her teeth. “It’s all we’ve got, isn’t it?”
Shipman shook his head, saying, “At two miles across, it won’t work unless this thing’s made of butter. What class is it? Did Chittenden say?”
“M-class.”
“Well let’s hope he’s wrong, by God. Ester, you sure know how to wreck an old man’s day.”
“Oh, you’re not even sixty yet,” she said. “And look at it this way . . . neither of us has to worry about ending up in diapers now.”
He tossed the chart back onto the table. “I’d also like to bring Sam Ash in on this. He knows a lot of people in cable news. That might expedite things once we’ve got some orbital models to offer.”
“We have to keep this an absolute secret until we announce. And here’s something else . . . when we do announce, we have to be ready to counter the skeptics and naysayers—all those same idiots who are still denying global warming.”
“All right,” he said. “We’ll do our research, and then we’ll get in touch with Sam. He’s here on the island.”
“The situation will deteriorate rapidly after impact,” Ester went on. “First, it will be every state for itself. Then every city, every neighborhood, every block, and finally every man, woman, and child. This country’s headed back to the Stone Age, Harold, and nothing can stop it.”
“I’m afraid our immediate problems here will be of a somewhat different nature.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, Pearl Harbor is home to the United States Pacific Fleet. That’s a lot of permanently displaced sailors and marines. Who controls them after Washington goes out of business? What will the Admiralty decide to do about these islands? We could all too easily become a military state here.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Obviously, the Navy possesses the facility to be either our saviors or the bane of our existence.” She sat thinking for a short while. “Does President Hadrian still live here on the island?”
“He does.”
President Barry Hadrian was a former president of the United States who had retired with his wife to his home state of Hawaii after two successful terms of office. He was in his fifties now and still very well respected.
“Perhaps your friend the mayor can talk to him,” Ester suggested. “I doubt either of them would like to see us ruled by the military. Who’s the governor these days?”
“Paola Reyes. A flimsy politician, to say the least. I don’t see her standing up to the Navy once disaster has struck.”
“Is she particularly popular among Hawaiians?”
Shipman shrugged. “Fifty-fifty. She goes where the smiles go, caters heavily to the tourists and local business.”
“Then she’ll not likely be missed,” Ester decided. “But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. The first thing we have to do is establish that Chittenden’s NEO actually exists. After that we go on the offensive.”
Eight
D r. Michael Porter was lying on the sofa watching CNN when a BREAKING NEWS bulletin suddenly interrupted the Nasdaq report. Aging anchor Wolf Blitzer appeared and tersely announced that a trio of astronomers from the Gemini Observatory in Hawaii was standing by to make a collective statement, concerning a large asteroid due to collide with the earth within the next few months.
“Fuck,” Michael muttered, sitting up on the couch. “Hey, Ronny? You’d better come listen to this.”
Veronica came quickly from the kitchen. “Is this it?”
He gestured at the television where Ester Thorn stood behind a podium between two much taller male astronomers. She spoke into a cluster of microphones. The caption in the upper right-hand corner of the screen read: LIVE .
“ . . . and if these preliminary calculations are accurate,” Ester Thorn said, reading from a prepared statement, “this object will collide with the Earth in sixty days. We are at this time still calculating the exact point of impact . . .”
“Holy shit!” Veronica whispered.
Shipman shook his head, saying, “At two miles across, it won’t work unless this thing’s made of butter. What class is it? Did Chittenden say?”
“M-class.”
“Well let’s hope he’s wrong, by God. Ester, you sure know how to wreck an old man’s day.”
“Oh, you’re not even sixty yet,” she said. “And look at it this way . . . neither of us has to worry about ending up in diapers now.”
He tossed the chart back onto the table. “I’d also like to bring Sam Ash in on this. He knows a lot of people in cable news. That might expedite things once we’ve got some orbital models to offer.”
“We have to keep this an absolute secret until we announce. And here’s something else . . . when we do announce, we have to be ready to counter the skeptics and naysayers—all those same idiots who are still denying global warming.”
“All right,” he said. “We’ll do our research, and then we’ll get in touch with Sam. He’s here on the island.”
“The situation will deteriorate rapidly after impact,” Ester went on. “First, it will be every state for itself. Then every city, every neighborhood, every block, and finally every man, woman, and child. This country’s headed back to the Stone Age, Harold, and nothing can stop it.”
“I’m afraid our immediate problems here will be of a somewhat different nature.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, Pearl Harbor is home to the United States Pacific Fleet. That’s a lot of permanently displaced sailors and marines. Who controls them after Washington goes out of business? What will the Admiralty decide to do about these islands? We could all too easily become a military state here.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Obviously, the Navy possesses the facility to be either our saviors or the bane of our existence.” She sat thinking for a short while. “Does President Hadrian still live here on the island?”
“He does.”
President Barry Hadrian was a former president of the United States who had retired with his wife to his home state of Hawaii after two successful terms of office. He was in his fifties now and still very well respected.
“Perhaps your friend the mayor can talk to him,” Ester suggested. “I doubt either of them would like to see us ruled by the military. Who’s the governor these days?”
“Paola Reyes. A flimsy politician, to say the least. I don’t see her standing up to the Navy once disaster has struck.”
“Is she particularly popular among Hawaiians?”
Shipman shrugged. “Fifty-fifty. She goes where the smiles go, caters heavily to the tourists and local business.”
“Then she’ll not likely be missed,” Ester decided. “But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. The first thing we have to do is establish that Chittenden’s NEO actually exists. After that we go on the offensive.”
Eight
D r. Michael Porter was lying on the sofa watching CNN when a BREAKING NEWS bulletin suddenly interrupted the Nasdaq report. Aging anchor Wolf Blitzer appeared and tersely announced that a trio of astronomers from the Gemini Observatory in Hawaii was standing by to make a collective statement, concerning a large asteroid due to collide with the earth within the next few months.
“Fuck,” Michael muttered, sitting up on the couch. “Hey, Ronny? You’d better come listen to this.”
Veronica came quickly from the kitchen. “Is this it?”
He gestured at the television where Ester Thorn stood behind a podium between two much taller male astronomers. She spoke into a cluster of microphones. The caption in the upper right-hand corner of the screen read: LIVE .
“ . . . and if these preliminary calculations are accurate,” Ester Thorn said, reading from a prepared statement, “this object will collide with the Earth in sixty days. We are at this time still calculating the exact point of impact . . .”
“Holy shit!” Veronica whispered.
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