Impact wf-3

by Douglas Preston

  "Wyman," Lockwood said rising, "you know Lieutenant General Jack Mickelson, USAF, deputy director of the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. He's in charge of all GEOINT."

  Ford extended his hand to the general, who rose as well. "Good to see you again, sir," he said, with a certain amount of coldness.

  "Very good to see you, too, Mr. Ford."

  He shook the general's hand, which was soft, not the usual rock-hard grip of the military man forever seeking to prove his manhood. Ford remembered liking that about Mickelson. He wasn't so sure he liked the man now.

  Lockwood came around his desk and gestured toward the sitting area of his office. "Shall we?"

  Ford sat down; the general took the seat opposite and Lockwood took the sofa.

  "I asked General Mickelson to join us because I know you respect him, Wyman, and I was hoping we could resolve these issues quickly."

  "Good. Then let's cut to the chase," said Ford, facing Lockwood. "You lied to me, Stanton. You sent me on a dangerous mission, you misled me as to the purpose of that mission, and you withheld information."

  "What we're about to discuss is classified," said Lockwood.

  "You know damn well you don't need to tell me that."

  Mickelson leaned forward on his elbows. "Wyman . . . if I may? You can call me Jack."

  "With all due respect, General, no apologies and no chitchat. Just explanations."

  "Very well." His voice had just the right note of gravel, his blue eyes friendly, his excellent sense of self-possession softened by the casual uniform and easy manner. Ford felt a rising irritation at the snow job to come.

  "As you may know, we maintain a network of seismic sensors around the world for the purpose of detecting clandestine nuclear tests. On April fourteenth, at nine-forty-four P.M., our network detected a possible underground nuclear test in the mountains of Cambodia. So we investigated. We quickly proved the event was a meteoroid impact, and we found the crater. At about the same time, a meteor was seen over the coast of Maine, falling in the ocean. Two simultaneous strikes. Our scientists explained that it was most likely a small asteroid that had broken into two pieces in space and drifted far enough apart that they landed in widely separate locations. I'm told it's a common occurrence."

  He stopped as a soft alarm chime went off on Lockwood's desk, and a moment later the coffee came in, the steward pushing the little coffee cart with the silver pot, tiny cups, and sugar lumps in a blue glass dish. Ford poured a cup and drank it black. Dark, powerful, fresh-brewed. Mickelson abstained.

  When the steward left, Mickelson went on. "Meteoroid strikes aren't part of our mission, so we simply filed away the information. That would have been the end of it. But--"

  At this the general took a slim blue folder out of his briefcase, laid it down, and opened it. Inside was an image from space of what Ford immediately recognized as the honey mine in Cambodia.

  "Then the radioactive gemstones began appearing on the market. This became a top concern of our antiterrorist people, who worried they might become source material for a dirty bomb. Anyone with a high school chemistry lab setup could concentrate the Americium-241 from these stones."

  "What about the impact in Maine? Did you investigate that?"

  "Yes, but the meteorite fell into the Atlantic half a dozen miles offshore. Unrecoverable, and impossible to pinpoint the impact location."

  "I see."

  "Anyway, we knew about the impact crater in Cambodia, we knew the gemstones were coming from that general area, but we couldn't confirm the link. That could only be proven on the ground."

  "And that's where I came in."

  Mickelson nodded. "You were told all you needed to know."

  "General, with all due respect, you should have given me more backup, I should have been briefed, shown the satellite images. That's what you would have done for a CIA operative."

  "Frankly, that's why we reached beyond the CIA for this mission. All we wanted was a pair of eyes on-site. On the ground. Independent confirmation. We didn't expect. . . ." He cleared his throat and leaned back, "that you would actually destroy the mine."

  "I still don't believe you're telling me the entire truth."

  Lockwood leaned forward. "Of course we're not telling you the entire truth. For chrissakes, Wyman, when is anyone told the entire truth in this business? We wanted to examine that mine intact. You've created a huge problem for us."

  "There's another drawback with hiring a freelancer," said Ford coldly.

  Lockwood sighed in irritation.

  "Why was the mine so important?" Ford asked. "Can you tell me that, at least?"

  "The meteoroid appears to have been highly unusual, judging from our analysis of the gemstones."

  "Such as?"

  "Even if we knew, which we don't yet, we couldn't tell you. Suffice to say it wasn't anything we've seen before. And now, Wyman, the data? Please."

  Ford had already noted the soldiers outside Lockwood's office, and he knew well what would happen to him if he didn't comply. No matter: he had gotten what he came for. He slipped a flash drive out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. "It's all there, encrypted: pictures, GPS coordinates, video." He gave them the password.

  "Thank you." Lockwood smiled grimly and took the flash drive. He slipped a white envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. "The second installment of your compensation. You're expected at a full debriefing at Langley this afternoon at two o'clock. In the DCI conference room. Your assignment will then be most decidedly over." Lockwood smoothed a hand down his red silk tie, adjusted his blue suit, touched his gray hair above his ears. "The president wanted to convey his thanks for your effort, despite, ah, your failure to follow instructions."

  "I'll second that," said Mickelson. "Wyman, you did well."

  "Glad to be of service," said Ford, with a touch of irony. Then he added, casually, "One thing I almost forgot."

  "Yes?"

  "You mentioned that the asteroid broke in two and that the two pieces struck the Earth."

  "Correct."

  "That's wrong. There was only one object involved."

  "Impossible," said Mickelson. "Our scientists are certain there were two strikes, one in the Atlantic, one in Cambodia."

  "No. The mine in Cambodia wasn't an impact crater."

  "What was it then?"

  "An exit hole."

  Lockwood stared, while Mickelson rose from his chair. "Are you suggesting--?"

  "That's right. The meteorite that struck in Maine passed through the Earth and exited in Cambodia. The data on that flash drive should confirm it."

  "How can you tell the difference between an entrance and exit hole?"

  "It's not unlike entrance and exit wounds caused by a bullet: the former is neat and symmetrical, the latter a God-awful mess. You'll see what I mean."

  "What on God's name could go through the Earth?" Mickelson said.

  "That," said Ford, picking up his check, "is a damn good question."

  38

  Abbey had prepared cheeseburgers for dinner but they were overcooked and dry, the cheese had burned in the pan, and the buns were soggy. Her father sat across the table, chewing silently, eyes downcast, his jaw muscles working slowly. He had been ominously silent all evening.

  He laid the half-eaten burger down on his plate, gave the plate a token push, and finally looked at Abbey. His eyes were bloodshot. She thought for a moment he might have started drinking again, which he'd done pretty hard after her mother's death. But, no, that wasn't it. He didn't smell of beer.

  "Abbey?" His voice was hoarse.

  "Yes, Dad?"

  "I heard from the insurance company."

  She felt the lump of burger in her mouth sort of stick. She made an effort to swallow it down.

  "They're not covering the loss."

  A long silence.

  "Why not?"

  "It was a commercial policy. You weren't lobstering. What you were doing they consider recreati
on."

  "But . . . you could always say I was lobstering."

  "There's a Coast Guard report, police reports, newspaper articles. You weren't fishing. End of story."

  Abbey's mouth had gone dry. She tried to think of something to say and couldn't.

  "I still owe on the boat, and until it's paid off there's no way I can get a loan for another. I'm paying on a mortgage that's worth more than the house. What little savings I had went to your year-and-a-half messing around in college."

  Abbey swallowed again, staring at the plate. Her mouth was dry as ashes. "I'll give you my waitressing money. And I'll sell the telescope."

  "Thank you. I'll accept the help. Jim Clayton's offered me a position as stern man this season. With what you make and I make, if it's a good season, we might just keep the house."

  Abbey felt a giant tear creep out of her eye and roll down the side of her nose, hang there, and fall on the plate. Then came another, and another. "I'm really sorry, Dad."

  She felt his rough hand seek hers, close around it. "I know."

  She hung her head, the tears dropping on her burger bun, making it soggy. After a moment her father released her hand and rose from his place. He went over to his old Black Watch tartan chair by the woodstove, settled into it, and picked up The Lincoln County News.

  Abbey cleared the plates, scraped the uneaten burgers into the bin for the chickens, and washed the dishes in the sink, stacking them on the side. Her father had talked about getting a dishwasher someday, but that day was never going to come.

  Well, Abbey thought, with a curious sense of numb detachment, she had pretty much ruined her father's life.

  39

  "You have arrived at your destination," said the smooth female voice from the GPS. Wyman Ford parked the car in the apron of dirt in front of the country store and got out, looking around. The field opposite the store was swaying with lupines ready to burst into flower. At the top of the hill behind him were two churches flanking the street, one a brown Congregationalist church and the other a white Methodist "house of worship." A dozen clapboard houses lined the road and a small grocery occupied a listing, shingled building.

  That was the extent of the town.

  Ford consulted his notebook. The towns of New Harbor, Pemaquid, Chamberlain, and Muscongus had been crossed out, leaving one left.

  Round Pond.

  The road ran past the store and dead-ended at the harbor. He could just see, beyond a cluster of pine trees, a harbor full of fishing boats and a small sliver of ocean beyond.

  He went into the country store and found it noisy with kids buying penny candy. He walked around, looking at the items for sale: the candy, postcards, knives, boat models, toys, puppets, kites, CDs of local musical groups, calendars, jams and jellies, and a stack of newspapers. It was like walking back in time to his own childhood.

  He picked up the newspaper, called The Lincoln County News, and got in line with the kids. A few minutes later they had banged out the door with their brown paper bags of candy. A high school girl was manning the counter. He laid down the paper on the counter and smiled. "I think I'd like some candy."

  She nodded.

  "I'll take a . . . let's see . . . a fireball--haven't had one of those in years--some malted milk balls, a rope of licorice, and a peppermint stick."

  She collected the candy in a bag, laid it on the paper. "Two dollars ten cents."

  He fished in his pocket, took out his wallet. "I heard a meteor came over here a few months back."

  "That's right," the girl said.

  He thumbed through the bills in the wallet. "You see it?"

  "I saw the light out the window. Everybody did. And then there was a sound like thunder. When we went outside there was a glowing trail in the sky."

  "Did anyone find the meteorite?"

  "Oh no, it hit out to sea."

  "How do they know?"

  "That's what all the papers said."

  Ford nodded, finally getting the money out.

  "Is the harbor down there?"

  She nodded. "Take the right past the store--dead-ends at the wharves."

  "Any place to buy live lobster?"

  "The co-op."

  He took the bag of candy and the paper and went back to his car. Popping the fireball in his mouth, he looked at the front page of The Lincoln County News. Plastered at the top was a headline:

  Body, Gun Recovered from Sunken Boat

  There was a blurry photograph of a Coast Guard vessel at sea hauling a body on board with grappling hooks. Ford read the article, his interest piqued. Turning to the inside, he saw a picture of the two girls who'd been attacked, a high school yearbook picture of the dead attacker, and several photographs of the ruined boat hauled into dry dock. This was big news in Round Pond--a high-seas robbery attempt, complete with a boarding, attempted murder, and a sunken boat. Something to do with a legendary treasure. It aroused his investigative instincts: the story had gaps, inconsistencies, which cried out for explanation.

  He turned the page, read about the bean supper at the Seaside Grange, complaints about a new traffic light, an article about a soldier returning from the Middle East. He scanned the police notes, read a scolding editorial about a poorly attended school board meeting, looked through the real estate and employment ads, read the letters to the editor.

  Finally he folded up the paper, charmed by the picture he had acquired of the town. A quiet little New England fishing village, impossibly picturesque, economically stagnant. Someday the real estate developers would get their hooks in a town like this and it would be all over. He hoped that someday never arrived.

  He started the car and drove down the road toward the harbor. Almost immediately it came into view--lobsterman's co-op on his right, piers, a dockside restaurant, a harbor full of fishing boats, the heady smell of salted fishing bait.

  He parked and went over to the co-op, a wooden shack sitting above a pier, wooden flaps opened, tanks of water brimming with lobsters. A chalkboard gave the day's prices. A bald man in orange waders came to the window.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "Do you lobster these waters?"

  "No, but my daughter does. I just sell 'em."

  Ford could see a young woman in the back, manning the lobster cookers.

  "You see the meteor?"

  "No. I'd gone to bed."

  "Did she? I'm interested in it."

  He turned. "Martha, fellow here wants to know if you saw the meteor."

  She came over, drying her hands. "Sure did. Came right over us. I saw it through the window while I was washing dishes."

  "Where'd it go?"

  "Straight past Louds Island and out to sea."

  Ford held out his hand. "Wyman Ford."

  The woman took it. "Martha Malone."

  "I'm hoping to find that meteorite. I'm a scientist."

  "They say it fell in the ocean."

  "You're a lobsterwoman?"

  She laughed. "You must be from out of town. I'm a lobster fisherman."

  "Here's the problem." Ford decided to get right to the point. "That night, the ocean was dead calm. The GoMOOS weather buoy out there didn't register even the slightest ripple at the time of the impact. How do you explain that?"

  "There's a lot of sea out there, Mr. Ford. It could have landed a hundred miles offshore."

  "You haven't heard of anyone around here talking about finding a crater or seeing any evidence of blown-down trees?"

  A shake of the head.

  Ford thanked her and walked back to his car. He popped a malted milk ball in his mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully. Once in the car, he flipped open the glove compartment, removed the notebook, and crossed out "Round Pond."

  And that was it. It had been the wildest of wild-goose chases.

  40

  Abbey Straw carried two baskets of fried clams and a brace of margaritas to the table where the couple from Boston were seated. She set down the food and drink. "Can I get you folks a
nything else?"

  The woman examined her drink, her long fingernails clicking irritably on the glass. "I said no salt." She had a heavy Boston accent.

  "My apologies, I'll bring you another." Abbey swept up the drink.

  "And don't think you can just wipe off the salt, I'll still taste it," said the woman. "I need a fresh drink."

  "Of course."

  As she was about to leave, the man said, gesturing at his plate, "Is this all you get for fourteen bucks?"

  Abbey turned. The man weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, wearing a double-knit golf shirt stretched to the theoretical limit, green slacks, bald with a fat-dimple right in the center of the bald area. Thick black hair grew out of his ear holes.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Fourteen bucks for ten clams? What a rip-off."

  "I'll get you some more."

  As she headed toward the kitchen, she heard the man speak again, loudly, to his wife. "I hate these places where they think they can hose the tourists."

  Abbey went back into the kitchen. "I need more clams for table five."

  "What, they complaining?"

  "Just give me the clams."

  The chef chucked three small clams on a side plate.

  "More."

  "That's all they get. Tell 'em to go fuck themselves."

  "I said more."

  The chef dropped another two on the plate. "Fuck 'em."

  Abbey reached over, scooped out another half-dozen, heaped them on the plate, and turned to go.

  "I tole you before, don't touch my stove."

  "Fuck you, Charlie." She went back out, placed the plate in front of the man. He had already finished the ten clams and tucked into the new plate without pause. "More tartar sauce, too."

  "Coming right up."

  A tall man was just being seated in her section. On her way to get the tartar sauce, she stopped by, gave him a menu. "Coffee?"

  "Yes, please."

  As she poured the cup, she heard the querulous voice of the man from Boston rising above the general conversation. "Problem is, they think we're all rich. You can just hear them licking their chops when summer arrives and people start coming up from Boston."