Herculanium (18 page)

“What’s it carrying?” yelled the scientists repeatedly, watching in awe.

“Damn it, Micky,” said Preston, “what do you see now? There’s a new shuttle besides the stealth one?”

“Yeah, but it looks like those old-style cargo shuttles. Its loading bay is open. I think they’re trying to unload something into the station.”

The next few moments passed like molasses. Just as Olympus was about to blend into orbital obscurity amidst the stars and the swirling atmosphere, an ominous observation rang out that broke the jagged silence: “Oh, my God; they’re loading it with missiles. They’re loading Olympus with missiles!”

The scientists panicked within their seats, unable to accept that Olympus had just been turned into a global defense platform. The ambient static continued to cackle in the background, barely audible in the collective anguish. Lost in the orchestral chaos was a message actually received and broadcast in the cabin: “Tokugawa, we have a visual incident. Code White.”

“I guess we got out in time, huh?” said Preston with relief. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to endorse that shit. Max would have a fit.”

Micky became pale, the realization painfully seeping in. “You don’t understand. We weren’t supposed to see any of that. We must have been behind schedule getting off the station. We’re in danger.”

She stared in the direction of the Olympus Space Station, now barely a dot on the arcing horizon. She could swear she saw a flash of light pulse from it as it disappeared from view. Micky began to pray under her breath, closing her eyes and moving her lips in silence.

The shuttle started to quiver as it descended into the upper atmosphere. The majestic, cloud-swirled earth filled both sides of the shuttle’s windows, and the gradual roller-coaster slope had begun. The whine of engines came in sync with the feeling of a free-fall, followed by the unmistakable pull of gravity and mass. The passengers gripped their harness handles tightly, riding out the atmospheric peaks and valleys with eyes closed and prayers held close to the heart.

Preston carefully monitored his stomach. If he could help it, Mt. Jones wouldn’t be erupting anytime soon. He thought of his most spectacular plays in the past, trying focus on something else by mentally re-living each event and emotion. Micky was deep in prayer beside him.

“What are you worried about?” he asked her. “We’re finally going home. Everything’s fine now.”

Micky could only think of that pulse of light she saw emanate from the station.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re experiencing some minor turbulence. It should subside within a few minutes. Please remain calm. Thank you for flying TransAstra.”

The shockwave struck the shuttle like a freight train, tipping it in a monstrous 45 degree tilt on its portside wing. The impact reverberated through the ship’s frame like a tuning fork struck perfectly with a sledgehammer. It swung and pitched in both shallow and deep angles, repeatedly slamming and crushing its passengers from inside their own harnesses. A shower of sparks lit part of the cabin from the side, and all that was left of the ship’s left wing were wires and hull plating cauliflowered beyond recognition.

“What happened?” yelled Preston, gritting his teeth as he fought the g-force crushing him to his chair.

“Something hit us,” said Micky, her eyes still closed. “Oh, my God, I think they fired on us. They didn’t want us to see the missiles.”

“What the hell you talking about? They’d rather kill us than have anyone know about it? Who are these people?”

The shuttle slowly leveled off. With the lights finally going out completely, the cabin fell into darkness. Swirling clouds filled the window view as the ship continued to descend, bathing the outer chairs in a soft pearl glow. The previous star field had faded into a cloud ocean, and the glint of familiar blue atmosphere brought some comfort. At least they could see out, thought Micky with a sigh.

Ambient static from the cockpit remained ever-present, but completely incomprehensible. The roar of the passing atmosphere swallowed all sound, even their own thoughts. There was little choice but to ride the event out and to see it through. Amidst the horror and panic, there was still hope they could survive the landing.

“The main body of this shuttle can detach from the wing and engines,” remembered Micky. “Remember that from the flight briefing? If we still don’t have helm control, I bet they’ll detach us once we’re lower on the atmosphere. That’s when they’ll deploy the parachutes.”

Preston stared at her, wishing beyond hope she was right.

She smiled as she saw the shuttle’s shadow reflect on the nearby cloud bank. Unfortunately, a second shadow descended above the shuttle’s reflection. Micky screamed as if she had just seen the most horrifying ghost in her life. The stealth plane must have followed them to finish the job.

As she turned to Preston to speak, two successive explosions rocked the ship from the direction of the cockpit. Passengers were again helpless in their seats, battered about like rag-dolls inside a dog’s mouth. Pin-pricks of light now dotted the walls and ceilings, creating new constellations made of shuttle parts being ripped away at high speed. The ominous hiss of escaping gas made one fear evident: explosive decompression was just moments away.

The once-leveled flight path had turned into a demon spiral headed straight for the earth’s surface. The TransAstra shuttle was now a runaway rocket waiting to explode on impact.

Preston felt his face rippling from the velocity; there were no words left to say, save silent prayers between gasps for air. Micky and the rest of the passengers were just blurs, tossed about while the heaving of tensioned metal moaned all around them.

The ship was about to tear.

The windows broke simultaneously, sending glass spiraling throughout the cabin. The once-subtle hiss of escaping gas had turned into a giant sucking roar, and anything that wasn’t secured immediately vanished out the window. With a grotesque sound, the roof tore open in sections, followed quickly by chunks of wall and tiling. What was once a dark plane cabin mere moments before was now an open carriage ride of death.

One by one, shuttle passengers trapped in their chairs were ripped from the floor and sucked into the windstorm, trailing behind the plane like tail confetti on a kite. The starboard wing tore off and spun in an obtuse angle away from the ship, itself another missile.

Preston squinted his eyes, sobbing uncontrollably at the inevitable fate he was flying into. He tried hard to picture his wife and family, but he couldn’t. He thought at least his Dad would be there at his time of death, but he wasn’t. He could feel Micky’s hand gripping his wrist, and even amidst the roar of the atmosphere, he could hear her prayers. At least he wasn’t going to die alone. He finally let go, at peace with himself and his destiny.

An eerie, calming silence engulfed him and the ship. Where was Dr. Gracie? His escort, Kendra Adams? Were they still alive? What was Max going to think? Why couldn’t they say goodbye one last time?

It was then that a rainbow billowed above him, gleaming translucently against the sun. He felt the shuttle suddenly jerk and sway, with half of its body breaking away and fireball forward. His descent began to slow, and the whole ocean presented itself before him. It was the most spectacular view he had ever seen, even more impressive than the dome view from the Mall of the Galaxy. On the wildest free-fall ride ever imagined, Preston could still enjoy a view. He could even make out the Pacific coast line.

The parachute caught the wind flush, forming a taut bell attached to the remnants of the shuttle passenger section. Preston sat secured in a smoldering cage; he couldn’t even tell if anyone was beside him, much less who was alive. His tunnel vision had him transfixed to the surface and how hard he would hit it.

But there was now a calming silence beyond his acceptance of dying. The cushioned descent had stilled the air around the shuttle. Preston could smell the scent of the sea, and even hear the cry of gulls in the distance. He looked up at the savior balloon above him, the guardian angel that saved his life, and smiled. In his vomit-soaked stupor, he smiled at the fireflies dancing around the fabric. They reminded him of flickering Christmas lights around the tree and the overhead patio.

But these weren’t ordinary fireflies; they were burning themselves into the parachute.

The embers swirled around the fabric in a garish ballet before settling on the surface. In a matter of broken heartbeats, the parachute was ablaze. Preston felt the cage lean and accelerate again to the surface. He closed his eyes and smiled. He finally saw his dad sitting beside him and holding his hand. Erica wasn’t too far away; he could hear her praying nearby.

Preston had gone higher than any athlete could ever dream of, even higher than what his dad had expected. But Mother Earth was now calling its star athlete back home. He lived a full life, he realized. In-between gasps for breath, his life flashed before him; memories of victories and failings, lusts and love, friendships and losses. He had been an extremely fortunate man. He kissed the sun with his wings, but came too close. It was now time to pay his dues.

The sparkling blue ocean spread itself out before him, and he was about to arrive in the typical Preston Jones style: in a spectacular blaze of glory. There was peace at the end of this journey, and it was death. Hopefully, he prayed, his death had meaning. And it was going to be painless.

“I love you, Erica. If only. I’m coming home, Dad.”

There was whistling.

There was a roar.

There was darkness, and there was pain.

And then there was emptiness.

Bodega Bay, California, 2032

Melinda Reed slowly walked out into her front yard and stared into the haze. What had been a gorgeous sunlit day had turned into a pea-soup night of fog, blue-gray and impenetrable. The evening chill immediately gave her goose pimples on her extremities, but she just had to see for herself. Never mind that she had walked out into the freezing coastal air in her night gown; her neighbors were none the wiser. They were more likely to be huddled nice and warm in their houses than peeping on fellow neighbors, watching the news for more developments on the crash.

The military had ceased their search-and-recover efforts late in the afternoon, just as the fog rolled in. Helicopters would have been ineffective in the haze, even with powerful search lights. Beach patrols would make sense, except the area was so small and irregular. They would have to wait until something washed up on shore before they could retrieve it. Search boats were the workhorses of the day, patrolling non-stop deep in the evening hours, looking for every possible scrap of metal and flotsam in the freezing water.

She felt bad for the fishermen and their livelihood, forcibly detained in their own docks and ports.

Melinda squinted her eyes at the distant buoys floating just offshore, brightly lit with blinking marker lights. They were the only things visible in the flowing abyss. Using them as a positional reference point, she scanned the inlets for passing military search boats. But beyond the buoy lights and the dramatic sound of waves lapping and receding on the beach, there was nothing extraordinary to notice. Only the drone of a fog horn acknowledged her curiosity. If the military was still out there, they were being awfully quiet and covert.

Melinda hurriedly closed the bay doors behind her, shivering as she entered the kitchen. For all the years she spent living in Bodega Bay, she always thought she’d someday get used to the cold. She was amazed, however, of the day’s stark contrast of realities: military-occupied zone by day, fog-ridden coastal town by night. The concluding normalcy almost made the harried events a distant memory, that everything was just another normal day, ending in a typical Bodega night. Tonight’s silence swallowed everything in its path; memories, sounds, even light. It was time to enjoy it while it lasted.

She stared at the package, then awkwardly retrieved its content of papers. Maybe this stuff
was
worth reading, if she only made the effort.

There were only a few hours left before the military would return. With the increased media coverage, there was sure to be more people disrupting her way of life. When the fog burned off, there would be more soldiers, more helicopters, more reporters, more tourists. It was a double-edged sword of inconvenience and tourism.

Melinda Reed placed the first page of the manuscript in front of her and stared at it. It had a title page, but the author’s name was methodically scratched out. The fog continued to roll eerily outside her window, and her house was as silent as a tomb. If only she could get a hold of her husband between his meetings.

* * *

Preston instinctively jerked his head above water the moment he felt himself sink. The ocean quickly came up above his eyes, flooding his ears and submerging him in the muffled deep. He spat out the salty water with revulsion, wiping his eyes clear with one hand while keeping his body afloat with the other. He was floating in a modified crucifix position, barely conscious and surviving solely on what his high school gym coach taught him in the pool.

Micky wept openly as she gripped her floating chair. She had dug her nails deep into the seat’s leather, fluttering her feet to propel herself towards anyone who might have been alive. The currents had carried her away from the impact sight to the outer fringes of the debris field, away from the smoldering metal and lingering gull feed. She had already given up hope when she saw Preston floating by himself in a lonely fold of waves. Had he not jerked his head to catch his breath, she would’ve turned her attention in the opposite direction and floated merrily away.

Micky tried to yell Preston’s name at the top of her lungs, but she could only produce a painfully-hoarse whisper. She paddled her chair in his direction, aiming at best for an intercept course. Preston’s body was limp and twisted to the side, making her doubt she actually saw him move just moments before. When she finally reached him, she placed her arm around his shoulder and tried to pull him upwards on her chair. Maybe they could share the floatation device while waiting for a rescue.

Micky didn’t dare look into his face directly, fearing he may already be dead.

Preston barely noticed her as he gazed up to the sky. The clouds had taken on a shaded pearl luster, swirling mountains moving to the horizon. He stared at each subtle crevice and nuance, praying that a rescue plane would magically burst through the clouds and rescue them. But there was only thunder, reaching one crescendo after another, and itself broken up by flashes of lightning. The winds picked up, causing the ocean to rise and fall as if moved by the breathing of a sleeping giant. Each swell brought him closer to the sky, making him instinctively reach out with his hand.

But there was something wrong with the heavens. Preston took a deep breath, closing his eyes as a painful wave of nausea coursed through his body. The clouds continued to churn, creating mesmerizing swirls above the crash site. The thunder and his heartbeat quickly synchronized as one, and the lightning flashes grew closer and closer together.

A lightning bolt burst above him like a nova. He felt blinding heat sear him to the core, passing through his flimsy flesh and burning him to his soul.

His heartbeat was now thunder in his ears, audible in the wind and in the sky.

Micky screamed and pointed upwards.

Preston closed his eyes...and gave in to the light.