Moonfall

by Jack McDevitt

  Point Judith, Rhode Island. 11:30 P.M.

  Luke could not account for the sudden uneasiness that settled over the house. It might have been the sense that he was alone, or virtually alone, in town. It might have been the accumulated drama of the evening’s events, his concern for the people in the moon ships. It might have been an intensified perception of the sea that crouched only eighty yards from his front door.

  The TV was muttering quietly in the living room. Luke had turned it back on and was looking for another snack, planning to stay up late and watch the news reports, knowing he wouldn’t sleep no matter what. He’d just put on a fresh pot of coffee when he became aware of a new sound.

  He listened, not able to place it, and went back out onto the front porch. The tide had gone out, and that was strange because it was supposed to be coming in. It was so far out that the water line was in darkness.

  My God.

  He hurried inside, grabbed his keys off the bookcase, thought about what else he should try to salvage, decided there was no time (although he sensed a degree of safety within the house), and sprinted for the car. The engine roared into life on the first try. He threw a U-turn and took off north on 108, past the beaches.

  He floored the pedal, wondering how he could have been so complacent, so dumb. His rearview mirror showed neither stars nor sky. It was black back there, and the darkness moved.

  He was past eighty-five, faster than he thought the car would go, when it caught him.

  3.

  Coast Guard Cutter Diligent. 11:32 P.M.

  Dilly was in open water, about fourteen nautical miles southeast of Rockaway Inlet, outward bound with lookouts posted fore and aft and on both beams. Captain Bolling had been advised to put at least a hundred twenty feet of water under his keel. They were at ninety now.

  His crewmen could not keep their eyes off the luminous cloud that had replaced the Moon. There was an unusual mood on the cutter. Bolling had seen his coasties in difficult situations, had seen them work to rescue the survivors of a yacht swamped by high seas, had seen them face down drug runners at night. This was different: They were quiet, thoughtful, almost intimidated. The usual banter that accompanied forays into risky situations was gone. Tonight they simply manned their stations and kept a weather eye on the sky.

  Dilly’s messenger appeared at his side, holding out a transmission. Bolling took it, glanced at it, and handed it without comment to Packard.

  POSIM 06 APPROX 41°N LAT, 73°W LONG—ETA 140440Z.

  “That’s right down our stack,” said the exec. He exchanged glances with Bolling. “Extra lookouts?” he suggested.

  “I think it’s time.” The captain looked at his radar operator. “Keep on the scope, Ramsey. Anything unusual, anything at all, don’t keep it to yourself.”

  Packard summoned the crew chief and passed the order. A minute later, more coasties with binoculars appeared on deck. “It shouldn’t be hard to spot,” observed the exec, scanning the skies.

  The sea smelled clean and fresh. Bolling loved it out here, away from the greasy odors of the East River and Long Island Sound. If he’d been independently wealthy, he’d have bought a yacht and spent his life at sea. It had been a boyhood dream, and the Coast Guard was as close as he’d been able to come.

  “There,” said Packard. A long narrow light creased the clouds dead ahead. Coming down. Pieces exploded away from it, and then it was gone, leaving only a few glimmers. “Didn’t look like much, Skip.” His voice reflected his conviction that he’d known all along they were on a fool’s errand.

  “If that was it, Dan,” said Bolling, “it’s running early.” He scribbled the time and position of the sighting on a message sheet and sent it to the radio room for transmission.

  The exec’s face was blue in the subdued light of the bridge. A second streak trailed across the sky and winked out. The water was dead black. “They look like ordinary shooting stars to me,” he said.

  “I hope so.” Bolling keyed the radio room. “What are you hearing?” he asked Herb Bitzberger, the operator.

  “Nothing out of the way, Skipper,” Bitzberger said. “The ships are talking to one another, but it’s the usual kind of chatter.”

  “Anything from Breakwater?” Breakwater was Coast Guard Activities Command, New York.

  “Negative, sir. They’re quiet.”

  Bolling could see the lights of freighters strung out along the horizon.

  “Coming up on a hundred feet, sir,” said the helmsman.

  “Very well,” said Packard. “Steady on course. Reduce speed to one-quarter.”

  The boat settled into the water and the throb of the twin engines subsided. Bolling and Packard had agreed that the best course of action, once they were safely on station, was to assume there would be a major emergency, and to preserve fuel while simultaneously maintaining some headway. This was to prevent being capsized should a wave appear at short notice. Neither of the two had any experience with tsunamis. Nor did anyone else they knew. But Bolling had done some research. The books said there was nothing to fear in deep water. Tsunamis are barely noticable until they move into coastal areas or shallows, where the water tends to bunch up. Of course, Diligent wasn’t exactly in deep water.

  Another glowing track appeared in the sky. Coming their way. It got big, got bigger, and finally exploded and rained fire onto the sea. “Some of those hit the water,” said the exec.

  Bolling didn’t think so. It was hard at night to know where anything was.

  Fresh coffee came up from below. The crewman reported that contact had been reestablished with the moonbus carrying the vice president. “They aren’t broadcasting from the bus itself,” he explained. “But they say they’re tracking them on radar.”

  Bolling was pleased to hear it. He liked Haskell. But more to the point, he thought that the nation would look bad if it couldn’t rescue its number two executive from a disaster they’d seen coming for five days.

  Another message came up from the commcenter:

  TSUNAMI STRUCK COAST FROM NEW LONDON TO

  MARTHA’S VINEYARD, NANTUCKET, AND THE CAPE.

  140430Z. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

  How big? How much damage?

  They picked up Transglobal coverage of the wave off the satellite. First reports were sporadic, but Bolling wondered whether the alarmists might not have been right after all. He snapped on the intercom and told his people what he knew. “We’ll pass along whatever else we get as it comes in,” he concluded.

  They maintained a southeasterly course, beneath a now-quiet sky. Their depth reached one hundred twenty feet. The wind began to blow and the water started getting choppy.

  At 1139 hours he was handed a general broadcast message from an oil tanker:

  TEXACO QUEEN REPORTS SEA WAVE NORTHBOUND

  40.7°N LAT, 71.8°W LONG—APPROACHING COAST.

  He hardly needed to look at a chart; more trouble for Rhode Island.

  “Pass it to the station,” he said.

  “We’ve done that, Captain,” said the messenger.

  Bolling raked the horizon with his night glasses. It was flat as a pancake.

  Another fireball raced silently out of the clouds to starboard. The sea turned red in its glow. It passed overhead, throwing off streamers, and plunged into the sea. A thunderclap broke over them. The sound had barely died to echoes before the last of the fragments had fallen a few points to port and the world was dark again.

  “I’ve got the con, Dan,” said Bolling. “Helmsman, come to port fifteen degrees. All ahead standard.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  He scribbled a quick description of what they’d seen and handed it to the messenger. “Add our position and send it,” he said.

  The cutter dipped into a deep trough.

  “Captain?” Ramsey, on radar. “Look at this.”

  They were getting a solid reading almost dead ahead. It looked as if a wall had been built across the ocean.

  “It just a
ppeared,” he continued. “Range, six miles.”

  “Helmsman, make your course one-zero-zero. Right into it.”

  One of the forward lookouts shouted “Wave!” and pointed.

  Bolling stared at it through his glasses. It looked big.

  “Everybody tie down!” shouted the exec.

  “Flank speed,” said Bolling. “Let’s put our lights on it.”

  Twin halogen lamps came on and their beams stabbed through the night.

  The cutter leaped forward.

  “Three miles,” said Willoughby.

  It was visible now, a vast rolling surge without a crest.

  “My God,” said Packard, “I thought you said we didn’t need to worry about anything like this in open water.”

  “Complain when we get home,” he said. “Hang on.” They tied the wheel down to ensure they stayed on course, and then he directed all crewmen to lash themselves to their positions. He followed his own instruction and watched Packard do the same.

  Then it was on them, a dark roiling mountain. Dilly rode up its face. Bolling lost his balance and fell against the bulkhead. The prow bit into the ocean, and water thundered across the deck and crashed through the bridge. He was thrown down hard and lost track of direction, and for a terrible moment thought they were going to capsize, maybe had capsized. The ocean boiled around him. Then they hovered on the crest of the wave and the boat’s lights looked down into a bottomless trough and lost themselves in mist.

  Dilly slipped into the trough. It seemed to Bolling that they were free-falling, and the fall went on and on. Water roared over his head, and then it was gone and he was trying to wipe his eyes clear and get the sea out of his throat.

  “You okay, Captain?” shouted Packard.

  Their lights played across a churning sea.

  “I’m fine. Radar?”

  “It’s out, Captain,” said Ramsey. “Blown.”

  The helmsman was dazed. Packard took the wheel. Bolling could see nothing immediately threatening. He keyed the intercom. “Radio room.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Get a message to Breakwater. That wave was forty feet. It’s moving west northwest, approximately two-zero-zero knots.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Bolling knelt beside the helmsman, but looked up at his exec. “We need a head count, Dan,” he said. “Let’s make sure we’ve still got everybody.”

  CNN NEWSBREAK SPECIAL REPORT. 11:33 P.M.

  “This is Mark Able in the mobile unit above Groton, Connecticut. The lights are out down there and we can’t see much yet, but here’s what we know: A giant wave went through here a few minutes ago. There’s heavy flooding on the ground. We can see overturned rail cars. There’s debris everywhere, as if a big tornado had hit the area. Downtown is just flattened. John, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s just awful. There’s nothing moving on the Connecticut Turnpike at all. And as far as I can see, there aren’t any cars on it anywhere. There are some overturned vehicles north of the highway. And yes, John, I think that’s what happened: The wave just swept the road clear.

  “We have no estimates yet as to casualties, but I can’t believe anyone down there could have lived through this. A couple of army helicopters have just arrived and are using spotlights to look for survivors. We’re going to try to find a place to land, and we’ll be staying on top of this developing story.

  “Back to you, John.”

  Manhattan. 11:35 P.M.

  The mood at Louise’s rooftop party had been going severely downhill for about an hour. Party-goers gathered around the TV to watch pictures from the helicopter. As the images of ruined bridges and mud-covered streets and downed telephone poles continued, there was talk that maybe Manhattan itself wasn’t safe.

  Marilyn became uneasily aware of their proximity to the Atlantic.

  “Maybe,” somebody said, “we ought to head out.”

  “Head out where?” asked Marvin. “We’re four stories up. Where could you go that would be safer than this?”

  Where indeed? Marilyn looked down into the street, which was locked tight with trucks and taxis. They could hear the distant wail of a police cruiser. “Marvin’s right,” Louise said. “Anybody wants to stay the night is welcome.”

  Marilyn had spent much of the evening with Marv. It irritated her that her husband showed no sign of jealousy, nor even any indication that he noticed. It struck her as odd that the world seemed to come into clearer focus when she was moderately under the influence. She understood that night with cold clarity that she’d married the wrong person.

  Maybe it didn’t matter who she’d married. Her husband had been like Marv at one time. She could still remember the nights when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. The marriages of her friends, those that had survived, had all gone much the same way. Dull and listless seemed to be the best you could hope for.

  Maybe she needed kids. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be until kids came along.

  She was sure of one thing: The talk about tidal waves, and watching people try to get out of town, had all made her think about her own mortality. She wasn’t really afraid of death itself. Death was too remote, something that happened to other people. But she knew that the clock was running, that none of the dreams that had brightened her teenage years had come true. Working on idiot manuscripts by other people was less than fulfilling. And she knew no one, not one person, who would be grief-stricken if she died. Her folks, maybe, but they didn’t count. Larry would be sad, no doubt. He’d come to the funeral, sniffle at all the right moments, bounce back, and move on.

  Marv.

  If something were to happen to her, she wondered whether he wouldn’t miss her more than her husband would.

  There was a commotion inside, and the news was quickly passed to the people on the terrace. They were recommending evacuation of New York.

  She looked out at the Natural History Museum, its congeries of dull brick buildings spread across several blocks.

  Below, along 77th, people were blowing their horns.

  TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 11:36 P.M.

  “This is Bruce Kendrick in our Syracuse 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 eleven-forty-five. 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 news desk 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….”

  4.

  Coast Guard Activities, Governors 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. 140440Z 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 on nearby Staten Island. 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.