Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

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." Boiling 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 noticeable 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:

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:

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 appeared" 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. Ditty 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."

"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.