Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

"Can you put me through to the president?" he asked Juarez.

"I would if I could, Professor Feinberg. He's been in the situation room all night."

"Yes. Well, you might tell him he has a situation."

"What precisely is wrong?"

"This would work better if I could speak to him directly. He may have a worst-case scenario."

"You're probably talking about the report that NASA sent over a few minutes ago."

"I don't know. What did the report say?"

"It's classified."

"That makes it hard to talk about it, doesn't it?"

Juarez's tone stiffened. "Professor Feinberg, if you want to give me details, I'll see that they get to him." Or don't waste my time.

"All right. We have a big one coming in. Its catalog number is thirty-eight. It's going to pass through the upper atmosphere later this morning. The chances are good it'll slow down enough to go into orbit. If it does, tell him to expect the orbit to decay pretty quickly. What I'm trying to say is that I think the damned thing'll be coming down. You got that?"

For a long minute there was silence on the other end. Then: "How big? When's it coming? Where?"

He wondered what the NASA report had said. "It's one and a half kilometers across. You understand what that means?"

"Yes," she said. "I think so."

"Tell him. If he has any options, he may not have much time to use them."

"I'll get the word to him."

"He needs to talk to me." Boston. 3:16 A.M.

The wave wasn't particularly big, in the context of the evening. It rolled across Logan Airport and Winthrop, which had been abandoned barely ten minutes earlier, after a warning had chased out the few diehards who remained. It was barely eight feet high when it swept through downtown Boston. Other waves went ashore at Plymouth on the south, and Gloucester on the north. The disaster was compounded at Marblehead when a major pileup blocked Route 114 and trapped thousands in the path of the sea.

At Plymouth, the Commonwealth Electric power station was destroyed. That caused an overload in Boston and Providence, and the system began shutting down. By four-fifteen the entire Northeast was without power.

Every major city on both coasts was now entangled in a desperate flight. Police forces disintegrated as officers scrambled to rescue their own families. Hospitals and other emergency services broke down for the same reason. Those who gave up trying to get out of town and sought refuge in local churches and community centers often found them locked. Military and National Guard units could move quickly only by air.

So far there had been no tsunamis on the West Coast. Experts were cautiously optimistic.

The media was perhaps enjoying its finest hour. Mobile news teams were everywhere, dropping out of the sky to record and interview the terror-stricken and the desperate.

"Where are you headed, Mrs. Martinik?"

"Anywhere…"

People living in Denver, Kansas City, Indianapolis experienced a different kind of agony. There was hardly anyone who didn't have kids, friends, relatives in the path of the waves. But phone lines were down throughout the stricken areas.

Conditions elsewhere in the world were mixed. East Africa, the Middle East, and Asia had so far suffered less severely because they had not been directly exposed to the event. But debris was still falling, and the Earth's rotation was pushing them into the line of fire. Europe was being hit hard. Thousands were believed dead from Rome to the Gulf of Riga. Kiev in the Ukraine had, like Carlisle, been decimated by a meteor shower. Porto Alegre and Valparaiso had been inundated.

There was some good news: A tidal wave reported approaching Vancouver failed to arrive. At Pearl Harbor, the navy evacuated thousands of dependents onto warships in the face of approaching tsunamis. In Glasgow, city officials used trains, buses, and good planning to perform a similar feat.

Nations had already begun to assist one another with little regard to national borders. Russian military forces had arrived with food and medical aid at Kiev. While Poles rescued Latvians at Riga, Germans rescued Poles along the Pomeranian Coast. Italian relief agencies showed up in eastern France. Canadians were reported en route to New York.

There were some that night who were concluding, whatever else might happen, the human race would never be the same. Skyport Orbital Lab. 3:18 A.M.

Skyport was a geostationary satellite, orbiting permanently above the Galapagos Islands. The sky over the eastern Pacific was alight with the fine webwork of meteor showers. Tory knew what was happening on the ground. Along the Gulf Coast and in Mexico, giant storms had been generated by abrupt changes in temperature and air pressure. Hurricane-velocity winds and driving rain struck Mobile, New Orleans, Tampico, and Veracruz. The TV carried images of crushed bodies and broken wheelchairs, of soggy teddies and overturned buses. At Virginia Beach a desperate father tried unsuccessfully to save his kids from a wave by tying them to trees; at Wilmington a hospital attempted to ride out the rising sea, and lost its patients and virtually its entire professional staff. A Coast Guard helicopter off Atlantic City ran into wind shear at the wrong moment and went down in mountainous seas. Heroism and tragedy were everywhere.

Tory watched with eyes swollen from fighting back tears. Her own family lived in the area around St. Louis, so they at least were safe from the general devastation. But the POSIMs continued to go down, and she provided as much warning as she could. Usually it was thirty to forty minutes. It wasn't much, but it was a hell of a lot better than zero. And she was a big part of it, the woman they'd wanted to send home, at a time when they should have been beefing up.

She watched POSIM-27 sizzle into the atmosphere and disappear somewhere off Brazil. The cities of the Americas were usually ablaze with light, even at this hour. But tonight substantial sections of both continents had gone dark. Even the river of illumination that ran from Boston to Miami was at best patchy.

From here, from her perch thirty-six thousand kilometers over the Pacific, she sensed a rhythm to the strikes, a pattern of light and intensity and timing. Despite all that was happening below, this cosmic symphony was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. White House, Oval Office. 3:20 A.M.

Henry was staring at the papers scattered across his teak-wood desk, and at the images coming in on his notebook screen from Miami. His eyes were blurred, his head was warm, his hands were trembling. Emily had pleaded with him to call his personal physician, to get something to calm him down. But the last thing he needed now was a tranquilizer.

How many had died tonight?

They'd never know; and if there'd been a revolver handy, Henry Kolladner would have done the right thing and put a bullet in his head.

The door opened and Kerr looked in. "Henry?" he said.

The only light in the room, aside from the notebook, came from his desk lamp. He looked at it, a memento from the president of France. "I made the wrong call, Al." He felt drained, empty. "We should've started evacuating the cities as soon as we knew." He'd learned his lesson. Minutes before the eleven forty-five address, he'd committed the resources of the government to a complete evacuation of coastal cities throughout the nation. Too late, of course. Far too late.

"Sir, we did what we thought was right."

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter, Al. We've got a lot of dead people out there. It didn't have to happen."

For a long time neither man spoke. Then Kerr said, "Feinberg's been on the line again."

The despair in his voice was evident. Henry swung the chair around slowly and looked at his chief of staff, transfixing him.

"What is it this time?"