NEAR-MISS ASTEROID APPROACHING
with the sub-headings
But No Danger, say NASA Scientists
and
Financial Markets Plummet
To ensure the public were not unduly disturbed by false alarms, the orbits of close encounter asteroids were routinely put through a careful refereeing procedure, involving international teams of astronomers, with guidelines for media contact. But there was no mention of this. Had they bypassed the procedure in the name of secrecy? If so, if Nemesis was a secret, how did it get out?
There was something odd about that.
He found a table with a semi-clean cover and asked for bacon, eggs and tea. The waiter, a hunched man with Greek features, came back after some minutes with scrambled eggs and coffee. “Seen the nooz?” he asked.
“Media hype.”
“I reckon. I got shares in Chrysler. Say, you sure you’re the scrambled egg?”
Free Spirit drove Webb back to JFK. The traffic was nose to tail and eventually slowed to walking pace on the approach road to the airport. A group of men and women were parading with hastily constructed placards near the entrance, ignored by the police. A white-haired man with a sandwich-board proclaiming
Behold I Come Quickly
stepped in front of the car and Free Spirit slammed on the brakes.
“Did you see that, Mister? Did you see that? That’s my problem too,” Free Spirit laughed, clapping his hands.
Within the terminal, chaos ruled. The reassurances of NASA scientists notwithstanding, it seemed that half of New York State had suddenly decided to take a New Year vacation in Europe.
By contrast, the international departure lounge for the flight to Mexico City was a haven of solitude: apparently there had been about two hundred early morning cancellations and a similar number of no-shows. Webb had a coffee and shared the
lounge with about twenty families of Hasidic Jews, the men with big beards and broad black hats. Why they were going to Mexico he couldn’t guess. Apart from the Jews and Webb, there was only a scattering of Mexican business types, presumably returning to families back home, and a blonde female wearing a slightly old-fashioned dress with a black shoulder bag. She looked up from her magazine, glanced at him and resumed her reading. Webb took his cue and ignored her.
American Airlines hauled them into a bright sunny sky. They tilted up over Manhattan and the Hudson River and turned south, still climbing. When the plane had levelled out the blonde woman moved across the aisle and sat beside him; they were the only two travelling first class. “Oliver! The hero returns.” Unexpectedly, she kissed him on the cheek. She was still into cheap perfume.
“Hi Judy, they told me you’d volunteered for this.”
“You know how it is. Some politicians use moral blackmail as a tool of the trade.”
“What were you doing in New York?” Webb asked.
“Briefing some UN people. Have you heard the latest about Karibisha? They’ve got the probable error of perigee down to—wait for it—five hundred miles. And it’s still fifty-fifty whether it will hit.” She smiled. “I’d make a will but who’d collect?”
“So, what’s been happening at Eagle Peak?”
“I wish you’d been there when your word came through. Noordhof and Herb took off like bats out of hell and haven’t been seen since. No doubt they’ve been doing the rounds of Washington briefings. And no word from Willy. Either he’s in his beach house or else he’s quietly emigrated to Antarctica. The truth is, there was nothing much to be done there before Karibisha emerged from the blind spot. Kowalski stayed on as a caretaker.”
“And when they pick it up?”
“Mighty will be the panic. Herb and Kowalski will be getting high-precision astrometry.”
“From the 94-inch?”
“And the Hubble. They’ve been testing a direct link.”
“Did you come up with a means of deflecting Karibisha?”
“They didn’t tell you? Staggered explosions. The idea was to deploy a dozen baby nukes, strung out along Karibisha’s path like beads on a wire and each one going off in its face to slow it down; kind of like stopping an express train by gently puffing at it.”
“How baby were they?”
“A third of a megaton each. We needed four Shuttle launches, in two sets of two. One Shuttle in each pair carried an upper stage rocket in its cargo bay, the other half a dozen bombs. Mission specialists were supposed to connect the bombs to the upper stage in orbit. Six bombs weren’t going to be enough on their own which is why we needed a second dual launch. The Shuttle accident killed the scheme.”
“Of course it was carrying a Venus probe, ha ha. What was it actually carrying?”
“Unfortunately, half a dozen of my B61s, modified with neutron generators. They’re clearing up an awful lot of plutonium at Cape Canaveral. Take my advice, Oliver, don’t eat tuna for the next million years.”
Webb looked around at the empty cabin. “How close are we to war?”
“Who can say? But I’ll tell you something,” Judy leaned towards Webb. Her tone was conspiratorial. “The Teraflop has been real slow recently.”
“You mean . . . ?”
She was almost whispering in the big empty aircraft. “They’re gearing up for something.”
Over the Florida swamplands Webb could make out tiny clusters of houses in little clearings; and then a stretch of sand was cutting across their line of motion. A few boats trailed long white wakes and then there was nothing but blue
water: the Gulf of Mexico. A menu appeared. Webb ordered
mignons de filet de boeuf Rosini
, and Judy had poached salmon with a mousseline sauce. She studied the wine list closely and four half-bottles of champagne took them merrily across the Gulf.
In the early afternoon the engine sound changed and Webb felt his ears going funny; the Lockheed was dropping. They flew over tree-covered mountains. Broad highways apparently led nowhere into the hills. Minutes later they were weaving a path between hills covered with houses and roads. Mexico City, an unplanned sprawl stretching to the horizon; bigger than Tokyo, London, Singapore, New York City; Sacheverell’s “irrelevant puff of smoke.” Some boys were kicking a football on grass at the edge of the runway as the plane hurtled past, wings flexing. They didn’t look up.
The pilot expressed the hope that y’all enjoy your stay in Mexico and that y’all will fly with American Airlines again soon. The hostesses at the door were smiling, but Webb had the feeling that it was a bit forced. The sounds of a riot were coming from the direction of the terminal.
“You’re not staying over in Mexico?” Webb asked the cabin steward at the aircraft door.
“No way, sir. It’s fuel up and get the hell out. This is our last flight in.”
As they approached the luggage terminal the sound intensified. It was like an angry football match. Round the last corner of the corridor, and there was the main hallway and a brawling, bellowing mob. Between the mob and the international arrival lounges was a thin, ragged line of teenage soldiers.
A steady trickle of passengers, life-giving boarding cards tightly clutched, was filtering through, ducking under the arms of the soldiers. There was no question of passport or security checks. A lieutenant was in the rear of the line, pacing nervously up and down.
Webb, Judy and the orthodox Jews approached. The lieutenant turned in astonishment. He raised his hands.
“You cannot get through!” he shouted above the baying.
“We must!” Webb shouted back. “Our business is urgent.”
“But señor, you see it is impossible.”
“I’d like to speak to your superior officer.”
“So would I. He has not been seen all morning.”
“We’re here on diplomatic business. We have to get through.”
He pursed his lips, marched over to his men, issued some order and then turned back, nervously fingering the holster of his gun. “I can spare only a dozen men. You must keep together. If you stray you are lost.”
The soldiers formed up into a thin wedge; they were plainly scared. At an order they began to push into the crowd. Webb and Judy huddled together with the Jewish families, following behind the wedge.
The soldiers began to use their rifle butts in a violent, panicky fashion. Slowly they pushed away from the check-in area where the staff, faces lined with tension, seemed to be taking bundles of money or tickets at random from a sea of thrusting hands. A well-dressed businessman was punching someone repeatedly on the head. The other party was kicking at the businessman’s shins. Webb glimpsed a woman on her knees.
Midway to the main exit, an arm emerged from the crowd and grabbed at Webb’s sleeve. It was rifle-butted away. It came back, tugging. A dark-suited, pock-faced little man. “Doctor Webb?” he shouted. “Signorita Whaler? My name is Señor Rivas. Welcome to Mexico. Please can you come this way?”
They left their protective wedge, the little man muscling his way through the crowds and Webb taking up the rear. For a few panicky moments he lost his orientation, half fell and was unable to breathe, but then he forced himself to his feet and glimpsed Judy’s blonde hair some yards ahead. Over to
the right he caught sight of a solid phalanx of black hats and beards, and then the crowd had swallowed them up.
The crowd density fell away at the entrance to the airport. An official with a green suit and impassive Aztec features was, by some miracle, loading their suitcases and Webb’s laptop into the boot of a car, a black Lincoln Continental with darkened windows. Rivas opened the front passenger door for Judy. Stepping into the back of the car, Webb caught a glimpse of a holstered gun under the man’s armpit. The interior of the car was cool.
There was a sudden roar from the direction of the terminal. Webb glanced back; the crowd had broken through the line. It was surging towards the departure lounges.
“Good to see you again, Oliver,” said Noordhof, paying little attention to the riot developing yards from them. His handshake was firm and businesslike. He was wearing light tan trousers and jacket. “It’s prudent to wear civilian clothes in Mexico City just now,” he said without explanation.
“Why are you here, Mark? For the same salary you could be tucked away in a deep limestone cave somewhere.”
“I’m responsible for you people. But I won’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind.”
Rivas took the wheel and they pulled away in silence. He took them along the airport boulevard, past unbelievable slums, and on to the Avenue Fray Servando Teresa de Mier, heading downtown.
The car swept them silently along broad streets. Away from the airport there was something like normality apart from the occasional machine gun poking over sandbags at strategic corners; and for all Webb knew, that too was normality in Mexico City.
Judy, a child in a magic garden, kept looking back at him, enthusiastically pointing out street markets and mosaic-covered buildings designed by architects from Mars.
“You’re looking a bit strung up, Oliver,” said Noordhof. “Why don’t you relax?”
Webb put a hand to his brow. “Relax? By this time tomorrow we could be little stars twinkling in the sky.”
The colonel put his hands together in an attitude of prayer.
The Mexican whisked them along the broad Avenue Insurgentes. Apart from a lot of broken glass, there were still few signs that things were crumbling. All the same Rivas was visibly tense, looking up and down roads as they passed and generally wasting no time.
“University City straight ahead,” said Noordhof. “Once we’re through that we’re in the clear.”
“In the clear?”
There was a queue of traffic ahead, and flashing lights in the distance. An army truck raced past, overtaking them on their right. Noordhof said, “Yeah. Mexico City is being sealed off. Something to do with the roads north being jammed.”
“But we’re going south.”
Ahead, soldiers were jumping out of the back of a truck. Barbed wire was being stretched across the street. An officer looked up sharply and then jumped as the big car squeezed through the gap, but then the Lincoln was round a corner and the cameo had vanished. A sign showed a little yacht on waves; below the yacht were the words “Acapulco 400 km.”
The road was starting to climb; soon they were winding through a countryside of tall mountains, rearing out of stubbled fields yellow with corn. Noordhof looked at his watch. “Step on it, Rivas. You’re racing an asteroid.”
Rivas stepped on it. Unfortunately it turned out that, while he had a great deal of speed, he had very little skill. Taking one corner too wide, the car had a hairsbreadth miss with a red bus, stacked to the roof with straw-hatted Mexicans. Rivas shouted something colourful; there was an exchange of hooting, and then the bus had vanished in a trail of blue smoke.
They roared through a dusty little village. A wedding
procession scattered. Angry shouts and the barking of a dog receded into the distance.
An hour on, Rivas slowed down. They came to a turning, an open parking area, and a lodge house. The car braked to a halt. Rivas and Noordhof held out identity cards. Judy and Webb produced passports, which were closely scrutinized by an American GI. The soldier checked their names against a list and waved them in.
“Oaxtepec,” Rivas said. “I get you here in time, yes? This is a government recreation centre. The American soldiers and yourselves are our guests until the asteroid flies past. At least I hope she flies past.” Rivas was driving them, now at a leisurely pace, along a well-surfaced road. Acres of lawn were randomly broken up by swimming pools and colourful flower beds. The road climbed, and finally stopped at what seemed to be a big ranch house.
Noordhof excused himself, explaining that he had a chalet bungalow down the hill. Rivas was escorted towards a room in the main building. A man of Indian extraction, wearing a white jacket and dark flannels, led Judy and Webb along a cloister to adjacent rooms.
Webb’s room was spacious and the furniture was ornate and solid. One wall was a French window leading out to a lawn dotted with palm trees and sub-tropical bushes. A fan took up half the ceiling. He threw his backpack and jacket on a chair, walked over to the window and looked out at the swaying trees.