilingual. What’s it say about our country that so few can speak more than one language?”
“That we’re focused.” Rickman didn’t miss a beat.
Morgan saw the smile on the driver’s face disappear. The one on Balfour’s face remained but looked painted on.
Morgan didn’t want to look at Rickman. He turned his gaze out the side window but saw only his reflection. He hadn’t noticed when he entered, but the windows were opaque.
“I see you’ve noticed,” Rickman said. “It appears that we’re not meant to take in the sights.”
“It’s so dark outside,” Sonya said, “we wouldn’t be able to see much anyway.”
Balfour’s smile brightened. “We’re still in secrecy mode. The windows are to keep people from looking in, not to keep you from looking out.”
Rickman snorted. “We were just outside in full view of whoever wants to take a gander.”
“The airport is secured, and security swept it before we landed—”
“Then why the windows?” Rickman looked satisfied, as if he were the only kid in class who had seen the teacher’s error. Morgan wished the driver would turn off the overhead light so he wouldn’t have to see Rickman’s face.
“Ease up, pal.” Morgan said. “Let the man answer.”
“What?” Rickman turned in his seat and leaned toward Morgan, invading his personal space. “Who do you think you are?”
Slowly, Morgan turned his head until his nose was just an inch from the bald man. “I’ll tell you who I’m not, Eddie. I’m not one of your timid, browbeaten toddies. You might get away with intimidating your employees, but all you achieve with me is to make me seriously angry.”
The Mayan Apocalypse Page 20