Cordelias cousin was from a very wealthy family, money derived from the biotech boom. Cordelia herself came from a more modest background. A more restrained background. Not cheap, not puritanical, just reasonable. Her family did not believe in ostentatious displays of wealth. Her family would not have placed twelve-thousand dollars worth of Beluga caviar in seventeen-thousand dollars worth of crystal and then gone about ten steps too far by covering each mound of caviar with edible gold foil.
Okay, so Lucys family had money. Did they have to rub peoples noses in it?
And yet, for this view . . . What wouldnt Cordelia do to be able to look out at this magnificence every day?
Maybe shed be rich someday. Maybe shed be a really rich photographer. Uh-huh. There were about, hmm, two rich photographers.
Maybe shed marry a rich guy. Jobs would probably make a lot of money some day; he was shockingly smart after all. Of course that was jumping the gun a little bit, but thats what weddings did to you: made you go all mushy and misty and begin fantasizing.
Her dad had called to tell her that hed caught Jobs trying to crawl in her bedroom window. That was either very romantic or insane or some combination of the two. Romeo or Psycho? He could be nuts, that was a possibility to consider.
Jobs was definitely different. Hed spent close to half an hour listening to her, actually listening, without trying to make the conversation about himself. And hed made no move on her. Just listened. The number of guys Cordelia had met in her entire life who could actually listen intelligently was, well, one.
Unfortunately, setting aside the odd home-invasion, Jobs seemed to have no follow-up. He hadnt asked her out, despite the fact he was definitely interested. So, shed have to ask him out. Only, check with people at school first and find out if he was actively crazy.
Her link was ringing. Again.
Yes? Cordelia asked in an innocent singsong.
It was her great-aunt Rebecca (formerly great-uncle Robert). Cordelia, honey, show us the bride and groom or
Sorry, your audio is breaking up. She killed the connection. Then she turned the link around to show herself standing before the view and laughing.
She was not a classically beautiful girl; her face had too much character for that. Her nose was too big, for one thing. Shed thought of having it fixed, but hey, it was a family trait. Her hair was blond actual blond, not petri-dish blond, and she wore it long. Her eyes were authentically blue.
She winked at the link, knowing she was really annoying her extended family now.
Okay, okay, Ill show the bride, she said.
She started to pan down toward the reception again, intending to focus on the rather gruesome sight of Lucy stuffing her face with crab legs, but something drew her eye.
In the sky.
It was a small asteroid, a meteorite, no more than eight-hundred feet in diameter, a chip that long ago had spun off the Rock in its collision with the comet.
Just a chip. A pebble.
It ripped through the air, shrieking, a hurricane wind behind it.
The pebble slammed into San Francisco Bay just short of hitting Alameda.
The explosion was equal to a nuclear weapon.
The entire contents of San Francisco Bay, billions upon billions of gallons of water shot skyward, a vast column of superheated steam. Millions of tons of dirt, the floor of the bay, erupted, a volcano.
The immediate shock wave flattened every building in Alameda and Oakland. Skyscrapers were simply knocked over like a kids pile of blocks. Frame houses collapsed. Cars were tossed around like leaves in the wind.
The water of the bay surged in, sucking the USS Reagan into the bay, a swirling bath toy, then all at once the water blew back. The USS Reagan was picked up and thrown into and through the Golden Gate Bridge. The rust-red bridge wrapped bodily around the flying ship. The bridge supports ripped from the shores. Cable snapped like bullwhips.
The shock wave reached San Francisco itself. The downtown area pancaked. Areas that were landfill simply melted away, quick sand, entire square miles of the city sank down into the water.
A million dead in less than five seconds.
Cordelia said, Oh, my God, all those people. It was all she had time to say before the shock wave ripped apart the mansion on Twin Peaks.
The final image broadcast was from a link lying sideways. The lens was speckled with dust. But the image was still clear: Cordelia lay on her side, her face shocked. She looked down and saw the two-by-four that had been driven through her chest. She shuddered and died.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MAYBE THE WORLD IS COMING TO AN END, IT DOESNT MATTER: YOU FOLLOW ORDERS.
Sergeant Tamara Hoyle had a simple enough task: Protect the perimeter. A standard task for any Marine. Protect the perimeter of the compound from any unauthorized persons attempting to enter or depart.
She followed orders, deployed her Marines as she had been instructed to do by her captain, kept them alert, did her best to keep them focused on the job at hand. One or two of her Marines raised complaints, fears, wanted to know what kind of a mission this was, anyway, standing guard at the end of the world when they should be home with their families, after all what did any of it matter?
Sergeant Hoyle had taken time to explain patiently. Excuse me, son? Did I hear you right? she demanded, levering her body forward, bringing her angry, incredulous face to within a millimeter of the unfortunate privates nose. You want to go home, Marine? Well, I guess youre just about the first Marine in all of history who has thought about that. All those guys who went ashore on Iwo Jima, Inchon, any of a hundred different places, getting chewed up on godforsaken beaches, I dont guess any of them ever thought maybe theyd rather be home drinking a cold beer.
All due respect, Sarge, this is different.
No, private, it isnt different. Youre a Marine. You have your orders. You follow orders. Maybe you live, maybe you die, maybe you like it, maybe you dont, maybe the world is coming to an end, it doesnt matter: You follow orders. Is that clear?
It was clear.
It was clear to the private. It was not clear to the sergeant.
Tamara Hoyle was twenty-two years old with two and a half years in the Corps. She was seven weeks pregnant, a fact she had not yet revealed to her husband, a Marine who was on embassy duty in Tokyo, or to her superiors. The Corps provided for an eighteen-month leave of absence in the event of pregnancy time that had to be made up.
There would be no hiding it, of course. Tamara Hoyle was five foot nine, one hundred and twenty pounds, with the kind of stomach you get from doing a hundred crunches every morning followed by fifty military push-ups and a five-mile run. You couldnt hide a pregnant belly on that kind of body.
Tamara Hoyle loved the Corps. She loved being a Marine. She believed everything she had ever heard (or said) about duty, honor, and country. And the Marine sergeant was determined that the end of the world would still find her little part of the Corps executing their lawful orders. Semper Fi: always faithful. Always.
Following orders had presented no conflicts between Tamara Hoyle the Marine and Tamara Hoyle the someday mother. The Marines guarding the compound had been fully briefed it was thought theyd learn the truth anyway and Sergeant Hoyle had accepted the fact that her baby would never be born. That there would, in all probability, be no world for her to be born into. That was like a bayonet to the heart, but there was no changing things, and orders were orders.
But then, that first evening as she stood at rest smoking a safe-cig in the dark outside the barracks, listening to the frogs and the crickets, a young woman emerged to stand beside her.
Youre pregnant, the young woman said.
Tamara nearly swallowed her safe-cig. The womans voice carried such conviction that there was no denying. How do you know?
The woman stuck out a hand and Tamara shook it. Im Connie Huerta. Doctor Connie Huerta, OB-GYN. Im wrong sometimes, but not often. She withdrew her hand and for the first time Tamara noticed
the tiny medi-scan, no more than a thin film of plastic.
Doctor Huerta looked at the medi-scan, peered close to make out the tiny digital readout. Id say youre between six and eight weeks along.
Tamara took a deep, shaky breath, let it out slowly, recovered some of her inner calm. But the womans next words blew away her calm entirely.
Sergeant, I dont want to be here. Im here with my husband. I dont love my husband. I love a guy . . . a guy. Leave it at that. I dont want to go on this trip. Me, Id rather stay behind. Anyway, Im a doctor: Maybe not everyone will be killed right away when the Rock hits. If there are people hurt I should be there.
Youre an obstetrician, not exactly a trauma surgeon, Tamara pointed out.
Connie smiled. Yes. But if youre hurt Ill be better than no doctor at all. Besides, women will still be having babies. For a while. Maybe.
Tamara shook her head. I have my orders. No one leaves the compound. Sorry. She used her no-nonsense voice, putting an end to the conversation.
But the doctor wasnt so easily cowed. She moved closer, to whispering distance. Were much the same size, Sergeant. When they give us the word, you let me walk away, and you take my place. Use my berth. She placed her hand gently on Tamaras very slightly swollen belly. You may save your baby.
Tamara removed the womans hand, gently but firmly. Im a Marine, Doctor: I have my orders.
Connie Huerta started to say something more, but then she shrugged and let it go.
Tamara was relieved. It had been an unsettling encounter, but it was over.
Then she heard the cries.
She dropped her safe-cig and ran inside the barracks. Everyone was gathered around the TV in the common room.
What is it? she demanded. She had to repeat the question several times before getting an answer.
San Francisco was just wiped out, a man said. Some girl was filming it live. So much for the big secret.
DAYS TO IMPACT:1
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IM NOT KILLING ANYONE, THE ROCK IS KILLING THEM.
FBI agents led by Agent Boxer kicked in the door of the motel in Titusville, Florida. They found several pizza boxes, a number of empty cookie and candy bar wrappers, and the personal hygiene items belonging to Mark and Harlin Melman.
The TV was tuned to CNN, still doing San Francisco without letup. Showing the same satellite photos of a devastated Bay Area. Showing interviews with survivors from the fringe of the blast. Showing that awful link-video from a girl whose name was now known to every person left on Earth: Cordelia.
But neither Mark nor D-Caf were in the room, and no, the motels phones had not been used to call for a taxi, and no, neither Mark nor D-Caf had accessed the Web or used their links in any way. A search of the trash found no telltale receipts. The stolen credit card number had not been used again. So clearly the young man and the boy had gone to cash, slipped off the Web, out of sight.
Just as clearly they were up to no good. There was no innocent explanation for the sudden disappearance of the prodigy Mark Melman and his little brother.
But they were not the only potential troublemakers, or anything like the most serious, either. The FBI was strained to its limits. Agents had been brought in from all over the United States and even from stations abroad to keep an eye on the hundreds, if not thousands of people who knew about the Mayflower Project but had not been bought off with a boarding pass.
Marks plan relied on his own deep knowledge of the Kennedy Space Center and the surrounding area. Part of his job had been to streamline the data flow from security sensors around the facility. The scruffy woods, with its stunted pines and dense thickets and humid bogs, was protected by a string of sensors: infrared, motion sensors, even microphones tuned to pick up human speech.
But these sensors were not could not be watched by human monitors. Instead the barrage of data was overseen by computers programmed to differentiate between a wild pig or a heron and a human.
Mark had left all the sensors functioning fully. The program itself would pass even the most rigorous tests. But Mark had played a little game with the program: He had created a sort of cloak of invisibility.
As he and D-Caf walked through the wild brush they had to contend with mosquitoes, with the possibility of snakes, and most of all with the innumerable falls and scrapes that resulted from walking in darkness when youre not used to night vision goggles.
D-Caf caught his right foot on a root and pitched forward into a bush. Ow. Oh, snake! Snake!
Mark grabbed him by the jacket collar and yanked him to his feet. Its not a snake. Look: Theres nothing there.
D-Caf stared at the spot where hed fallen. It was green-on-green, but not the natural green of chlorophyll but the eerie, glowing green of the night-vision equipment. There was no snake, green or otherwise.
There was one, he just ran off. Slithered off, I mean.
Mark nodded. See, up in that tree? You can just make out the antenna. Its a sensor.
Do you think they heard us?
Yes. Of course the sensor picked up your whining, and it sees our infrared and has registered your extremely clumsy movement. It would easily determine that we are humans except for the fact that were putting off a very precisely tuned audio signal too high for us to hear but audible to the sensor. He tapped the signal generator clipped to his belt. The computer is programmed to see anything putting off that audio signal as a wild pig, regardless of the other data.
What would they do if they caught us?
Shoot us, Mark said harshly. Then, realizing that this would just set D-Caf off, he said, Just kidding, Hamster. Theyd just arrest us and kick us off the base.
D-Caf fell into step behind his brother, determined this time not to trip again, or to ask any more dumb questions. But it was creepy out here in the snake-infested woods, where every gnarled, dwarfish tree looked like some glowing, green, radioactive monster.
D-Caf slipped his goggles down to his chin. The moon was at the quarter and it gave barely adequate light. When the clouds scudded across it the light was almost entirely extinguished.
It wasnt quiet out here; there were endless insect and animal sounds, buzzing, rasping, croaking, and a weird, harsh cough that may have been anything.
How much farther? D-Caf asked.
Half a mile.
I need to rest.
No. Do you just not get it? The ship launches tomorrow night: 2:26 in the morning. After that thing in San Francisco, that tape being on all the news shows, all over the world, this secret is not going to keep. They can talk accidental nuclear explosion and all that, but no one buys that load of bull: the only nukes were aboard the carrier, and it would have been vaporized, not flying backward through the bridge. People are figuring it out, which means everything is gonna hit the fan and security is going to come down even harder. Theres no backup launch window, NASA has to go. This is it. Either were on board, or were dead.
D-Caf shrugged. Maybe we shouldnt do it.
Mark spun and yanked his collar, yanked him close. Dont even start.
You said yourself it was a sham, Mark. I mean, if its not even going to save our lives then why do it? I mean, why? I cant kill someone.
You wont have to, his brother sneered, releasing his angry hold. Ive always taken care of you, havent I?
Yeah. You have. Ever since Mom and Dad. But you dont want to kill anyone, either, Mark. I know you dont.
Im not killing anyone, the Rock is killing them. If the Rock is going to kill everyone, how can I be a murderer, huh? Have you figured that out?
Mark wasnt sure whether he wanted to roll up in a ball and be sick, or beat his brothers face in. The stupid kid! Didnt he realize how hard this was? Didnt he realize he was just making things worse? Mark was saving his stupid life, maybe, saving him from the end of the whole lousy world and all he could do was whine?
Well get caught, D-Caf wailed.
Yeah? What are they going to do? Put us in jail for life? Thats a twenty-seven-hour sentence
.
Doesnt make it right, D-Caf whispered.
Hey, you saw the video. You saw what happened to the whole Bay Area? Everyone within five miles of the impact point is dead. That was a pebble, some little nothing knocked loose from the Rock. What happened there was a joke compared to whats happening in twenty-seven hours.
Well never make it, D-Caf said, sounding defeated. Its the end. Its all going to end.
Yeah? Then I guess you might as well relax. Lets go.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
YOULL BE THERE. YOULL BE THERE.
Jobs heard whimpering in the night. He was not asleep. Sleep wasnt possible. Cordelia. The link had shown her smiling, mugging for the camera, just moments before her link recorded the single most devastating natural disaster in human history.
He told himself she was alive. They couldnt know, not for sure. Everyone dead? Maybe that was just because they didnt want to try and save anyone.
Not that it mattered. She was dead now, or would die later. Dead from the Pebble, dead from the Rock. What was the difference? What did it matter?
The whimpering again, more urgent.
Was it Edward? The tape had shaken him, too. It had shaken everyone. It had made it all very, very real.
Jobs rolled sideways and looked across at Edwards bunk. It was just two feet away. Not Edward. His brother was snoring softly, clutching his pillow tight.
Jobs looked over the edge of the bunk, down at his dad. He felt weird doing so, like he was invading his parents privacy. There was no privacy here, but still, he didnt have the right to look at his dad sleeping, at his mom in her own lower bunk. It was like sneaking into their room.
Like sneaking into someones room and creeping their computer. God, why did his memory of Cordelia have to be tainted with all that? If hed never had more than that one perfect kiss, if he and Cordelia had never been anything more to each other, he could have lived with that. Now his memories were fouled with feelings of guilt, with a sense of irrational resentment, all layered over, overwhelmed by those hideous images of death.
The Mayflower Project Page 6
