Moonfall (22 page)

San Francisco. 1:20
P.M.
Pacific Daylight Time (4:20 EDT).

Everybody in the third-floor office of Bennett & McGee was staring at the TV. It was a split screen. A map of the Bay Area filled one side, from Richmond in the north to Santa Clara and the Los Altos Hills in the south, from the Pacific over to 1680, encompassing more than eleven hundred square kilometers. An image of the comet’s head, somewhat longish and irregular, cratered and torn, occupied the other. One huge crater took up about a fifth of the comet’s visible surface. While Jerry watched, the outline of the Bay Area was superimposed over the comet nucleus. Then it was reduced until San Francisco and environs fit neatly into the big crater. A legend blinked on at the bottom of the screen:
ACTUAL SIZE
.

In a voice-over, Senator Mark Caswell was speaking with PugetWeb anchor Jane McMurtrie.

“…impeachment,” he was saying. “It’s absolutely unthinkable that a president of the United States would downplay this kind of threat. I think you’ll see an appropriate congressional response in the near future.”

“But Senator,” said McMurtrie, “isn’t that really an idle threat? I mean, if there’s substance to the charge that the infor
mation is vital to the nation’s survival, the damage is pretty much done. The rocks will fall and there won’t be a Congress Monday. If, on the other hand, he’s simply trying to control the alarmists, which is to say, if nothing happens, what will the charge be? I mean, he’ll have been right, won’t he?”

“Not at all, Jane. We don’t intend to let Mr. Kolladner play fast and loose with the safety of the people of this nation. And I can assure you that when this is over, there will be a Congress, and there will be a United States. And there’ll be a reckoning.”

Half the staff had called in sick. They’d had to man the trouble desk with people from the equity branch. Manny’s Coffeehouse across the street, where Jerry usually stopped to have toast and read the
Chronicle
, had been closed this morning. A sign on the window read:
BACK MONDAY
.

Jerry and Marisa had spent the previous evening with friends, exchanging quips about people they knew who were leaving town. They’d laughed a lot, but the general uneasiness had been noticable.

His division head was Leo Gold, who’d been with the firm when the wagon trains came west. Leo’s hair was snow white, and he had a voice like an electric saw. He was a model-train enthusiast. He called Jerry into his office. “Can you work tomorrow?” he asked without preamble.

Tomorrow was Saturday. It was the Saturday before April 15, which was a busy time for accounting firms. But Bennett & McGee had always prided itself on its ability to get the job done without having to go into crash mode during the tax season. No one below the level of general manager had
ever
worked the Saturday before the tax deadline. It was a matter of pride.

“But not this year,” explained Leo. “All these people taking off the last couple of days, Jerry. It’s put us in a bind.”

Ordinarily, Jerry wouldn’t have thought twice. But he
knew Marisa was nervous about the comet. There was a possibility she’d want to leave, get out of its way, and they wouldn’t be able to do that if he were committed to coming into work. “I was planning on a weekend out of town,” he said.

Leo pressed his lips together. “Jerry.” He canted his head. “Jerry, you’re not serious.”

How can you be so naïve, Jerry?
“It’s not the comet, Leo,” Jerry hastened to explain. “This trip’s been planned for several weeks. We’re going to see my wife’s sister Helen.”

“Jerry, we’re all going to be here Monday. San Francisco will be here. Bennett & McGee will be here. And I need not tell you what date Monday is.”

April fifteenth. It occurred to Jerry that if the worst predictions played out, the last official act of the United States government might be its annual mugging of its citizens. “You have a bright future with the firm,” Leo went on. “Don’t jeopardize it over…” He seemed at a loss for words, and settled for drawing a circle in the air with his right index finger.

In the end Jerry agreed, not because he feared for his career. Rather, Leo’s demeanor made him feel he had to prove he wasn’t afraid of the comet.

6.

Point Judith, Rhode Island. 7:21
P.M.

Luke Peterson was a retired printer. His wife was twenty years dead, and his kids were scattered around the country. He owned a spacious brick home in Point Judith, with a lovely view of the sea. He had wide lawns and a paved driveway and plenty of room for his grandchildren, who loved the place and arrived in flocks every summer. He’d come to the ocean when he lost his wife, bought the property for $110,000. Now it was worth three-quarters of a million, and he wouldn’t have been able to afford to keep it except that he was over seventy and
there was a special provision in the tax law to protect homeowners against runaway real estate values. He’d run the print shop out of it for ten years, had published commercial and tourist flyers, and done various custom jobs, business cards, stationery, whatever. It’d been a nice living, but he’d gotten bored with it. Life was too short to spend in a print shop, and when he was able to close it, he did.

Luke had invested well, so money wasn’t a problem. He played pinochle Wednesdays, and attended a great books club on the second Monday of the month. (They were reading Marcus Aurelius for the May meeting.) He played golf two or three days a week, as the mood hit him; and he usually ate lunch with a few guys from the Rotary. The Lunch Bunch, they called themselves.

He still got lonely. He missed Ann, and most days the house was quieter than he liked. But he’d adjusted reasonably well. She wouldn’t have stood for his moping around and feeling sorry for himself, and he did what he could to follow the advice she’d written on the last birthday card she’d sent him, to treat life like an overripe grapefruit, and get all the juice out of it he could.

So he watched the TV reports with interest and a little trepidation. (Fear was part of the grapefruit, too.) But the ocean looked reassuringly calm and flat.

Pennsylvania Turnpike, northwest of Philadelphia. 7:33
P.M.

The traffic, which had moved sporadically for three hours, had now stopped altogether. State police channels reported that the turnpike was a parking lot all the way out to Valley Forge.

The convoy had long since dissolved. Archie could see four company trucks strung out behind him. The rest were gone, swallowed somewhere in the crush.

“Claire,” he asked, “do you know what the justification
was for building the interstate highway system?”

She had no idea.

“Eisenhower said he wanted to be able to move troops quickly from one place to another. In case of invasion.”

She looked around at the gridlock and smiled. “There were fewer cars then.”

Pickups, station wagons, vans, all were loaded with cartons and blankets and kids. Furniture was piled on top. Lamps stuck out windows, and trunk lids were tied down atop chairs. Archie had been in the Caucasus during peacekeeping operations, when local strongmen had tried to eliminate minority ethnic groups and the Turks hadn’t cooperated in the rescue. He remembered people on the roads, headed south and east, away from the killing zones. There had been a lot of cars, and the roads were decent. Not the Pennsylvania Turnpike, certainly. But there was something in this automotive crush that reminded him of those frightened multitudes.

Something.

Maybe the kids huddled in the back seats; and scared drivers getting out to push stalled cars off the road; and even occasional gunfire. In the Caucasus it had been snipers posted along the highways. Here he didn’t know what it was.

Ahead, a blinker rotated slowly on a cruiser, but the cops were as helpless as everybody else.

Old cars were overheating or running out of gas. Electrics were exhausting their batteries. The Pine River trucks had been charged before leaving the plant. But even they would not get through the night.

“How you doing, Claire?”

She shrugged. They were inching past an off-ramp. It was loaded with vehicles trying to exit. There was an extra lane of traffic along the shoulder, but it wasn’t moving either.

He’d tried several times to reach Susan on his cell phone. But the circuits must have been jammed and he couldn’t get
through. The roads were probably bad everywhere. He thought about her trying to navigate I–287 around New York, and regretted having encouraged her to go. “These people are crazy,” he said finally.

She grinned. “We’re out here with them.”

“Yeah. But we’re being paid.”

THE MOLLY SINGER SHOW
. 8:00
P.M.

Richmond, WXPI Studios. 8:36
P.M.

Tad Wickett and the colonel’s younger brother Jack were waiting for him in the lobby. “How’d it look?” Steve asked.

“You were damned good, Steve,” said Jack. “Maybe we can wake some of these people up.”

Tad nodded. “You put the bitch down real good, Colonel.”

Steve stood for a moment, not moving, looking back the way he’d come as if they might call him for an encore. “She deserves to be put down a lot harder,” he said. “It’s people like that who are the problem. They cover for the sons of bitches who are draining this country dry. I can’t believe she doesn’t know she’s being used.”

“Whether she does or not,” said Tad, “she’s in the way.
Why don’t we just put her out of business? Teach the rest of them a lesson.”

Jack felt a chill. He didn’t like Wickett. Twice in Jack’s experience he’d almost gone off the road trying to run down dogs. He was an ex-Marine who talked a lot about eliminating people. You couldn’t tell whether he meant it or not. The colonel laughed whenever Jack voiced his fears.
Don’t worry about Tad. He only does what I tell him to. And we need people like him. Day’s going to come….

“What did you have in mind?” asked Steve, who was far too smart to use violence except as a last resort. Still, he knew that dismissing suggestions peremptorily was poor leadership technique.

“Take out the station,” said Tad. Jack could see he relished the prospect. “You know how at the end of the show she always says, ‘This is Molly saying goodnight and good fortune’? Let her get the line in and then blow her and the station to hell. Right on cue.”

The colonel grinned. Tad claimed to have killed several people in military service, and everybody knew he’d finished Scratchy Ellsworth in a fight last year. Police screwed up the investigation or Tad would be in jail now.

“I don’t think we need to do that yet,” Steve said. “But in time, Tad, we’ll get around to Molly Singer.”

7.

PENNSYLVANIA STATEWIDE RADIO/TV/NET HOOKUP. 9:00
P.M.