Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

"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.

"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…"

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.

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.

"Myra," he told it, "for God's sake get out. Wave coming."

Then he was half walking, half running, locking doors as regulations required, listening to the thwip-thwip-thwip of rotors. His people were all out now, scattering across the tarmac and climbing into the chopper. Except Janet, who was drifting behind, keeping pace with him. Damned women. "Go," he told her. She climbed aboard and he followed and the chopper lifted off.

Phillips looked east over the lights of Brooklyn toward the harbor entrance. Everything seemed normal. They activated Bluebell, the Coast Guard Command Center Aloft. One of the radio operators signaled for his attention. "Captain," he said, "we've got reports from a couple of merchantmen, too. They're saying more like sixty feet."