Impact wf-3 Page 17
Ford stepped out of the dinghy onto the rocks of Shark Island and breathed deeply of the salt air. He was glad to be on solid ground--the boat ride off shore, even in a calm ocean, had left him queasy. He was not, it must be admitted, a sailor. The brilliant summer day bathed the island in warm sunlight and the ocean lay shimmering from mainland to sea horizon. Seagulls cried and wheeled about above their heads, irritated at being disturbed from their habitual resting places on the shore rocks.
"Don't soil your Guccis," Abbey said.
He followed her to the top of the island, picking his way among rocks and bayberry bushes, and in a moment found himself at the edge of a small crater. The recent rains had washed clean the fractured bedrock at the bottom of the crater. In the middle of the bedrock, surrounded by cracks, Ford could see a perfect hole, about three inches in diameter.
He took a deep breath. What could have made an entry hole of three inches, pass through eight thousand miles of planet, and exit, making a hole ten feet across?
"We went to find a meteorite," said Abbey, "and that's what we found: a hole." She laughed ruefully.
Ford slipped a handheld radiation meter out of his gear bag. It registered normal background radiation only, about 0.05 millirem per hour. He took some pictures and got a GPS fix on the hole. Then he crouched and took a reading inside the hole itself, passing the RadMeter back and forth. It finally registered a slight uptick, to 0.1 millirem/hr.
"Am I going to have two-headed children?"
"Hardly."
He slipped into the crater and knelt, reaching inside the hole with his fingers and feeling around. The walls were smooth and glassy, just like the walls of the bigger hole in Cambodia. The extraterrestrial object--whatever it was--had bored a round cylinder in the rock as perfect as if it had been drilled. Cracks radiated outward, but there was little sign of violence and almost none of the usual explosive contact that occurs on impact--the hole was amazingly clean, the ground hardly disturbed. It was as if some unusual force had absorbed or canceled out the energy of the impact. The same thing must have happened at the far side of the Earth, in Cambodia. The exit hole should have been enormous, like that made by a bullet passing through a pumpkin, the shock wave alone blowing debris out the far end and leaving an active volcano or eruption of magma. But no. Both holes had somehow sealed themselves up at both ends. No magma, no eruption, just residual radiation. It made no sense. Anything large and fast enough to vaporize a hole in rock and actually drill through the Earth would have blown the island to smithereens.
Ford peered down the hole with a flashlight; it went straight down as far as the beam could reach. He shivered. Something about this business frightened him; he wasn't sure why. He measured the hole, recorded the entry angle on it, took some pictures. Getting his rock hammer out of his pack, he chipped a few fragments from the lip of the hole, some displaying the glassy inner wall, and sealed them in ziplock bags. He also took samples of dirt and plants.
"How the heck," said Abbey, "could a meteor big enough to light up the Maine coast only leave a tiny hole like that?"
"A damn good question." Ford rose to his feet, brushed the dirt off his knees.
"How deep do you think it went before it finally stopped?"
Ford cleared his throat and looked at her. "It didn't stop."
"What do you mean?"
"It went all the way through the Earth."
She stared at him. "You're kidding me, right?"
"No joke. It came out in northwestern Cambodia. Only it was a lot bigger when it exited--the hole wasn't three inches in diameter, it was ten feet."
"Holy shit."
"It blew out of the ground with such force that it flattened a square mile of jungle."
"Any idea what it was?"
Ford began packing up his gear and samples. "Not a clue."
"Sounds like a miniature black hole to me. Goes all the way through the Earth, getting bigger as it goes, leaves behind traces of radiation."
"That's an intriguing hypothesis."
"Have you figured out where it came from?"
Ford hefted the bag. "No."
"Why not?"
Ford sighed. "And how would one do that?"
"You've got a photograph of it coming in, you've got the entry point and angle, exact time of impact, exit point and angle--heck, with that information I'm pretty sure you could extrapolate its orbital trajectory backward. They do it all the time with ECOs."
"ECOs?"
"Earth Crossing Objects. It's a classic problem of orbital dynamics."
Ford stared at her. "Could you do it?"
"Gimme an hour and a MacBook running Mathematica."
44
Corso let himself into the brownstone, moving slowly, trying not to wake his mother. He stumbled over the rug in the front hall, cursed, and went into the parlor, shutting the pocket door to keep down the noise. He had just finished up the shift at Moto's, although he had stayed on to have a drink or two of his own. It was now two A.M. Eleven P.M. in California.
Eleven. He sank down on the sofa, feeling flushed. He had talked to Marjory earlier that day, a very unsatisfying call, cut short because she was at work. They'd only been going out a week when he left; what they had together was wild and erotic but it wasn't going to work long-distance.
God, it was awful. He'd never had so much fun with a girl. And he desperately needed to talk to someone else, get a second opinion from someone who knew the players, knew the place.
He picked up the phone, dialed the number. It rang four times before her voice answered, small and far away.
"Mark?"
"Yeah, hi, it's me."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, no problem. Listen, I have to talk to you about something . . . something at work. Really important."
A silence. "What about work?" Her voice sounded wary. She'd made it pretty clear she didn't want to get involved in his travails or endanger her own career because of him.
"I've got a hard drive from NPF. One of the classified ones. It's got all the high-res imagery on it."
"Oh, shit, Mark, don't tell me this. I don't want to hear it."
"You've got to hear me. I found something on it. Something incredible."
"I really don't want to hear any more. I'm hanging up now."
"No, wait! I found an image of an alien . . . machine or artifact on . . ." He paused. Don't tell her the real location. "On Mars."
A silence. "Wait a minute. What'd you just say?"
"I found an image. A very, very clear image of a very, very old construction on the surface of Mars. Unmistakable."
"You've been drinking."
"Yes, but I made these discoveries when I was sober. Marjory, you know I'm not an idiot, you know I graduated first in my class at MIT, and you know I was the youngest technician in the entire Mars mission. You know that when I tell you this is real, it's real. I think this machine is the source of the gamma rays."
He could hear her breathing on the other end of the phone. "A lot of geological formations can look artificial."
"This is no formation. It's about six meters in diameter, consisting of a perfectly cylindrical tube with a rim projecting from the surface about two meters in diameter, surrounded by five perfectly spherical projections, the entire thing mounted on a pentagonal platform, partially drifted over with regolith."
"How do you know it's old?"
"The regolith. And you can see pitting and erosion from micrometeoroids. It's got to be many millions of years old."
Another silence. "Where on Mars is it? I want to see the images."
"Sorry, I'm not going to tell you that."
"Why not?"
"Because I found it, I'm getting the credit. Surely you understand."
"I do. But . . . What are you going to do about this? How are you going to get credit?"
"I called Chaudry."
"Jesus. You told him you stole a classified drive?"
"I didn't actually
steal it, but yes, I told him. I said if he rehired me, I'd come back with the drive, all would be forgotten, and we'd share in the discovery. If not, I'd send the hard drive to the FBI and his career would be fucked."
"Oh my God. And?"
"The asshole didn't believe me about the alien machine. He said I was a psychopathic liar. He didn't even believe I had a classified hard drive. So I e-mailed him a detail from a high-res image--to prove it. Not a picture of the machine, of course, because he'd then find it using the data file. But I did send him a super-high-res of another image. The fucker called me back so fast."
"You're crazy."
"This is a high-stakes game."
"And?"
"It sort of backfired. He said he wouldn't do shit for me. And now I couldn't do shit to him. Because if I mailed the drive anonymously to the FBI, and he got nailed, he'd point the finger at me. 'I go down, you go down,' he said. It's a Mexican standoff."
A long pause. "He's right, you know."
"I realize that now. The fucker stalemated me."
"Now what?"
"This isn't over by a long shot. I'm thinking of taking the drive to the Times. I swear to God I'm getting the credit for this if it's the last thing I do." He hesitated. "I need a second opinion. I need to hear what you think. I've been thinking about this so much I'm about to explode."
He could hear the long-distance hiss on the line for a long time, the faint sound of music in the background. "Don't do anything right away," Leung said slowly. "I'm not sure going to the Times is the best idea. Give me a few days to think about it, okay? Just sit tight and don't do anything."
"Hurry up. I'm a desperate man."
45
Abbey hadn't been able to figure out what to say to her father at dinner, and now, at six A.M., as she lugged her suitcase down the stairs, she still had no idea how she was going to break the news.
She found him sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the Portland Press Herald. She was shocked at how tired he looked. His light brown hair lay in straggly locks plastered to his forehead, he hadn't shaved, and his shoulders were stooped. He was not tall but he had always been straight, stocky, and muscular. Now he looked half-collapsed. Since she had sunk his boat and wrecked his livelihood, he had quit bugging her about college and her future, stopped complaining about all the money he'd spent. It was almost like he'd given up on her--and his own life. He couldn't have made her feel worse if he'd tried.
As she set her suitcase by the door he looked up in surprise. "What's this? You going somewhere?"
She struggled to smile brightly. "I got a new job."
His eyebrows went up. "Sit down, have a cup of coffee, and tell me about it."
The sun streamed in the window, and she could see the blue of the distant harbor beyond, dotted with fishing boats, and, through the opposite window, the big meadow behind the house, the grass long and green. Half an hour until the car arrived. Taking a mug out of the cupboard, she poured herself a cup, added her usual four teaspoons of sugar and a good pour of heavy cream, stirred it up, and sat down.
"No more waitressing?"
"No more. I got a real job."
"At Reilly's Market? I saw they'd posted a notice looking for summer help."
"I'm going to Washington."
"Washington? As in D.C.?"
"For a week or two, and then maybe I'll be back. The position involves a certain amount of travel."
Her father leaned forward, an uncertain look on his face. "Travel? What in the world will you be doing?"
She swallowed. "I'm working for a planetary geologist. I'm his assistant."
Her father stared at her with narrowed eyes. "What do you know about geology?"
"It's not geology. It's planetary geology. Planets, Dad. It's more like astronomy. This scientist runs a consulting firm for the government." She paused, remembering what they'd discussed. "He was in the restaurant a couple of days ago, and we got to talking, and he offered to hire me as his assistant." She took a slug of coffee and smiled nervously.
"Why, Abbey, that's great. If you don't mind me asking, what's the pay?"
"It's excellent. In fact, there was a signing bonus . . ."
"A what?"
"A signing bonus. You know, when you take a new job, you sometimes get a bonus for accepting."
The eyes got narrower. "That's for highly skilled people. What skills do you have?"
Abbey just hated lying. "I took astronomy and physics courses at Princeton."
He looked at her steadily. "Are you sure this is legit?"
"Of course! Look, there's a car coming for me in fifteen minutes, so I gotta say good-bye. But there's something I want to tell you first--"
"A car? For you?"
"Right. Car service. To the airport. I'm flying to Washington."
"I want to meet your employer. I want to talk to him."
"Dad, I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." She swallowed, glanced out the window.
Her father, frowning, set his coffee cup down. "I want to meet him."
"You will, I promise." She pointed out the window. "Look at the harbor."
"What?" Her father's face was all red with worry.
Now or never, Abbey thought. "Hey, look at your mooring!"
He turned and squinted out the kitchen window, then scraped back his chair in irritation. "Agh, for chrissakes, some jackass is hanging on my mooring."
"Those damn summer people," said Abbey. It was a familiar refrain, the summer cruising folk snagging the empty moorings of fishermen.
"They come up from Massachusetts, think they own the harbor."
"Better get the name of the boat and tell the harbormaster."
"I certainly will." He rummaged in the magazine basket and pulled out a set of binoculars. He squinted, staring through them. "What the hell?"
"What's the name of the boat?"
"Is this some kind of joke?"
Abbey couldn't hold it in any longer. "Dad, it's the Marea II. A thirty-six-foot Willis Beal, two hundred fifteen horse power Volvo engine with less than two thousand hours, pot hauler, raw water, tanks, the works. Built in 2002 by RP Boatworks. Ready to fish. It isn't new but all I had was a hundred grand."
The binoculars began to shake. "What . . . the hell?"
A honk came from the driveway.
"Oops, there's my ride."
"I can't possibly afford the payments . . ."
"It's free and clear. I bought it for you with my signing bonus. All the papers are on board. Gotta go."
"Abbey . . . wait, you bought me a new boat? Wait, for God's sakes . . ."
"Got my cell, I'll call you from the road."
She rushed out of the house, tossed her suitcase in the back of the black SUV, and jumped in after it. Her father came to the door, still confused. She waved as the car scurried off down the graveled driveway and onto the main road.
46
As Ford entered the glass-and-chrome lobby of the Watergate Hotel, the assistant manager, who must have been lying in wait, came whisking around from behind his desk, hands clasped in front. He was a small man dressed in hotel black with a pinched, obsequious expression on his face. "Mr. Ford?"
"Yes?"
"Please excuse my concern, but it's about the girl in the room you booked."
Ford detected a note of disapproval in the man's anxious voice. Perhaps it had been a mistake to book her at the Watergate. There were plenty of quieter and cheaper hotels in Washington. He raised his eyebrows. "What's the problem?"
"She hasn't left the room in two days, she won't let the staff in to clean or stock the minibar, she's been getting food deliveries at all hours of the night, and she won't answer the room phone." A literal wringing of the hands. "And, well, an hour ago there were complaints of noise."
"Noise?"
"Yelling. Whooping. It sounded like some sort of . . . party."
Ford tried to maintain the serious expression on his face. "I'll look into it."
"We're concerned. We just renovated the hotel. Guests are responsible for any damage to rooms . . ." The disapproving voice trailed off into a significant silence.
Ford dipped into his pocket and pressed a twenty into the man's hand. "Trust me, everything's going to be fine."
The man gave the bill a disdainful look as he pocketed it, retreating back to his station. Ford moved toward the elevators, considering that this was turning out to be a more expensive proposition than he had imagined.
He knocked and Abbey opened the door. The room was a mess, dirty dishes, pizza boxes, and empty Chinese food cartons piled up in the entryway, emitting a smell of stale food. The trash can was overflowing with Diet Coke cans, papers were scattered about the floor, and the bed was wrecked.
She saw him looking around.
"What?"
"They have a quaint custom in large hotels like this called maid service. Ever heard of it?"
"I can't concentrate when someone's cleaning around me."
"You said this would take an hour."
"So I was wrong."
"You? Wrong?"
"Hey, maybe you better sit down and take a look at what I found."
He looked at her closely; she was haggard, her hair knotty and in disarray, eyes bloodshot, clothes with a slept-in look. But the expression on her face was one of pure triumph. "Don't tell me you solved the problem?"
"Does a toilet seat get ass?"
He winced. "You should publish a dictionary of your expressions."
Reaching into the minifridge, she pulled out a Diet Coke. "Want one?"
He shuddered. "No thanks."
She settled into the chair in front of the computer and he took the one beside it. "The problem was a little more difficult than I thought." She took a long pull on the Coke, stretching out the moment. "Any object in the solar system traces out a curve--either an ellipse or a hyperbola. A hyperbolic orbit means it came from outside the solar system and is going back out again--moving at faster than escape velocity. But our Object X was moving in an elliptical orbit."
"Object X?"
"Gotta call it something."
Ford leaned forward. "So you're saying it originated inside the solar system?"