Impact

by Douglas Preston

  This was the last straw. They wouldn’t get away with it. Enough was enough. Mabel Fortier took out her cell phone and grimly dialed the police.

  62

  Abbey awoke in the shack to the smell of bacon and eggs on the woodstove, the sun streaming in the windows, the lapping sound of water on the cobbled beach outside. As she came into the main room, Ford was at the kitchen table, hunched over the laptop connected to the NPF drive. She could see he was paging through the pictures.

  “About time!” Jackie cried from the stove. “It’s the crack of noon.” She pushed a coffee cup into her hands, prepared just the way she liked it, with tons of cream and sugar.

  “Come outside and have breakfast.”

  With a glance at Ford, Abbey left the shack and walked over to a weather-beaten picnic table set up in front. A long unruly meadow sloped down to a cobbled beach. Beyond lay a scattering of spruce-clad islands with a few openings among them showing distant views of the sea horizon.

  Jackie laid the breakfast in front of her and took a seat with her own cup of coffee.

  “Where’s the Marea?” Abbey asked, tucking into the bacon and fried eggs. She was starving.

  “I moved her to the cove behind the island,” Jackie said.

  Abbey drank her coffee, letting her mind wake up, staring out to sea. Their island, Little Green, was tucked amidst a swarm of thirty islands, separated from the mainland by the Muscle Ridge Channel. To the south lay Muscongus Bay and to the north Penobscot Bay. It was a perfect hiding place, tucked in the middle, invisible from both sea and land, and extremely well protected from the weather. As far as she knew, no one had noted their departure from Round Pond, no one knew where they were going. Not even her father. Here they were safe. But safe from what? That was the question.

  She mopped up the last of her eggs with a piece of bread and refilled her coffee from the pot sitting on the table. The ocean was calm, an easy swell falling on the rocks and withdrawing in a regular cadence. Seagulls cried overhead and a distant lobster boat chugged among the islands.

  Ford came out, holding a coffee cup, and eased his lanky frame down.

  “Morning!” said Jackie, giving him a big grin. “Sleep well, Mr. Ford?”

  “Never better.” He took a long sip of his coffee and stared out to sea.

  Abbey said, “I see you’ve been looking over those images of Deimos.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  Ford didn’t answer right away, gazing at her steadily with pale blue eyes. He spoke slowly, in a low voice. “I think this is an extraordinary discovery.”

  Abbey nodded.

  “It’s unquestionably alien and quite likely the source of those stray gamma rays. It must be old to have gotten so pitted and worn.”

  “I told you it was real.”

  He shook his head slowly. “This is the answer to one of the deepest mysteries in the cosmos. By finding that alien construction, now we know we’re not alone. My mind is just reeling.”

  Abbey stared at him. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head. “ ‘Alien construction’, my ass. That’s a weapon. And it just fired on the Earth.”

  63

  “A . . . weapon,” Ford repeated slowly.

  Abbey glanced over at Jackie, who had been listening in silence.

  “Exactly.”

  Ford passed his hand over his curly hair. “And what makes you think this?”

  “ ‘When you have eliminated the impossible—.’ ”

  “I know the quote,” said Ford.

  “Elementary, my dear Watson. A: the thing looks like a gun. B: it fired a miniature black hole that went through the Earth.”

  Ford leaned back. “That doesn’t quite fit the facts. Even if it did ‘fire’ that thing and intended to destroy the Earth, it failed. And it hasn’t tried again. If it’s a weapon, it seems to have given up.”

  “How do you know it gave up? Maybe there’s another shot coming.”

  Ford shook his head. “So these aggressive aliens . . . are they around somewhere? Living inside Deimos?”

  Abbey snorted. “The aliens are long gone.”

  “Gone? How do you know?”

  “Look at the picture. The thing’s a derelict, all drifted up with dust and pitted. Nobody’s taking care of it. Maybe the aliens left the weapon and split.”

  “What for?”

  “Who knows? Not long before that thing took a potshot at us, the MMO made a close pass of Deimos, hitting it with radar and taking pictures. Maybe that woke it up. Maybe the aliens passed by here millions of years ago, saw a habitable planet and left a weapon to take care of any future technological civilizations that might challenge them. Hell, there could be thousands, millions of these weapons seeded throughout the galaxy.”

  “I hope you won’t be offended if I express a candid opinion on your theories.”

  Abbey crossed her arms and waited.

  “Great Twilight Zone plots.”

  “You think about it,” Abbey said, “and see if you don’t come to the same conclusion.”

  Ford sighed. “I will. But here’s something you’ll find interesting: according to my government sources, it wasn’t a miniature black hole. It was a chunk of strange matter, or more precisely, an object known as a strangelet.”

  “What the heck’s that?”

  “A form of superdense matter,” said Ford, “a bunch of particles called quarks all jammed together into a degenerate state . . . They think some apparent neutron stars might actually be strange stars or quark stars—made out of strange matter instead. You ever read Kurt Vonnegut?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Abbey, “I love his books.”

  “Remember that substance he called Ice-nine, from the story Cat’s Cradle? It was a special kind of ice that when it came in contact with normal water, it converted it to ice at room temperature.”

  “I remember that.”

  “Strange matter is like that. When it comes in contact with normal matter, it starts converting it, gobbling it up, turning it into strange matter. Problem is, strange matter is so dense that whatever it touches gets crushed into almost nothing. If the Earth turned into strange matter, it would crush down to the size of an orange.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What’s worse, the process is unstable. The Earth would then explode with a force so great that it would rip the outer layers off the sun and disrupt the solar system. It might even convert the sun to strange matter, resulting in a truly immense explosion. What’s odd is that a tiny strangelet could blow right through the Earth pretty much unnoticed, as long as it was going fast enough. It wouldn’t convert much matter and just continue merrily on its way, the Earth none the worse. If it were going slower and got caught inside the Earth, well, good-bye solar system.”

  “Why didn’t it blow a bigger exit hole, cause a volcano or some kind of eruption?”

  “Good question. A strangelet wouldn’t build up a shockwave because it’s absorbing all the matter it touches. It gobbles up matter as it goes along, leaving a tunnel in a vacuum which would immediately be sealed up behind by geologic pressure as it passed through. The only evidence of its passage would be a small entrance hole, a larger exit hole, and an unusual seismic signature.”

  Abbey whistled. “All this just reinforces my theory. A strangelet would be the ultimate weapon—think about it.”

  He rose, setting down the cup. “I don’t know how much they know of this in Washington but I’ve got to get down there with that drive. I’ll have to leave you here. I don’t dare put you in protective custody at the CIA or even the local police, because I don’t know who’s after us. There’s a possibility we’re dealing with a rogue agency in our own government.”

  “But what about you? You go to Washington, they might just send you to Guantanamo or something.”

  “I’ve no choice. Because I think you may be right—that thing could be a weapon.
The fate of the Earth might be at stake.”

  Abbey nodded.

  “This island’s as safe as any place for you now. Just lie low and I’ll be back in contact with you in five days or less. You’ll be okay?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

  He turned and grasped her arms. “You’ll take me to the mainland this evening, at dusk, when the boat is less likely to be spotted.” He paused, murmured, “A weapon . . . that’s exactly what it is.”

  64

  Harry Burr parked his New Beetle in front of the Wand-o-Matic Laundromat and stepped out of the car. It was one of those shabby mini-malls with a dozen storefronts, half of them empty, no security, a hangout for teen punks. A good place to ditch a stolen car; no security, few shoppers, and lots of empty storefronts. It might have been weeks before someone finally noticed. It was Ford’s bad luck—and Burr’s good—that some dumb-ass kid doing donuts had clipped the truck.

  He strolled around the parking lot, getting a feel for the place. The white pickup was gone, of course, hauled off. The question was, where had Ford and the girl gone from here? Thanks to the Web he had a pretty good idea of where to find out. The girl was from these parts and her father lived nearby. Burr figured he was as good a place as any to start.

  He gave a little laugh and lit up an American Spirit, inhaling deeply. Things seemed to be falling his way after all.

  He finished the cigarette and tossed it on the ground, got back in the Beetle. The town of Round Pond—what a jerkwater name!—could be found about twelve miles down the road, according to his GPS. He was pretty sure good old George Straw could tell him something useful about his daughter’s whereabouts.

  The road to Round Pond wound this way and that through woods and past farms until a few glimpses of a harbor appeared on the right, along with a bunch of old white houses. As he pulled into a small farmhouse set back from the harbor, the GPS informed him, in a clipped British accent, that he had arrived at his destination. He parked behind a red pickup truck. Shoving the Desert Eagle into a briefcase, he exited the car and went up on the porch, rang the doorbell.

  He heard heavy footfalls and soon the door opened. You could tell this was country, he thought, when the dumb-asses opened the door without even bothering to check who it was. Burr was surprised to find a white man standing at the door, a truculent-looking fellow with a weatherbeaten face and pale blue eyes, dressed in a checked shirt, suspenders, and jeans. Girl must’ve been adopted—or maybe it was a mixed marriage.

  “What can I do for you?” he said, in a friendly way.

  He held up his shield. “Mr. George Straw?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Lieutenant Moore of D.C. police, homicide division. I wonder if I could take up a minute of your time.”

  The face shut down. “What’s it about, Officer?”

  Burr liked that “officer” bit. It showed the man had respect for the law.

  “It’s about your daughter, Abbey.”

  The shut-down look vanished and Straw’s face betrayed the fear of a father for his child. Good. “What about my daughter? Is she okay?”

  Burr adopted a deep, concerned tone. “May I come in?”

  Straw stepped away from the door. He was already shaking. “Yes. Please.”

  He followed Straw into the living room and took a seat, unbidden.

  “My daughter, is she all right?” Straw asked again.

  Instead of answering, Burr let an excruciating amount of time pass and then said: “Mr. Straw, what I have to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but I need your help. This is all strictly confidential, and you’ll soon understand why.”

  Straw’s face had lost all its color. But he held his composure.

  “I’m in charge of a case involving a serial killer who’s preyed on young women for years, mostly in the D.C. area but also in parts of New England. His name is Wyman Ford. He’s very polished. He’s good. He’s got a lot of money and dresses well.”

  “Ford? Wyman Ford? My daughter just took a job with a man by that name!” He rose from his chair.

  “I know that. Let me finish. What this particular perpetrator does is persuade young ladies to accept a job as his assistant. The employment is vague but involves some sort of government secrecy or classified work. He keeps them around for several weeks and then he kills them.”

  “Good God, he’s got my daughter!”

  “We believe she’s fine. She’s not in immediate danger. But we have to find her. And we have to do it quickly and quietly. When this killer has the slightest inkling someone’s on to him, he kills and disappears. It’s happened to me before. So we’ve got to be absolutely quiet and cool and move with exceeding care.”

  “Oh my God, my God!” Straw paced the room, fists clenched, knuckles white. “That man gave her a job about a week ago. She went off to Washington. Then they came back and borrowed my boat. I’ll kill him, the bastard.”

  Pay dirt. “Borrowed your boat? Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know! They took it and left me a note. I didn’t actually see her. Oh my God.” He clutched his head in his hands.

  “May I see the note?”

  Straw rushed into the kitchen and came back out with a piece of paper, handing it to Burr.

  Dear Dad,

  I don’t quite know how to write this but I’ve borrowed your boat. Again. I’m really sorry. I know it doesn’t sound good, but believe me it’s necessary. I can’t tell you where we’re going but I should be back in a week or two, I hope. I’ll be out of cell range but if I get a chance I’ll give you a call. I’m fine, everything’s fine, don’t worry. Please don’t tell anyone we’re on the boat. I’ll take good care of it.

  Love,

  Abbey

  He read the note with a furrowed brow, placed it on the side table. “That’s him, all right. Do you have any guesses as to where they might have gone, or why?”

  Straw’s face was contorted as he tried to speak. “North. She would have gone north. Fewer people, more islands. They have to be somewhat offshore, out in the islands, because she said they’ve got no cell reception. Close to shore the phones work.”

  “But why? What are they doing with the boat?”

  “God only knows—you probably have a better idea than me!”

  Burr checked himself.

  “Oh my God, I can’t lose my daughter!” His voice cracked. “I can’t! I already lost my wife—!” He made a choking sound, coughed, trembled violently.

  Burr rose and grasped his arm. “Mr. Straw, you’ve got to get ahold of yourself.”

  Straw nodded, swallowed.

  “You’ve got to trust me that I know what I’m doing. Can you do that?”

  Straw nodded dumbly.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to engage us another boat—a really good one. You’re going to captain it, and we’ll go out there and find her together.”

  “Bullshit! We’ve got to call the Coast Guard, get some spotter planes in the air—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He paused, letting Straw master himself.

  “If our man gets even the slightest idea we’re looking for him, it’s over. He’ll see the Coast Guard coming a mile away, believe me, and the same goes for spotter planes flying overhead. He’s smart, he’s cunning, he’s always got his radar on. We can’t even risk telling the local police. They’re not equipped to handle this. We have a much better chance of finding them, just the two of us, with your knowledge of the coast and my knowledge of criminal behavior. When we do find them, that’s when we call in the cavalry. Big time. We won’t go in alone. But for now, it’s just you and me. You understand? And don’t worry about the cost—the government will pay.”

  Straw nodded. The man was breathing fast. Amazing how people just about lost their minds when it came to their children’s safety. Burr was awfully glad he’d never had kids.

  “All right,” said Burr, grasping his arm. “Let’
s get going.”

  Straw nodded, his face slick with sweat. “This is a small town,” he managed to say, “rumors go around fast. I better hire the boat while you stay out of sight. We don’t have a moment to lose.”

  “You and I are on the same wavelength now, Mr. Straw,” said Burr. “Don’t worry: we’ll find your daughter, I promise.”

  65

  Harry Burr stood on the deck of the Halcyon, watching Straw at the helm, guiding the boat at full speed through the swell. Lacking time, they had had to rent a larger, slower boat than Burr wanted, but at least it had the advantage of being seaworthy. After leaving the dock at noon, they had followed weather reports over the VHF radio, broadcasting small-craft warnings about an approaching storm. Burr wasn’t sure whether a thirty-eight-foot Downeaster yacht like the Halcyon, powered by twin diesels, qualified as a small craft, but he wasn’t particularly eager to test the idea.

  “Can’t make the boat go any faster, can you?”

  “I’m already pushing the engine more than I should,” said Straw.

  He raised a pair of binoculars for the millionth time and scanned the surrounding ocean and islands. Burr was surprised how many islands there were—dozens, maybe hundreds, not to mention rocks and reefs. Some of them were inhabited and a couple had commercial installations on them, but most were deserted. Burr shifted his gaze to the electronic chartplotter in the well-equipped pilothouse. Growing up in Greenwich, he’d spent a lot of time around boats and felt comfortable with them. Still, it had been a while. He carefully observed Straw at the helm so that he could be sure of operating the boat properly once the kill was over and he was heading back alone. The storm would give him a good excuse to explain the missing lobsterman.

  “As soon as we round the tip of that island,” said Straw, “we’ll have a view across the northern reach of Muscongus Bay. Get out the binocs and be ready to look.”