Impact

by Douglas Preston

  “Shit!” Jackie said, ducking and covering her head in an instinctual movement.

  After a moment, Abbey poked her head up and stared at the Moon. “Oh my God! Jackie!”

  A huge fireball blossomed on one side of the Moon, with a jet of glowing dust shooting laterally from the opposite side, extending itself as if in slow motion, becoming so bright Abbey had to shield her eyes. It was strange, weird, a spectacularly beautiful phenomenon, like the Moon had burst, releasing a string of glittering jewels spilling out of its interior, glowing with internal fire.

  Meanwhile, the fireball on the other side of the Moon also expanded in size and color, from brilliant cold blue in the center to a greenish yellow, grading to orange and red at the edges, like a wedge expanding from the surface of the Moon.

  “What the fuck?” Jackie stared, her eyes wide.

  The brightening light bathed the islands, the dark spruces, the rocks, the sea in a greenish yellow color, false and garish. The horizon came up, razor-sharp, the sky above it deep purple, the ocean below a pale green flecked with black and red.

  Abbey turned her gaze back to the Moon, squinting her eyes against the brightness; a kind of halo was now developing around the disk, as if the Moon had been struck or shaken, lofting dust into space. A vast silence seemed to settle onto the seascape, the spectacle unfolding in absolute stillness which made it seem all the more surreal.

  “Abbey!” came Jackie’s low, panicked voice. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “I believe,” said Abbey slowly, “that the weapon on Deimos just took a potshot at the Moon—a much bigger one, this time.”

  69

  Harry Burr walked down the shingled beach, semiautomatic pistol in one hand, probing the woods and rocks with his flashlight, searching for a glimpse of fleeting figures, a face crouching among the trees, something. He knew they were on the island—their dinghy was still up on the beach and burgers had been burning on the stove. He was also pretty sure Ford didn’t have a piece—otherwise he’d have used it in the bar or at the parking lot. So he was the only man with a gun.

  He swore under his breath. Somehow they’d gotten wind of his coming. They’d probably heard the sound of his boat engine, which at night carried across the water a long distance. Still, he was holding all the cards; he’d cornered them on a small island and there was no way they could escape—except by dinghy. They couldn’t swim to their boat—the tide was coming in full bore and the currents were swirling past the island at several knots. They’d be swept past before they’d ever make it.

  There were two dinghies on the island: his and theirs.

  It wasn’t hard to see what they’d do: try to get one of them. His first job was to secure them. He walked down the beach to where their dinghy was pulled up. He thought of shoving it off into the current but decided that would be risky, leaving himself without a backup if something should go wrong. Instead, grasping the painter, he hauled it up into the woods where it was more or less hidden. Then he removed the oars and hid each one in widely separated locations, shoving them into raspberry thickets. It would take hours to find them.

  Now to secure his own boat.

  A sudden light above his head caused him to duck and spin around, gun at the ready, until he realized it was coming from above. The full Moon. He stared up at it as a bright jet seemed to come off its surface and extend into the night sky. Another bright spot appeared on the opposite side. What the hell was it?

  Just a strange cloud passing over the Moon, creating a striking optical illusion.

  Moving rapidly and silently through the trees, he worked his way toward the northern end of the island until he had reached his own dinghy. It sat peacefully in the brightening moonlight. He was about to haul it up and hide it as he’d done the other one when he had an idea: to leave it in full view as bait, hide and wait for them to come get it. When they found their own dinghy missing, they’d come after his. What other course of action did they have? They couldn’t hide forever.

  He took up a well-hidden position behind a jumble of rocks at the edge of the shore and waited.

  The sky grew brighter by slow degrees, and he glanced upward, wondering what the hell was going on with the Moon. The strange cloud kept getting bigger, and it really didn’t look like a cloud after all.

  He turned away, focusing on the problem at hand, waiting for them to come. He hardly had to wait: after only a few minutes he spied a shadow moving along the edge of the forest; he raised his Desert Eagle, switched on the internal laser sights, then thought better of it and turned them off. No reason to spook them with a dancing red dot. They would be close enough for a kill without it.

  But the silhouette was alone. It was the girl. Ford was not with her.

  70

  Driving south on Interstate 295, near Freeport, Ford noticed the sudden light in the night sky. He peered out the windscreen at the Moon and, with a sudden feeling of dread, pulled off the highway to get a better look. He stepped outside in the summer night and stared, aghast, at the jet of light rising from the Moon’s surface. As he watched, more cars began pulling off the highway, people getting out to stare and take pictures.

  A long trail of glowing material seemed to be shooting away from the Moon’s surface, elongating across the night sky, blazing yellow. And on the opposite side was a similar puff of debris, more bulbous, material ejected as if from an impact.

  It looked exactly like the Moon had been shot through by something that entered on the right and exited on the left.

  Another shot from the thing on Deimos?

  No question about it. And this time a much larger projectile of strange matter must have been used, big enough to create a spectacular display on Earth. Perhaps even designed to create a display. The last one had largely gone unnoticed; this one wouldn’t. Even as he watched, the tail of debris kept extending itself, gradually elongating into a broad curve by the Moon’s gravity.

  This was striking confirmation that Abbey was right: that the alien artifact on Deimos was a weapon and had fired again, this time at the Moon. But why? As a demonstration of power?

  There was no sense gaping by the side of the road, thought Ford. He had a plane to catch. He slipped back into his car and switched on the radio, tuning it to the local NPR station. The thunderous sounds of Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor came out the speakers, but almost immediately a newscaster broke in, interrupting the program with a special announcement about the “extraordinary phenomenon occurring to the Moon.”

  “We reached Elaine Dahlquist,” the announcer said, “an astronomer at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics. Dr. Dahlquist, can you tell us what we’re seeing up there?”

  “My initial guess, Joe, would be that the Moon was struck by a major asteroid, perhaps two fragments at once, striking simultaneously on either side.”

  “Why didn’t anyone see it coming?”

  “Good question. Evidently we’re dealing with an asteroid that escaped the attention of Spacewatch and other near-Earth asteroid search programs. Here at Harvard-Smithsonian we’ve turned our telescopes on the Moon, and I understand the Keck Observatory and the Hubble Space Telescope are also looking at it—as well as thousands of other telescopes, amateur and professional.”

  “Is there any danger to us on Earth?” the announcer asked.

  “There are reports of an electromagnetic pulse or a shower of charged particles causing scattered power failures and computer network problems. Other than that, I’d say we’re safe here on Earth. The Moon is two hundred and forty thousand miles away.”

  Ford turned off the radio. As he drove down the interstate, the light in the sky continued to increase, slowly but steadily, as the debris cloud extended out. It was yellowish in color, grading off to reddish hues at the edges—hot, condensing debris from the strike. But the show would soon be curtained; the intermittent clouds that had earlier covered the sky had given way to a squall line of black weather, looming on the horizon,
flickering with internal lightning.

  He glanced at the clock: he was half an hour from the Portland airport; he’d catch the midnight flight to D.C. and be there by two or three A.M.

  But first, he had to set up a little sting.

  71

  Dawn never breaks in a Vegas casino or the White House Sit Room, Lockwood thought as he followed the duty officer into the windowless, cocoon-like Situation Room, already packed with people. Lockwood recognized the ferret-like demeanor of the national security advisor at the head of the conference table, Clifford Manfred, whose Italian suit and Thomas Pink tie were perhaps a touch sharp for Washington. Seated with him was the director of central intelligence, a gray man in a gray suit with alert gray eyes; several nondescript intelligence analysts and a communications specialist. A huge flat-panel video display at the far end was split into multiple screens, one with a real-time image of the Moon—now with two jets coming off it—and the others showing silent news feeds from the U.S. and foreign media. Other screens around the walls displayed images of people attending by video conference, including the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a small, precise man with snowy hair, wearing an admiral’s uniform.

  Lockwood took a seat in one of the big black leather chairs. There was a low murmur of voices around him and the clank and rattle of spoons in coffee mugs as coffee was served. Everyone was awaiting the arrival of the president.

  A few minutes later a hush fell in the room, almost by intuition, and the door opened. A duty officer appeared, followed by the president’s chief of staff and then the president himself, dressed in an impeccable blue suit, tall and lean, his once black hair salted with gray, his roving eyes taking in everything, his jug ears sweeping the room like a radar beacon. His unflappable demeanor cast a spell over the room like oil on water, dissipating the air of tension. Everyone made to rise and the president waved his hand. “Please, please, stay seated.”

  They rose anyway and reseated themselves as the president himself took a seat, not at the head of the table, but in an empty chair halfway down. He turned to Lockwood. “Stan, I’ve got a country on the verge of panic. Every talking-head astronomer in the country is spouting off and saying something different. So start from the beginning and tell us what’s really going on—and keep in mind some of us are scientific idiots. Is this just a light show or should we be worried?”

  Lockwood rose, a slender manila file folder in his hand. “Mr. President, I regret to say it’s more serious than anything you might imagine.”

  A silence. Everyone was staring at him.

  “Some background. On April fourteenth, a meteor streaked over the Maine Coast. At the exact same time, our worldwide seismic system—designed to locate underground nuclear tests—registered an explosive signature in the remote mountains along the Thai-Cambodia border. We located what appeared to be an impact crater, and we sent out a man to investigate. It turns out it wasn’t a crater—but an exit hole. Later, our man discovered the entrance hole—on an island off the coast of Maine.”

  “Wait a minute—are you saying something went through the Earth?”

  “Correct.”

  “Who’s this man you sent?”

  “An ex-CIA officer named Wyman Ford. We’re trying to find him now.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’ve determined the thing that passed through the Earth was probably a small lump of strange matter, also called a strangelet. This exotic form of matter is superdense—the entire Earth, if made of it, would be the size of an orange. It has a very alarming property: it converts normal matter to strange matter on contact.”

  “So why’s the Earth still here?”

  “It was a very small piece, perhaps not much larger than an atom, and it was going fast. It blew all the way through the Earth and kept going. If it had been going slower and ended up caught inside the Earth, we’d be gone now.”

  “My God.”

  “That’s just the beginning. We extrapolated the orbit back and found it originated at Mars.”

  “Mars?”

  “We’ve no idea yet what the Mars connection is, if anything. As we speak, the military is flying a contingent of senior scientists from the Mars mission at NPF here to join the team, along with the director of NASA.”

  “Good.”

  “Here’s the bad part, Mr. President. It appears this thing happening to the Moon is identical to what happened to the Earth in April, except a much larger lump of strange matter was involved. It appears to have gone straight through the Moon, producing the spectacular display you see on the screen.”

  “Is this stuff flying all through space around us? Is the Earth passing through a swarm of this stuff?”

  “I don’t think so. There are indications that the strike on the Moon might be . . . aimed.”

  “Aimed? Are you saying some country launched these things?”

  “The physicists assure me it’s absolutely impossible for any nation on Earth to possess the technology to make strange matter.”

  “Then what the hell do you mean by aimed?” The president was out of his seat, his legendary cool rapidly deteriorating.

  “Because the shot at the Moon . . .” He paused and drew a breath. “The shot took out Tranquility Base. A direct hit. Tranquility Base is, of course, where humans first landed on the Moon. It has great significance to humankind.”

  “My God. Are you saying this is an attack of some kind?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “By who? You just said no one on Earth has the technology to make this strange matter!”

  “It isn’t anyone on this Earth, Mr. President.”

  A long, extraordinary silence followed. Nobody said a word. Finally the president spoke, his voice quiet. “Are you suggesting aliens did this?”

  “I would not use that word, sir. I would simply say that it appears like a deliberate shot by some entity not of this world. It could also be a coincidence, but I somehow don’t think so.”

  The president smoothed a thin hand over the top of his head, let it drop, tapped a finger on the table, and finally looked up. “Stan, I want you and General Mickelson to chair an ad hoc group. It will include a few of your most trusted associates in the Science and Technology Policy group, as well as some top NPF people, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, NASA chief, DNI, and NSA. Meet now. I want a recommendation—a plan, a strategy—on how to deal with this by seven tomorrow morning. That recommendation should include military options, a diplomatic strategy, and above all a plan to gather more information. You’ve got seven hours.” He turned to leave the room, strode to the door, and paused. “And I want that man, Wyman Ford, found and put on that group.”

  72

  The girl moved cautiously among the rocks, keeping in the shadows, moving stealthily toward the dinghy. She’d pass by him within less than twenty feet. Rather than kill her, he would use her to get the other one. The increasing light from the sky was an annoyance but he was so well hidden that even if it were day she wouldn’t see him.

  As she came into range, he stepped out of the darkness, gun in hand. “Don’t move.”

  She screamed, jumped back. Burr fired over her head, the massively calibered Desert Eagle roaring like a cannon. “Shut the fuck up and don’t move!”

  She quieted down pretty quick, standing there, trembling.

  “Where’s Ford?”

  No answer.

  He reached over with his left arm and grabbed her around the neck, wrenching her to one side and screwing the Eagle’s muzzle in her ear. “You going to answer my question?”

  She choked, swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “Is he on the island?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Where? What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Burr yanked her by the hair, jamming the muzzle against her cheek so hard the sights ripped her skin. “Answer me.”

  “He . . . He said he was going after you.”

  “When? Where?” />
  “When you landed. Said he was going to get you.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “He’s got a knife . . .”

  Jesus. And Ford was probably watching them right now. Keeping the gun to Abbey’s cheek, he kept her body close to his. Damn, it was getting bright. He raised the barrel of the gun and fired into the night sky. The sound of the shot echoed and rolled across the island.

  “Ford!” he cried. “I know you’re out there! I’m going to count to ten, and if you aren’t standing in front of me with your arms up, I’m going to put a bullet into her head. You hear me?” He fired into the air again and placed the hot muzzle against Abbey’s cheek. “You hear me, Ford? One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  “Maybe he can’t hear you,” Abbey cried. “He’s on the other side of the island.”

  “—four . . . five . . . six—”

  “Wait! I lied! He’s not on the island!”

  “—seven . . . eight . . . nine—”

  “Listen to me! He’s not on the island! Don’t!”

  “Ten!”

  A long silence, and then Burr lowered the gun. “I guess he isn’t.” He released her and then, as she stumbled back, he struck her across the face, sending her sprawling. “That’s for lying.” He grabbed her and hauled her back to her feet. “Where’d he go?”

  A choking sound. “I dropped him on the mainland. He went . . . back to Washington.”

  “Where in Washington?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’s the other person? I saw another person on the boat.”

  She swallowed. He pushed the gun in harder. “Answer.”

  “Nobody. I’m alone.”

  “Liar.”

  “You must’ve seen my slicker hanging on a hook in the pilothouse, next to the window. It’s got a big round rain hood—”

  “Shut up.” He thought fast. She must be telling the truth; nobody could have gone through the count and not broken down to tell everything. Fact was, he hadn’t seen either figure well in the dusk across half a mile of water.