Impact

by Douglas Preston

  Jackie eased up the throttle, letting the strain build gradually. The Marea was now listing so hard to port that water began pouring in one of the stern scuppers. Worth’s boat roared and strained, the cable taut as a violin string, but still they were barely moving.

  “Abbey, for God’s sake it’s sinking! It’s going to pull us under!”

  “No, please, it’s my father’s only boat! Just keep going!”

  Jackie pushed the throttle all the way forward. The engine screamed with the strain, there was a crack like a shotgun blast and the cleat snapped out, taking a piece of the stern with it. Worth’s boat leapt forward, the strain gone. Jackie threw the helm hard aport and brought the boat back around toward the Marea. But it was too late. With a sigh, the lobster boat settled onto its side, air rushing out. Then it slipped under the waves and vanished, leaving an oil slick behind.

  “Oh my God,” said Jackie. “Worth was still on board.”

  Abbey stared in horror, not quite able to grasp the awfulness of what had just happened. “My father’s boat . . . it just sank.”

  36

  The peppercan buoy at the mouth of Round Pond Harbor loomed out of the drizzle, rolling back and forth in the rising swell. Abbey stood at the wheel of Worth’s boat, following the Coast Guard boat Admiral Fitch into the harbor. It had caught up with them about a mile out—too late to be of any use—and the Coast Guard were now having a grand time “escorting” them back in. The fog had mostly lifted, leaving the world in a damp, depressing twilight. As the piers loomed into view, Abbey could see a mass of flashing lights in the parking lot above the waterfront.

  “Looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee.”

  Inside the harbor, she throttled down and glanced over at Jackie. She looked terrible, her damp hair hanging down limp and dirty, dark circles under her eyes, her hands, face, and clothes covered with mud.

  “What do we tell them?” Jackie asked.

  “Everything except the meteorite. We were looking for Dixie Bull’s treasure. Just like they think.”

  “Um, why not tell them about the meteorite?”

  “There still may be a way to make money on this.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Gimme time to work it out.”

  A long silence. “Maybe they can raise my father’s boat,” said Abbey, “and get it running again.”

  “Of course they’ll raise it,” Jackie said. “It’s a crime scene and there’s a body on board. But it’s totaled, Abbey. It sank in a hundred feet of water. I’m sorry.”

  Abbey glanced at her friend and saw she was crying. “Hey, Jackie. Hey . . . You tried your best to save it.” She put her arm around her. “God, I’m sorry I dragged you out on this wild-goose chase. It’s like all the other crazy things I’ve gotten you into. I don’t know why you stay my friend.”

  “I don’t either,” said Jackie.

  “I love you, Jackie. You saved my life.”

  “And you saved mine and I love you, too.”

  Abbey wiped away a tear herself. “Aw, fuck it, we’ll get through this.”

  As the docks loomed into view, Abbey could see at least a dozen cop cars had converged in the parking lot, parked willy-nilly, their light bars going. And behind them, on the lawn of the Anchor Inn, it seemed like half the town had turned out to watch them come in. Along with news crews and television cameras.

  “Oh my God, will you look at all those people?” said Jackie, wiping her face and blowing her nose. “I look like shit.”

  “Get ready for your fifteen minutes of fame.”

  She could now hear the hubbub coming over the water, the murmuring crowd, the shouting cops, the hiss of police radios. Even the volunteer fire department was there, Samoset No. 1, with their brand-new fire truck. They were all decked out in slickers and carrying Pulaskis. Everyone was having a grand old time.

  “RBM Fitch to Old Salt, come in,” the officious voice hissed over the VHF.

  “Old Salt here.” It made Abbey almost sick to even speak the name of Worth’s shit-can of a boat.

  “Old Salt, the state police have requested you berth in position one at the commercial dock and immediately leave the boat, taking nothing. Don’t shut off the engine or tie up. Law enforcement will board and take over.”

  “Got it.”

  “RBM Fitch over.”

  The Fitch eased up to the public dock, the Coast Guard fellows hopping out in their crisp uniforms and tying up with drill-like efficiency. Abbey brought the Old Salt up behind it. The state police were swarming the dock and they immediately hopped aboard, securing the boat. Abbey stepped off, Jackie by her side. An officer came up, holding a clipboard. “Miss Abbey Straw and Miss Jacqueline Spann?”

  “That’s us.”

  Abbey glanced across the parking lot. It seemed like the entire town was staring down at her from behind a cordon of police. And to one side, cameras were rolling. She heard a shout, a struggle. “That’s my daughter, you idiot! Abbey! Abbey!”

  It was her father. Home early.

  “Let go of me!”

  He came running down the grassy hill, checked shirt untucked, beard flapping, pounded down the wooden stairs, past the bait shed, and down the pier. He got to the top of the ramp and, gripping both rails, came charging down at her, hair wild.

  “Dad—”

  The officer stepped back as he ran to her. He wrapped her in his arms, a big sob wrenched from his broad chest. “Abbey! They say he tried to kill you!”

  “Dad . . .” She wiggled a little but he wasn’t letting go. He hugged her again, and then again, while she stood there, feeling awkward, mortified. What a show in front of the whole town.

  He held her by her shoulders and stood back. “I was so worried. Look—your tooth! And your lip is cut. Did that scumbag—?”

  “Dad . . . Forget the tooth . . . Your boat sank.”

  He stared at her, thunderstruck.

  She hung her head and began to cry. “I’m sorry.”

  A long silence, and then he swallowed, or at least tried to, his Adam’s apple bobbing. After a moment he put his arms around her again. “Ah, well. A boat’s just a boat.”

  A ragged cheer went up from the town.

  PART 2

  37

  Ford entered the office to find Lockwood seated at his desk. A brigadier general with grizzled hair in a rumpled field uniform stood next to him, whom Ford recognized as the Pentagon liaison to the Office of Science and Technology Policy.

  “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 recreation.”

  “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 f
ather 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.”