Impact

No one spoke. Finally the president said, 'Why? Why is it attacking us?'

'We don't know. We don't even know if this is an attack. Maybe it's a mistake. Bad programming. It's been suggested . . .' he paused, 'that the Deimos Machine might have been monitoring our planet for some time, picking up radio and television broadcasts and analyzing them. Perhaps it concluded we were a dangerous species that needed to be eliminated. Or it may have been placed there by a hyper-aggressive alien species which wanted to eliminate any intelligent life that might develop in our solar system, nip a challenge in the bud so to speak. It might also have just been woken up. The first shot on April fourteenth occurred only three weeks after Deimos was illuminated with radar from the Mars Mapping Orbiter.'

The president paced in front of the screen showing the Deimos Machine. 'Any idea what these globes are, this tube?'

'We can't begin to analyze it.'

Another round of pacing. 'All right, what's the recommendation of the OSTP? What the hell are we going to do?'

'Mr. President, we have no recommendation.'

A short, shocked silence. 'That's not what I asked you to do,' said the president, exasperation in his voice. 'I asked for actionable advice.'

Lockwood cleared his throat. 'Some problems are so far beyond our experience, so intractable, that it would be irresponsible to 'recommend' anything. This is one of those problems.'

'Surely you could come up with a plan to attack it--nuke it, whatever. General Mickelson?'

'Mr. President, I'm a military man. My instincts are to fight. I started off arguing for a military solution. But I've been persuaded by Dr. Lockwood that any aggressive move would be dangerous. Even the discussion of aggression might provoke another attack. The Deimos Machine might somehow be able to monitor our communications.'

'I don't accept that.'

'That machine could destroy us in a heartbeat. We're sitting ducks. Powerless. Any military response would take years to plan and launch and would be obvious, even if conducted under the tightest secrecy. Eventually we would have to loft something into space and it would take nine months to get to Mars. We can't imagine that machine just sitting there waiting to be hit.'

The president looked at the director of NASA. 'Nine months? Is that right?'

'At least. And the next window of opportunity for a major Mars launch is nearly two years off.'

'Sweet Jesus.'

'All we can do,' said Mickelson, 'is gather more information about the artifact in a careful, nonaggressive fashion.'

'We don't have time,' the president said. 'You said it might fire again in three days. That thing's like the sword of Damocles hanging over our damn heads!'

Mickelson spread his hands.

The president swore loudly, his cool blown. 'Anyone else got a bright idea?'

Ford rose.

'Who are you?'

'Wyman Ford, ex-CIA. I was sent undercover to Cambodia to investigate the impact crater--or rather the exit hole.'

'Right. You're the guy who blew up the mine.'

'Mr. President, this isn't a problem just for the United States. The whole world has to confront it. We've got to put aside our differences. We need a massive mobilization of the world's technological resources, the best and the brightest minds, a full court press. And in order to do this, everyone must know what we face here. The world must know.'

There was an immediate hubbub of protest. The president waved them all silent. 'So, you think people aren't panicked enough, is that it? Haven't you been watching the television?'

'Yes.'

'A massive electromagnetic pulse from that strike is causing much of the world's power grids and computer networks to crash. We're receiving reports of suicide bombings across the Middle East and a massacre of Christians in Indonesia. We've got some people right in this country gathering in churches, waiting for the Rapture. And you want to panic them more?'

'Without panic nothing will get done.'

'We could be looking at nuclear war.'

'It's a risk we've got to take.'

'That's not a risk I'm prepared to take,' the president said, his voice clipped. 'Going public is not an option.'

'It's not only an option,' said Ford, 'it will soon be a fact. And all of you in this room need to be ready.'

And he began to explain what he had done with the real hard drive.

95

Fuller rose slowly from his chair, staring at the gun, his face a mask of confusion and shock. 'What the hell--?'

'Easy now,' Straw said. 'Nobody's going to get hurt. Please raise your hands and stand up. No heroics.'

The guard raised his hands.

'Abbey, take his weapon.'

Abbey tried to control her hammering heart. This was even more frightening than being on the boat in the storm. She reached around the guard, unsnapped a keeper, and removed a revolver from a holster around his waist. Then she removed a nightstick from the belt and what seemed to be a can of Mace.

'What in hell do you think you're doing?' Fuller asked, his voice low.

'I'm really sorry, but it'll all be clear in a moment.' Straw remained seated, his hand resting on the pistol. 'Right now, you do what we say, nice and easy. It's for a good cause. Believe it or not, we're nice people.'

The guard scowled, looking around at the three of them in turn. 'Nice? You people are fucking nuts.'

'Now please open the door and introduce us to Dr. Simic. From now on, Fuller, I won't be repeating myself, so listen carefully and hop to.'

Abbey was taken aback. She had never seen her father like this: so calm, determined--and scary.

'Right.' The guard turned, punched a code into a set of buttons on a panel, and opened the door. They stepped into a cinder block corridor that ended in a vast, hangar-like space under the dome. In the middle stood a giant parabolic dish on a rusty scaffolding of iron struts. The drumming of the rain and the buffeting of the wind filled the space with a muffled moaning noise that sounded eerie, like they were in the belly of some great beast.

A woman was sitting on a rolling chair before a bank of old-fashioned-looking consoles, dials, knobs, and oscilloscopes. She wasn't paying attention to them; instead, she was playing a computer game on an iMac sitting to one side.

'Jordan!' she said, rising in astonishment 'What's this? Visitors?' Simic was a slender, surprisingly young woman with a cascade of brown hair, no makeup, and a pair of deep gray eyes. She wore tight black jeans and a striped cotton shirt, which somehow gave her the look of a college student.

'Uh, Sarah? He's got a gun,' said Fuller.

'A what?'

Her father wagged the revolver. 'A gun.'

'What the hell?' Simic jumped back.