A second report from a local news helicopter described conditions on the highways. Traffic was at a crawl.
God help them.
Then she realized they weren’t talking only about Los Angeles. Emergency conditions prevailed the length of the West Coast, from Astoria on the north to Baja California on the south. Everywhere, panicked populations were trying to find higher ground, heading for mountaintops, breaking into skyscrapers, doing whatever they could.
It must be chaos.
In some areas, people were reported to be blowing up bridges and blocking highways to stop the flood of refugees. Lisa Monroe of CBS interviewed a man who claimed to speak for an entire municipality when he assumed the right to defend town land against the “hordes coming out of San Francisco.”
“They’ll overrun us,” he said. “Look around you. They’re all going to want to sit on this mountain. Where are we supposed to put everybody? There’s just not enough room. Not enough food. Not enough water.” He spoke with an actor’s precise articulation. A professional of one sort or another, she realized. “So, yes, we dropped a tractor-trailer on the road down there. And when they move that, we’ll drop another one. I don’t like it, but we’ve got our own to think about.”
She looked at the relatively light traffic on the county route and wondered if it too had been blocked somewhere west. She shook Jerry.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking dazed.
She told him. “They’re saying everything’s going to get hit.”
“And we’ve got no flood insurance,” he said. “Son of a bitch, Missy, we’re going to lose everything.”
They were nosed in against a hillside. Headlights moved rhythmically across the gravel every ten seconds or so. And lightning broke across the mountains.
But it wasn’t lightning.
It was fire.
It came silently out of the sky and glided slowly across her field of vision. The highway and the mountain stood out white and stark. It seemed almost to float in, and then she could hear it, a succession of loud bangs and explosions. Pieces of it blasted away, and the thing itself passed out of sight behind the mountain. A roar shook the ground.
Lights came on across the highway above the souvenir shop. The shaking went on, stopped, and started again. More violently. The highway broke apart. Brakes screeched and cars piled into one another. There were screams and people running and flashlight beams lancing through the night. The lights in the shopping center, the security lights, the signs at the charge station all went out.
Engines were starting. A crevice opened near the foot of the cliff. A car slipped in and vanished.
“Quake,” said Jerry.
Flashlight beams jerked up at the face of the mountain and faded into the dark.
The screams continued. Marisa heard a rumble. Overhead.
The cops were out of the cruiser, trying to wave people onto the road, away from the overhang.
Cars and trucks were trying to get clear, careening against one another, spilling into the highway. Air horns blasted. A Buick hit one of the cops and kept going. Another dropped its wheels into a hole and rolled over. The wheels spun and the occupants fought to get out.
“—out of here,” Jerry was saying, scrambling for the front seat of the wagon.
Marisa was an EMT. Her first instinct was to reach for the first aid kit. She wanted to help the injured cop, but she was torn, knowing she should get her family to safety. And anyway, nobody was stopping and she couldn’t reach him. While she tried to make up her mind, the face of the mountain exploded.
The kids had been sleeping in the back of the wagon. They woke now and screamed. The entire world was dissolving. Jerry rammed the tailgate shut while Marisa jumped in on the passenger side. Jerry dived in a moment later and climbed into the back to calm the kids. Rocks rattled off the hood and roof.
There was nowhere to go. The station wagon shook under an impact, and something shattered one of the windows. The landslide went on and on, and she couldn’t see what was happening through the cloud of dust that had been kicked up. Then it was over.
“Everybody okay?” said Jerry.
They were fine. But the sound of moving earth had been replaced by screams and frantic cries for help and the sour blat of a jammed automobile horn.
“Take the kids,” said Marisa. “Up that way, on the highway.” She showed him where she wanted him to go. Away from overhangs.
Jerry looked helplessly at the half-buried line of cars blocking him in. “How’m I supposed to get out?”
“Walk,” she said. “And make it quick. The rest of this thing might come down any time.”
“Where are you going?”
She slid out the back, carrying a flashlight and the first aid kit. “To help,” she said.
She picked her way through the carnage, punching numbers into her cell phone, and looking for the cop. He was unconscious, hemorrhaging, and had several broken ribs.
Nobody answered at 911.
Skyport Orbital Lab. 4:54 A.M.
POSIM-32 went down three hundred miles southeast of the Virginia coast. Tory relayed its coordinates to her waiting consumers, one of which was the U.S. Naval Satellite Tracking Service.
EMERGENCY *** EMERGENCY *** EMERGENCY
FROM: NAVSAT
TO: ALLNAV
DTG: 140956Z
SUBJ: EARLY WARNING
SEA WAVE INBOUND VIRGINIA-MARYLAND SHORE. RANGE SEVENTY-FIVE NAUTICAL MILES. SPEED TWO-NINE-ZERO KNOTS.
White House Briefing Room. 5:00 A.M.
The room was packed with reporters and cameras.
Henry looked grimly into the TV lights. “My fellow Americans,” he said, “this has been a terrible night for the American people, and for people around the globe. As you know, despite our best hopes, giant waves have hit us very hard. More are coming. I wish I could tell you otherwise; I wish I could tell you that this national nightmare is over. But I cannot.
“In addition to the assorted calamities of the evening, we are also now threatened by a large object that we’ve come to call the Possum. Its real name is POSIM-38, and it’s slightly over a mile long. POSIM-38 is a piece of moonrock that was blown clear during the collision, and it has the potential, should it fall to Earth, to do irreparable damage to the environment.
“This object will make a close approach to Earth at eight forty-seven this morning. It will pass through the atmosphere, and it is then likely to go into an orbit that will decay, that will bring it back.
“It will continue to present a major hazard unless we act. And the reality is that we’ll never have a better opportunity to get rid of it than we have today. Therefore, I’ve ordered the air force to prepare a massive missile strike, which will be delivered after it leaves the area of the Earth.
“In this way—”
It was as far as he got.
A bolt of lightning exploded directly over the White House, the lights went out, flickered on and off a couple of times, and finally died altogether.
“We’re off the air, Mr. President,” said his producer.
“Can you get us back on, Herman?”
“In a few minutes. Maybe.”
The emergency lights came on.
Henry glanced down at the crowd of reporters. “You can see how things have been.” The remark drew a few tired smiles.
While he waited, he talked with them, explaining informally what the consequences might be if they failed to act against the Possum. Had he consulted with China? someone wanted to know. He hadn’t; it wasn’t a Chinese issue. CBS asked if the administration would now budget seriously for Skybolt.
He began to explain that the administration had always supported the concept, and was about to fudge history when a young navy lieutenant stepped into the room from a side door and handed a piece of paper to Al Kerr. Kerr glanced at it, came forward immediately and handed it to the president. It read: TIDAL WAVE IMMINENT.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Henry said, “we’
d better continue the discussion elsewhere.”
No one needed an explanation. The journalists scrambled for their cars. The president turned to an aide. “Get Emily,” he said.
10.
AstroLab. 5:07 A.M.
Feinberg had been talking with Windy Cross about POSIM-38, requesting adjustments in the imaging process when his power failed. A minute later, the phone lines went out.
But Feinberg had become a very big player, bigger perhaps than he realized. Ten minutes after everything had gone down, an army helicopter descended onto the front lawn and a young captain introduced himself. His name was McMichael and he’d been assigned to provide whatever transportation or communication the professor might need. Then he asked confidentially whether the Possum was as dangerous as the president said.
Feinberg assured him that the danger couldn’t be overstated.
Somehow, despite everything, Wes Feinberg had missed the human dimension of the catastrophe. He knew what was happening around the world, but his attention had been focused on orbital mechanics, and now, the dynamics of the Possum. He’d alerted the president as soon as he realized the danger. But he’d felt no real human involvement. Looking into McMichael’s gray eyes, feeling the man’s fear, he recognized his own detachment. He understood its derivation: his sense that there was nothing to be done about the rock, just as there had been nothing to do about the comet. His advice to the president that he act had been given despite the fact that Feinberg believed no action was feasible. That, lacking Skybolt, the world had no tool at hand with which to defend itself. The human race was caught in a game of cosmic billiards. It was probably going to lose, unless it got very lucky. And because he could only watch, he’d felt no emotional involvement other than his excitement at being here on this day.
The Possum would pass Earth by the barest of margins, literally roaring through the ionosphere, close enough to see with the naked eye. But it had enough momentum to avoid being dragged down. For him, the interest lay in the trajectory and velocity with which it would emerge.
“The president has made a public statement about the Possum?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. He was conducting a press conference, but it went off the air. Power failure in D.C.”
“Join the rest of the country,” said Feinberg. “What did he say about the Possum?”
“That he was going to nuke it, sir.”
“Nuke it?”
“Yes, sir.” He looked at his watch. “In a couple of hours, I guess. Right after it makes its pass over China.”
Feinberg sighed. “Get me through to him, Captain.”
“Sir, I’ll do what I can.”
Goddammed idiots. Don’t politicians ever ask questions before they make decisions?
The White House. 5:09 A.M.
They hurried the president and first lady through torrential rain across the west lawn, where three choppers were waiting. One lifted away as they slogged through the drenched grass. Actually, Henry was in better shape, despite his illness, than most of the middle-aged officeholders with him, and he ended by helping some of them. Kerr in particular was gasping and heaving before he’d gone more than a few steps.
The military people stayed on the fringe of the group to assist where needed. As Henry arrived at the waiting helicopter, a bolt of lightning illuminated the Capitol and the southeastern sky for what seemed a full minute. And he saw the wave. It looked to be literally a mile high, its white crest breaking over the top, a mountain of water racing down on them. The people coming up from behind gasped and scrambled into the helicopter. The chopper crew helped, literally dragging some in by the scruff of the neck while a Marine officer redundantly shouted, “Move move move.” Henry helped Emily up, and then he was unceremoniously hauled on board and passed none too gently from hand to hand. He heard Emily’s choked voice crying out Al’s name, saw Kerr stumble again, his legs twisted, falling forward while a young lieutenant tried to hold him up. Twenty yards beyond the chief of staff, a handful of reporters ran through the steaming rain. Now a voice behind Henry was saying, “Go go,” and the roar of the engines deepened and the chopper started to lift.
The president shouted for them to wait, ordered the pilot to set back down. Kerr was still on the ground, they didn’t have everybody, there was room for more. But hands dragged him away from the open door and someone said it was all right, the other chopper would pick up the stragglers. But Henry knew there were too many for the remaining aircraft.
He was in one of the big cargo carriers. It rose so swiftly it threw him onto the deck. A crewman fell on him and held him. Someone else banged the door shut. “Hang on, sir,” said the crewman.
Heavy winds beat on the aircraft. Henry couldn’t see the wave anymore, couldn’t see anything in the dark interior, couldn’t get up to look because the deck swerved and rolled under him. Some of his aides had made it on board, some of the military people, a couple of the reporters, and one of the agents. But there’d been room for more. They’d left maybe twenty down on the lawn. Including Al.
The engines screamed. Henry found a handhold. There should have been a plan in place to get everybody out. Damn. His staff had screwed this up to a fare-thee-well. Or he had.
He felt especially responsible about the reporters. He’d called them to the White House, and had failed to make provision for them. As if he’d thought D.C. was a sacred place, somehow shielded from the catastrophe that was overwhelming the rest of the country.
The man who’d been on top of him, apparently satisfied that the president could no longer hurt himself, eased off. “Sorry, sir,” he said. He wore single silver bars.
“It’s okay, Lieutenant,” said Henry. He looked around, found Emily, and was frightened by her empty eyes. He tried to talk to her but she could not speak.
Lightning flickered in the compartment. Sheets of rain hammered at the windows. The chopper lurched and dipped and rose again. The lieutenant leaned toward the cockpit, spoke briefly, and then nodded: “We’re clear, Mr. President.”
“Did the other helicopter get off?”
He spoke with one of the pilots again. “Yes, sir. They’re in the air.”
The roar of the engines eased and Henry got to his feet. The world below was full of liquid darkness and electricity. The lights were out, the ground was dark; he could see no streets, no homes, no monuments. He shivered.
Lightning glimmered against a black torrent pouring across the rotunda. The Lincoln Memorial, half-drowned, flickered in and out of existence.
He eased into the cockpit. “Pilot, can you contact the other aircraft? The one that took off behind us?”
The pilot nodded. “Welcome aboard, Mr. President,” he said, and handed him a mike and a pair of earphones. “Bagel Three,” he said, “the president would like to talk with you.”
There was a long silence on the other end. Then: “This is Bagel Three. Glad you made it, Mr. President.”
“Thank you. Were you able to get the people on the ground?”
Another long pause, long enough that Henry knew the answer. “No, sir. Not all of them. There wasn’t time.” The voice on the other end had become somewhat high-pitched. “There was nothing I could do, sir.”
“I know, son. I was there.”
“We just barely got off as it was, Mr. President. If I hadn’t gone, everybody would have died.”
“It’s all right.” He took a deep breath. “Is Al Kerr there?”
Emily squeezed his shoulder while they listened to people at the other end call Kerr’s name. A jumble of voices, and then Henry heard him. “I’m here, Mr. President.”
“Thank God, Al. Al, how bad was it? How many’d they have to leave?”
“Ten, fifteen. I’m not sure, sir.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Al, have you looked out the window?”
Another massive bolt of lightning hit. They were flying over a broad sea, with here and there a monument or a piece of the State Department projecting out of the water.
“Yeah,” said Kerr. “I saw it.”
Henry wondered how many people had still been in the city. Taking his advice. “Al, where are we headed?”
“It’s still dry at Camp David, sir.”
They were turning to the northwest, running over the quiet waters, riding in relative silence now, save for the storm. “Mr. President.” The pilot’s voice again, breaking in, bringing him back from some other place.
“Yes. What is it?”
“You’ve got a call. Man named Feinberg.”
“Patch him through, pilot.”
Some clicks in his earphones. And then Feinberg’s rasp: “Mr. President?”
“Hello, Wesley. You’ll be interested in knowing we’ve just lost Washington.”
“Mr. President, don’t do it.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t nuke the Possum.”
Henry looked down at the drowned city. “I think we’ve had enough, Wesley.”
“No! If you persist, you’ll only make things worse.”
They were the last words Henry heard. He was about to reply, to ask how he could possibly make things worse, to observe that he was by God going to take the Possum out of the game, when someone screamed, the inside of the cockpit blurred, fire broke out, and the chopper’s nightlights died. He was half-conscious; trying to find Emily in the dark, and he knew he was falling.
TRANSGLOBAL COMMENTARY. 5:10 A.M.
“The loss of power in the middle of the presidential press conference is the final straw in the assault against the public nerve. Probably never before in the history of the republic has the entire population stayed up all night. Millions have been driven from their homes, people have died in vast numbers, families are swept away in full view of TV cameras, and property damage mounts, God help us, into the trillions.
“The American people were surprised to see a presidential press conference only hours after two presidential addresses. If they were expecting Mr. Kolladner to announce Armageddon, they were carried along by his unexpected spirit of confidence and optimism. His clear goal of calming the nation might have been obtained had he not suddenly disappeared from the world’s screens. In a hundred languages around the globe, voices explained that the transmission had been lost temporarily at its source, and that the telecast would continue momentarily.
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