Asteroid Destruction

by Bobby Akart

  “I don’t know anything about Apophis, so we’ll worry about it after we survive this threat,” interjected the president. “Tell me how this gravitational keyhole may benefit us.”

  “Mr. President, based upon our analysis, the Starhopper crew not only found the precise location to strike the asteroid, but they did so quickly. We believe this effort has forced IM86 off its trajectory enough so that it might strike closer to the North Pole.”

  The president was perplexed. “Wait, the reports we’re receiving indicate the equatorial regions are currently in the line of fire.”

  “That’s true, Mr. President, under current conditions, the smallish debris is striking near the equator. However, as the larger chunks of space rock approach later, they’ll naturally be drawn, thanks to the keyhole effect, toward the poles, where Earth’s gravitational field is strongest.”

  “Brian, Mr. President, if I may clarify something,” interrupted Director Taylor.

  “Yes, of course,” said the president.

  “The relationship between the gravitational keyhole, the North Pole, and Earth’s true magnetic north is complicated. For several decades, the Earth has experienced the beginning of a pole shift that has accelerated of late.”

  “Shift to where?” asked the president.

  Dr. Zahn replied, “Well, sir, eventually the poles will flip such that up is down and down is up. For the time being, due to this rapid change, the true magnetic north is moving closer to Russia. Therefore, the gravitational keyhole is moving along with it.”

  The president was intrigued by the science and inwardly promised to look into this pole shift theory at a later time. “Are you saying this keyhole may draw the debris field toward Russia and farther away from North America.”

  “Yes, sir. Our models are indicating that,” replied Dr. Zahn.

  “Sir, I must caution that this doesn’t mean the United States mainland will be spared,” added Director Taylor. “We simply have increased our chances of avoiding cataclysmic damage thanks to the efforts of the Starhopper crew.”

  President Watson was feeling better with this news, but he still needed to prepare the nation for a significant impact event.

  “Dr. Zahn, Director Taylor, thank you both for this somewhat good news. Now, give me the worst-case scenario.”

  Chapter 8

  Unknown Tropical Jungle

  Gunner stopped and stood atop a fallen palm tree to get a better view of the surrounding thicket. Bits and pieces of shiny aluminum, the outer shell of the Starhopper, could be seen for hundreds of yards ahead of him. He thought about the amount of time it took the National Transportation Safety Board investigators to pore over an airline crash site. It was weeks, not days. He didn’t have days to find the satellite phone. The remains of IM86 didn’t care about his plight. It was coming like an out-of-control herd of stampeding buffalo.

  He moved through the canyon of lush greenery created by the Starhopper’s tumble through the jungle. He’d walk a few yards, examine the debris left behind, and then move on. The rising sun aided his ability to view his surroundings, although it caused the headache he was suffering to intensify.

  The light enabled him to move more efficiently, no longer concerned with the infinite number of strangler banyans and vines that crept up the tree trunks and banyans, wrapping themselves tightly around them as they climbed to the top of the jungle canopy that was easily a hundred feet off the ground. To Gunner, every vine began to look like an anaconda, causing him to become more apprehensive.

  He felt like he’d stepped into some surreal documentary being shown on the National Geographic network. He waited for an army of pygmies to emerge out of nowhere, holding spears and shrunken heads. Or a lone shaman might stand off in the wistful fog that hung over the jungle, decked out in tribal clothing, ready to douse Gunner with some type of mind-altering jungle medicine that would transport him back in time to Berkley, California, in 1966.

  Gunner continued to tromp through the path created by the wreckage. He looked left and right, up into the trees and under larger pieces of the Starhopper.

  He was becoming fatigued. He was fearful of dehydration despite being in a rainforest. Large trees, some of which were fifteen feet in circumference, rose high into the air. They produced a roof that partially blocked the sunlight. Beneath the canopy, along the jungle floor, it was darker and more humid. The understory of the jungle, where the reptiles and insects resided, was also full of fungi and microorganisms created by decomposing plant foliage and dead animal carcasses.

  As a result, a pond of water, no matter how small, might appear to be drinkable. In reality, it could cause the human body to become consumed with bacteria, resulting in dysentery. Dysentery was an infection of the intestinal tract that resulted in severe diarrhea, nausea, and dehydration. In third-world countries, this bacterial infection was considered the number one cause of death.

  Gunner came across several large bromeliads growing out of the side of a smallish kapok tree. The beautiful pink flowering plant, the jungle’s version of a spineless cactus, was a plant with its own water tank. Their long-curved leaves overlapped at the base, forming a tight little bowl, creating a natural source of water for the plant and small animals.

  After confirming there were no small frogs or tadpoles nestled in the leaves, Gunner slowly cupped his hands and extracted the water. He sniffed it, out of habit, and then touched it to his lips to check its taste. The moisture immediately rejuvenated his spirits.

  He knew he was taking a risk, but he had to drink. During his attack on the asteroid, he didn’t bother to drink water. He’d had his hands full. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d taken a drink of anything, which meant his body had gone at least forty-eight hours without fluids. He was dangerously close to dehydration.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Gunner set out again, moving deeper into the jungle as the debris field began to narrow. He found the dead body of the Russian cosmonaut Semenova, the temptress who’d tried to poison him at the lunar outpost. Her body was hung over a gnarled, knotty tree branch about twenty feet off the jungle floor, swaying slightly despite the lack of a breeze.

  Gunner walked forward to get a better look and almost tripped over her leg, which had been severed. He instantly recoiled, startled by the bloody mess that had become a meal for some type of small animal that had scratched away her uniform and took several bites of her flesh.

  His stomach began to convulse. He’d seen dead bodies before, many by his own doing, but this was the second time in a matter of hours he’d witnessed one being eaten by critters. He instantly begged the universe for a knife, a machete, anything he could use as a weapon.

  The search for his duffle bag was now surpassed by the need for protection. He had visions of a jaguar, the tropical rainforest’s most efficient killing machine, biting his throat or directly through the temporal bones of his skull, piercing his brain before devouring him slowly, at its pleasure. Or the most recent visual of the anaconda, which could swallow him whole.

  Gunner backtracked several dozen yards, looking for a piece of the Starhopper that he’d noticed earlier. It was a part of the under supports that had held the nuclear missiles on the spacecraft. He picked up the three-foot-long piece of twisted steel and swung it back and forth like a sword. Then he held it high, triumphantly, as if it were a genuine light saber from a Star Wars movie.

  “Repurposing,” he said aloud. “I like it.”

  In his lighthearted moment, the boy observing him from a distance went unnoticed.

  Chapter 9

  Unknown Tropical Jungle

  Gunner forced his unwilling body to move again. The sun was directly overhead and he began to consider that his duffle bag was lost in the thicket forever. As he made his way through the last of the wreckage, he periodically stopped to check the cuts and scratches on his body. All were superficial, but still needed to be cleaned to avoid infection.

  The rough landing into the jungle
and the subsequent peeling back of the layers from the Starhopper’s structure had exposed him to the plunge through the underbrush. It was his head that concerned him the most. He’d received minor concussions throughout his career and had been warned repeatedly they would eventually cause him permanent brain damage.

  The minutes dragged on, eventually turning into hours as the setting sun raised a new issue of concern for Gunner—shelter. In extreme conditions, a person could die within hours without adequate shelter. While he didn’t expect to be exposed to extreme heat or cold, and remarkably, it hadn’t rained on him yet, a protective shelter was a necessity because of the dangerous wildlife that inhabited the jungle.

  He’d already witnessed what had happened to the two Russians. The bodies of the third Russian and the other two American astronauts weren’t seen. He immediately assumed they’d become food for the jungle’s creatures.

  Just as the debris field ended, Gunner declared the search for his duffle bag officially over. He’d have to go it alone without the crutch the satellite phone would’ve afforded him. The next part of his journey would be the most dangerous. He’d have to rely upon his training, knowledge of the planet he’d garnered from his education in Earth sciences, and instinct to make human contact.

  It was impossible to gauge which way he should go. He forced himself to recall the final moments of the Starhopper’s reentry into Earth’s atmosphere.

  He had been on a trajectory for Vandenberg Air Force Base in California, but due to the increased amount of meteor activity, Artie, the spacecraft’s onboard artificial intelligence, suggested he try a different path.

  The Gulf of Mexico was his first option, but again, the plan changed as Artie warned him of the destroyed satellites in his path. He modified his course, looking to the turquoise blue waters of the Caribbean Sea as his best option.

  Everything appeared promising until the Starhopper was caught with a glancing blow of a passing meteorite, sending it careening past its intended landing zone.

  “That’s it!” Gunner exclaimed as his memory provided him an explanation of his whereabouts. “South America. Maybe Central America. Doesn’t matter! I can walk home from here!” He let out a hearty laugh that caused a sudden silence among the local frog population.

  Gunner looked through the heavy canopy to observe the position of the sun, which was lower on the horizon and just beyond the start of the debris field. Random streaks of light passed over him, now with greater frequency as the meteorites began to grow in number. He turned around and looked to the location of the crew module where he’d left Chief Rawlings. Using the hunk of metal in his right hand, he traced a line through the sky until it pointed toward the sun.

  “The Caribbean Sea is that way,” he began and then turned slightly toward his left. “Central America is that way. Water or land? What’s it gonna be, boy?”

  Gunner was in a jovial mood. He was now able to formulate a plan, albeit an uncertain one. But it was something.

  For a brief moment, he contemplated staying where he was. Waiting to see if a rescue team arrived was the logical choice to make. Then he considered how long he’d been there already. Fifteen hours? Maybe longer?

  If NASA had tracked the Starhopper’s reentry, they would’ve dispatched choppers from any number of military installations in the region to the scene before the sun rose.

  Gunner quickly surmised that the Starhopper’s reentry was mistaken for all of the other crap descending through Earth’s atmosphere at the time. He was on his own.

  He closed his eyes to concentrate as the chorus of clown frogs whipped themselves back into a frenzy. The jungle was coming to life, and Gunner was beginning to become more comfortable in his surroundings. He was no longer consumed with what had happened to bring him to this point. He now had a purpose, a treacherous one, but doable.

  Heather flashed into his mind. He recalled a vacation they’d taken to Hawaii. A rare moment when the two could steal away together without concerns for NASA or the Air Force. They wanted to view the islands from the highest point in Kauai. They could’ve taken the easy route, hopping aboard a tour helicopter with a bunch of other travelers. Or they could truly take in the breathtaking views afforded by the hiking trails along the coast to the top of the island. They chose the hike, and it was one of the most memorable days of their life together.

  Gunner paused and his mind raced through that day. How they laughed with one another. The times they stopped to eat, or just talk. The moment where Heather grabbed him by the hand and pulled him off the trail, where they made love. And then their arrival at the summit, where they dropped their backpacks, laughed and swung around and around in each other’s arms.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled as a huge smile came over his face. Gunner looked to the sky and opened his eyes. He muttered the words, “I love you.”

  Then he realized something. In the past, his memories of Heather would make him sad. Then he’d become mad. Not this time. This time, his recollection of that day in Hawaii provided him a sense of warmth and joy. He wanted to remember her, their life and love together. He didn’t want to be consumed by her death anymore.

  He now had closure. He’d learned what had happened to his beloved Heather, at least in part. But that was good enough. He was able to move forward with his life, focusing on the good times together and not the end of them.

  “Let’s hoof it, babe.” He said the exact words she’d used on that day in Kauai.

  With that, Gunner set about beating a trail through the jungle. The thicket was full of bamboo, one of the hardest woods in the world. It provided him an ample resource of fresh water, which he consumed throughout the trek through the jungle. However, it also became burdensome to push through at times.

  He rested only during the time it took to drink a few sips of water and confirm that he was still traveling toward the setting sun. In late April, from the position where the spacecraft wrecked, this would keep him on a generally northwest direction toward Panama in Central America.

  He’d never been assigned a mission in that part of the world. He’d spent a considerable amount of time in Venezuela and Brazil. Never in Colombia, where he now assumed, or at least hoped, that he crashed. If he was farther south, like in the Amazon Rainforest of Brazil, he was in for quite a journey.

  When it was available, Gunner would rub mud on his hands and neck to fend off mosquitoes. They were known to spread diseases such as malaria, dengue, and yellow fever. Predators were abundant throughout the jungle, from the tiniest parasites in water, to large reptiles like the anaconda he’d encountered, and crocodiles.

  Gunner picked up the pace as he could barely make out a clearing up ahead. The undergrowth grew sparser, and he pushed his way through the new bamboo canes of spring that shot out of the ground. The big buttress roots of a majestic kapok tree created the clearing. Tall ribbons of wood spread in all directions for thirty feet under the hundred-foot-tall tree used by indigenous people for dugout canoes, furniture, and carvings.

  He took a moment to observe his surroundings, remaining wary of predators. Satisfied he was alone, he eased into the clearing with his metal weapon raised to his side like a club. Gunner was pleased that it had a sharp, jagged end that could both stab and slice any threat.

  Slowly, he walked around the root system, amazed at its appearance. He instantly saw the tree as a means of shelter. Using large Monstera leaves stacked on top of each other, he could shield himself from the rains that were to come.

  He reached the back side of the tree and spotted a trail. It wasn’t cleared, but it was well worn. At first, he assumed that it was a path made by native animals. Perhaps the tapirs used this route to root around for food at the base of the kapok.

  Then he thought about the hogs he’d hunted in Florida. They had a routine in which they moved around Tate’s Hell Forest between feeding grounds and water sources. The tapir resembled a hog, albeit with a funny snout. If this kapok provided a source of food, perhaps
the trail led to water.

  He considered the old adage instilled upon kids when they were in the scouts—when lost in the woods, follow the water downstream. Gunner imagined the same rule applied in a tropical jungle.

  He abandoned his best option for shelter and briskly walked down the path. It was getting late in the day, but he was full of energy, and now he was on a mission to find his way out.

  He pressed forward, ducking below limbs, gingerly walking around snakes, and swatting mosquitoes that grew in numbers.

  The trail began to widen, and the sound of rushing water lifted his spirits. He was close to a stream or maybe even a river. Being mindful of his footing, he picked up the pace, lifting the piece of steel so that it acted as a shield against the numerous spiderwebs that crisscrossed the path.

  The sound of the water grew louder, and Gunner’s pulse raced. Adrenaline fueled him now. So did hope. Hope that was quickly dashed when he reached a ravine that dropped thirty feet to a river below.

  The roar of a nearby waterfall was deafening now that he’d cleared the thick foliage of the jungle. Gunner was genuinely confused as to his whereabouts. He’d assumed that the crash site was not that far from the coast of the Caribbean Sea. It must’ve been on a plateau, high above the sea level. In the mountains.

  He studied the landscape and traced the river’s route through the jungle. It continuously dropped with one small waterfall after another. It was a sight to behold and worthy of a hundred photos to be shared on Instagram. However, Gunner now wondered where he was. The downstream flow of the river would take him in the complete opposite direction from where he presumed Central America was situated in relation to the wreckage.

  And the trail. The trail led him to the edge of the ravine. This made no sense whatsoever. The tapirs wouldn’t be able to make their way down the treacherous sides without falling to their death.

  “Did I miss another trail?” he asked aloud.