by James Kiehle
The full-quadrant shot was taken by NASA’s Galaxy Evolution Explorer 2 satellite. By rotating the image 30-degrees and changing focus, they zoomed on A2H-5 and noticed a massive cluster of stars with a distinctive shape, at least to them—far more obvious when they switched to the ultraviolet spectrum.
“Optical illusion or hallucination?” Ben wondered. “Do you see what I see?”
“It’s Jesus,” Edwin said, outlining the shape on screen with his index finger. “Look. There’s a head and chest, kind of, if you squint. Christ in the sky.”
“If Jesus was a chick, then maybe,” Ben laughed, drawing twin half-circles on the screen. “These are breasts. Believe me, I know. I’ve seen them before.”
Illusion or not, the shape formed an almost human-like face and torso that dissolved into a shimmer of cascading stars. Ben recalled from college the rumor that in the early 1980s scientists had mapped the known universe and when they looked at it from a particular angle, it formed the outline of a human, not dissimilar from DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man—naked guy doing jumping jacks, as someone said— but Cage was never able to confirm this.
Edwin Dark joked that this was his ‘Sky Goddess’ and wanted to nickname A2H-5 ‘Amaria’ after some wacky psychic poet he followed; Cage went along with it, mostly because Edwin had scary eyes. Their colleague Pinkie Moreland once called Edwin ‘Rasputin’’ owing to time spent in central Russia that Dark never talked about, not to mention his gaunt, chiseled face and crazy eyes.
Ben’s boss had a different take on the image; Mavis said she didn’t see anything but galaxies and stars, even though Edwin vainly tried to explain it was like one of those 3-D computer generated art pieces where you had to unfocus your eyes to see it.
Mavis Kent had little imagination, Dark suggested, but Cage knew otherwise. “She’s color-blind. It just looks grey to her.”
Still, Ben felt guilty. He knew that their special show would be going on for his entire lifetime and Mavis was eager to the point of madness about the so-called meteor/asteroid/bullet—“We don’t want another Chelyabinsk surprise,” she cautioned—so Cage dialed in the coordinates and waited as the huge, ancient scope swung around to position, slowly enough that Cage was able to go to the men’s room, wash up, study his handsome black mug in the mirror, see if his stomach was still flat, pour a cup of coffee, and scan the lead story in the online Los Angeles Times before a warning buzzer told him the beast was in place.
Cracked white NASA coffee mug in hand, Cage sat at the console and stared at the monitor while sipping Peet’s coffee, a gift from his mother, now retired to the sprawling outskirts of Portland, Oregon. He looked at the clock and bit his nails.
Strange, the object wasn’t where it was supposed to be. There might be a thousand explanations for this; the obvious one was that the object was traveling faster than earlier thought and had ducked out of frame. Either that or Cage was an idiot, unlikely, given his Ph.D. from M.I.T.
Damn, why hadn’t he spent just twenty minutes following up on it?
Mavis could be tough, even a little mean, and Ben didn’t want to end up on her bad side, so he adjusted the coordinates a few clicks down and the big scope lumbered to a new spot where he guessed the object might be. Had Cage thought the Bullet posed any real interest, he’d have assigned a tracking number on the rock, but it had seemed like just another moving part among many moving parts and traveled without an earth-bound electronic chaperone. Ben would do this when he located the Bullet, just to cover his ass.
Looking here and there—still not found, which meant it was likely traveling far faster than he had imagined and, of course, might be much closer. Cage plotted a new position, figuring it was moving about 27,000 miles per hour, pretty much the norm, and re-calibrated the angle of incline. He adjusted for gravitational pulls and repositioned Betsy.
The phone dinged as the glass eye hummed to a new slant. Ben glanced at the wall clock—four o’clock his time, two o’clock in Greenwich, Mavis’s home base. He knew in his gut she was calling.
“I know you have nothing better to do than track A-two-H-five, Dr. Cage,” Mavis said in her tight English accent, “but I wonder if you’ve followed up on the anomaly? Our little bullet?”
“Tracking it now, Dr. Kent. The trajectory is off from its last position, but I’ll crunch the numbers and get back to you.”
“Please do.” She went offline.
Ben thought: Bitch, Like I’ve got nothing better to do than follow your pet anomaly. If you’re so interested, use your own damn toys… meanwhile, he input data of its last known position, coupled with its presumed whereabouts, then saw the initial projections and sat back hard in his chair.
“Holy sh—” Cage whispered, then fumbled for the phone and rang Mavis back, so nervous he almost punched in the wrong code.
“Dr. Kent, I have weird, weird news: The meteor is heading our way,” Ben said excitedly. “It’ll pass within seven thousand miles of Earth—give or take a few thousand miles—within the next ninety-six hours.”
“Mother of Christ,” Mavis replied. “God threw a rock.”
4. Vacation
With 96 hours until worldwide meltdown, Russell Perry drove his wife Judy and fourteen year-old daughter Iris to Portland International Airport in the family Caravan. Overcast and rainy, the weather did little to make Russ feel better about them leaving to go on vacation in sunny Hawaii.
The girls weren’t thrilled, either—afraid to fly following a near plane crash over Russia the summer before. Iris lugged her huge rolling suitcase across the parking lot, along with a backpack filled with books that made her list to port. She seemed to be walking in slow-motion.
“Why do they call the weather man a Meteorologist? Shouldn’t that be a Weatherologist?” Iris asked. “What do they call someone who studies meteors?”
“Cosmologist, I think,” Russ answered.
“Like the woman at the MAC cosmetic counter?”
“That’s cosmetologist,” Judy replied.
“Oh,” Iris said. “That still doesn’t make sense. They should be consistent with the ologist stuff.”
“Are you suggesting I should be an editologist? Or a newspaperologist?” Russ offered and his daughter grinned, but held back a chuckle.
“Thank God we’re here,” Judy said as they parked, sick of gray skies.
“Godologist,” Iris muttered.
Inside the terminal, Iris couldn’t stay still. She kept getting up, sitting down, getting up. She checked herself in a mirror and squeezed a zit, making it worse. Studying her reflection, Iris decided that her dark brown hair needed a fresh cut, something bouncy and fun, not so much like her mother’s strict long bob, but more distinctive. Or maybe go goth like Russ’s assistant. A rough cut. Black. Nose rings.
Body-wise, Iris was at a gawky age, a time when she sprouted up by inches overnight, making her feel like a beanpole, though her shape might soon become more curvy, as evidenced by a recent microscopic enlargement of her breasts.
“Nervous much?” Judy asked her daughter. Iris didn’t answer, but looked up with bright, questioning eyes that Judy found easy to read.
“I am not the happiest human,” Iris replied. “We had vacation options, Mom. The Ice Shelf. Camp in the woods. Stay home—”
Judy patted her hand. “I promise. It won’t be like last time.”
“Mom, you can’t promise that. We fell like twenty-thousand feet. We almost hit a mountain.” Iris huffed. “We coulda got killized.”
“Killized?” Judy laughed. “Well, honey, it was, oh, nine thousand feet or so, and we didn’t hit the mountain. No one got hurtized.”
“That woman behind me broke her thumb.”
“Look on the bright side, Iris,” Judy said. “We seem to have lived.”
Once Russ took care of the airplane tickets and luggage, Iris asked for twenty bucks and ducked off to buy celebrity magazines with some of her classmates, while Russ and Judy sat on strict chairs near the security gate.
“What are you going to do without us?” Judy asked. “Poker with the boys? Yard work? Maybe ring up Maggie Chapin?”
“Maggie?” Russ said, feigning astonishment. “She’s older than moveable type.”
“I’ve seen how you look at her.”
“You need glasses.”
“I already wear glasses,” Judy grinned. “So, what, you’re just going to work and watch SportsCenter?”
Russ knew that this was not the ideal moment to answer truthfully. Judy had not—thank God—the faintest clue of his real plan during her absence, but while she and Iris are tanning on Waikiki, Russ will put the pedal down on a venture that—not without great risk, but sporting even greater opportunity—will change their lives forever. But, if Judy knew about this little scheme, all bets were off.
Better to lie.
“There’s a new strip club in town. Racks out to here—or maybe here—and I’ve got fifteen American greenbacks stashed away for Miss Right Now,” Russ replied, noting his wife’s quizzical look.
“Stick to eyeballing Maggie Chapin.” She squeezed his hand. “Safer.”
“Maggie it is.”
The announcement of a flight delay came over the PA system as Russ held Judy’s sweaty hand. “You okay? Your paws feel like sponges.”
Judy, distracted, said, “If we hadn’t paid in advance, we could all drive up to Canada, see the Ice Shelf, stay on solid ground.”
“Not that solid,” Russ said. “I’m in the news business, and the news is not so hot. The Ice Shelf is starting to crack—”
“I’m just saying,” Judy went on, then took a sighing interest in the ceiling. “I promised Iris we’d go someplace together every year, just us girls, for as long as she could stomach being around her mom.”
“How noble of you,” Russ said. “In fact, I’m putting you up for the Nobel prize.”
“There are… other factors. I won’t mention names but the initials are Why Oh You.”
Russ touched his chin, pretending to think. “If you mean me, well, I prefer my adventures in a good book, not in globe-trotting, so I guess you’re right.”
“I’m a woman; being right is kind of my job,” Judy said. She smiled as her husband zipped his lips with two fingers.
“Russ, the point is, Iris and I have had a year to get over it—this fear of smashing into the earth in some kind of metal meteor—and flying again is the only way to cure that fear. Hop back on the damn horse. Swim after nearly drowning. Just —”
“Get on the plane,” he said. She looked at him questioningly but Russ pointed up. “Your boarding call.”
Judy spotted Iris at the magazine store and waved her over as Russ reminded his wife that “I’m a phone call away,” and kissed her forehead. “You’ll be fine.”
“We will? You sure?”
“Absolutely. Just drink heavily.”
Iris bounced back from the gift shop with half-a-dozen magazines. Russ glanced at the top cover and saw a smiling blonde celeb with a captivating smile and the timeless headline: Rebecca Chase Is Not a Slut!
“Iris, why do you buy such crap?”
“What do you want me to buy, Dad? US News & World Report? Maxim?”
“Something without ‘slut’ in the headline?”
“Oh, daddy, it says she’s not a slut.”
Judy, searching her purse for the tickets, asked, “Who’s not a slut?”
“The girl that sings that song, South of Sunset,” Iris explained.
“Oh, yeah, I like that tune. It’s catchy. But I read about her. She’s a slut.”
The repeat boarding call came an instant later. Russ kissed and hugged his beauties as long as he could. He didn’t know what to say, so he mouthed I love you fifty times and bye about ten. The girls walked through the gate and waved until the door closed shut.
Russ watched them take to the skies minutes later, after he parked the minivan on the back road closest to the end of the tarmac. He watched the plane taxi near him and waved. As the jet roared off, Russ imagined that he saw Iris wave back.
Walking back to the van, his phone chirped. A text message from Maggie Chapin.
DRINKS?
Russ’s finger hovered over the Reply button.
•
As ready emotionally as they could be for the flight to Hawaii, Judy and Iris listened as the 747’s engines whined, settled down, then raced again. Iris leaned across her mother to look through the window as the plane was guided into position by a man with a flashlight or something.
“It seems chilly. Are you chilly?” Iris asked, shivering.
Judy shook her head. “You want a blanket? You can use mine.”
Iris laid it over her lap, then sat stiffly upright with folded hands. She looked past her mother at the rolling terrain outside the window, her eyes a veil of fear.
“How much longer?” Iris asked.
“About two minutes,” her mother answered, gazing outside from the window seat. “We’re nearing the end of the runway. We’ll be airborne in—” then stopped when she spotted a familiar figure standing behind a fence. “Hey, Iris, look— It’s your father.”
“Daddy? Where?” Iris climbed over the middle seat to look.
“By the van. See him?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s coolness.” Seeing Russ seemed to jolt her into another gear. Iris was a happy girl again. “Big, giant coolness.”
Iris waved, and if by miracle, Russ waved at the same exact moment. She tried to follow his figure even as the plane moved farther from him.
“I’m gonna miss my daddy,” Iris said. “He’s so—dadlike.”
Judy laughed. “We’re about to take off. Ready?”
“Readyized,” Iris said, her smile wavering.
Her mother waited a second before saying, “That’s getting annoying.”
“What’s annoying?”
“Izing this, Izing that. You’re fourteen, not seven.”
Iris, chastened, didn’t reply, but stuck out her tongue behind her palm.
The engines whined louder, then calmed down. The aircraft stopped taxiing, wheeled around, lurched a moment, then began barreling down the runway.
“Whoa.” Iris said, eyes wide, startled.
“Here we go,” Judy said, trying to sound happy, and reached for her daughter’s hand. Her eyes displayed a gentle reassurance, her smile beatific, but within her chest, Judy felt the heartbeat of a hummingbird.
Iris knew her mother’s expression was a fraud but she smiled back as if it helped, then spotted a pair of earphones, put them on and cranked an old Eagles song to 10. Eyes closed, Iris hummed along badly, feet dancing against the seat bottom without much rhythm. The airplane raced harder, then angled upwards sharply; the ground below sped by, the engines thundered.
Bathed in perspiration—even her eyelashes seemed to be sweating— Judy willed herself to look out the window.
The Columbia River dominated her view, then Vancouver, Washington on the north bank of the river. The plane banked left, hit some turbulence and began a bumpy climb over the west hills of Portland, bucking up and down. Judy felt disoriented, lightheaded, and fearful for a moment.
“If it’s going to get rough, it’s here,” Judy said, patting Iris’s hand. “The west hills, and again maybe a little further down the state.”
“It can never be as bad as it was last year,” Iris said.
“You can say that again.”
“It can never be as bad as it was last year.”
Flying over Finland the previous summer, enveloped within a bright and cloudless sky, the Aeroflot Airbus A320 abruptly fell like a bag full of rocks, plummeting towards Earth before God’s fist hammered the plane from below, stopping it. Passengers heard a loud bang from the underside and the rapid descent ended, though the aircraft bounced around like evil spirits had possessed it. The oxygen masks dropped. Judy slipped one on Iris—close to panic. Then the plane dropped again. Horrible sounds issued from the fuselage; a crunch of met
al, some popping sounds. The airplane veered hard right, then left, as if the pilot was dodging airborne orange traffic cones.
Iris threw up on her lap while the unbuckled-up woman behind her was launched from her seat and smacked her hand on the base of an aisle seat, dislocating a thumb. A flight attendant’s head slammed into the cargo racks hard and was knocked out for a long moment.
Judy and Iris death-gripped the sides of their seats, saying Hail Mary’s, but then, after one more series of bronco-busting turbulence, the flight finally, almost unbelievably, leveled out. The engines returned to a hum.
Everything was fine; smooth flying again. Prayers were suspended, cries dissolved to murmurs, drinks were free for the rest of the flight.
Later, the passengers learned that the plane had been hit by wind shears and had fallen to within 500 feet of a hilltop before the pilots wrestled it under control.
Iris said it was like a “Disneyland ride from Hell” attraction.
Miracle was not a word Judy tossed around lightly. Here it seemed to fit.
“May I get you anything?” the Hawaii-bound flight attendant now asked, snapping Judy out of her reverie.
“Scotch. A double. Any brand. Ice, please,” Judy said.
“Certainly,” the woman smiled. “And for you, young lady?”
Iris tapped her chin. “Oh, I’ll just have a margarita, easy on the salt.” Then, seeing a bemused glare from her mom, amended, “A Pepsi, please.”
“Coke okay?”
“Yum enough.”
Within that exchange, the flight eased up, the skies became calm, and the loudest sounds were a baby crying from the aft of the plane and the reassuring hum of the engines. Judy knew the other vacationing Cable School students were at the rear of the plane, though no one was moving around. Hearing some animated teen chatter behind, Iris looked over the seat to see who was talking.
Judy studied her daughter to see if she was scared, but she looked all right. Iris was a dead-on young version of Judy. They had the same haircut, bobbed, but in different shades—Judy’s was longer and streaked with silver—and similarly striking blue eyes; both sported a lean athleticism to their tallish frames.
