

# Tumble

# The Andaman Event

__________________________

Book one of the Tumble series

Bob Triggs

Published by Bob Triggs at Smashwords

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and no part of this eBook may be reproduced in any form without the prior written permission of the author and publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, or if you are reading it but did not purchase it, please go to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy or a copy for each recipient you wish to share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to any event, past or present, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2016

Revised 2018

This book is for my daughter and my son-in-law,

Sarah and Alan Durbin.

The Tumble series is dedicated to my wonderful wife,

Dongyan.
Contents

Part One

Wednesday, December 25, 2019

**1:** Khaolak Golden Place Hotel, Khao Lak, Thailand; 1725h

**2:** Mehganinagar, Sector 28, Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India; 2004h

Thursday, December 26, 2019

**3:** Khao Lak Beach, Khao Lak, Thailand; 0600h

**4:** Fortune Resort Bay Island, Port Blair, South Andaman Island; 1009h

**5:** Institute of Seismological Research, Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India; 1031h

**6:** Khao Lak Beach, Khao Lak, Thailand; 1033h

**7:** Rashtrapati Bhavan, New Delhi, India; 1217h

**8:** Institute of Seismological Research, Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India; 1609h

**9:** 97-20 57th Avenue, Corona, New York, USA; 1759h

Part Two

Sunday, June 21, 2020

**10:** Davis Street, Stanley, Falkland Islands; 1540h

**11:** 97-20 57th Avenue, Corona, New York, USA; 1907h

Monday, June 22, 2020

**12:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 0815h

**13:** Met Office, Stanley, Falkland Islands; 0959h

**14:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 1417h

**15:** M/V Akademik Knipovich II, South Atlantic Ocean; 2104h

Tuesday, June 23, 2020

**16:** Met Office, Stanley, Falkland Islands; 0916h

**17:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 1022h

**18:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 1347h

Wednesday, June 24, 2020

**19:** National Weather Center, Buenos Aires, Argentina; 0811h

**20:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 0827h

**21:** Dover Heights, Sydney, Australia; 1347h

**22:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 1506h

**23:** The Oval Office, The White House, Washington, DC; 1559h

**24:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 1637h

**25:** CPC Central Headquarters, Jing-Jin-Ji, Beijing, China; 1800h

Thursday, June 25, 2020

**26:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 0758h

**27:** National Weather Center, Buenos Aires, Argentina; 0823h

**28:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 0902h

**29:** The Oval Office, The White House, Washington, DC; 2104h

Friday, June 26, 2020

**30:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 0814h

**31:** The President's Private Study, The White House, Washington, DC; 1123h

**32:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 1242h

**33:** Bir Lehlou, Western Sahara; 1317h

**34:** Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Palo Alto, California; 1446h

Saturday, June 27, 2020

**35:** Los Robles Avenue, Barron Park, Palo Alto, California; 0601h

**36:** The President's Private Study, The White House, Washington, DC; 1017h

**37:** Petro Santa Nella Service Station & Diner, Gustine, California, USA; 1114h

**38:** LAX International Airport, Los Angeles, California, USA; 1326h

**39:** The Oval Office, The White House, Washington, DC; 1434h

**40:** Arland Avenue, South San Gabriel, California; 1647h

**41:** The President's Private Study, The White House, Washington, DC; 1812h

**42:** Arland Avenue, South San Gabriel, California; 1903h

**43:** The President's Private Study, The White House, Washington, DC; 2101h

Acknowledgments

# Part 1
1

Khaolak Golden Place Hotel

Khao Lak, Thailand

Coordinates: 08° 37' 48.4" N, 98° 14' 40.2" E

Wednesday, December 25, 2019, 1725h

A blue-and-red taxi sweeps through the entrance of the Khaolak Golden Place Hotel and comes to an abrupt halt on the red herringbone forecourt with a screech of underinflated tires. The driver's door swings open, and a small, aging Thai who could not be a day less than seventy, leaps out with surprising sprightliness. He scurries around to the boot and takes out a suitcase while Peter Hutchins, a forty-seven-year-old computer software engineer from London, climbs out of the front passenger side and gazes at the five-story hotel with a distant expression in his blue eyes.

Peter is six feet tall, slim, muscular, and his dark brown hair is turning gray, but he's still handsome and an attractive catch for any woman. Casually dressed in a white golf shirt and loose gray flannel trousers, he takes a moment of pause to swallow back an emotional lump as mental images of the disastrous trip fifteen years earlier remind him that he is not here for a holiday. He has been wallowing in a stagnant pool of guilt, self-pity, and grief for too long, and this is supposed to be a therapeutic journey intended to kick-start his life.

His eyes rove over the front of the structure, and he is filled with disenchantment. _Has anything changed at all?_ Even the facade has been rebuilt to its original design. _Yes, very little has changed, yet nothing is the same_. His ruminations are interrupted by the taxi driver, who places the suitcase on the ground in front of him before requesting payment by rubbing his thumb and index finger together several times in rapid succession. Peter takes a wallet from his pocket and counts five hundred Thai baht into the cabbie's hand, which he scrunches together and stuffs into a pocket before climbing back into his car.

Peter turns his head in the direction of the ocean. The beach is hidden from view behind a tall hedge and a line of palm trees, but he doesn't need to see the sand and water to know where it is. How could he forget? It's been the bane of his miserable existence for the past one and a half decades.

He hears a click of hurried footsteps on the Omega block paving approaching from behind, and he swings around to see a porter rushing across the forecourt. Peter only has one suitcase, but because it isn't very heavy, he declines the offer of assistance from the bellhop. He picks it up and walks over to the main entrance, where a concierge opens the door to let him pass unimpeded into a spacious lobby. Inside, the floor is covered with blue carpeting overprinted with golden designs of the Ratchaphruek tree in full bloom, which represents a combination of the national flower and the Thai monarchy. A large artificial pine tree adorned with twinkling lights, colored balls, and garland is standing in one corner, and the back wall is beautified with bright, multihued paper decorations. The soft sound of Christmas music drifts around the atrium, and a subtle aroma of cinnamon has a soothing effect on his senses as he walks over to the reception desk.

The young clerk gives him a pleasant smile before addressing him in perfect English. "Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?"

"I have a reservation for the next three nights. My name is Peter Hutchins."

The receptionist turns to a computer and checks the files with a few swift strokes on the keypad. "I see you've flown in from London, Mr. Hutchins," she says, turning her head to look at him as she speaks. "Are you here for the memorial service tomorrow?"

"Yes."

The young woman validates the key card for his room before laying it on the countertop in front of him, and then she pushes an open registration book in his direction with a pen lying on the facing page. "Please sign here, Mr. Hutchins. Your room number is 304." Peter picks up the ballpoint and signs the log while she continues to talk. "Did you know someone who died in the tsunami?"

"Yes, my wife and two daughters."

Perhaps the blunt response is making her feel she's being too intrusive, because her cheerful expression changes to one of embarrassment and she stammers a hasty apology. " _Oh_... I-I'm sorry."

Peter replaces the pen on the open page with a wistful sigh and tries to dispel her unease by sounding more upbeat. "That's okay, love. What's done is done. No one can go back and change what happened."

She slides a pamphlet and a coupon across the countertop. "People will be congregating on the beach for prayer around the time the tsunami came ashore. This is a list of various religious organizations who will be holding memorial services throughout the day, and the tsunami warning sirens will sound a three-minute accolade starting at ten twenty-seven." She taps the face of the voucher with her forefinger. "This is for a special prayer service open to hotel residents and guests in our banqueting suite. It starts at one o'clock and it'll be followed by a free buffet, compliments of the manager."

Peter gives her a weak smile as he picks the pamphlet and ticket up from the countertop. "Is there somewhere nearby where I can buy flowers?"

The receptionist nods and points to a wide passageway leading out of the lobby on his left. "There's a florist at the end of the shopping hall, but I think they're closed for the day. They'll be opening early tomorrow morning, though—around six o'clock, I believe."

"Thank you. Tomorrow morning will be fine." The shopping hall is a new feature that has been added to the hotel since his last stay, but everything else appears identical to how it was fifteen years ago, and he walks across to an alcove on the right where the elevators are located. He's feeling more relaxed, and after pressing the call button, he begins humming to the strains of "Silent Night" while he waits for the car to arrive.

Once in his room, he opens the suitcase and takes out a dark suit, a neatly pressed white shirt, and a black tie, which he hangs in the closet before transferring his socks, underwear, and casual clothes into a drawer unit. He is desperate for a long, hot shower to wash away the dried perspiration and grime that have accumulated on his body over the last twenty hours, and when he's finished unpacking, he picks up the toiletries and heads into the bathroom. He emerges forty minutes later, fatigued but refreshed.

Peter decides to rest for ten minutes before going down to the restaurant for supper, and he flops onto the bed dressed in a maroon bathrobe. He lies on his back with his hands clasped behind his head and stares insipidly at the ceiling, sifting through the events that now bind him eternally to this place.

Fifteen years ago, he was thirty-two and an affectionate husband to a beautiful twenty-nine-year-old wife, Beverly. They could not have been happier; the epitome of a perfect couple and the caring parents of two daughters—Kathleen, eleven, and an energetic six-year-old, Angela.

The cold, wet, and windy summer of 2004 prompted the idea of swapping the damp climate for a fortnight in the sun, and one blustery evening in October, he sat down with his wife to flip through some holiday brochures. Peter used to be an avid wildlife photographer, and a visit to the rainforests of Kaeng Krung National Park in the northwestern Surat Thani Province of Thailand was at the top of his bucket list. The two mountain ranges of protected forestation included creatures such as tigers, tapirs, gaurs, and numerous bird genera, and in addition to the faunas, they would see some of the most spectacular scenery the world had to offer, but he knew it would be an uphill battle to get Beverly interested. She never shared his enthusiasm for "uncivilization," a word of her own creation, yet he wouldn't be a worthy husband if he failed to understand these little verities after eleven years of marriage. He knew she'd come up with a myriad of reasons not to embark on a camping adventure, and neither would she hesitate to use the children as an excuse if it suited her schema. Beverley's summarization of a perfect break was to laze around on a beach with a margarita, and bearing this in mind, Peter worked on a solution to accommodate his desire as well as hers. However, he still gave her the opportunity to go to Kaeng Krung, but as he expected, she firmly decried the proposition by pointing out how uncomfortable and exhaustive it would be.

"Honestly, I have no aspirations to gad about in a foreign country on the back of an elephant. I really don't know how _any_ one can construe that as a relaxing holiday."

Peter picked up a brochure with pictures of an idyllic beach at Khao Lak. Golden sand. Blue waters. Sunny skies. "How about here?" He waited in anticipation for several minutes while she leafed through the pamphlet.

"Do you think we can really afford a holiday in Thailand then?"

"I don't see why not. Our finances are in good shape."

She took a few moments to answer. "All right, let's do it."

Peter was unable to contain the excitement in his voice. "Khao Lak is a hundred and fifteen miles from Kaeng Krung. I can book a three-day elephant safari for Kathleen and myself while you hang out at the seaside with Angela."

She hesitated, probably to grasp the fact that she'd been outflanked, but he knew there was no good reason for her not to compromise. "Why do you want to take Kathleen?"

"Well, as you know, she's developed strong inclinations against the exploitation of animals since we encouraged her to join the junior branch of the World Wildlife Association, and this will be a perfect opportunity to introduce her to some of the creatures in their normal habitat and experience the rawness of nature firsthand."

Later that night he went online and made reservations for an elephant safari. He expected Kathleen to be excited, so he was stunned when he revealed the plan to her on the following evening and she immediately snubbed the idea by proclaiming it would be too scary to sleep in a tent with tigers and other creatures roaming around in the darkness.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, sweetie. They're not going to attack us while we're asleep."

"But what if they do?"

"It won't happen, babe. We'll be sharing the same tent."

"That won't stop them."

"Yes, it will, because I'll be there to protect you."

She inclined her head to one side and asked a question with the candid logic of a young child. "And who's going to save _me_ after _you_ get eaten, Daddy?"

Kathleen remained resolute in spite of his best efforts to change her mind, and he finally capitulated with a warning. "I may not be able to rebook your proviso once it's canceled."

"That's okay," she replied offhandedly.

However, he clung to the hope that she might change her mind and waited for a couple of days before he eventually rescinded her place on the safari.

Their flight landed at Phuket International Airport late on the morning of Christmas Eve. They had hired a car in advance, but a mix-up in the rental company's booking department meant they were unable to furnish him with their preferred vehicle choice. He expressed his dissatisfaction, but his first impression of the LR2 substitute inside and out was one of surprise, and after a few minutes behind the wheel, he couldn't deny that he'd fallen in love with the off-roader.

Peter turns to lie on his side and gazes at the pastel-yellow wall through a film of moisture. This is a crusade he'd vowed to make more than a decade ago, but he was filled with dread each time the date drew near and always postponed the trip 'until next year.' Even while his reservations as to whether a pilgrimage would be efficacious in providing the closure he needs, it became obvious that procrastination wasn't an effective panacea, so whatever happens over the next couple of days is now in the hands of Providence.

He tries to disinter happier memories from his subconscious, and yuletide is at the forefront because it used to be his favorite time of the year. Kathleen and Angela would charge into the bedroom on Christmas morning, and even before he had a chance to open his eyes, the two high-spirited youngsters would be bouncing on the bed and pleading for them to wake up so they could go downstairs and open their presents. The gleam of elation in their eyes, the surprised expressions on their faces, and the happy squeals of delight when they opened their gifts always brought immense pleasure. But in 2004, they let the girls unwrap one present each on the eve of their holiday with a promise they would open the rest when they got back home. Fifteen years later, those same gifts are stored unopened in the attic at the home of his in-laws with the name tags still attached.

His flight to Kaeng Krung was scheduled to depart Phuket at ten-thirty on Boxing Day morning, and when he asked Beverly to drive him to the airport, she refused, citing her inexperience at driving on the "wrong" side of the road. She suggested he should drive himself, but he adjudged it as an unsatisfactory arrangement because it would leave her without transport in the event of an emergency. Beverly was adamant, though, emphasizing that she would never get behind the wheel in a foreign country regardless of the situation.

That morning, Peter accompanied his wife and two daughters to the seashore and he waited for Beverly to spread a colorful beach towel on the sand before he tried to persuade her one last time. "I wish you'd keep the car... just in case."

_"Seriously_ , Pete, the girls and I will be fine. All you've got to do is forget we exist for the next few days; otherwise, you're not going to enjoy your trip."

He watched Angela and Kathleen playing tag on the beach, laughing, and giggling boisterously as they chased each other around in circles before turning back to his wife. "I have my mobile, so make sure you call me if there's a problem, all right?"

She gently cupped the palm of her left hand over his cheek. "Like you can do _what_ , darling? You won't even get a signal once you're out in the jungle, so stop fussing and just go and have fun."

Peter put his hands on her hips and pulled her close to him. "I love you."

Beverly responded by wrapping her arms around his neck. "I love you too." She pressed her lips against his and began to give him a lingering kiss until Angela's voice interrupted their moment of bliss.

"Oooo... look at Mummy and Daddy kissing," which was followed by a hand-over-the-mouth titter.

Beverly giggled and pulled away. "Go _on_ , you silly human being. You've got a plane to catch." She raised her voice. " _Angela! Kathleen!_ Daddy's leaving now. Come and give him a hug before he goes."

Kathleen ran up to him, raised herself on tiptoe, and gave him a cuddle. "I love you, Daddy. I hope you have a good time... and I _really_ won't mind if you bring me back one of those cute little monkeys from the jungle."

Peter looked into her eyes and laughed. "I've got monkeys enough with you two. Why would I want to punish myself even more?"

She gave him a lighthearted slap on his arm before stepping aside as Angela, who had been farther away, scampered across the sand toward him. She leaped into his arms in a single bound, clinging to him with her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands clasped behind his neck. Her brow was beaded with perspiration, and panting hard from exertion, she pressed a clammy cheek against his. "I _love_ you, Daddy," she said between gasps of air, and then she gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek before leaning back in his arms to gaze at him with a mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes. "I want one of those cute little monkeys too."

Before he could respond, the energized youngster chuckled and pushed herself out of his arms to land square on her feet. She spun on her heels and cast a glance over her shoulder at Kathleen as she ran toward the water, and after she'd given herself a decent lead, she yelled out to her sister, "Last _one in is a dork!_ "

Peter shook his head in amazement. "That girl has _far_ too much energy."

Beverly laughed before surmising. "Well, if I'm lucky, she'll sleep well tonight."

He bade farewell and walked off to recover the Land Rover from the resort's parking structure, but he threw a final backward glance as he reached the beachhead. Beverly was sitting on the towel, rubbing sunscreen on her arms, and the girls were splashing around at the edge of the water.

It took an hour to drive to the airport, and after checking in, Peter discovered he'd be flying on an old 1950s DC-3 owned by a small company affiliated with the national parks of Thailand. The first thing he noted when boarding was the well-worn cabin furnishings and fading decor, which was a little disconcerting because it gave him cause to worry about the Dakota's mechanical condition and whether it could fly the seventy-five-minute journey without falling from the sky. However, in spite of a bumpy flight, the pilot landed the seventy-year-old ex-military aircraft safely on a grassy strip that served as an airfield.

Peter spent three exhilarating days in the wild that exceeded his expectations, and he arrived back at the base camp on the morning of December 30 with two hours to kill before the return flight was scheduled to leave. He was surprised to see hundreds of people surrounding the small building that doubled as a ticket office and departure lounge. Everyone appeared disheveled and weary, but he never read anything into it because his own image left a lot to be desired after three days in the jungle. What he failed to detect was the heavy cloud of despondency that hung over the crowd.

A middle-aged man with a European countenance sauntered past, and Peter took a step in his direction. "Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"I _am_ English."

"Why are there so many people here?"

The man stared at him with disbelief on his face. "You haven't _heard_ , then?"

"Heard what? I've been out in the jungle for the last few days and I only got back about thirty minutes ago."

"A tsunami hit the west coast on Boxing Day. Phuket International is closed to nonessential domestic flights, and the only aircraft allowed to land are those bringing in emergency supplies, equipment, and international aid."

Peter was aghast. "You're joking, right?"

"Nope—I've been stuck here for three bloody days, and as you can see, a lot of people are waiting to get out."

"Bloody hell, I need to get to Khao Lak. Do you know if they're putting on buses or something as an alternative?"

"Nothing like that, mate. From what I understand, most of the roads are impassable, resorts have been washed away, and hundreds of thousands of people are dead."

This had a sobering effect on Peter, and a wave of fear swept through him as the enormity of the tragedy suddenly sank in. _Boxing Day? But that's when I left Beverly and the girls on the beach!_ The euphoria of the last three days died in an instant. "What time did it happen?"

"Somewhere 'round ten-thirty."

"At night?"

"No, in the morning."

Peter shed the backpack from his shoulders and fumbled inside for his iPhone. It had slipped somewhere to the bottom of the bag, and several seconds passed before his fingers curled around the slim-bodied device. He was relieved to see the green signal symbol flashing, and his hands trembled as he dialed Beverly's number, but it went straight to voicemail. _Damn!_ _She's turned the phone off!_ He left a short message asking her to call back.

The Englishman spoke to him. "If you're trying to call someone on the west coast, you won't get through. I buggered up my batteries trying to get in touch with my uncle."

"Are there any public telephones?"

The man nodded toward the small airline building. "Over in the departure lounge, but good luck with _that._ The landline services are disrupted too."

Peter picked his backpack up by one strap and set off at a half run while the man was still talking. He pushed his way into the packed ticket hall with a band of anxiety tightening his chest. A flat-screen on the far wall was switched to a news channel, but as the broadcast was in Thai, he ignored it.

There was a long queue waiting to use the telephone, and while the urge to shove his way to the front and demand to be next was irresistible, Peter realized their urgency was no less than his own was and he reluctantly joined the end of the line. His nervousness grew over the next forty minutes as he shuffled forward a few paces at a time until he finally dropped several fifty-satang coins into the slot. He was greeted by an animated message spoken in Thai, and in a state of agitation, he beckoned to a young Asian woman who was waiting behind him.

"Do you speak English?"

She hesitated before she responded. "A little."

That was good enough for Peter, and he held the handset out toward her. "Can you translate for me... please?"

"I try," she said and stepped forward, took the receiver, and listened for a few moments before looking up at him with a puzzled expression in her eyes. "Here is no one."

He snatched the handset back and raised it to his ear. Silence. The automated exchange had either disconnected or diverted the line to a message service, so Peter pulled more coins from his pocket and redialed the number. He gave the receiver straight back to the woman, and she listened for about twenty seconds.

"The lady says the telephone cannot connect. Where do you call?"

"I need to speak to my family in Khao Lak."

"No call Khao Lak."

He swallowed back the panic that welled into his throat. " _Why?_ "

She pointed to the TV screen on the opposite wall. "Khao Lak is very _,_ _very_ bad."

He left her holding the phone and pushed his way forcefully through the crowd toward the television where footage salvaged from security cameras was being broadcast, but the huge volume of water washing ashore needed no translation.

_"Bloody Norah!_ " he whispered as the powerful wave surged inland at incredible speed, sweeping hundreds of people off their feet and crashing through the resort with devastating consequences.

Flights into Phuket resumed the following day, but they were restricted to a couple of daily trips. Repeated calls to Beverley's iPhone kept going to voicemail, but he tried to console his trepidation by reminding himself that she had a habit of misplacing it, and he was convinced this was more plausible than being swept off in a giant tsunami. He tried in desperation to get a seat on the DC3, but with such a huge backlog of passengers, they made him wait his turn. It almost drove him crazy, and to make things worse, he tortured himself repeatedly by watching the agonizing images on the television and scrutinizing each distressing scene to see if he could identify his family among the people struggling for their lives.

More than three hundred people were still stranded at Kaeng Krung for the New Year, and instead of celebrating the transition into 2005 with champagne, cheers, and laughter, they held a prayer vigil on the grassy airstrip. It was a solemn, poignant service that lasted several hours, and someone led a threnodic rendition of _Auld Lang Syne_ at midnight, first in English, followed by a version in Thai, Chinese, and another language he didn't recognize. There wasn't a dry eye on the field when the last words faded into the darkness. It was a rare occasion where a vast diversification of religions including Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism, Islamism, Catholicism, Judaism, and Christianity came together with mutual respect for each other's faiths. There were no ordained ministers, clerics, or other religious leaders among the group; otherwise, this historic event would likely have never happened, yet its acknowledgment never extended beyond the halo of light on the edge of a rainforest. The spiritual ambiance that hovered over the assembly was electric, and the experience gave Peter comfort, strength, and renewed hope.

His name came up for a seat on the DC3 on the following morning. The seventy-five-minute flight took an eternity, and he was unable to relax as the cumbersome machine lumbered through the sky. He was one of the first to disembark after it landed at Phuket International, and close to physical and mental exhaustion, he shoved his way through the enormous throngs of distraught, tired, and disgruntled travelers in the main terminal. They had probably spent days at the airport waiting to escape the disaster-stricken country, but Peter didn't care. His only mission was to find his family.

The long journey to Khao Lak was slow, and he had no reprieve from the appalling devastation that continued to worsen as he drew closer to the coast. He drove past groups of locals who were trying to clear mud-clogged roads to reach the outlying villages, but their interest in him was ephemeral. No one cast a second glance at the foreigner passing through their midst, and he wished his own recollections could be as evanescent. The aftermath of the tsunami was horrifying, but his mindset was positive as he pressed forward because he was certain he'd be reunited with his family once he reached the resort. He never _dared_ to think otherwise.

He was still several miles out when the road disappeared beneath a foot-deep mire, and the wheels stirred up an obnoxious odor of sea salt and decaying marine life that was fermenting in the lower layers. It took four hours to reach the Khaolak Golden Place Hotel, and he stared in horror at the ruins when he finally rolled to a stop two hundred feet from the edifice. The northeast corner had collapsed, the facade and framework were skewed, and every window was broken. The structure looked like it had been derelict for years.

He stumbled toward the dilapidated building and stepped through a gaping hole in the wall. What was once a warm, convivial lobby had been transformed into a cold, malevolent chamber, and the overpowering stench inside made him nauseous. The depth at the peak of the flooding was recorded by a watermark that ran around the foyer two feet beneath the ceiling cornice molding, and the walls were covered in dark stains, drying mud, green algae slime, and Stachybotrys spores that had begun to reproduce in the damp, murky corners.

Peter booked into a motel close to Khao Lak and began a daily routine to search for his family. He walked through the wards at the overcrowded hospitals every morning, where extra mattresses were laid out on the floors to cope with the enormous number of casualties, and then he went to the emergency shelters. The authorities had made the task easier by posting the names of the refugees registered in each facility on a notice board beside the main gate, but the three people he was looking for were never on the lists. The day would end at the airport, where he spent hours wandering through the ticket halls and departures lounge in case they were trying to leave the country.

Two days after he arrived back from Kaeng Krung, the telephone company reestablished international communications, which filled him with renewed optimism. Beverly was close to her parents and she would have contacted them at the first opportunity; perhaps she was even back in the United Kingdom. His sanguinity was dashed when his in-laws told him they hadn't heard from her.

A grief-stricken Peter returned to England a week later, where his life became mundane and robotic. He spent most of the time in seclusion with a friendly whiskey bottle and sat for hours staring in abject misery at the unopened gifts beneath the Christmas tree.

Peter sighs and wipes another tear from his eye. There are no bodies to mourn over or headstones to visit, and until he has irrefutable evidence that their lives were claimed by the deadliest tsunami in modern history, he can't seem to get the closure he desperately needs. He closes his eyes and sobs quietly. On the morrow, he'll be standing on the spot where he kissed his wife and daughters good-bye for the last time, and he tries to imagine how the girls might look like now. Kathleen would be twenty-six, and perhaps she'd even be married with her own children. And Angela? She would've celebrated her twenty-first birthday just three weeks earlier.

But as he drifts into a deep slumber, the only images he can conjure up are those frozen in his memory: two young girls of six and eleven who stopped growing on Boxing Day in 2004.
2

Mehganinagar, Sector 28

Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India

Coordinates: 23° 14' 40.4" N, 72° 39' 26.6" E

Wednesday, December 25, 2019, 2004h

Robert Andrews was born into an affluent family from Scotland and was a bonnie one-year-old when the British Financial Foundation appointed his father to supervise a five-year transition of their Asian assets over to the Indian Investment Bank in Mumbai. He has no recollection of life in the United Kingdom, and his older brother, who was six when they migrated, told him that his own memories were contained to a few flash images of their nanny and a large house that could have been either their Scottish home near Edinburgh or their English countryside estate in Kent.

Impressed by his father's financial management skills, the government of Gujarat viewed him as a valuable asset, and they seized the opportunity to poach him by waving a golden package in his direction when the reassignment was nearing conclusion. The proposal included huge starting and annual bonuses, a large house on 320 acres of prime land, full citizenship for the family, and other incentives that were too good to turn down.

Now forty-five, Robert's youthful features are enhanced by deep, brown eyes, a full head of sandy-brown hair with no sign of gray, and his broad shoulders and strong, square-set jaw project an air of confidence. He is mild-mannered and probably the most eligible bachelor in Gandhinagar, but his career takes primacy over relationships. He once came close to getting married until his fiancée got tired of the inattentiveness. The long hours he spent at the institute, often working late into the night, gave her prescience as to the direction their marriage would go, so it was no real surprise to her friends when she decided to move on.

Robert developed a fascination for geoscience when he was ten, and he spent hours viewing educational documentaries and reading every textbook he could acquire on the subject. After attending secondary school, he went on to college, graduating with a degree, full honors, and a certificate of achievement. This qualified him for a place at the University of New Delhi, where he dedicated the next eight years to earn a Doctorate of Philosophy in geophysics and a Master of Science. He studied for both papers concurrently, making many personal sacrifices along the way, but his devotion paid dividends because he's now the head of the Institute of Seismological Research, which was set up by the government of Gujarat in 2003. Under his guidance, the facility rose up to be one of the world's leading foundations on seismology and geological research.

Seth has not aged quite as gracefully, though, and his appearance is close to that of their father prior to his death. The graying hair on the fifty-one-year-old is receding fast, and a developing potbelly is getting harder to conceal. Their mother was a renowned cardiologist with a thriving practice in London's exclusive Harley Street and another office in Gandhinagar, so she was elated when he started medical school. He has since emerged as one of the leading neuroscientists in the world, and when he's not absorbed in a research project or involved in a complex surgical procedure in front of a study group, he can be found in a packed auditorium delivering one of his notable lectures to dozens of eager students.

The family was struck by a double tragedy in 2007, which began with the death of his mother in February. She succumbed to the rare parasitic meningitis caused by the Naegleria _fowleri_ amoeba, which health investigators connected to a recent camping trip she took with acquaintances in the Nallamala Hills, Telangana. She went for a daily swim in a nearby lake, and even though her friends swam in the same stretch of water, she was the only one who became infected with the parasite. Seven months after her premature death, the front tire of a rental car driven by his father blew out, and the vehicle careened out of control. It flipped several times, leaving him critically injured, and he lay in a coma for two days before passing on without regaining consciousness.

Robert saunters behind his older brother with his hands thrust into his pockets while Seth opens the door to his private study and steps aside to allow him to pass through. It isn't unusual for their respective careers to keep them apart for months at a time, but Robert always makes a special effort to visit his sibling on Christmas Day. He never fails to bring extravagant gifts for his two nephews, one niece, and his brother's Indian wife of eighteen years, Serita, who is an excellent cook, and always produces a gratifying feast fit for royalty.

Now they are at the part of the day where the teenagers escape the company of the adults and retreat to their rooms to do their own thing, while the two brothers retire to the study to catch up on a year's worth of news condensed into a couple of hours. Serita usually joins them after she has cleaned up, washed the dishes, and taken a shower.

Robert wanders nonchalantly into the middle of the genuine early nineteenth-century room. Much of the large colonial-era house has been modernized, but Seth restored this room to its original décor, which is his personal space from family and society when he needs solitude. A thick rug with a hand-woven red floral design is spread out on the floor in front of a hefty walnut desk, and bookcases with an extensive library of medical manuals line the walls on each side. A large open fireplace is located centrally in the west wall behind the desk, with long chiffoniers on both sides that were custom-built to a design of the period. The upper display cabinets are filled with sculptures of Indian culture; photograph frames with fading pictures of Seth, his parents, and himself; and other mementos of the past. An oversized coffee table is set in the center of the room with comfortable armchairs upholstered in rich burgundy leather angled inward on each corner, and a full-size snooker table at the far end. The study exudes a laid-back ambiance of age, history, and knowledge, as well as a unique air of calmness, and it's no wonder his brother claimed this room as his piece of tranquility away from the uproar of the twenty-first century.

Robert's eyes follow his brother as he walks over to the chiffonier to the left of the fireplace and picks up a whiskey decanter. "On the rocks?"

"Is there any other way?"

He hears the chink as his sibling drops several ice cubes from a small bucket into a couple of glasses and pours two generous shots. He returns to the center of the room with a big smile on his face. "Season's greetings, brother. I've been looking forward to this all day."

He hands a whiskey to Robert, who taps the lip of the glass against Seth's with a soft clink. "Merry Christmas and a toast to Serita for such a formidable spread, as always." He takes a sip and smacks his lips. " _Mmm_ , this _is_ palatable."

"Nothing but the best," Seth says, and he gestures to an armchair in an invitation to sit down. "Johnnie Walker blue label."

"God _darn_... the expensive stuff!" Robert sits down, and after taking another nip, he leans back and rolls his eyes to the ceiling while he savors the balanced flavor. "How are things at the hospital?"

"Good, most of the time."

Robert is a particularly astute person, and it hasn't missed his attention how his brother has been unusually distant for most of the day. "I know we only see each other once a year, but I can still tell when you're bothered by something."

The neurosurgeon sighs. "I was forced to suspend a two-year house resident last week and now I have to decide his fate at a tribunal tomorrow."

"Give him a warning and tell him he'll be sacked if he gets into any more trouble."

"I wish it were that simple."

His brother doesn't take pleasure in firing any of his staffers at the best of times, let alone at Christmas. "Then why don't you extend his suspension; give him some time out and see if he'll respond to recuperation or discipline?"

Seth shakes his head. "I can't. I'll need to give assurances to the board that punishment will be effective, and I'm not willing to take that risk. He's already disrupted a patient's treatment by replacing his medication with sugar tablets, so who knows what he might do next?"

"Is he a Jehovah's Witness, or belong to some other religious sect that believes prayer and God is the only healer anyone needs?"

"Someone who's opposed to medicine isn't going to study the practice."

"True." He pauses. "Then why did he do it?"

"He came in one morning and renounced the treatment of schizophrenia... as Tommy Cooper would say... 'juz like that.' It surprised everyone—most of all me because he was a promising student in my purview."

Robert frowns. "I thought you were a neurologist?"

"I am."

"Why are you treating a psychiatric patient, then?"

"I study the brain, don't forget, and my research isn't limited. I'm not treating him, but he still needs medications while he's under my supervision."

The geophysicist falls silent for several moments. "This houseguest... did he explain the reason for his statement?"

"House resident," Seth corrects, and he hesitates. "He has some wild theory that medicine is interrupting the natural evolutionary process of the brain, and we're impeding the progression for humans to develop into a super race."

_"Wow!_ That's damn heavy. It sounds like _he's_ the one who needs psychiatric help."

"Perhaps, but it's not for me to make that diagnosis even though he disrupted a lecture I was giving on the subject a few days earlier by proclaiming that our interference with the 'natural order of evolution' is changing the path of man's destiny, and the ultimate price for our own vanity will be self-extinction."

Robert chortles quietly. "I'm no expert, but I'd say he's cracking up under pressure. Does he have any exams coming up?"

"Tests or not, the safety of the patients is my first priority, and I can't see how I can keep him on when he poses such a threat."

_"Huh!_ I never considered a brain surgeon could be tuppence short of a shilling before, but I suppose that's what they call the mad scientist syndrome." He shakes his head as he chuckles again. "I have this stupid notion that you guys can self-diagnose and self-medicate."

"He's not a neurologist yet—and not likely to be if I terminate him. His career will be cut short, and I hate to be the one responsible for such a drastic transformation to anyone's future."

Robert stares up at the ceiling and muses for a moment before speaking again. "I'm curious. How did he support this theory?"

"He gave an imaginative rationalization that would make a good premise for a science fiction story; but in reality, it's invalid."

The remains of an ice cube chinks against the side of the glass as Robert swirls the whiskey around before taking another sip. "You're beginning to intrigue me, brother."

Seth scoffs before he elucidates. "He has this _crazy_ notion, no pun intended, that schizophrenia is a mental discord produced by the early stages of telepathic resonance."

"What a strange hypothesis."

"It is, and I loathe admitting that I was somewhat astounded at his principle. We already know high levels of emotion, whether negative or positive, results in a significant increase of electrical activity in the brain, but he claims the voices the patients hear in their heads are emissions from an emotionally elevated source in close proximity."

"Is it _possible_ that this is the reason why those with the illness can hear people talking?"

Seth shakes his head slowly. "There are many classifications of schizophrenia. A person who claims to have prodromal abilities has a basic, but harmless, form of the disease. Some have visions; others hear people talking to them... and the list goes on, but there are too many unfounded stigmas associated with the disorder. Less than one percent of the populace suffers from the condition—certainly far too few to validate his conjectures, although I will concur that the manifestation of anger is a common emotion." He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "But there are innumerable reasons why a person can be in a high state of anxiety at any given time."

"I'd say that's a fair statement, plus there would need to be a specific trigger to prompt an evolutionary change that big."

Seth snorts derisively. "I read his rambling and at times, incoherent thesis, but he essentially lays the blame on an increase of ambient noise across the planet that never existed a century ago. Cars, airplanes, and machinery are examples he's provided of things stifling the senses we rely on for basic survival like sight, smell, and sound, and it's suppressing our primal instincts. He believes the utilization of mobile phones and other electronic devices is forcing our brains to rewire in an attempt to protect us from a threat of our own creation, and it's endangering our own existence. He concludes that it's still in the early stages, though, and hasn't developed the capacity to filter incoming signals yet. He compares it to tuning a radio receiver to a specific frequency, and medications are inhibiting the developmental process because we're compelling the brain to mutate along a more treacherous path."

"Good _Lord!_ What a _concept_ ," and a scintilla of amusement moves over his face. "So, when you terminate him and he has an overwhelming desire to kill you, a nearby schizophrenic will hear it and think it's a message from God."

"That's _not_ a nice thing to say, brother."

Robert is aware that the correlation is making his sibling uncomfortable, but he has a wicked sense of humor and he's enjoying the moment. "It's pretty much what he means, though, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is."

"Then don't you think there's perhaps a _slight_ chance he might be onto something?"

Seth laughs before answering in an obdurate tone. "Schizophrenia is indisputably an illness. I even had a student who once tried to convince me that homosexuality is stimulated by reincarnation; people who returned as a male after experiencing multiple lives as a female inherited an instinctual attraction to men, and vice versa."

Robert loves theoretical debates, especially open-ended ones in a gray area, and his brother has a unique ability to open the doors for him. "You've got to remember, humanity has persecuted people for centuries because establishments either didn't agree with, or refused to accept their conjectures. Some were even accused of sorcery or witchcraft, and imprisoned, committed to an asylum, or executed in some dreadful manner. Such things occur until one day, a scholar arrives on the doorstep waving scientific evidence in his or her hand that proves a particular supposition, once considered absurd, is indeed fact after all."

"I agree, but schizophrenia is unequivocally recognized by medical science as an illness."

Robert's eyes flash mischievously. "There _is_ no difference. Galileo Galilei was pursued by the Catholic Church because he defended Copernicanism and the theory of heliocentrism, and he was sentenced to imprisonment by a Roman Inquisition."

"That's an invalid argument, brother. We both know that Galileo is considered the father of modern physics and hailed as such by Einstein, and besides, he was never incarcerated." Seth frowns, and he gazes at Robert with uncertainty. "... or was he?"

"No, he didn't end up in a pit beneath a basilica somewhere in Rome _only_ because they commuted his sentence to house arrest for the rest of his life. But house arrest, dungeon, whatever—his freedoms were still curtailed. The publication of his existing works, and any he wrote afterward, was prohibited by the church all because he dared to contradict the Holy Scripture with a hypothesis they wouldn't accept. Don't you think you could be persecuting your student by attaching a label to him too?"

"I think there's a big difference between one of the greatest astronomers that ever lived and the house resident."

Robert is ruthless in his persistence. "But that's _precisely_ my point. Galilei's theories were not verified until after his death, yet his conjectures were accurate. What's to say your bloke won't be proven right one day too?"

Seth shrugs. "It's something you and I will never know. It'll take thousands of generations before humans develop telepathic skills, _if_ it happens at all."

"Perhaps, but his essence will still be valid even if he doesn't get the credit."

His brother remains tenacious, and it's clear he's not prepared to relinquish his principle belief. "Schizophrenia is a mental disorder, and if telepathy ever evolves, it certainly won't be attributed to a crazy person."

A smile forms on Robert's lips, and moments later, he begins to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Your last remark was so unambiguous it reminded me of Mum's favorite yarn."

Seth's head falls back against the padding of the chair's headrest with a gentle thud, and he slaps the palm of his hand across his forehead with a loud groan. " _Oh, no!_ "

Robert is inexorable as he recalls the story often repeated by his mother. "You were playing doctors and nurses with Cousin Annie, and you were so _sure_ her favorite doll had suffered a cardiac arrest that you decided she needed a transplant. She tried to tell you it was only a toy and didn't have a heart, but you told her"—unable to contain his humor, he begins to chuckle as he talks—"not to be so _stupid_..." but hilarity prevails, and he's unable to complete the sentence.

Seth snickers lightly as he recalls the incident. "Yeah, I know. I performed the surgery with a steak knife from the kitchen drawer."

Robert roars in laughter and slaps the outside of his right thigh with a loud crack. "After you sliced through the plastic breast and discovered the doll was hollow, you sat on the floor bawling your head off and Mother said it took more than an hour to console you."

"I made one mistake when I was eight and I've been paying the piper ever since," Seth says. He gets to his feet, picks up Robert's empty glass, and walks across to the chiffonier. "So, what's been happening in your world, brother?" he asks as he pours a good measure of whiskey from the decanter into both glasses. "You mentioned something about funding a special expedition during dinner."

Robert calms down from the outburst of mirth, and the joviality on his face is replaced by a more disconcerted expression. "I'm still waiting for approval. A previously unobserved flat-topped ridge was discovered on the ocean floor in the Bay of Bengal in 2014, but subsidies for major projects was still restricted because the economy hadn't fully recovered from the global downturn of '08. Unfortunately, I discounted its significance and didn't pursue it—which was a mistake on my part."

Despite Seth's success at being one of the most sought neurosurgeons on the planet, Robert gets a sense that there are times when his sibling regrets his chosen career because he often remarks on how geology intrigues him more now than it did when he went to school. "I wouldn't regard it as a mistake. It's a decision you were forced to make due to the circumstances at the time."

"I think I would've dismissed it anyway because my attention was more focused on unusual distensions in the tectonic plate that was also discovered on the same expedition. I failed to associate the two incongruities until I secured enough funds to carry out a sonar sweep in 2017. Over the three-year period, the swelling _and_ the ridge had grown dramatically."

"And this is happening in the Bay of Bengal right now?"

"Yes. The ridge is located 249 kilometers west of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands in the northernmost lobe of the Australian plate, and it runs north-south for two hundred kilometers. It is forty kilometers wide for much of its length, but both ends straiten in the last two or three kilometers."

There's a clink of crystal as Seth replaces the stopper in the decanter. " _Hmm_ , as I understand geological evolution, shouldn't the annual growth rate be something like one or two millimeters?"

His brother is right, of course, which is why he's troubled by the accelerated amplification. "The swelling appears to be the result of an abnormal concentration of pressure beneath the plate, and between '14 and '17, the increase was one hundred seventy-four point nine centimeters."

Seth turns away from the sideboard with a replenished glass in each hand. "That still doesn't sound like a big deal to me."

"On the contrary, it's downright scary because that's five centuries of growth condensed into three years. And what's even _more_ alarming, the ridge had grown two hundred sixty meters and geologically, that's _extraordinary_."

"It wouldn't be the first time an island has risen out of the ocean without warning, though. Is it possible you've simply chanced on something like that in progress?"

Robert accepts the refilled glass from his brother. "No, no, _no_. Islands are formed by oceanic volcanic eruptions and, on rare occasions, an earthquake, but there is a distinction between the two. Islands produced by a volcano are formed by lava, while an island generated by an earthquake consists of superheated mud spewing out of a vent, most of which gets dispersed by ocean currents. Both types of islands might be fashioned differently, but there's an analogous feature between them that's prominent—they are circular, not long and narrow like the ridge."

"Have you been back since?"

"We were able to construct a three-dimensional chart of the ridge's geological structure by transmitting ultrasonic pulses into the lithosphere earlier this year."

"What's the lithosphere?"

"That's the rigid outer layer of the planet, of which the tectonic plate, crust, and pedosphere are all subdivisions. However, the ridge formation is not volcanic in nature, and while we, as humans, are curious about the unknown, this is something we should fear and treat with respect until we learn more."

"You're making it sound as if a disaster is imminent."

"Well, I can't exclude the probability... but what could happen?" Robert looks at his brother and shrugs. "To be truthful, there's insufficient information to be conclusive."

The neurosurgeon continues to probe for more information. "You're a scientist. You _must_ have a theory?"

Robert hesitates before answering. "I do, but it isn't anything I'm able to substantiate at the moment, and you know from your own profession that only facts are relevant. Until I produce some indisputable evidence, I'm snookered and it's best to keep my mouth shut."

Seth has a big grin on his face and he tries to encourage him to share his suppositions. "Come on, tell me more. Let's see if I consider you crazy enough to be certified."

"That's _your_ forte, and privilege, dear brother." Robert sits forward to the front of the chair. The whiskey is giving him a pleasant buzz and it's making him more loquacious than normal. _What harm can it do?_ His sibling has no association with the geological society, and besides, he's confident that once approval is obtained to drill core samples from the oceanic ridge, they'll be rewriting the history books. "It's my belief that the Pangaean plate took longer to break up than the planetologists say."

Seth gazes at him with a puzzled look. "What relevance does that have to do with the ridge, or did I miss the connection?"

Robert takes a moment to reflect before he speaks again. "Sonar mapping shows the ridge is sitting over a huge V-shaped fissure that penetrates into the tectonic plate by approximately two thirds. The rift _and_ the ridge mirror each other in terms of length and width, and the curious flatness of its summit is an unusual attribute that's self-explanatory if my conjectures are correct. With regard to the swelling beneath the lithosphere, the data is suggesting that an immense buildup of pressure is taking place in the asthenosphere, and while it's prominent to the east and west of the ridge, there's no significant displacement to the north or south." He observes a blank expression on his brother's face, and he smiles. "The asthenosphere is the viscous, malleable layer of the upper mantle directly beneath the tectonic plates." He raises the glass to his lips and takes a sip of whiskey before he continues. "However, enough information was collected to produce a startling image of the chasm."

"So, there's an actual _hole_ in the plate?"

"It's not a hole per se, because it's filled with a combination of mineral deposits that have equivalent properties to the earth's crust _and_ anomalous quantities of nickel-iron, olivine, and carbonaceous chondrite, which are materials brought to earth by bolides."

An almost imperceptible smile appears on Seth's lips. "You think a meteorite crashed into the Bay of Bengal, don't you?" He sighs heavily. "I'm _soooooo_ disappointed, dear brother. That isn't a good reason to have you committed. You've told me before that there are thousands of impact points around the globe where the same materials are found in abundance."

Robert leans back in the chair once again and shakes his head with solemnity on his face. "The quantity of celestial deposits in the chasm exceeds the collective total of all bolide material discovered across the planet, and neither does a meteorite have the capacity to penetrate the lithosphere _and_ survive, let alone damage the tectonic plate too. Only something of majestic size traveling at an incredible velocity could penetrate the crust to such a depth, and still have enough impetus to rupture the plate in that manner."

Seth's eyes sparkle in astonishment. "You think it was an asteroid, don't you?"

"Well, it fits into the pattern."

"Are you trying to tell me it was something like the one that killed off the dinosaurs?"

Robert takes a deep breath before he imparts a surprising revelation. "It _was_ the same one, except it was much larger than planetologists are saying."

The geophysicist can see the bewilderment in his brother's eyes as he takes a moment to absorb his unexpected disclosure. "But everyone knows the extinction of the dinosaurs was caused by the asteroid that created the Chicxulub crater."

There's a portentous ring in Robert's tone. "Are you sure? Can anyone be certain?"

Seth throws his head back and goes into a fit of hysterical laughter, and while Robert remains unsmiling, he's not angered by the reaction. Fifteen seconds later, Seth wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes. " _Now_ you're getting close to certification. There's never been a mention of an asteroid smashing into the Bay of Bengal that I can recall... at least not one associated to the demise of the lizards."

"Then let me _give_ you a reason to sign the certificate yourself. There were _two_ impacts. The first one slammed into the Bay of Bengal, and the second one crashed into the Yucatán Peninsula a few seconds later."

Seth begins to laugh hard again and rolls his eyes upward. "Oh, pu- _leeease_ , brother. I _love_ the theory, and excuse the pun, but wouldn't the odds of a collision by _two_ huge asteroids seconds apart be astronomical?" The expression on Robert's face remains staid, and his brother's laughter fades. "You're... you're serious, aren't you?"

"Deadly."

"I... I'm sorry," he stammers. "I didn't intend to be denigrating, but I thought you were pulling my pisser."

"I'm not offended," Robert replies with an offhand shrug, "but you are right. It's been sixty-five million years since the last asteroid with the ability to wipe out an entire species smashed into the planet, so the odds of more than one striking a few seconds apart is highly improbable. However, I never said there were two. I'm saying it was the _same_ asteroid."

Seth's eyebrows move closer together, and he gazes back at him with a perplexed expression on his face. "If there was only _one_ , then how did it smash into the Bay of Bengal _and_ the Gulf of Mexico? Did it bounce like a ball?"

It's clear he has drawn his brother in, and he's eager to hear how he can explain this new twist in his theory. "It was shaped something like a dumbbell—two gigantic boulders connected by a narrow bridge of rock, except one end was at _least_ ten times larger than the other, and when it entered the earth's atmosphere, the friction broke them apart at the weakest point."

Seth's eyes light up. " _Ah_ , I'm guessing that would be somewhere on the bridge linking the two bodies together."

_"Now_ you're getting the picture. The heavier section took a more direct trajectory and crashed into the Bay of Bengal, while the smaller and significantly lighter piece flew off on a tangent and struck the Yucatán Peninsula a second or two later." He chooses his words with care, but the excitement in his voice is tangible as he discloses his suppositions. "The larger portion of the asteroid burrowed into the lithosphere and slammed into the Pangaean plate, fracturing it and creating what we now identify as the Australian, Indian, and Eurasian plates when the gigantic seismic upheavals swept across the planet and broke the plate at its weakest points."

There's an inquisitive glint in Seth's eyes. "I thought Pangaea bust apart about two hundred million years ago?"

"According to planetologists, it did, but I wonder if it had _really_ broken up at the time of the collision."

"Is this the Pangaean plate thingy that you mentioned earlier?"

"Yes. When the planetoid crashed to earth and fractured the plate, it also set an exponential acceleration in the continental drift in motion that continued for several millennia before slowing down. I think it's misled scientists, because their calculations are based on a sub-theory that the drift rate has always been uniform and they haven't taken the period where it sped up into consideration. That's how they arrived at the conclusion that the breakup occurred long before it actually did."

Seth takes a sip of whiskey and appears to ponder before he replies. "I suppose the Bay of Bengal is the right shape to be a vestige of an ancient impact crater."

"I suspect it was a massive low-lying region of flat, swampy land with a synonymity to Bangladesh and Myanmar. The sheer size of the asteroid and the force of the collision allowed the Panthalassa Ocean to flow in and submerge the impact zone, which we've failed to detect until now because of its incredible depth."

"Can't you still publish a thesis to your peers, but as a work in progress?"

Robert laughs and shakes his head. "I'll end up like Galilei if I make a controversial claim like that without infallible evidence."

"How could you prove such a presupposition, though?"

"When I get my hands on some cores, I'll be able to analyze the porosity, permeability, and, more important, the mineral extracts to determine the geological age. I can then compare them with samples taken from the Yucatán Peninsula, and if my theory has any substance, the fingerprints at both locations will be identical."

Seth is silent for a moment. "All right, so how do the V-shaped fissure, the ridge, and the swelling tie into all of this?"

"The velocity of the planetoid forced the tectonic plate deep into the upper mantle, and the immense pressure in the asthenosphere caused it to rebound violently, resulting in the two-hundred-kilometer fracture. The plate continued to vibrate fiercely like a gigantic diaphragm for perhaps thirty seconds or more, which shook the crust material and remnants of the asteroid into the abyss and wedging it open before it could close again."

His brother swishes the remainder of the whiskey in his glass over the ice cube. "So why are you suddenly concerned if it's been like that for the past sixty-five million years?"

"You need to comprehend things on a geological time scale to understand the ramifications. One of the experiments carried out by the research vessel was to simulate a small seismic event using explosives so the alacrity of the shockwaves could be measured when they passed through the distensions." Robert sits forward in the chair with a frown on his face. "They slowed down so fast that we know they're filled with a thick fluid."

"Magma? But that shouldn't be any surprise."

Robert nods. "A massive bubble is trapped on each side of the fissure, and the puissance must be incredible to distort the tectonic plate in the way it has. The pressure over millions of years has compressed the material inside the chasm into a solid block, but the differing mineral properties between the wedge and plate rock is so diverse they've failed to bond, and it's formed nothing more than a poor weld."

Seth frowns. "So what association does it have to the ridge?"

"The ridge _is_ the wedge, you ninny! It's getting squeezed out by the intense tensile tension at each end of the rupture."

Robert can tell by Seth's expression that he's finding it difficult to comprehend. "But wouldn't it have been easier to push it out sixty-five million years ago while it was loose rubble rather than wait until it's a compacted block?"

Robert understands his brother's reasoning, but it isn't how the physics involved works. "The walls of the abyss are forty kilometers apart now, but when the fissure was created, the separation would have been something like one hundred twenty kilometers, perhaps more, and the slow buildup of pressure on each side has moved them closer by one or two millimeters a year. The plug became secured by a limiting friction seal, which is beginning to fail and the only way it can go, is up."

"Do you think we'll see an island emerge in our lifetime?"

"Without doubt, but it's something I'd rather not witness." Robert pauses to recall the results of the survey. "The walls are well defined in the sonar image, and owing to its triangular shape, two hundred thousand cubic kilometers of rock is being ejected at an accelerated rate. Unless I've missed something, the one thing it _won't_ do is stop, and it'll rise out of the ocean west of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands within the next decade. Of course, it's going to be a geological gold mine because it'll be the first landmass to form during the Quaternary Period that _isn't_ the result of volcanic activity."

"What's so bad about that?"

"It is how it'll materialize that bothers me. The pressure _may_ continue to squeeze the plug out of the chasm at a steady rate until the gap has closed, which would be the best-case scenario we can hope for, and if perchance it doesn't break up, it will be ten times taller than Mount Everest."

Seth's eyes open wide in amazement, and he gasps. " _Jeee_ -zus, Robert. That'll take the summit into space. Is that even possible?"

"I have no idea if it is, or what the consequences might be if it does, but because the plug resembles an upside-down pyramid, my guess is that it'll get top-heavy and topple. However, it could be at least two-thirds exposed before it becomes too unstable to support itself."

_"Wow!_ That'll be a spectacular sight."

"A very dangerous one, because it'll generate a tsunami unlike anything ever imagined." Seth sits forward with a bewildered look on his face while the geophysicist contemplates over the alternate and more probable sequence of events. "I think it's more likely that the limiting friction seal will fail with very little or no warning, and release the tensile energy stored in the rock at each end of the rift _and_ the pressure in the magma chambers simultaneously. If it does, then the corollary will be explosive because the Australian plate will drag against the tectonic boundaries of the Indian and Eurasian plates and force them to buckle upward."

Seth gawps at him with a look of incredulity on his face for several seconds. "Won't that trigger a major earthquake?"

"Oh, definitely... and it could even be somewhere between a nine and a nine point five." Robert is perturbed and scratches the side of his head. "You know, there _should_ be seismic activity as the rock formation pushes upward, but there isn't anything... not even a whisper—and that concerns me. Nor can I get _any_ of the models on the institute's computers to enact a feasible scenario, which means something vital is missing from the equation and I can't figure out what it is."

"Perhaps it's because something like this has never happened before?"

"We don't know that with unequivocal certainty," Robert replies. "The correct perspicacity would be to say we have no evidence of a prior event with similar characteristics; otherwise, the parameters would be stored in the mainframe."

"Can't you extract some core samples from within the rift itself and do something akin to a biopsy?"

Robert shakes his head. "We don't have the technology to penetrate that deep into the earth's crust. The pressure is simply too great."

The study door opens, and Serita walks in carrying a sterling silver tea tray, and a plate of home-baked biscuits. "I expected to see you two playing chess or something."

He drains the remainder of the whiskey from his glass as Serita sits the refreshments down on the coffee table, and Seth chuckles. " _Nah_ , There isn't enough intellect in chess to stimulate our great minds."

Her eyes open wide in mock astonishment. "Who are _you_ trying to kid?"

Robert glances at his wristwatch before speaking to his sister-in-law. "Are you going to join us? I need to be at work early tomorrow morning, so I can't stay too late."

Serita looks at him with a sparkle in her large, brown eyes. "But of course I am!"

Three more hours of banter and small talk follows before Robert thanks them for a wonderful day and, much later than he intended, he bids farewell.
3

Khao Lak Beach

Khao Lak, Thailand

Coordinates: 08° 37' 49.4" N, 98° 14' 37.2" E

Thursday, December 26, 2019, 0600h

Peter opens his eyes and glances at the clock on the bedside unit. It is 6 a.m. and surprised at how calm and settled he feels, he swings his legs out and sits on the side of the bed. A strange sense of excitement is coursing through his body, but because his fears and apprehensions are not fully quelled, he doesn't want to lie-in and dwell on what the day may hold. The best way to remain positive is to stay occupied.

He shakes the last dregs of sleep from his head, slips his feet into a pair of sandals, and shuffles towards the bathroom to take a shower. Twenty minutes later, he comes back into the room with a bath towel wrapped around his waist, which he drops to the floor to pull on a pair of black socks and boxer shorts. He's still in an upbeat frame of mind, and he hums softly as he crosses the room to the closet and opens the suitcase. He removes a shoebox that contains a pair of highly polished black leather shoes and inspects them for any blemishes that need to be buffed out, and once he's satisfied that he can't improve on the shine he sets them down on the floor. He then brushes the suit, taking meticulous care to eliminate every white speck from the material. His apparel doesn't conform to what people would expect to see anyone wearing on a beach, but today he has a special engagement and he can't imagine he'll be alone.

By seven o'clock Peter is ready to tackle the day head on. He takes a large envelope from his case, and then he pauses in front of the mirror to run a comb through his hair and straighten his tie before leaving his room. He takes the elevator down to the lobby and heads for the shopping hall to find the florist, but the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toasted breakfast bagels drifting on the air is tempting, and he goes on a diversion to search for the source. It leads him to a small café halfway along the mall, and he sits at an outside table and flicks through the breakfast menu. He's not hungry despite having missed supper on the previous evening, but that's probably because of the emotions churning around in his stomach. _Excitement? Apprehension?_ But somewhere beneath the butterflies, he still needs nourishment and an egg sandwich with a mug of tea should hit the spot.

When he is finished, he drops a tip to the server before resuming his original mission. The tiny flower shop is at the far end of the shopping hall, and the musky perfume from a wide variety of freshly cut flowers permeates the air around the entrance. He leaves the store ten minutes later clutching three hand-selected roses—one red and two white—wrapped in gift cellophane.

His heart is pounding as he retraces the path he took with his family in 2004, and he pauses to gain his bearings once he steps onto the sand. A long time has passed, and everything appears different to how he remembers, but after a couple of seconds, he walks over to a spot halfway between the beachhead and the waterline. He's certain this is where he saw Beverly laying the towel on the beach.

Peter squints against the glare of the sun glinting off the surface of the water as he gazes out across the Andaman Sea. A gentle but fresh offshore breeze ruffles his hair, and the semblance is so tranquil that it's hard to imagine the terror that reigned here fifteen years earlier. The golden sands of Khao Lak stretch to either side, and with the exception of an elderly couple standing a hundred yards to his right, the seashore is empty. He's here early because he wants some alone time to reminisce before the other mourners arrive, and while the beach is still open to vacationers who aren't there for the memorial services, there are signposts along the pathway asking them to respect the people gathering to grieve in remembrance.

He sniffs the air, and his nostrils twitch as the evocative fragrance from the roses waft upward on a light wind eddy. They are beautiful, long-stemmed flowers with flawless velvety petals that were harvested at the peak of their bloom hours before he bought them, and while his chest tightens with sadness, it doesn't engulf him as it did when he arrived at the resort. He goes down on one leg. He can feel the sand grains shifting through the material of his trousers as his knee creates an indentation to nestle into, but it's hard to stay focused. Peter lays the envelope on the ground and removes the gift paper from around the flowers with trembling hands, taking care not to prick himself on the sharp thorns. A film of moisture blurs his vision as he pushes the stem of the red rose deep into the sand, and he repeats the process with the white roses, planting them about twelve inches apart on each side of the first bloom.

Peter takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the tears from his eyes before removing a small plastic container from the inside pouch of his jacket, and he opens the hinged lid to reveal three thumbtacks. He places the tiny receptacle on the sand, unseals the flap of the envelope, and three photographs slide out. The seductive blue eyes of his wife stare up from the top picture, and he begins to choke up as he begins to immerse himself in memories ranging from the first time he laid eyes on her, their first date, their wedding day, the births of their daughters... too many to count. He is uncertain how long he was in recall mode, but he pulls himself back to the present with a sigh and flips the exposure over to read the message he penned on the reverse before he left England. "To my beloved wife; I love you, and I miss you." In the bottom right corner, he had added "Beverly Hutchins, age twenty-nine."

He leans forward, props the picture against the red rose, and pushes a thumbtack through the top of the photo to secure it to the stem. He then picks up the second image and holds it in a light grip between his fingers while he gazes at the face of a young girl. She has a cheeky grin that reveals a gap where two upper milk teeth are missing at the front, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, and a small cluster of tiny freckles adorn her cheeks. He smiles with fondness as he recalls how he used to tease her about the "beauty spots _._ " Their GP said they would fade as she grew older, but now he'll never know if the doctor was right. A simple message similar to the one he wrote for Beverly is scribed on the back of the photograph: "Daddy will miss my little cherub always," and as with his wife's photo, he identifies her by name in the bottom corner: "Angela Hutchins, age six." He pins it to one of the white roses.

He repeats the ritual with the exposure of eleven-year-old Kathleen, which he studies with a distant contemplation in his eyes. If only she hadn't turned down the opportunity to accompany him to Kaeng Krung _..._ but he has lived in a world of ifs since the day he returned from the safari. He secures her picture to the stem of the last white rose, and still on one knee, he hangs his head in anguish and his shoulders shake gently as he weeps. "Please forgive me... I'm so, _so_ sorry I wasn't there for you all... so sorry..."

Peter begins to pray, and after several minutes, his guilt seems to be lifting away. He is getting a strange sensation that his family is standing beside him, exuding a sentiment he can't identify. It's neither happy nor sad, yet he feels surrounded by an intrinsic contentment. Are they trying to tell him something, or is his imagination making excuses for his failure to protect them?

His lower back is aching due to the extended period of kneeling on one leg, and he stands up, places his hands on his hips and rotates his spine. He glances at his wristwatch, and he is surprised to see he's been lost in thought for more than an hour. People are beginning to filter onto the seashore, and he realizes that this is the first time he's been among men and women who share the same misery and grief of losing someone close in the disaster. They are all strangers on the shore, but he shares a special spiritual unity with everyone who is on the beach.

His eyes come to rest on a slim female standing about ten feet to his right. Her dark, waist-length hair is billowing out behind her in gentle puffs on the light breeze as she stares out across the Andaman Sea with her head held high, almost in proud defiance. She is dressed in typical apparel worn by the local women from the poorer communities, yet her countenance is not archetypal of a native Thai in spite of her high cheekbones, although he is mildly surprised to see she is clutching a Bible in her left hand. Ninety percent of Thais are Buddhist, but as his eyes roam nonchalantly over her profile, he deduces she probably has Western genes somewhere in her ancestry.

Peter is about to look away when she turns her head, and her blue eyes lock with his. Now he can see her face full on, he realizes she's younger than he first thought—perhaps in her late teens. Her forehead wrinkles into a frown and his face starts burning with embarrassment when he is suddenly conscious as to how disconcerting his stare must be. An uneasy vision flashes into his head as he looks at himself through her eyes. A woman his age might find him attractive, but in her purview, he's merely a creepy old man. He feels the need to apologize.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to gawk at you like that."

She continues to stare at him in silence, and while Peter never had any irreprehensible thoughts or nefarious intentions, he is still ashamed that he allowed something like this to happen on such a sacred spot.

He turns his eyes away and looks out across the calm sea.
4

Fortune Resort Bay Island

Port Blair, South Andaman Island

Coordinates: 11° 40' 35.7" N, 92° 44' 24.7" E

Thursday, December 26, 2019, 1009h

The picturesque Fortune Resort Bay Island, which overlooks the pristine waters of the Bay of Bengal, is constructed in multiple levels from padouk, a red timber found only in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. The structure has a resemblance to typical Nicobari huts, and being one of the more reserved resorts on the island, an air of sophisticated serenity emanates from the buildings and grounds.

The same cannot be said for the three Australian guests from Darwin who checked in at the beginning of the week. Twenty-six-year-old Lloyd Franklin, and his two friends, Sam and Bert, came for what was supposed to be a seven-day fishing trip, but with more partying and barely a sober moment, they still need to cast a line between them.

Determined to go on at least one excursion before returning home, the trio made their way to the docks on the previous afternoon. Most of the boats were prebooked days in advance, so they were lucky to find a local boat owner who was prepared to take them out to fish for black marlin and yellowfin tuna. However, they were required to make an immediate nonrefundable cash payment in full, which included the rental of deep-sea tackle, and while Lloyd knew they were being gouged on the price, his attempts to barter with the skipper was unsuccessful. With that in mind, the three friends promised to forego another night of indulgence and bunk down early, but as the evening wore on, the itch to go on a binge grew harder to ignore. The three young men gathered in Sam's room at eight o'clock, where they made a unanimous decision to amend the pact from no drinking and early-to-bed to a three-drink maximum and tucked in by midnight. Happy with the revision, they set out for a popular bar in the Aberdeen Bazaar district of Port Blair just a stone's throw from the resort, but somewhere along the line, their commitment went seriously awry.

Lloyd opens his eyes. He is lying on top of the bed and except for a sock on his right foot, he is bare-arsed naked. His recollection of the previous night is vague, but with a little persuasion, he begins to evoke snippets that are not necessarily in order of occurrence.

_Did we not get into a brawl with some foreigners?_ _Ah, yes! They were German_.

Bert had been trying to whore with an attractive European chick until her boyfriend took an exception. He can't remember who threw the first punch, but as his memory becomes more transpicuous, he admits they were worthy opponents. It was a damn good scrap until the fun was ruined by Nab Jones who swarmed the tavern like blue honeybees. Sam sent one of the flatfoots sprawling backward with a perfect uppercut, but it was the speed at which his colleagues reacted that was jaw-dropping. At least six burly cops piled on top of his friend and tackled him to the floor even before the victim hit the tiles, and within minutes, he was read his rights, thrown on the booze bus, and hauled off to jail.

Lloyd's own recollection of decking a cop must be an erroneous memory from the past or else he would have woken up in a cell for sure, but how did he get back to the hotel? And what happened to Bert?

His hangover isn't as severe as he deserves, and he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He checks his body, but apart from some minor muscle aches, a bruise on his right thigh, and another on his shoulder, he never suffered any major injuries during the fight.

He yawns, rubs his eyes, and looks around the room. His clothes lie in a trail from the entrance to the bed, an empty liquor bottle and several squashed beer cans litter the top of a small table in one corner, and a once elegant table lantern lies on its side. He accidentally knocked it over while he was in a drunken stupor a couple of nights earlier, and the base broke when it landed on the floor.

Lloyd looks at the clock. He's supposed to be on the dock with his friends in less than an hour, but because Sam was probably charged with assault on a police officer, it's improbable he'll be released until after he appears before a magistrate. This isn't a reason why _he_ should forfeit the fishing expedition, though, and he picks up the telephone to call Bert's room. He pauses with the handset half-raised to his ear and stares at it in awe. The plastic covers for the ear and mouthpiece, and the tiny speaker and microphone that should be behind them are gone, and instead, several wires hang out of the housing at each end.

_Fuck me!_ When did _that_ happen? He replaces the destroyed handset onto its cradle and deliberates for a moment. His iPhone need to be recharged before he can use it, so the only thing left is to knock on his door, but first, he plans to have a shower.

Lloyd gets to his feet and stretches his limbs before reaching for a white bathrobe, which is lying in a crumpled heap on the foot of the bed. Still half-asleep and groggy from the alcohol, he slips his arms into the sleeves as he stumbles over to the french windows, slides them open, and steps onto the wooden balcony where a cool but refreshing sea breeze swirls around his body. The sky is clear, the surface of the ocean is rippled with tiny whitecaps, and the tang of salt in his nostrils is exhilarating. To the east, the tree-covered hills on the northern part of Ross Island peek around the headland, and the waves washing in from the Andaman Sea lap on the shore just yards from the loggia.

He begins a vigorous exercise regimen, starting with shoulder and arm stretches before progressing to a series of squats. He gulps in one deep lungful of ocean air after another, and in less than a minute, the blood is surging through his veins. Because he doesn't have the facilities to perform an anaerobic routine, he finishes the workout with pushups and after fifteen minutes, his body is oxygenated, reenergized, and he is pumped. His gut is telling him that today is going to be a day like no other.

Beads of perspiration are dotted along the tanned skin of his forehead and his chest heaves from exertion as he steps back into the room. He ambles across the floor in towards the shower, and without stopping, he snatches a bath towel from the back of a chair where he'd thrown it on the previous day and flings it over his shoulder.

A loud, ominous creak emanates from the heavy timbers of the hotel's frame, and without warning, the ceiling is ripped open with an explosive crack while the floor buckles upwards with a force so tremendous that he is catapulted up through the gaping hole in the roof at an incredible velocity. He feels the bones in his ankle and knee joints grind and crunch together by the jarring compression, but the searing pain when the powerful jolt dislocates his hips is temporarily blocked by the analgesic effect of endorphins flooding through his body. A massive surge of adrenaline flips his cognitive senses into slow motion and sharpens his acuity as he continues to climb skywards. The bath towel slowly lifts off his shoulder and remains suspended two feet from his head for a couple of seconds before it's whipped away on the wind, and his eyes follow the path of the rectangular piece of linen in stupefaction as it flutters away like a white butterfly.

The island beneath him has suddenly become a living, breathing monster. The blue-white flashes from hundreds of exploding pole-mounted electrical transformers and dozens of fireballs flaring up from ruptured gas lines are quickly extinguished as the ground turns into a seething whirlpool of mangled rock and loam. It appears to have the consistency of a thick paste being churned around by a giant liquidizer, and he gapes in astonishment as entire structures are sucked down into the earth. Within seconds, the bustling city of Port Blair is swallowed up in one hungry gulp.

_What the fuck did I drink last night?_ A persistent but powerful low-frequency rumble barely audible over the earsplitting clamor is vibrating through his body. It's a strange sensation that feels like a million butterflies fluttering inside his stomach, but it's making him nauseous. His brain seems to have also stopped producing the pain-reducing endorphins because the excruciating pain spreading through his lower body is too real for a hallucination, and realizing he'll never survive the fall back to earth, he claws at the air in fright as he begins the downward plummet. The hem of his bathrobe crawls up his legs until the garment is billowing out around his body like a balloon, but it's ineffectual and he is filled with terror at his helplessness.

His eyes are locked on the ground rising up towards him. It has stopped swirling around, and it's now bubbling like a gigantic cauldron sending heavy palls of dust rising into the air. The medulla is still producing excessive levels of adrenalin, so he is able to absorb every frightening detail through the thick haze as a series of incredible geological transformations take place beneath him. A grayscale kaleidoscope of alien landscapes emerges from the depths of the Andaman Sea when trillions of tons of igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic rock are forged into strange and fascinating sculptures that would normally take millions of years to create.

A huge column of stone is thrust up from the depths spewing scalding steam and shedding mud and debris as it pushes skywards, but moments later, a huge abyss opens up beneath Lloyd with a sharp, thunderous crack. An enormous blast of scorching air is expelled from its depths, and the strength of the upsurge arrests his fall so abruptly that it feels like his internal organs are being ripped out. The nerve endings are so overloaded with pain radiating from every point in his body that he's unaware that the blistering temperature is causing the skin on his back, legs, and arms to peel off in blackened strips. He hangs stationary in midair for about five seconds before the sizzling updraft dies a sudden death and he begins to fall again.

Lloyd is paralyzed in fear as he drops into the gaping mouth of the chasm, and the narrow strip of blue sky above is getting smaller as he falls deeper into the bowels of the planet. The luminosity within the fissure is poor, but there's enough radiance for his eyes to detect perpendicular ripples of reflected light and shadows that intertwine, sway, and dance with each other, and it takes a moment for him to realize he's looking at a prodigious wall of water thousands of feet tall. It is being channeled by the walls of the enormous aperture as it surges towards him, but before the deadly deluge reaches him, there's another gargantuan explosion that ruptures his eardrums. His body quivers in torturous agony from the fierce vibrations as the massive sound waves reverberate back and forth between the vertical walls of the chasm. An enormous pillar careens up from the murky depths and smashes into his spine with a sickening crack as the abyss collapses inward, and in just sixty seconds on a day like no other, Lloyd Franklin is crushed into a bloody gelatinous pulp deep within the earth's crust.
5

Institute of Seismological Research

Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India

Coordinates: 23° 12' 52.7" N, 72° 39' 35.5" E

Thursday, December 26, 2019, 1031h

Dr. Robert Andrews is browsing through the seismic activity report for the previous day. There were thousands of minor quakes scattered around the globe, and he notes that a larger-than-average cluster was recorded off the northern Sumatran coast. However, as it's one of the most dynamic zones in the world on any given day, he doesn't consider it as being too significant.

He raises his head and looks through the toughened glass partition dividing his office from the main control center. It gives him an unobstructed view of a map of the world, which is permanently displayed on a massive, twenty-by-seven meter high-definition LED monitor on the back wall. The mainframe is linked to thousands of seismological entities around the planet who share information in real time via satellite and cable, and the intelligence gathered from their sensors enable it to triangulate the location of the epicenter, hypocenter, measure the magnitude, and a surfeit of important statistics. It can take anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes to analyze and compile a report, dependant on a number of factors like distance and strength, plus the incoming data is certain to be contaminated with a diverse range of man-made clutter emulating seismic waves. Underground detonations by mining companies, fracking, and even pile drivers on construction sites carry unique markers that are identified and filtered out by the computer to produce a purer image of the seism, and then the custom software converts the magnitude to a color gradient before projecting a visual indicator onto the map at the location of the epicenter. Concentric rings shift down through the spectrum as they radiate out from the center, allowing the seismologists to determine at a glance the intensity at any point within the quake's radii. The gamut starts with light yellow at the lowest end of the array and the hue darkens in one-tenth increments until it reaches orange for a level three, red at six, and purple for the rarer nine point oh. A Klaxon alerts the staff whenever a magnitude six or greater is detected by emitting a shrill, one-second pulse every two seconds.

The mainframe was updated in 2017, giving the system the ability to calculate the estimated damage at any given location based on local construction codes and structure types with surprising accuracy. This allows it to prioritize triage levels and direct rescue services to where immediate assistance is likely required, and to facilitate a more rapid response to isolated regions. The program was more successful than expected, and it proved its effectiveness within the first six months of implementation.

There is a light knock on the door, and Robert looks up to see the tall, skinny figure of the institute's finance minister through the glass. He invites him to enter with a hand signal.

"Good morning, Dr. Andrews. How was your Christmas?"

"It was pleasant, thank you. I trust your week off was as good?"

Daksha Bhatnagar is Hindu, so Christmas Day is a secular holiday that falls on the last day of Pancha Ganapati, a five-day celebration in honor of Lord Ganesha that he observes each year. "Indeed, it was," he replies, and he hands over a manila folder with a smile. "Your application to finance the rift project has been approved."

Robert is thrilled with the news and his eyes light up as he opens the cover. "I couldn't have expected a better Christmas present. Are there any restrictions?"

"The board recognizes that the idiosyncrasies of both events are related, but they stipulate that the expansion beneath the lithosphere _must_ be the chief focus of the assignment."

Robert isn't bothered by the mild limitation, because if the ridge is coupled to the distortion as he suspects, it'll be impossible to keep the two separated. "I can live with that."

"I thought you would," Daksha says. "They've granted the full amount you requested, and further funds may be available if necessary."

He is surprised because it's irregular to leave a venture like this fiscally open-ended, but it indicates that someone is equally concerned and trusts his purview. However, it also means he'll be expected to produce substantive results to keep their benefactors satiated.

Robert glances through the documentation before he turns his attention back to the thirty-year-old. "Excellent work, Daksha. This is an urgent project and we can't afford any delays, so I'll go through the paperwork and finalize the agreement before the end of the day."

"If you tell me who you're going to appoint as the expedition principal, I can pull their file and begin negotiations on the insurance policies."

Robert gazes subconsciously at the finance officer. The tan skin on his slightly hollowed cheeks is baby-smooth, and in spite of a neatly trimmed black Van Dyke, he has the youthful appearance of a twenty-year-old. "You can put me down as the primary, but I intend to assign Mahesh Pawar as the field leader."

"Mahesh?" Daksha is clearly surprised. "Do you think he's ready for the responsibility?"

While Robert acknowledges the twenty-eight-year-old seismologist's adventurous nature, his strong leadership skills, discipline, and safety awareness put him at the top of the shortlist, and he defends his nominee with firm pragmatism. "He's shown more interest in the Bay of Bengal than any of the other geologists, he knows the type of research that needs to be done through our numerous discussions on the subject, and he follows orders and protocol without prejudice. That makes him an ideal candidate in my opinion."

"That may be so, but I have to convince the underwriters, and his lack of field experience will be a concern. They'll want supporting evidence to verify his aptitude to make fast and well-calculated decisions in an emergency, especially when lives are in involved."

"You know me well enough to understand I'd never endorse someone if I had one iota of doubt about their abilities. I should also point out that the captain is liable for the welfare of the crew while they're on the vessel and Pawar would only be accountable for personnel if they leave the ship, like a manned operation in the submersible, but the nature of this expedition won't necessitate the employment of outboard operations."

Daksha shrugs as if in resignation. "All right, I'll see what I can do to get him through, but his inexperience may push the premium up. I also need a list of the scientists who'll be under his supervision and the agencies they'll be representing."

"I'll discuss that with Mahesh. As leader of the expedition, I want him to select the team he feels most comfortable with."

Daksha leaves and Robert slides the folder to one side and reaches for the telephone to call his nominee into his office, but his action is interrupted by a violent jolt and the room begins to roll like a ship on a heavy swell. Papers and equipment slide across the surface of his desk and fall to the floor, and he can hear the shrill pulse of the Klaxon blaring out over the stentorian rumble resounding through the building. Based on field experience, he estimates the magnitude to be around five point four, but it's at least a six at the epicenter because it triggered the alarm.

The initial surprise dissipates quickly and his outward appearance is one of calmness, but an earthquake in this particular sector is such a rare event that his excitement is still elevated. The institute is constructed to higher-than-average standards guaranteed to withstand an eight point oh for a minimum of ninety seconds, which places it in the top five safest structures in the world.

Robert is puzzled. He is familiar with the mineral properties and the geological structure across this part of the continent, but he isn't aware of any faults close to Gandhinagar that could produce a quake of this strength—unless a previously undiscovered seam has suddenly become active. The nearest location where a major earthquake is likely to occur is along the boundary of the Indian and Eurasian plates, but its 630 kilometers to the northwest and they shouldn't even feel a small tremor.

When there's no sign of abatement after thirty seconds, he stands up carefully and stumbles over to the door. The safety of his staff is always his top priority, and he pauses to support himself against the doorframe while he looks around the control center. The rows of fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceiling are swaying wildly, and the scientists and interns are trying to stop the equipment from sliding off the desks. No one appears to be hurt, and he glances over at the bank of fifteen heavy-duty printers against the wall at the far end of the room. They are firmly secured to the countertop for this exact reason.

The shaking is constant, neither increasing nor diminishing in strength, and the lights begin to flicker at one minute in. A simulation of an electrical blackout is executed once a month to test the emergency power system, but this is the first time the fail-safe technology has been utilized during an actual earthquake. Sensors around the building measure the intensity versus time, and the generator kicks in when the threat level reaches 70 percent. A complete outage would be catastrophic because they'd lose sextillions of gigabytes of data of the event in progress that could never be recovered.

He is getting irritated by the shrill sound of the Klaxon, but it isn't until the quake is coming up to its fourth minute that he beckons to Mahesh. "Can you get someone to turn that damn alarm off?"

Robert glances around the center as the seismologist stumbles off towards the main control panel, and his gaze settles on twenty-year-old Nawal Tambe who is standing a few yards to his right. She is a junior that he recommended for advanced training a fortnight before Christmas, and he's alarmed when he sees the fear in her large brown eyes as they dart back and forth like a wild animal cornered by a predator. Concerned she'll panic and perhaps try to run out of the building, he sidles up to her taking care not to lose his balance and places his lips close to her ear. "It's safer to stay in here than it is to go outside. It'll be over in a few more seconds."

The last sentence is spoken with a wisp of optimism. A typical trembler lasts for ten to thirty seconds, and while a nine point oh can rattle on for up to five minutes, an earthquake of that magnitude only occurs on a subduction zone. However, it's obvious that something unusual is happening, and his anxiety is increasing as it continues to rumbles with no sign of easing for another forty-five seconds. The shaking comes to an abrupt stop with a loud bang and a jolt so violent it throws Robert to the floor. He slams his left arm against the corner of a desk as he grabs at it in a frantic attempt to arrest his fall. Computer monitors, keyboards, and other desktop equipment crash to the ground—then absolute silence.

He picks himself up and looks around. It appears that everyone in the center was flung to the floor too, and he calls out in a loud voice. "Is anyone hurt?"

There is no reply, but the room is coming back to life with much rustling and some grunting as the staff pulls themselves back to their feet. The atmosphere is electric, and they glance among each other in silence with bewildered expressions on their faces. The hypnotic tenor is broken a few seconds later when more than a dozen printers whirr simultaneously into life. There are no protocols in place for a situation like this, so he is surprised at the coordinated response by the interns and juniors who scramble to pick up the equipment and reposition the desks, while the seniors rush over to their terminals and prepare to interpret the reams of data being disseminated by the mainframe.

The Klaxon goes off again, and someone shouts out. "We have another one."

"It's probably an aftershock," another voice calls back. "You can mute that noise now we're all on full alert."

Robert waits until the alarm has been silenced before he walks into the center of the room and repeats his previous question in a loud voice. "Is anyone hurt?" This time he gets a response, and once he's satisfied that no one is injured, he turns his attention to the map on the giant monitor. He's waiting for the computer to reveal the location of the epicenter, but the processors are taking longer than usual to evaluate the data, and he is growing more apprehensive as the seconds tick into minutes.

Twenty-two-year-old Hiranmaya Singh walks over to the printer bank and begins to read a document while it's still printing in a loud but slow, precise, and clear voice. "The epicenter is at eleven degrees, twenty-nine minutes, and twenty-seven point two six eight three arcseconds north; ninety degrees, twenty-six minutes, and twenty-two point seven two seven four arcseconds east. Energy release at the hypocenter is four hundred and fifty gigatons."

He makes a quick calculation in his head before he glances in her direction. "It's four-fifty _megatons_ , which is close to a magnitude nine."

Hiranmaya hesitates before she contradicts him in a firm voice. "No. It says here that it's four hundred and fifty _giga_ tons. The hypocenter is in the Bay of Bengal, two hundred forty-nine kilometers west of the Andaman Islands."

She barely finishes the sentence when a solid circle is projected onto the map at the coordinates she just announced, and Robert stares in astonishment at the animation of the seismic event formulated from the incoming data. An earthquake registering in the purple spectrum is a rare event—there have only been two since the institute opened in 2003—but he's perturbed by the strength of the shockwaves. The darker eggplant shade of the concentric rings pulsating away from the epicenter are too high in the continuum—somewhere close to 12 on the Richter scale—which is absurd, because a seism's magnitude is commensurate to the length of the fault line, and there are no faults on the planet long enough to precipitate a 10 or greater. The gradual coalescence from dark to a lighter hue of purple evinces the declining intensity as the waves expand away from the source, but their potency is enduring. They still have the dynamism of a magnitude 9 when they slam into the eastern seaboard of the Indian subcontinent to the west, north into Bangladesh, Bhutan, Nepal, and Western China, and east and northeast across Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, and Southern China. It has weakened to a 5.6 by the time it rolls through Gandhinagar more than two thousand miles northwest of the epicenter, and it continues to wane as it traverses Pakistan into Afghanistan. It isn't until they are moving through Iran before they finally drop below magnitude 3.

Robert stares at the giant monitor in stupefaction as he strives to comprehend what kind of insuperable forces could execute such a prodigious event. The red and purple bands are the high-risk zones, and while attributes such as the hypocenter's depth, magnitude, and the geological structure of the terrain are factors that determine its range, they are typically between fifteen and thirty-two thousand square kilometers. The disaster area in the animation is so vast that it'll take hours for the computer to compile the triage report, and he makes a quick mental calculation before concluding that it covers an area of more than 15 million square kilometers. The enormous circumference sweeps through more than a dozen countries, which is going to be an overwhelming challenge for the crisis management team when they try to coordinate the search and rescue operations. They won't have the resources to dispatch enough first responders to the thousands of villages, towns, and cities that'll be prioritized as critical in the pending triage list.

Hiranmaya's voice drifts across the room. "Magnitude, Richter scale, eleven point four."

An uneasy hush descends over the operations center, and everyone turns to stare at her in astonishment. Robert strides over to the printer, tears the report off, and his jaw sags in bewilderment as he reads it. The characteristics are so abnormal that he wonders if the extended shaking caused the mainframe to malfunction, yet he's troubled because the coordinates of the epicenter are at the exact location of the rift. Is it possible that an upward slippage of the wedge could produce such a powerful earthquake?

A purple marker appears in Pakistan, and Hiranmaya reads from a report printing on another unit. "A nine point seven is in progress east of Lahore."

An intern is busy loading vellum into one printer after another as they chatter incessantly, spitting out reams of valuable information, and she calls out over her shoulder. "I need someone to go down to the stockroom and bring more paper up... _lots_ of paper."

Five purple and one red marker begin flashing in rapid succession, and Robert whispers to himself in astonishment. "What the fuck is happening?"

Hiranmaya continues with a running commentary. "There are three more earthquakes in Indonesia—nine point seven, nine point four, and _another_ nine point seven. Bandar Abbas in Iran is registering an eight point nine, and there's a nine point three in the Arabian Sea... and... oh _wow_... there's a bunch more going down."

The intern maintaining the printers calls out again. "I need a new ink cartridge on number seven."

Robert is mesmerized and continues to gape in silence at the purple and red markers rippling out across the map. Two large quakes register almost simultaneously to the south and northeast of Japan, followed by more across the Philippines, and moments later, an amazing streak of more than forty earthquakes with magnitudes of between eight and nine curves down through the African rift valley. They start to the east of Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, run down through the borders of Uganda, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Tanzania, Zambia, Malawi, and Mozambique before moving into the Southern Ocean toward Antarctica.

He recalls an infamous debate he had with his brother some years earlier, and the one thing he told Seth could _never_ occur might actually be taking place. It's only speculation, but whatever just happened in the Bay of Bengal has unleashed an inconceivable amount of energy—great enough to dislodge the Australian plate and smash it into the Indian and Eurasian plates. The rebound is causing the continental and oceanic tectonics to nudge into each other, triggering a sequential reaction along the convergent boundaries as it expands outwards from the initial event. The dynamism of such a feat is straight out of the Archaean eon when titanic events of this stature were commonplace.

A caveat flashes in large red letters along the top of the map when a tsunami was detected, and Robert is getting concerned because no warning is being displayed. The probability that a seism of this magnitude has spawned a deadly surge of water racing across the bay is too high to ignore, and he turns to Hiranmaya. "Miss Singh, can you check to see if there's a reason why we don't have a tsunami alert?"

He waits while she pulls the data up from one of the computers. "There's no signal, Dr. Andrews. The log shows that the oceanic flow sensors went dead at ten thirty-two."

Robert looks at Mahesh in alarm. "Issue an _immediate_ warning for every coastline in the bay. This is going to make the one back in 2004 look like a mere ripple." He pauses to glimpse at the monitor and decides to amend his instructions. "Change that—publish a worldwide alert instead."

He looks back at the map as Mahesh walks off. Many of the red and purple markers are packed so close together that the rings are overlapping as they ripple away from their source, but now it's introducing a new and unknown set of values into the equation. Seismic shockwaves travel through the earth at speeds of 28,800 kilometers per hour, and there is no illusion in his mind that the destructive force engendered when they collide into each other may be deadlier than an actual earthquake.

He feels the vibration of his iPhone in his pocket, and he checks to see whom the caller is. The display is showing Prime Minister Sengupta, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance because he doesn't want to take any inquiries until he's able to provide more substantive information other than the basic facts. He opens the connection and answers with feigned politeness. "Good morning, sir."

It is clear that Runjit has no time for civilities, and his response is direct and snappy. "We've just had an earthquake in New Delhi. What can you tell me about it?"

"Not too much at present, but I _can_ report that it's an eleven point four, originating in the Bay of Bengal two hundred forty-nine kilometers west of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands."

The astonishment in Runjit's voice is incontrovertible. "Eleven point _four_... are you _sure_?"

He replies with a dry cynicism in his voice. "Of _course_ I'm sure. Although seismic waves travel anisotropically, the propagation velocity was so strong that it would have been felt in most places up to a minimum distance of five thousand six hundred kilometers around the epicenter. That's as far north as central southern Russia; east across China _and_ the Koreas, and even Western Australia and parts of the Northern Territory would have noticed a slight tremor."

A long silence ensues before the prime minister speaks in a subdued voice. "What level of destruction can we expect?"

"I can't begin to speculate, sir. I'm still waiting for the triage reports, but there's little doubt that everywhere within a twenty-two thousand kilometer proximity is in the high-risk zone. The Andaman and Nicobar Islands are so close to the epicenter that the destruction there will be colossal... and the number of fatalities will be phenomenal."

"I suppose we should be lucky it happened in the bay and not on the mainland."

"I wouldn't be so presumptuous. I think there's an extremely dangerous tsunami heading for every coastline around the bay."

"I _think?_ What's _that_ supposed to mean? We've spent _millions_ on current flow sensors, so I'd prefer to hear you say it with more positivity."

Robert is unperturbed by the prime minister's attitude and replies in an even tone. "Sir, I understand your frustration, but it's plausible that an earthquake of this scale has disabled the cables. We need to concern ourselves with minimizing the risks before it's too late, and for now, that means evacuating everyone on the eastern seaboard to higher elevations—the higher, the better. We can figure out why it failed afterward—and I can't be more specific than that."

Runjit hesitates before speaking in a calmer tone. "Communications with the government facilities on the islands are down, so can you at least advise me whether I should order the air force to send a reconnaissance flight down there?"

The question surprises Robert, and he wonders if the prime minister is getting confused with whom he is talking too. "With due respect, that's not my call to make, but I think it's an excellent idea given the circumstances." He takes a moment to contemplate. "If you do send a plane, can you get someone to call me with an eyewitness report?"

_"If_ I remember," Runjit replies gruffly.

The seismologist becomes indignant by his blunt response. "You're quick to demand information, Mr. Sengupta, yet you're unwilling to help me obtain anything that could be of substantive value." He pauses. "I have tons of data coming in, so I'll get back to you once I've had a chance to analyze it."

"Then don't take too long."

Robert, unfazed by the prime minister's rudeness, replaces the handset before speaking to one of the senior technicians. "Kumar, I need you to set up a satellite pass over the Bay of Bengal. I want an all-spectrum exposure of the Andaman and Nicobar group through to the coordinates of the epicenter."

The scientist acknowledges with a nod, and Robert turns his attention back to the main screen. There are so many red and purple ripples on the map that it's impossible to distinguish one seismic event from another. Innumerable earthquakes from Turkey to Fiji, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, and New Zealand continue to rattle across the Pacific Ocean towards the US and South American west coasts, and into western Russian with magnitudes ranging between seven point five and eight point nine.

Hiranmaya calls to get his attention. "Dr. Andrews..."

"Yes, Miss Singh?"

"We're recording possible aftershocks of eight point six to nine point seven at the location of the first event, but they're kind of weird."

"How so?"

"They're either too frequent, or multiple quakes are happening simultaneously because the computer is unable to separate them and the reports are coming back as inconclusive."

"It could be both. Collate the data and log everything like always. I'll take a look at it as soon as I can."

Mahesh reenters the room and gestures toward the main monitor with a baffled expression on his face. "Is it even _possible_ for the plates to jostle into each other like that?"

"Do you think that's what's happening?"

Mahesh hesitates. "Objectively, nothing else makes sense, but..." He trails off and looks at Robert with a thoughtful glaze in his eyes. "A tectonic collision is the only thing that could manufacture a huge event like this, yet..." Robert inclines his head inquiringly and waits for him to finish, but he is clearly struggling to expound on his remark. "Well—"

Robert cuts him off in a lowered voice. "I suggest you keep any conjectures you have to yourself unless you can back them up with hard data."

"Including you, Dr. Andrews?"

He smiles at the young seismologist. "I'm the exception."

Robert turns away from Mahesh and addresses the room in a loud voice. "May I have your attention for a moment?" He pauses and waits for everyone to stop what he or she is doing before he continues. "Until we know what's going on, _no_ one talks to the media. All press releases will be approved by me and conveyed through an authorized spokesperson for the institute. Is that understood?" They affirm with okays and yeses. "This is going to keep you all busy for the foreseeable future, but if you come across _anything_ unusual, skip protocols and alert me immediately. Thank you."

He looks back at Mahesh and speaks to him in a quiet voice. "Come to my office. You and I need to have a little chat."
6

Khao Lak Beach

Khao Lak, Thailand

Coordinates: 08° 37' 49.4" N, 98° 14' 37.2" E

Thursday, December 26, 2019, 1033h

Peter is staring out across the Andaman Sea with a vacant expression in his eyes as he tries to envisage a giant wave bearing in toward the coast. _Did Beverly see it and understand its significance? Did she gather the girls together in a panic and try to escape, or was she mesmerized by the spectacle without apprehending the danger until it was too late? Perhaps she had been lying on the sand, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her body, oblivious of the peril they were in_... but he will never know the answers to these questions.

His heart leaps into his throat when a terrific bang resounds all around him, and the beach is tugged from under his feet in one violent movement. He lands hard on his buttocks several yards from where he was standing but continues to skate along the sandy terrain, sliding to a stop just two feet from the paving that runs along the beachhead. The ground is shaking fiercely, bouncing him up and down so hard by at least fifteen inches that it's all he can do to prevent himself from being flung sideways each time the ground slams into his bottom. Millions of sand grains are hovering about a foot off the surface like a fuzzy, golden fog, and confused and disorientated, he tries to get to his feet. However, Mother Nature is tenacious and he is forced to surrender after several failed attempts.

The powerful earthquake continues to throw him around like a rag doll, and he glances around with wild, panicky eyes. The palm trees along the beachhead are swaying aggressively, and as scared, small, and vulnerable as he feels, logic tells him that the open seashore is the safest place to be. The persistent shaking is starting to make him feel ill, and he locks eyes with the young woman who was also propelled up the beach. The thunderous rumble is too vociferous to engage in a tête-à-tête, but the level of terror on her face for someone who should be accustomed to seismic upheavals makes him uneasy. Perhaps it's something that can't be habituated, but if that was the case, why would people choose to live in a place where they're under the constant threat of violent disturbances.

The shaking goes on for more than four minutes, and he is wondering if it will ever stop when it comes to an abrupt end with a tremendous bang and a massive jolt that sends him hurtling feet first toward the water. Peter locks his knees to keep his legs rigid while he digs the heels of his shoes into the sand in a frantic effort to arrest his momentum, but the forward movement turns them into a pair of vaulting poles. His body flips up and over, and the wind is knocked out of his lungs as he lands hard on his stomach and slithers to a stop.

He lies with his eyes closed, gasping for air and thankful that his life had been somehow been spared when he hears a female voice speaking in English.

"Are you hurt, mister?"

He opens his eyes. The young woman is kneeling close to him, and while her accent is typical for Thai's in this region, he's surprised at how lucid her speech is. He slowly rolls onto his back and sits up. He is shaken and his buttocks are burning from the constant slapping, but that seems to be the extent of his injuries. "I think I'll live. What about you?"

"I'm okay."

Peter clambers to his feet and dusts the sand from his jacket and trousers. "I'll be happy not to go through something like that again... ever."

Their paths of travel are marked by two long scars gouged into the sand. The young girl gets up from the ground, and still clutching the Bible in one hand, she shakes the golden-brown grains from her long dress with the other. "I never feel one so hard like this before. Soon I think there is another."

He is alarmed at the inference. "I hope you're wrong."

"When we get a big one like this, there are always more, but they're not so bad most of the time. In Thai, we call it rathụk, but I don't know the English word."

"Aftershock?"

She shrugs. "I'm not sure if this is it or not."

Peter finishes brushing the sand off his clothes and he is straightening his tie when she points to something behind him. "Oh, it falls."

He turns to look. The shaking has uprooted the roses and photographs, which are lying on the beach and partially buried in the sand just four yards from where he's standing. He is mildly puzzled because the waves are lapping less than three feet from the shrine. The waterline was two hundred yards out prior to the earthquake, but he dismisses it as insignificant and walks over to the desecrated memorial. He goes down on one knee to rebuild it, and as he pairs the red rose with Beverly's picture once again, he is distracted by a shadowy movement in the periphery of his eye. Peter looks around to see the girl laying the bible on the ground before kneeling next to him.

"The flowers are beautiful," she says in a soft voice, and leaning forward, she lifts a white rose up and the photograph of Kathleen. "I help you."

Peter is not proprietorial in general, but her proximity and actions are making him uneasy regardless of how gracious her intentions might be. The shrine is his sacred plot, and he aims to protect its inviolability until it's washed away by the incoming tide, but he doesn't want to come across as unsympathetic or make her feel embarrassed either. He is about to speak when an odd expression on her face causes him to hesitate. She is staring at the image of his eldest daughter, and he watches as she turns the exposure over to read the dedication on the reverse before she lays the bloom and the photo on top of the Bible. She picks up the photograph of Angela, and a tiny smile appears on her lips as she scrutinizes the face of his youngest before she leans forward to look at the picture of Beverly, which is still in his hand. She emits a loud gasp and shuffles around on her knees until she is kneeling directly in front of him, and while there's a profound sadness deep within her blue eyes, they slowly sweep back and forth over his face with child-like innocence. Peter is growing more uncomfortable at the unexpected attentiveness, but it becomes too intimate when she raises her right hand, touches his left cheek just below the eye, and lightly draws her fingertips down past the corner of his mouth. He reaches up with one hand, curls his fingers around her tiny wrist, and gently pulls it away, but she continues to gaze into his eyes without flinching. An intuitive inner sense is telling him not to say anything and wait for her to talk first, and when she finally breaks her silence, her voice is soft and timid, almost like she's afraid to speak.

"I see your face, and I think I know you from somewhere."

It's obvious to Peter that she's confusing him with someone else. "We've _never_ met before. I didn't arrive in Thailand until yesterday."

She glances at Beverley's image. "I see this picture, and I know this woman." She then gestures with one hand to Kathleen's photo, "... and I know this woman too."

Peter is empathetic. He can relate to her predisposition because even to this day, he'll see someone who looks like his wife or one of his daughters from afar, only to be disappointed when he gets closer. "These are photographs of my wife and daughters, and they're... and they've been..." He's unable to say the word "dead," and he takes a deep breath before rephrasing the sentence. "I haven't seen them for fifteen years."

She cups both hands over his cheeks and moves her face closer to his. The muscles around the corners of her mouth and lips are quivering with emotion, and her eyes are starting to water as she speaks to him in a soft whisper. "Daddy..."

The hair on the nape of his neck bristles and a chill sweeps through his body. She is forcing him to look into her eyes by keeping a firm hold on his face, and a tear begins to track its way down the corner of her nose and right cheek. "I... am... Angela."

It's near to impossible to control the sudden surge of emotion flooding into his chest, and while he wants to believe her, he is wary and errs on the side of caution. She doesn't look old enough to be his daughter, but as she has just seen pictures of his family, it could be an attempt to prey on his susceptibility to satisfy her own perversions. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one." She seems to understand why he's asking the question because she offers additional information in an apparent effort to convince him of their biological relationship. "I forget too many things, but my home number is eighty-two..." and she smiles. "Rosie is my friend... she lives next door. And grandma's name is Kathleen like my sister... oh, and my birthday is December sixth."

_She couldn't know all that unless_...

In spite of the ordeal he's suffered since 2004, there has never been a moment in Peter's life when every sentiment a human body can experience converges into one single instant. The high cheekbones she inherited from Beverley give her an Asiatic appearance, although the shape and color of her eyes are uncharacteristic of anyone from this part of the world. Yet how should he have recognized her? She has blossomed from the little girl he knew into the young woman kneeling in front of him. Peter always refused to believe that his family had perished in the tsunami, but he never imagined they'd discover each other again in the last place where they saw each other.

Angela leans forward and buries her face into his chest. Numb, and unable to focus, he stares over her shoulder in bewilderment, but seconds later, he loses equability and begins to weep shamelessly. However, questions are starting to mount in his head as he clings to her trembling body. How is it the Thai authorities never identified who she was, or attempted to reunite her with family or relatives? She was old enough to tell them her name, her nationality—and she even knew her address.

Peter sits back on his heels and studies her face through a veil of tears. "Mum... and Kathleen?" He can read the answer in her eyes before she speaks, and his optimism quickly fades.

"Mummy and my sister are with God; this I know. I remember you and Mummy and Kathleen's face as a picture in my head, but I think you are in heaven too until I see your face today. It's in this moment that I know the big water never took you."

"I wasn't here when it happened... don't you remember? I went to the rainforest at Kaeng Krung."

She hesitates, but he can tell by her vague expression that she has no recollection. "I don't know. I can only see you on the beach with Mummy." A tiny smile forms on her lips. "You kiss her, and I think you love her very much."

Peter has never forgotten the last time he and Beverley osculated, and a wave of grief sweeps through him. "Yes, I did, and I love you and Kathleen too. I've missed all of you more than you can ever imagine." Angela takes hold of his hands as he continues to explain. "I was on the plane when the tsunami hit, and I didn't know about it until three days later."

"What's a tsunami?"

"That's what the big water is called."

"Oh!" and she repeats the word slowly. "Tsu...na...mi."

He's still in a state of shock and disbelief, and a short silence ensues before he speaks again. "Why didn't you say something to me when you came onto the beach?"

"I don't know if it's you for sure," and she bespeaks with one hand at the memorial, "... but when I look at the pictures, I understand. I come here every year and say a prayer to God for you, Mummy, and my sister." Angela places an open palm over her heart. "It makes me feel good in here when I do this." She falls quiet for a few moments with a pensive look in her eye. "My Thai mother and father always bring me to this place until I'm older to come by myself."

She seems to be choosing her words carefully when she refers to her adoptive parents, but it stirs up an invidious resentment in Peter and it takes several seconds of rationalization to exercise control over an ugly emotion to which he is unaccustomed. He only has himself to blame, because it is likely they would've been reunited years ago if he'd had the courage to return sooner. But now he's a stranger in her world, and whether he likes it or not, her surrogate parents are a major part of her life. There can be no doubt that they genuinely believed her to be the sole survivor of an entire family, and logic dictates he should feel indebted to a couple who assumed a paternal role. Thailand is rife with child exploitation and human trafficking, and she could easily have met with a more abhorrent fate and no one would've ever known.

"Your Thai mother and father..." but he trails off. He has no jurisdiction over her guardianship since she turned eighteen, and he's afraid her roots may have grown so deep that she may not want to return with him to England. He is uncertain as to how well he could handle the rejection if she declines.

Angela's voice is soft, almost soothing. "My Thai parents are good to me. Chai Charoen was their daughter who was six when her auntie brings her to the beach. They were sad when the big water takes her away, and they were still looking for her when they found me." She pauses, and more tears well up in her eyes. "I was hurt, and they help me to get better again. They say that Siddhārtha Gautama couldn't bring their daughter back, but he shows them where to find me to heal their grief." She gives his hands a squeeze of reassurance in a manner that reminds him of Beverly. "They give me much aid for my life and teach me not to forget my real mummy and daddy." _This is going to be so fucked up_ , Peter thinks to himself as Angela continues to speak. "When I'm finished with my prayers on the beach, I always bring flowers to Mummy and talk to her."

He is puzzled by her last remark. "What do you mean?"

"My Thai parents made her a special box to sleep in and put it in the ground behind my church."

Peter is overcome with emotion. They had kept her real family alive in spirit and soul, which is an honorable gesture in itself, but he chokes back the tears when he learns they had also given Beverley a proper burial place. "Is it at a Buddhist temple?"

"No. _They_ pray to Buddha but tell me my God is different and I should always revere my own deity." She lays her hand on top of the Bible. "They bought this for me because they think it would help to heal my spiritual wounds."

_Why did Buddhists bring her up as a Christian instead of converting her faith?_ Peter's respect for the couple he has yet to meet is deepening.

She inclines her head to one side. "Would you like to come with me to see Mummy?"

"Of _course_ I do!" He had worried so much how today would play out, but this is beyond anything he could ever have envisaged. "Does Kathleen have a grave too?"

"What's a grave?"

"It's where Mummy is, the place where you take her flowers."

She bites her lower lip, and her eyes grow distant and watery. "I like to think Kathleen is alive somewhere like me, but I think this is not so."

An awkward silence follows, and he places a hand over hers. "We'll ask the church to put a memorial for Kathleen beside Mummy so there's a special place to bring her flowers too."

She gives him a weak smile. "That would be nice."

"And by the way, your sister and your grandma don't have the same name."

Angela's expression becomes solemn and her eyes open wide in astonishment. "I remember it wrong?"

"Not really. Her name is Katherine—and she's going to be _so_ happy to see you again." Peter hesitates. "We'll go to the British Embassy and make arrangements to get you a new passport tomorrow, and then you'll be able to come back to England with me." He is nervous and holds his breath in anticipation, but he vows not to get dramatic if she declines. Even a small bout of insensitivity could drive a wedge between them if he isn't careful, and he might end up losing her trust forever.

"I cannot do this."

Peter is stunned. In spite of his pledge not to react negatively, it's more difficult to manage his emotions in the moment of truth and he's unable to control the tremble in his voice. "Why not?"

A smile breaks across her teat-strewn face. "I'll come one day soon, I promise, but I can't leave my family. I'm married... and you have a grandson."

Peter did not foresee this dynamic, and he gawps at her in astonishment. His giggly six-year-old daughter has transmogrified into an adult _and_ a mother, and he is struggling to come up with a suitable response. " _Um_... _uh_ , congratulations! Why didn't you bring them here with you?"

"He's only three months old. My husband says he's too young to come this year, so he stays home to care for him. I take you to meet them after we talk with Mummy. Would you like to?"

"Of course... of _course!_ " He hesitates. "What's his name?"

"Chatri. In English, it is meaning 'brave knight.'"

The ground starts shaking again, and while it's far less violent than the previous earthquake, Peter is still alarmed. He glances at his daughter, who appears calm and unafraid, and he wishes he could feel as fearless. It rumbles on for forty-five seconds before fading out.

"I tell you another will come, but there will be lots more," Angela says. "There always is."

"I think that's what they call an aftershock," Peter says. He turns his attention back to the shrine and reattaches Beverly's image to the stem of the red rose while Angela pins her sister's photo to the peduncle of the white flower. This time he doesn't object to her involvement, and after completing the task, she sits back on her legs and points to the two exposures.

"I want to take the picture of Mummy and Kathleen when I leave."

Peter realizes that they are the first physical validation she's had of her biological family since the tragedy, and he gives her a weak smile. "I would like you to keep them, honey."

She picks up the photo of herself and giggles... the same childish titter he used to hear. "What to do? I am not with God."

"It's yours," Peter replies, and he studies her face. The tiny freckles that once titivated her jowls are gone just as the doctor predicted, and he chuckles. "You can show your husband the beauty spots you used to have."

She gasps, and her eyes sparkle with the same mischievous glint he's missed over the years. "I remember it _so!_ You laugh too much at me and tell me it makes me look so... _um_ , adrib... adrol..."

He grins as she struggles to recall the word. "Adorable," he says. He picks up the last white rose and holds it out to her. "This is yours too."

Peter stands and brushes the sand from his trousers while Angela slips her picture between the pages of the Bible. When she's finished, he offers a hand and assists her back onto her feet before looking past her at the water edge. He frowns, because it has receded by more than a hundred yards since they've been talking, which seems rather fast for an ebbing tide. But there are other matters more important, and he dismisses the observation from his head.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions about, um..." and he hesitates. He has a deep desire to know what happened on that day, but he doesn't want to solicit any memories that'll be traumatic for her to recapitulate.

However, she seems to anticipate what he wants to ask and gazes into his eyes without wavering. "Today is a sad day and I come here to remember and pray for you, Mummy, and Kathleen. It's special to talk about them... even if it makes the heart sore."

It's weird to hear his daughter speak with so much pragmatism, and Peter clears his throat with a nervous cough. "Was there an earthquake before the tsunami came?"

A frown forms across her forehead. "I can't be sure, but I think not. Only the big water comes." Angela casts her eyes to the ground and falls silent for several moments before she turns and points to where the sand meets with the sea. "I was standing in the water, maybe to here," and she indicates a depth two inches below her knees with her hand. "Kathleen is farther out and swims far away from me." She pauses, and her blue eyes become distant. "I hear a strange sound... I listen to this when I eat noodles or soup."

Peter recalls an article he once read on tsunamis where people claimed to hear a "whispering gurgle," or something representative of a heavy sigh preceding a rapid waning of the tide as the water was sucked out to feed the incoming wave. "Was it like a slurp, or perhaps a sucking noise?"

"I don't know if this is how you say it, but the water goes away very fast for _too_ many kilometers _._ " He realizes that this is the exaggerated perception of a six-year-old child, but he doesn't contradict her. Angela's eyes start watering, and she stifles a sob. "Kathleen screams for help, but the water takes her far away until I can't see her anymore."

"You must have been _terrified!_ "

"Not at first. I thought she was playing a game and I run to catch up with the water, but everybody on the beach starts shouting and _this_ is what frightened me too much. I think everyone is mad at me." A tear rolls out of her right eye and runs down her cheek. "Mummy is running toward me, and I think she is angry because she is screaming too."

Peter pulls a hankie from his pocket and begins to dab the tears from her cheeks, and after a few moments, she takes it from him and blows her nose. "Mummy put me in her arms and holds me so tight it's hard to breathe. She is crying and screaming for Kathleen, and I was scared."

He takes her hands in his. "Did you see the big water coming?"

"No," and she pauses before placing the open palm of her right hand against her upper chest. "Mummy pushes my face here, and I can't see anything." She falls silent, and thirty seconds pass before she draws herself up with a deep sigh. "I hear a loud noise and then I am wet. The water is cold, and it comes inside my nose and mouth until I can't breathe. I remember we go 'round and 'round very fast and hard... and that's all." She turns her back to the shoreline and points inland. "I think maybe I'm sleeping because I wake up a long way over there on the hill." She pauses again. "I can see Mummy lying on the ground, but my head and leg hurt too much I can't stand. I crawl through the mud on my tummy to reach her, and her face was white, and she was _so_ cold,"—and she chokes on her words. "Her eyes were open and she was staring at me without blinking, and I cuddled her because that's what I wanted to do."

She leans in and buries her face into his left shoulder, and Peter feels helpless as she begins to cry with perfervid anguish. He suspects this is the first time she's shared the horror of those final moments with Beverley to anyone, and he puts his arms around her. It's the only gesture of comfort he can offer because there aren't any words he can say that would ease her pain.

The conversation is disrupted by a low-pitched drone as the sirens begin the three-minute tribute, and he is suddenly overcome with bitterness as they quickly rise to a wailing crescendo. The tsunami warning was put in place because of the 2004 disaster that resulted in a huge loss of life, and he believes his family would still be alive today if the system had been in operation back then.

Angela pulls away and wipes the tears from her eyes with the handkerchief. She gives him a weak smile before turning to face the sea, and clutching the Bible in front of her body in both hands, she closes her eyes and bows her head. A stiff, but steady onshore breeze springs up, and Peter takes a moment to admire the way her long hair and dress flow out behind her in the wind before glancing at his wristwatch. The time is twenty-two past ten, and clasping his hands in front of his stomach, he hangs his head and loses himself in prayer. He gives thanks for being reunited with Angela, and he pleads to Beverley for her absolution over his failure to be there for her when she needed him most. He also makes a tentative vow to return as often as he can.

Peter is oblivious to the passing of time as he bathes in a level of spiritual fulfillment he never expected to achieve in this life, and he is feeling at peace for the first time in fifteen years. He opens his eyes and looks at Angela. Her head is hung, and he can see her lips moving in silent prayer. He glances at his Timex as he lowers his head to recite another orison. The time is ten thirty-three.

His thoughts drift to something the receptionist said when she slid the pamphlet and ticket over the counter on the previous evening. "... _and the tsunami warning sirens will sound a three-minute accolade beginning at ten twenty-seven._ "

The banshee-like wailing began at ten twenty-two, which means the unnerving sound has been going on for eleven minutes, and Peter's eyes snap open. There's a momentary pause while his brain processes the changing vista moving across the Andaman Sea. A gigantic wall of water stretching from the north to the southern horizon is rising up from the ocean and growing taller as it races in toward the shore at incredible speed.

His jaw sags in horror. The sirens are drowning out any noise being generated by the massive tsunami sweeping into the shallow waters, and he begins to feel a gentle but rapid vibration beneath his feet. It's getting stronger with every second, and he glances along the seashore. There are a few mourners running up towards the beachhead in a feeble effort to outpace the monstrous bore, but far too many people are still facing the sea with their eyes closed, oblivious of the imminent peril.

Peter looks back at the enormous wave. It must be more than a thousand feet in height, and the wind is strengthening to a force 7 gale as the wall of water pushes a huge volume of air ahead of it on approach. He tilts his head back as his eyes try to seek the crest, and he is mesmerized by the terrifyingly beautiful but deadly creation of nature poised like a giant cobra about to strike.

He glances at Angela. Her hair is streaming out almost horizontally from her head as the airstream increases, but her head is still hung in prayer. He leaps toward her with outstretched arms and tears in his eyes. " _Noooooo!_ "

But his long, drawn-out scream of desperation is lost in the wail of the sirens.
7

Rashtrapati Bhavan

New Delhi, India

Coordinates: 28° 36' 51.6" N, 77° 11' 59.3" E

Thursday, December 26, 2019, 1217h

It is ten o'clock when fifty-six-year-old President Abdul Prasad receives the first update from the prime minister on the earthquake that rocked New Delhi thirty minutes earlier. "According to Dr. Andrews of the Institute of Seismology, it's an eleven point four, and the epicenter is about two thousand two hundred kilometers south of New Delhi, somewhere in the vicinity of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands."

Abdul is surprised, but he's also skeptical and contests the accuracy of the report. "Surely there's been a mistake?"

"He says not. A worldwide tsunami advisory is in effect, which includes all coastlines in the Bay of Bengal. I've been trying to mobilize the armed forces to assist with the evacuation of coastal towns and cities, but communications south of Kolkata in West Bengal are dead. Warnings are being broadcast on all military and commercial channels every five minutes and we just have to hope that people on the eastern seaboard will hear them."

It's rare for an Indian president to intervene at this level because the prime minister has authoritative control over localized affairs, but Abdul realizes that this has the potential to turn into a large-scale disaster and decides to take command until he is happy that the situation has stabilized. The last thing he wants is a repeat scenario of 2004 because of negligence. "How close to the Andamans?"

"The epicenter is two hundred forty-nine kilometers west."

"What are the damage reports?"

"We don't have any yet because communications with the islands are out, but I've ordered an air force P81 from Hyderabad to carry out a surveillance flight over the region."

Abdul scowls and his tone sharpens. "Why didn't you send a jet from the Eastern Naval Command? They're closer and it'll be faster."

"We haven't been able to establish communications with Visakhapatnam yet, and as the P81 was already out over the bay on an unrelated mission, I diverted it to avoid delays."

Abdul is still dubious about the veracity of the information, and he toys with the idea of calling the institute himself. "Do we know when the tsunami will hit?"

"We don't even know if there _is_ one. Dr. Andrews suspects a fatal malfunction with the oceanic sensors is preventing the center from tracking its progress if it exists. The wave spawned by the Sumatran earthquake fifteen years ago took about two hours to reach the eastern seaboard, so using this as a paradigm, somewhere between ninety to one hundred five minutes from the time of the quake is a good estimate."

Abdul glances at the clock. "So we have about an hour left." He pauses to mull over what little is known before he makes a decision. "I'm upgrading this to a level five national disaster for the Andaman and Nicobar Islands and all coastlines in the bay until we have more intelligence. Communications will be redirected through the operations command center forthwith, and in the meantime, I want you to call in Admiral Padawiya, General Nadarajah, and Air Chief Marshall Appapillai. I'll expect to see the four of you in the North Drawing Room in an hour and a quarter."

Abdul breaks the connection without waiting for the prime minister to respond and dials another number.

"This is Ashan Shanmukhan speaking."

The president is abrupt. "Tell Commander Cariappa to switch up to modus operandi with immediate effect, and I want both of you in operations control for a meeting at eleven twenty."

The Communications Command Center is a prodigious underground technological city with more than ten thousand employees sitting behind their terminals at any given moment. The huge complex constructed two levels beneath Rashtrapati Bhavan is designed to withstand multiple nuclear blasts and is purportedly impervious to enemy incursion. It's acclaimed to be the most secure place in the world, and the security of the nation and safety of its citizens rely on the men and women who work here. Rows of flat-screen LCD arrays are suspended from the ceiling, one over each terminal, displaying images of drone surveillance along the borders, or one of the many special operations going on in different sectors around the country. It is standard for the center to be operating on a midlevel mode, but when a heightened threat to the homeland is detected, or a natural disaster occurs, it takes three minutes to step up to full efficiency. With a few clicks of a mouse, the center can control the functionality of a town, a city, or a state, and if necessary, the whole country can be put on lockdown in less than thirty minutes. Communications between all branches of the armed forces are diverted through the command center, while civilian services, such as buses, railway lines, trains, air traffic, emergency services, radar installations, satellite systems, and contracted agencies essential to the resolution of a crisis can be monitored—and commandeered if necessary.

An hour and three quarters after the earthquake, a tense atmosphere is hanging over the majestic mansion as President Prasad strides through the corridor that connects the residence to the administrative halls and offices. His reputation for getting things done is one of the distinctions responsible for his popularity among the working class and poorer communities because he kept his campaign promises to improve education, living standards, work conditions, and easier access to health and medical care. His empathy for the less fortunate and blitz against antecedence and corruption was not met with the same enthusiasm among the wealthy and elite. His policies threaten the lifestyle they enjoy, and influential immunity from the law is fading. It was necessary to sack several appointees to the solicitor general's office before the definition of zero tolerance began to sink in, and magistrates no longer dare accept bribes in exchange for repudiation of serious criminal charges against those who can afford to buy their way out.

A security aide opens the door, and Abdul sweeps into the North Drawing Room, where three top-ranking military officers are waiting with the prime minister. He has no time for cordiality, and he speaks in a brusque voice as he walks through the room toward an exit at the far end without slowing down. "Forget any plans you have for Boxing Day. We have a crisis that's changing by the second, but I want to get an update before I determine what course of action needs to be enforced."

He leads the four men through a corridor to an alcove where two armed guards are on duty beside an elevator, and places the open palm of his right hand against a glass panel. The car sits between floors when it's idle and only comes up once the identity of the intended rider is confirmed. Abdul waits while his prints are scanned, and ten seconds after the reader emits a double-beep, the doors glide open.

The five men ride down to the hub in silence, and when they exit the elevator, Abdul sets off at a brisk pace along a flagstone pathway to the high-tech war room; a soundproofed chamber constructed entirely of strengthened one-way glass on a raised platform, which affords a three-sixty-degree view of the center and the employees.

Abdul climbs the steps, and he barely glances at Dinesh Cariappa and the head of security, Ashan Shanmukhan, who are waiting inside. The interior is spacious, and a long, glass-top table is situated in the center of the room with chairs on one side, facing a giant screen where a satellite image of the Bay of Bengal, the Indian subcontinent and the coastal regions of Bangladesh, Myanmar, Thailand, and northern Malaysia are on display. A small monitor is also located beneath the transparent, touch-sensitive surface of the table in front of each seat.

The president sits in the middle, while Runjit, Gihan, Rasheed, and Isuru take their respective places on each side. Ashan sits at one end, and Dinesh, who has a wireless device inserted in one ear, remains standing close to the main screen.

Abdul's eyes settle on Commander Cariappa. "What's the latest update from the Institute?"

"I spoke to Dr. Andrews ten minutes ago, but the only solid information he's able to furnish are the coordinates of the epicenter, magnitude, and duration." Dinesh picks up a document from the tabletop and refers to his notes before he begins to summarize on what he does know. "An abnormal earthquake occurred at oh nine thirty-three hours sixteen seconds this morning. The epicenter is eleven degrees, twenty-nine minutes and twenty-seven point two six eight three arcseconds north; ninety degrees, twenty-six minutes and twenty-two point seven two seven four arcseconds east—which is 248.9 kilometers west of the Andaman's— at a sustained magnitude of eleven point four on the Richter scale for a duration of four minutes forty-nine seconds. The first aftershock registered one minute nine seconds after the main incident, and since then, a persistent succession of overlapping shocks with intensities of up to a magnitude nine point eight have been recorded." He motions with his left hand toward the screen. "I'm expecting a new satellite image in the next few minutes, but very few details on the aftermath are known, due in large, to a widespread communications blackout affecting every province on the subcontinent."

Abdul nods thoughtfully. "The coordinates are a bit difficult to perceive in my head, so can you mark the epicenter on the map so I can see where it is?"

Dinesh punches some instructions into a keypad, and a red longitudinal line with an X in the center appears on the screen. "Dr. Andrews is saying that the earthquake originated along a 200-kilometer north-south path shown here, but he's perplexed because it isn't even a subduction zone. An average of ten to twenty overlapping aftershocks are occurring concurrently at any given point along this strip, but periodically, there are up to as many as thirty simultaneous quakes being recorded. To anyone within the shock zone—in particular, the Andamans—it's a never-ending seism. It's been rumbling on for nearly two hours and Dr. Andrews predicts that structural as well as geological damage will be extensive. Based on statistics of lesser events, the number of casualties will be high."

It's obvious to Abdul that he can't wait for damage reports before acting. "I am serving an immediate mandatory evacuation order on the Andamans. I don't know how many tourists and foreign nationals are visiting the islands, but there are four hundred thousand registered inhabitants, so the burden needs to be shared between the air, naval, and army commands—and notify every hospital on the mainland to prepare for an influx of patients."

"Andrews is also advising that due to the number of high-magnitude aftershocks, multiple tsunamis are possible and warnings should not be scaled back until the seismic activity subsides." The captain types some more instructions into the computer, and an animation of a tsunami spreading out from the epicenter appears on the screen. "This simulation is based on the data collected from the 2004 disaster. If there is a tsunami, then the west coast of Thailand has already been hit, and the wave is still sweeping up the Myanmar shoreline from the southwest. It'll reach the eastern seaboard and the southern coastline of Bangladesh at any time. Blind advisories are being broadcast to all regions because we've been incommunicado with the coast guard and government agencies from Kolkata through the states of Odisha, Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, and around the cape to Thiruvananthapuram since the earthquake happened."

"We don't know whether it _did_ spawn a tsunami, though," Rasheed says.

Abdul is not sure whether the chief of naval staff is expressing skepticism, or if he's just being hopeful, but the expression on Captain Cariappa's face is solemn. "Presupposition isn't a mistake. The odds that a wave exists are ninety-nine point nine percent, and we must assume one is in progress until we learn otherwise. I'm sure nobody will complain if we're wrong."

The communication breakdown is a deep concern for Abdul, and he contemplates for a moment. "Captain, do we still have the ability to establish security protocols on the east coast utilities from here?"

"No, sir, the entire subcontinent is isolated." Dinesh types into the keypad again, and a straight line from Kolkata to Mumbai in the state of Maharashtra is superimposed on the map. "We can manage anywhere north of this boundary, but satellite, radio, and landline comms to the south are completely out." He pauses for a moment. "I've declared the Bay of Bengal and the eastern coastline for two miles inland as a critical zone, and this is where we'll concentrate our resources."

Abdul's frustration is audible. "The surveillance drones are controlled from here via satellite, so why don't we have any pictures yet?"

"That's another problem, sir," Dinesh says. "The signals are relayed through two remote sensing centers; one in Balanagar and the other is in Shadnagar. Both locations are on the subcontinent, and every UAV that was airborne when contact was lost is either flying pilotless or has crashed by now."

Abdul glowers at the captain. "Then divert the drones patrolling the Pakistani border into the south."

"We _can't_ , sir. Communications to the entire fleet are via satellite through one of the two remote stations.

_"Bakrichod!_ Then what _can_ you do?"

"I've ordered the air force to fly reconnaissance missions from bases in the north, and I'm waiting for the first reports to come in." He jabs a thumb over his shoulder toward the command center. "The guys behind the consoles are in touch with the crews."

Abdul is angry, and he fidgets in his chair. "This is _bullshit!_ You mean to tell me we've invested in a multitrillion rupee system and we only find out _now_ that it's useless in a crisis?" He intends to launch an investigation once normality is restored—not so much with the intent to point a finger at a specific department or individual, but to prevent a future reoccurrence of the same adversity. However, if an inquiry reveals that the problem is the result of negligence, then he will personally preside over any disciplinary proceedings. "Continue with the briefing, captain."

Dinesh appears unfazed by Abdul's tirade, and he picks up from where he left off. "We lost comms with the Andaman and Nicobar Islands at the precise time the first seismic shock was recorded. Contact with the Eastern Naval Command in Visakhapatnam failed three minutes two seconds later. We know this because we were halfway through a sensitive data download from headquarters when it went dead." He hesitates. "We're unable to raise the authorities on Sri Lanka too."

While Abdul is still furious, his voice is much calmer. "Is that a cable or satellite link?"

"We use cable with satellite backup, and both went out simultaneously."

Runjit sits forward and folds his forearms on top of the tempered glass surface of the table. "Do you think the loss of communications is the result of the tsunami?"

Captain Cariappa shakes his head. "No. The earthquake was still in progress when we lost communications, so we know a tsunami isn't the cause." He glances around the table at each person as he continues to brief them. "Dr. Andrews has dubbed it the Andaman Event because the abnormality and unusual characteristics of this seism sets it apart from everything known about the manufacture of an earthquake, and the factor that launched its precipitation is now under investigation. He also said the incredible amount of energy it unleashed is the origin of a seismic ripple that's moving concentrically across the globe."

"Just how much energy _did_ it release?" Rasheed asks.

Dinesh clears his throat. "It registered four hundred fifty gigatons—which is in excess of twenty-five million Hiroshimas."

The president inhales sharply before expressing his indifference in a sharp tone. "Well, the rest of the world can handle its own problems. _We_ need to stay focused on the critical zone."

The six men agree with a silent but solemn nod, and Captain Cariappa continues with the update. "Military resources in the north are on standby and will be dispatched into the regions where they're needed just as soon as we begin to receive air surveillance reports." He turns to address Admiral Padawiya directly. "Visakhapatnam could be paralyzed if it was hit by a tsunami, so I've ordered the immediate mobilization of the Western Naval Command."

"It'll take several days to sail around the cape," Rasheed says.

The captain cups a hand over his earpiece and indicates with one finger that he's listening to something. A few seconds later, he speaks into the microphone in a low voice. "Switch both sides of the conversation over to my device." A few moments pass before Dinesh glances around the table with an odd expression on his face. "Did any of you reroute a P81 to the Andamans?"

"I did," Runjit says.

"I'm monitoring his conversation, and he's gone into a holding pattern pending further instructions."

_"Where?_ "

There's a slight pause as the captain listens, and the tension in his voice is palpable when he speaks again. "He's over Port Blair... or where Port Blair should be."

Abdul gazes at Dinesh with a blank expression on his face and scoffs. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"The P81 has flown the length of the Andamans from north to south, and there is nothing but ocean. He says there's no trace of land."

Isuru snorts and glances at Gihan. "Damn rookie! I think the pilot needs to go back to flight school and hone his navigational skills."

Dinesh speaks to the operator on the other end. "Confirm his coordinates with a satellite ping."

Gihan, whose eyes are burning with anger at the general's rebuke, removes a laptop from his briefcase. "Captain, can you get the pilot's name for me?"

"Wing Commander Akshat Sarraf."

The air chief marshal begins tapping on the keyboard, and several seconds later, he throws something representative of a smug look at Isuru. "I've accessed Sarraf's personnel file, and he has nineteen years of exemplary service."

Dinesh presses a finger against his earpiece to indicate that he's listening to the operator again, and a few moments later, he glances at Gihan before turning his eyes to the president. "The satellite has pinged the P81 exactly where the wing commander says he is—over Port Blair."

President Prasad sits back in the chair and stares at Dinesh with his arms folded across his chest, and ten seconds of silence elapses before he speaks in a strangled tone. "Let me make sure I understand correctly. You're telling me that the entire Andaman chain is gone... erased from the face of the planet?"

"I'm merely relaying what Wing Commander Sarraf is asserting, sir."

The revelation that the Andaman and Nicobar Islands may be no more is incogitable, and Abdul collects his thoughts before he questions the credibility of the report. "The Emerald Isles is a pretty large expanse of land to vanish just like that, don't you think?"

Admiral Padawiya purses his lips before commenting. "I think someone is playing silly buggers. There must be _something_ on the surface to show where they are... or were? It isn't feasible for _every_ trace of the islands to be obliterated in an eyeblink. I mean... mankind isn't exactly at the top of the chain when it comes to environmental cleanliness, for example, and four hundred thousand citizens can't simply dematerialize without leaving _some_ trace of their existence—like hundreds of thousands of tons of garbage floating on the surface."

"I'm still monitoring the wing commander's conversation," Dinesh says. "He's conducting a radar and sonar search, but he hasn't found anything so far, not even a candy wrapper or an oil slick."

General Nadarajah scratches the side of his head just below his turban with an expression of immense incredulity on his face. "Are we to conclude that the entire population has perished?"

Abdul's response is emphatic. "Absolutely _not._ It would be a dereliction of responsibility and malapropos to declare something like that without knowing what happened." He hears a tiny beep, and Dinesh looks down at a monitor beneath the transparent tabletop.

_"Ah_ , we have a new satellite image."

The president watches as the commander's fingers flit over the touch-sensitive glass top to redirect it to the main screen, and a few seconds later, the old picture is replaced by one taken since the earthquake.

Captain Shanmukhan points to a land mass in the Bay of Bengal. "Look... the Andaman Islands are still there."

An uncomfortable silence descends over the group while they study the outline of the archipelago taken from space. The shorelines are superimposed by an infrared layer because the land is obscured from a regular lens by a large white veil, and a puzzled look forms on Abdul's face. Something about it does not have a natural conformation. The sky is vapor-free except for a few wisps over Myanmar and parts of southwest India. "Why is there such a huge cloud hanging over the Andamans when there's none for a thousand kilometers around it?"

Dinesh types into the keyboard again, and while he waits for the computer to process his request, he explains what he is doing. "I'm going to underlie the contour of the coastlines from the previous image so we can make a comparison, and I'm also using the moisture-dispensing tool to remove the cloud cover so we can see it with more clarity. It'll take but a few moments." He then speaks into his headset. "Wing commander, what are your current weather conditions?" A couple of seconds pass before he nods his head. "Clear skies and good visibility... thank you."

The mystery is deepening. The pilot's report of a cloudless sky is in direct conflict to what is shown on the exposure, but something else piques the president's curiosity. "How did you get the pictures if you have no communications to the remote sensing centers?"

"These are weather satellite images, courtesy of Infinity Meteorological Database Systems," Dinesh replies.

The semitransparent outline of the previous map appears beneath the new one, and a loud gasp resounds around the table. The Andaman Islands are in both pictures, but they're not in the same location. The gray delineation indicating where they _should_ be is open sea in the most recent image, while a new landmass significantly larger in length and width has miraculously appeared about three hundred kilometers east of its original position.

Runjit Sengupta is the first to break the uncomfortable quiescence. "It's... _moved?_ "

While everyone is focused on the islands, Abdul is scrutinizing other details that dichotomize the two pictures, and he redirects their attention to other geographical aberrations in an awed voice. "The Andamans aren't the only place that's moved. Look at the coastline all the way up the eastern seaboard. It's not the same shape, and it appears to have shifted eastwards by a significant amount."

Dinesh picks up a long pointer stick and circles the tip around Sri Lanka. The southern half of the republic is skewed around in an east-by-north direction, and the northern section is narrower and more elongated, but it has retained the distinctive teardrop semblance. The island is forty kilometers east of the location shown on the original map, and the distance with mainland India has increased by thirty-five kilometers.

The southern tip of the Indian subcontinent is distorted at the same angle as Sri Lanka and it has moved at least fifty kilometers east of its original position, while a massive torque centralized across Karnataka and Tamil Nadu has ripped a sixty-five-kilometer-wide tear into the west coast south of Mangalore where the Netravati River flows into the Arabian Sea.

Abdul directs his concentration back to the eastern seaboard, and it's easy to discern the gradual change in the direction of movement as his eyes explore the new coastline. The shift is due east at Chennai, but a few kilometers beyond Visakhapatnam, the shoreline has been dragged east-by-south, which becomes more prominent at the Bhitarkanika National Park region in the Kendrapara District of Odisha. Close to two thousand kilometers of shoreline has gone through an extensive metamorphosis, and there are innumerable headlands, inlets, and bays where none existed before, and then, for no obvious reason, the distortions suddenly end and the geography for the rest of the Indian coast appears unchanged.

Symmetrical changes have also occurred on the opposite side of the bay. The shoreline of Myanmar from Sittwe down to Mawlamyine is more than 40 kilometers southwest of its original position, slowly shifting due west as it moves down the coast, but close to the Thai border, a new strait now connects the Gulf of Thailand to the Andaman Sea completely isolating southern Thailand from the main Asian continent. A second channel has been sliced through 100 kilometers of countryside from Songkhla to Thung Wa, splitting it from Malaysia. Southern Thailand is an island, which has been pulled 170 kilometers west, resulting in 460 kilometers of open water between the Malaysian border and the rest of Myanmar and Thailand.

Abdul's mouth drops open in bewilderment as he tries to comprehend the unimaginable forces that must have transpired to create such an analogous event, but the scale and scope of the devastation are beyond his intellectual capacity. The silence in the room is practically somatic for two minutes before Admiral Padawiya rediscovers his ability to speak.

_"Look_ at the _pattern_. The entire bay looks like it's been sucked in towards the epicenter."

Abdul speaks to Dinesh without taking his eyes away from the screen. "Captain, I want the critical zone extended to encompass the subcontinent, inclusive of the western seaboard. It's imperative we set boundaries and establish immediate operational protocols." He falls quiet while he considers the impact his proposals are going to have on travel, but safety is paramount until he knows what they're truly dealing with. "Commercial airliners heading for destinations within the containment area are to be diverted to airports in the north, and all departing and inbound flights on a path over the bay and subcontinent must attain a minimum altitude of seven thousand six hundred meters. Any aircraft unable to meet this requirement will be rerouted. The same precepts apply to all through flights."

Captain Cariappa jots the president's instructions into a notepad. "Do you have any special directives for seagoing vessels, sir?"

"Yes. Submersibles will remain on the surface at all times, and watercraft not involved in search and rescue, aid relief, or medical evacuations, will proceed south with caution until they are out of the bay. Cruise liners, cargo ships, ferries, and Indian registered merchantmen are not exempt."

Admiral Padawiya interrupts the president with an objection. "Excuse me, sir, but we _can't_ do that. These are international waters and airspace, and we have no jurisdiction beyond our own territorial limits, not even in the Bay of Bengal."

Abdul glowers at the maritime commander. "I'm not stupid, but this is a major disaster zone and we need to take the initiative. Hundreds of military and naval aircraft will be in the sky and on the water carrying out emergency relief missions, and we need to reduce the risk of collisions to a minimum." He pauses but picks up the narrative before Rasheed gets a chance to protest further. "As you can see, significant geographical changes have taken place, but the satellite image only shows what is visible on the surface. The entire bay needs to be cartographically revised and new oceanographic charts published before we can allow vessels to re-enter the bay, and even boats bringing aid will have to wait outside of the critical zone for an escort once a safe channel has been plotted. There may be submerged rocks that weren't there before, and I don't want the coastguard tied up in rescues just because a ship has ripped its hull open."

Rasheed concedes with obvious reluctance. "We can _ask_ international entities to honor the edict, but it'll be impossible to enforce if it's contested."

Owing to the circumstances, Abdul doesn't believe they will be challenged. It would be negligent for an airline or a shipping enterprise to jeopardize lives by ignoring the caveat in spite of the inconvenience, and the constraints will be amended in accordance with the situation as it evolves. He is running through the instructions in his head to make sure he hasn't omitted anything of importance when Runjit interrupts his cogitations.

"Our resources are not unlimited, and we need to be judicious in how they are utilized."

Abdul is about to concur with the prime minister when Dinesh, who has been speaking into his headset in an almost inaudible voice, turns to him. "National air traffic control has received and confirmed your mandates, and alerts are being passed through international media, governing agencies, and port authorities across the globe."

"Good." The president sighs, but it isn't with relief. The Eastern Naval Command is critical to any operation in the bay, and they are paralyzed until communications are reestablished with Visakhapatnam.

"Will you accept international aid if it's offered?" Ashan enquires.

Abdul hesitates before answering. "I won't turn down assistance, but it'll be premature to expect help given the number of earthquakes that are taking place across the globe. Countries who would normally contribute are in trouble too." He turns his head to look at Runjit. "What happened in the Bay of Bengal today is likely to attract a lot of media attention, and I want _every_ journalist—foreign and domestic—herded to one place outside of the critical zone before they become a nuisance. And I don't want them here in New Delhi."

"I'll set up an official press center in Ahmedabad."

The president nods in approval. "Make it clear that travel into the critical zone is prohibited, and anyone who goes in without authorization _will_ be interned or deported."

"Mr. President?"

Abdul turns his head to look at Dinesh. "Yes?"

"The first reports by the reconnaissance flights are coming in. It took them some time to find Visakhapatnam because it's 28 kilometers east of where it should be."

Abdul is suddenly apprehensive, although he shouldn't be surprised because it conforms to the satellite image. "Are they able to communicate with anyone on the ground?"

_"Um_... no. The city and surrounding countryside are submerged, and only the top floors of the tallest buildings are protruding through the surface." The president's mouth slowly sags open in disbelief as Dinesh continues to relay the conversation occurring between the aircrews in his earpiece. "It's low tide right now, and... _um_ , the inference is... well, it looks like Visakhapatnam has slid into the ocean."
8

Institute of Seismological Research

Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India

Coordinates: 23° 12' 52.7" N, 72° 39' 35.5" E

Thursday, December 26, 2019, 1609h

Dr. Andrews is talking to Runjit on the telephone, and despite a heightened level of ebullience, his voice is calm. "Yes, sir, the geological damage is spectacular and truly sui generis." Sixteen high-resolution satellite images, which the prime minister had emailed to him earlier in the afternoon, are arranged on the top of his desk to form a picture of the Bay of Bengal and the surrounding coastline. "I'm sending a geological team to Visakhapatnam tomorrow, but I think their investigation will reveal that subsidence is the culprit for the submergence of the towns and cities along the eastern seaboard, and the tsunami was secondary after the fact."

The anxiety in Runjit's voice is noticeable, and Robert is far from envious of the horrendous task he must be facing. "Do you think there'll be anymore slippage?"

"I can't corroborate the stability of the subcontinent from a few aerial pictures, but I will recommend that an extensive survey should be carried out across the bay before it can be declared safe again. Until then, you should treat the possibility of another slide as imminent. I'm sorry, but I can't offer any further advice until I know more." Robert looks down at the image of the cape and frowns. "Mr. Sengupta, why didn't you send any exposures of the west coast?"

"I did—"

"Only up to the Netravati River, but there isn't anything north of Mangalore."

"I considered them to be irrelevant because the rest of the coastline didn't move."

Robert is alarmed. It was his primary supposition that the subcontinent had been displaced in its entirety, but what if he's wrong? "Sir, have you received any reports of landslides anywhere inland?"

"Communications to the southern..." but he trails off midsentence. "What do you mean by 'landslides'?"

"Mr. Sengupta, if the east coast has moved but the west didn't, then it's likely there have been internal landslides on a scale you can't even begin to imagine."

"I'm... I'm not sure I understand."

"The eastern seaboard has been moved east by up to fifty kilometers on average, which _excludes_ the twenty-five to thirty-mile strip that slipped into the ocean. If the west coast didn't shift at all, it means the subcontinent is up to eighty kilometers wider than it was before."

There's a long silence before Runjit speaks again. "Are you _sure?"_

"Ninety-nine percent —the earth can't be stretched without severe consequences."

"If there were landslides, where would they be?"

"They could be anywhere, Mr. Sengupta. Low-lying regions will be susceptible to sinkholes while hilly or mountainous regions have likely collapsed into them." He pauses for a moment. "It'll appear on the satellite image as a distinct longitudinal scar... and it could be as long as two thousand kilometers."

The prime minister's voice is hoarse. " _Brahma,_ save _us._ I hope you're wrong."

The door to his office opens, and Mahesh walks in. Robert acknowledges the scientist with a nod but continues to speak to Runjit. "Do you have pictures of the subcontinent you can send?"

"You'll get them in a few minutes, Dr. Andrews."

"Thank you. I'll call you back once I've reviewed them." Robert sets the handset onto its cradle and looks enquiringly at Mahesh. "Yes?"

"Dr. Boris Medvedev is holding for you on line four."

Robert has never met the Russian astrophysicist in person, but the two men often exchange data, and he's held several video conferences with him in the past. It's not hard to assume the basis for his call, and Mahesh leaves the office as he picks up the receiver. "Boris, how are you?"

"I'm fine, my friend, but listen, I'll not waste your time with small talk as I suspect you're busy, no?"

"You've _no_ idea. I suppose you're calling about the satellite images I sent to you?"

"They're in front of me—and we should beware of the danger which is hidden from view. I fear it has caused egregious harm to the internal structure of the asthenosphere."

Robert concurs with his assessment. "The geological shifts funnel in toward the epicenter from the east and west at angles of plus or minus ten degrees, but there's another aspect of equal interest; the north-south shift is minimal if, indeed, any movement occurred at all."

Boris takes several moments to respond, and Robert suspects he is reviewing the images again. "How _curious_. I've never seen anything like this before." He pauses once again. "I know it is early hours, but do you have anything you can share with me yet?"

"I'm sorry, old friend, but the communications blackout is crippling, and incoming data is at a dribble." He hesitates. "I _do_ have a theory, though, which I'm trying to reconstruct on the computer, but there are too many unknown values and I'm drawing on experience, knowledge, and educated conjectures to fill in the blanks. It's still going to be pretty much a hit-and-miss, though."

"Well, if your luck is as good as mine it'll be more of a miss than a hit. But you are a clever man, Dr. Andrews."

Robert chuckles. "You flatter me, Dr. Medvedev, but my work can't be compared to the incredible research you do. You'll probably uncover more about what happened than I will."

"You're too modest... but let me give you one word of advice if I may. Don't allow yourself to become obsessed with trying to prove a hypothesis with peripheral evidence. This is a big headache for me, and I have a habit of wasting time because I attempt to match the data to the result, and not the other way around."

"That isn't a unique trait, Boris. _Everyone_ does it. However, I'm going to appoint Dr. Pawar to keep you abreast of daily developments. He's young but knowledgeable, and I think you'll find him very responsive."

"I appreciate your goodwill, and it's been nice talking to you again, Robert."

He terminates the call and turns back to the computer where he's trying to replicate the geological events that took place during the earthquake. The magnitude, energy release, and depth of the hypocenter are known facts, but he needs to formulate an equation that will animate and produce a satisfactory duplication of the scenario. His prior knowledge of the chasm, formation of the oceanic ridge, and the swelling in the lower lithosphere is an advantage, and he uses this information to create a function that'll bring the simulation to life. Because this is a first-time event, he has no data he can use as a comparison to fill the open fields, and he makes a calculated decision to enter grossly exaggerated theoretical values. He can walk them back accordingly to reproduce the actual event if the results show that he's on the right track, but Robert is feeling pessimistic as he inputs the last equation. However, it'll take some time for the animation wizard to build the model, and so he checks his email while waiting.

The prime minister has sent several satellite images of the subcontinent, and Robert gawps in astonishment when he opens up the first one. It's impossible to miss the unbroken lesion that zigzags through the country on a northerly course for close to 1,300 kilometers, starting at the Periyar National Park in the southwestern state of Kerala, passing through Amil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, and Telangana, and ending at the Gadchiroli Forest Reserve in southeast Maharashtra. Its width varies from sixty to ninety kilometers, and there's little doubt in his mind that hundreds of villages along its deadly path are buried beneath tons of earth and mud, or simply swallowed up when the ground opened up beneath them. While the final death toll may never be known, it's certain to run into the millions and there's no question that between the earthquake, tsunami, and landslides, the Andaman Event will snatch the record for the highest number of human casualties in a single, natural disaster.

He replies to Runjit's email with a lengthy assessment, and forty minutes later, he hits the 'send' button just as the computer finishes building the graphics to the model. Robert is filled with anticipation when he sets the simulation running, but he is not prepared for the succession of inconceivable events unfolding in real time on the monitor, and he stares at the screen in utter bewilderment.

But it's the last thirty seconds that sends an icy chill through his body. The last frame is frozen on the screen when the sequence ends, and he is dumbfounded when he compares it to the satellite image. Southern Thailand has been pulled away from the mainland and Malaysia at near enough the same place, while the torque across the subcontinent and Sri Lanka are identical. Even the Andaman and Nicobar Islands have shifted west of their original location, and in spite of the hyperbolic numerators he'd inserted into the calculi, the computer estimates a match of 93.4 percent between the picture and the graphic.

Robert is riding high on elation. The results have far exceeded his expectations, and he restarts the sequence, slowing it down so he can study the abnormal mechanics in closer detail. While he understands what is happening, it's impossible to wrap his mind around the incredible amount of energy required to execute such a titanic and catastrophic event.

Satisfied that the simulation provides enough of an insight to share with his staff, Dr. Andrews sends it to the mainframe before he walks into the control room and calls out in a voice thick with excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention." He strides over to a terminal and projects the most recent satellite picture of the Bay of Bengal onto the big screen. "A military aircraft was dispatched to the Andaman group this morning, and when it arrived, the crew reported open waters and no sign of land. Then this satellite picture came in showing a white cloud to the west of where the islands should have been, and image-processing technologies used a moisture removal tool to reveal a landmass that wasn't there before. The plane was diverted to the new location, and the crew identified the cloud as a huge column of steam rising to an altitude of ten thousand five hundred fifty meters, but it was too thick to see the island."

Mahesh looks at him with a puzzled expression on his face. "But steam should condense _long_ before it reaches that height."

"Not if the object creating the steam is just beneath the surface."

_"Eh?_ "

"Infrared exposures confirm that the island is mountainous, and the highest peak is ten thousand five hundred forty-two meters—almost one thousand seven hundred meters taller than Mount Everest—but the rock is so hot it's turning the cold air around it to steam." Robert can see the reservation in the eyes of the skeptics, but he knows they have good reason to be doubtful. "Sensors on the Infinity weather satellites show the temperature of the steam is approximately four hundred degrees centigrade, which tells us something significant." Dr. Andrews points to the image on the screen. "Those are _not_ the Andaman and Nicobar Islands."

Everyone gawps at him with varying degrees of disbelief in their eyes, and for several seconds, the only sound in the control center is the whir of printers. Hiranmaya began her time at the institute as an intern six years ago and she is close to earning a degree in physics and geology, so he's somewhat surprised by her inquiry. "How can you tell, sir?"

"Why do _you_ think there's so much steam present?"

"I... uh, I'm not sure."

She's a smart woman, and Robert suspects that while she's probably formed an opinion, she doesn't want to embarrass herself in front of her peers with an answer that defies a logical explanation.

A young intern raises his hand. "Is it lava?"

Robert shakes his head. "The data indicates that the island is non-volcanic, but because it's hot enough to boil the sea around it so profusely, the high temperature of the rock would suggest it's been pushed up from an incredible depth. The result is a concentrated column of laze and steam, which is deliquescing in the colder air of the upper atmosphere and falling back to the ground as torrential rain. The precipitation is being re-vaporized on contact, and the cycle is likely to repeat itself until the rock has cooled down."

He types a command into the keyboard, and the image on the screen is replaced with the first frame of the simulation. It shows a cross-sectional model of the environmental spheres in the Bay of Bengal with the asthenosphere depicted in hot orange, and a solid black stratum above to represent the tectonic plate. The next level is brown, peppered with gray dots meant to signify a mix of materials in the earth's crust, and the top layers are blue for water and green for dry land.

Starting from the left side of the screen, the Indian subcontinent slopes into the ocean and levels out along the seabed. It rises above the surface at the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, and again when it reaches Thailand on the right, while the rift is depicted by a yellow V that penetrates the tectonic plate west of the Andamans.

Robert picks up a laser pointer and speaks in a clear, measured voice as he circles the triangular chasm. "I want you to concentrate on this incongruity for a moment. The crust is fifteen kilometers deep; the thickness of the plate is three hundred thirty-five kilometers, and this little baby extends into the lower lithosphere for two hundred twenty-five kilometers. Close to three point six million cubic kilometers of crust fell into it at the time it was created, which prevented the fissure from closing up again. How it was created is open for debate, but over millions of years, pressure has been building up on each side here"—he circles a portion of the asthenosphere beneath the plate to the east and west of the rift with the red beam of light—"and here. It compressed the material down to about two million cubic kilometers, and sometime during the last decade, it attained a limit where it couldn't be compacted any further. The exchange forces between the chasm wall and the wedge began to break down, and because the path of least resistance is up, the plug began to eject, creating the ridge we discovered on the ocean floor a couple of years ago."

Hiranmaya raises her hand. "Dr. Andrews, do you have a theory as to what caused the abyss to open in the first place?"

Robert hesitates. He can't disclose the same premise he gave to his brother on the previous evening without any substantive evidence to support the claim, so he chooses his words carefully. "Ultrasound scans reveal that the tapered block is forty-one percent crust and fifty-nine percent minerals that are not natural to this planet. The amount of bolide material suggests that an object, probably an asteroid of immense size, collided sometime in the past with enough impetus to strike the lithosphere, and this was the catalyst for today's event." Dr. Andrews draws a circle around the rift. "A limiting friction seal formed between the plug and the fissure walls when the material trapped inside was compressed as it tried to close." He pauses before he explicates for the benefit of the interns. "Imagine the wedge is a cork in a champagne bottle, and the crust above it is the metallic cap holding it in place. They're not germane when it's chilled because the exchange forces are greater than the pressure in the container, but if you remove the cap and let it stand in the sun or a hot room, two things will happen. The glass around the collar will expand and the seal tightens, and the carbon dioxide inside the bottle becomes more voluminous until the pressure is greater than the limiting friction, and _pop_... the cork ejects." Robert sets the animation in motion. "Because everything happens at an incredible speed, I've slowed the sequence down to fifteen seconds per second so you have more time to absorb the details."

The first minute is a time-lapse of the past six years, and the tension in the control room mounts as the wedge is slowly pushed upwards, giving birth to a ridge on the seabed. However, the disintegration of the seal is rapid, and the triangular block is suddenly evicted from the place it's called home for millions of years. It clears the mouth of the chasm in less than ten seconds, and while Robert has viewed the impressive event several times already, he's certain he could watch it a hundred times plus, and it'll always feel like the first. He puts the concatenation on pause. "The kinetic energy required to blast two million cubic kilometers of solid rock through fifteen kilometers of crust at a velocity of forty-five kilometers per second is incomprehensible," Robert explains.

_"What_ the _fuck?_ " Mahesh's awed whisper is loud in the quiet vacuum that follows.

Hiranmaya inhales with a sharp hiss, and her eyes open wide in astonishment. "162,000 kilometers an hour...that...that's enough escape velocity for it to launch into space."

"Ostensibly, yes, but there are opposing factors like its size, mass, and density." He restarts the animation, and gigantic boulders erupt from the seabed as the enormous slab pushes upward. Driven by a force that appears to defy all laws of physics, they roll across the seafloor in every direction for hundreds of kilometers, seemingly impervious to the pressure and friction at that depth, but they were probably assisted by the powerful current created by the displacement of water.

The top of the wedge bursts through the seabed with a violent explosion, generating a massive shockwave that causes the substratum to mushroom out along the ocean floor for more than 600 kilometers. The mountain of stone and sludge emerges through the surface of the Bay of Bengal, exploding with titanic ferocity and blasting huge chunks of rock through the air for distances of up to 300 kilometers as it surges skyward. The landmass continues to grow to more than 1,200 kilometers wide, quickly melding with the Andaman group.

More than two dozen scientists and interns gape open-mouthed at the monitor, and Robert pauses the sequence once again. "The wedge was compressed to an extent that there was room for expansion once the pressure was relieved, but it happened too fast, and two million cubic kilometers of rock blew itself apart in a series of explosions more powerful than every nuclear device in existence combined. It was probably several times louder than the Krakatoa eruption in 1883."

"Excuse me, doctor, but the island in the satellite image is smaller than the landmass in your model," Mahesh remarks.

"Yes, but when I restart the simulation, you'll see it existed for less than ninety seconds." He sets the model in motion again, and for more than four and a half minutes, no one speaks as a bizarre succession of events unfolds. With the wedge free, the tensile energy stored in the plate at each end of the rift, and in conjunction with the immense pressure applied by the swelling beneath the lithosphere, the fissure begins to close and two humongous cliff faces race toward each other across forty kilometers of open space with increasing velocity. The tectonic plate to the west is dragging the crust above it to the east as the fracture closes, while a similar event is happening on the opposite side, except the crust is being hauled westward. The earth crumples upward beneath the remnants of the shattered wedge where they meet at the epicenter, but because the succession is multifarious, it'll need to be viewed several times to grasp the full complexity of the physics involved.

Robert uses the pointer to bring their attention to some key elements, particularly an anomaly within the crust that stretches down to the plate for three hundred kilometers on each side of the rift. It wouldn't have been apparent if it hadn't been characterized with gray dots on a brown background. "I've _never_ seen anything like this before; the earth is churning around like it's inside a giant blender." He pauses to look at the astounded expressions on the faces of the geologists and interns alike. "Now, pay good attention, because you're about to witness something _truly_ unbelievable... a double subsidence on an inexplicable scale."

An insoluble tension builds up in the room as a huge depression hundreds of kilometers long is slowly scooped out in the seabed on each side of the rift to feed the uplift, and the green segment representing the Andaman's is quickly caught up in an incongruous rotation. The color enables them to keep track of the sections as they break up and slide into the ever-deepening basin, and in less than a minute, the islands are sucked down to depths of ten kilometers while being pulled west in a fluid concurrent motion.

Mahesh inhales deeply with a horrified expression on his face. " _Jeee-zus..._ "

Another two minutes pass before Dr. Andrews speaks again. "The subsidence on each side of the uplift is now at a depth of fifteen kilometers, and as you can see in this sequence, the tectonic plate is exposed to the seawater for an eight hundred kilometer stretch on each side. That should never happen under any circumstances, and it can't be sustained. The insuperable pressure at that depth and the tremendous quaking of the seism is about to trigger an insurmountable underwater landslide that stretches back for two thousand kilometers."

As the incredible event continues to unfurl, trillions of tons of rock and silt begin to slide into the massive void, moving slowly backward until it undermines the Indian subcontinent and the eastern seaboard slips into the sea.

"Hundreds of thousands of Thai's were probably killed, and those who survived don't know how lucky they are," Robert says. The destabilization to the east of the rift is ripping a huge portion of Thailand away from the Asian continent while he's talking. "Because of their proximity, the Andamans became a buffer that protected them from total disaster, but if the chasm had been one or two kilometers wider, southern Thailand would have been drawn down too."

Mahesh shakes his head. "This is too much to absorb in one go."

"I'll leave the animation on the mainframe for everyone to view whenever they want," Robert says. He is close to concluding the colloquium. "Now we have the grand finale; two sheer faces with a combined surface area of ninety thousand square kilometers are about to slam into each other after sixty-five million years of separation."

The last frame of the animation is frozen on the screen, and Hiranmaya raises her hand.

"Yes, Miss Singh?"

"How do you know it's been sixty-five million years, sir?"

Robert hadn't realized the slip of his tongue, and taken by surprise at the speed she had picked it up, his mind races to search for a satisfactory response. "I... uh, I don't, but it's been at least that long because the last known asteroid was responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs." She seems to accept his explanation, at least for now.

Nawal Tambe questions him in a nervous voice. " _Um_... what do you think has happened to the inhabitants of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands?"

"The event was so sudden and violent, I doubt if anyone survived for more than a few seconds. Once we gather more data and conduct an extensive study on the phenomenon, I think we'll find they're buried beneath the new island close to where it's shown in the simulation."

Someone else calls out another question. "Dr. Andrews, what makes you certain your replication is true to what really happened?"

"I'm confident because the geographical results at the end of the animation are too close to the satellite images."

Daksha is the next person to raise a hand. "Can you explain all the aftershocks, then?"

Robert knows that he understands what is happening, but he's asking for the benefit of the interns. "They're the result of one hundred twenty-six million cubic kilometers of rock shifting as it settles into a permanent position, and it clarifies why there are so many concurrent shocks. It's likely they'll go on for months or years, but they will become less severe over time." He takes a deep breath. "The government will officially name the new island, but until they do, we will refer to it as Rift Ridge Island."

Hiranmaya begins to clap her hands, and everyone in the control room joins in the applause. Robert signals for quiet. "It'll be a geological gold mine, and I hope some of you here today will have the opportunity to be among the first to step onto it once the temperature drops enough to send an exploratory expedition down there." He smiles. "Thank you for your attention."

Dr. Andrews walks at a brisk pace toward his office, and a low drone fills the laboratory as the men and women begin to speak in excited undertones among themselves. They'll talk about it for ten or twenty minutes before they settle back into their routine, but it's not necessarily a bad thing. He likes to promote debates, discussions, and exchanges of opinions among the employees, and today's events are doing just that.
9

97-20 57th Avenue

Corona, New York, USA

Coordinates: 40° 44' 12.9" N, 73° 51' 48.2" W

Thursday, December 26, 2019, 1759h

The dim light casts long, eerie shadows across the ground, and Cobra hunches his shoulders against a bitterly cold wind blowing around the corners. A flurry of snowflakes swirls around the muscular, six-foot-tall African-American who is heading at a brisk pace through the parking lot toward a tower block where he shares an apartment with his twenty-six-year-old girlfriend, Thelma Carpenter.

A strong stench of urine drifts around the ground-floor stairwell where some homeless people and drug addicts periodically seek shelter from the harsh winter winds. He never uses the elevator, and always chooses to climb the stairs to his home on the fourth floor. The passageways are cold, dank, and poorly lit, the paint on the ceiling is peeling, and the walls are covered in graffiti. The block is controlled by an estate management group, who charge high annual fees but have a poor reputation for maintaining the security and upkeep of the property.

He earns a decent paycheck as a laborer on a construction site and can easily afford to buy a home in a decent neighborhood, but it's hard for the twenty-eight-year-old to let go of a lifetime of sentiments and memories. He inherited the spacious apartment from his grandmother, who took him into her care after his parents were killed on a crosswalk by a suspected drunk driver when he was ten. Cobra was devastated when she was diagnosed with cancer fourteen years later, and he lavished as much luxury on her as he could to make her final days as comfortable as possible. The expense was inconsequential, and he even hired a private nurse to take care of her while he was at work. The person who killed his parents was never caught, but he still harbors a deep resentment for the apparent lack of effort to capture the perpetrator and bring him or her to justice.

He went through a rebellious phase when he was fourteen and he had symbols of persecuted minorities tattooed on his body. The most visible is the Star of David, which is inked over the part of his clean-shaven skull that would be covered by a yarmulke, and his entire back is a canvas to an amazing color portrait of an Indian chief in full headdress. There are other tattoos on his arms and legs, but the largest representation is the color of his skin.

Cobra has a long face with a chiseled jaw, large, brown eyes, and semi-thick lips beneath a Nubian nose with slightly flared nostrils. His stern expression and visual appearance, in general, belies his true personality. He abhors unwonted violence, but he is not hesitant to protect family, friends, and even strangers in the street when circumstances warrants. The construction worker has a unique ability to assess adverse situations speedily and with uncanny accuracy, and he reacts to danger with deadly, panther-like speed. Although he has never been in a gang, he does have acquaintances who are affiliated with various street teams.

He slips the key into the deadbolt, opens the door, and steps into the hallway. The warmth inside is welcome, and the spicy bouquet of oregano, sage, and basil drifting through from the kitchen tells him that Thelma is fixing some Italian cuisine for dinner. She's an outstanding cook and always prepares everything from scratch with fresh ingredients.

He slips his boots off before walking into a capacious living room. Thelma is sitting at her computer in the far corner, and she swivels around on her chair to greet him with a cheerful smile. She is petite, five feet four inches tall, and her silky raven hair has a natural wave as it falls down around her shoulders. The brown skin on her face is baby-smooth, and there is a tiny, almost indiscernible mole just above the bridge of a snub nose between a pair of ice-blue eyes. "Hi, honey."

He pads across the carpeted floor and bends over to give her a kiss, but she pulls her face away from his with a shiver when his lips make brief contact with hers. " _Urgh!_ Your lips are _freezing_. You'd better wrap up warm tomorrow. They're predicting heavy snow for tonight."

"It was starting just as I got home. I'm going to end up with chilblains if I'm not careful."

"I'll buy some witch hazel tomorrow as a precaution."

He sniffs at the air and smiles. "What're you cooking? It smells good."

"Lasagna. I invited Mrs. O'Grady for dinner, but she declined, so I'm going to take some food over to her. The poor thing was mugged when she went to the shops this morning."

Ada O'Grady is an elderly Irish woman who lives a couple of doors along. Her husband had an industrial accident eighteen years earlier, and she had to sign an authorization to take him off life support after several weeks in an irreversible coma; a traumatic decision that's haunted her ever since. Ada had been a close friend of his grandmother for decades, and Thelma always checks in on her twice daily.

"Is she okay?"

"The bastards left her with an ugly bruise on the right temple and blackened one of her eyes. She needed ten stitches in the top of her head where she was clubbed."

"There were more than one?"

"She said three white men attacked her but she wasn't able to provide much of a description to the police."

"And they used a _club_ on an eighty-five-year-old lady on a walking cane?"

She nods in affirmation. "They made off with her handbag that contained the last of her pension for this month—about seventy-five dollars—and her medical, Social Security, and other personal stuff. I made some telephone calls to cancel them on her behalf, and I'll take her down to social services tomorrow morning to help her with their crappy paperwork."

"Fuckin' _cowards_ ," he yells, almost choking on the vehemence in his voice. "I don't suppose they caught them, eh?"

Thelma gets to her feet and wraps her arms around his neck. "What do _you_ think?"

He gives a contemptuous snort. "Of _course_ they didn't. The cops are too busy profiling innocent black kids to do anything of _real_ value. I'm surprised they didn't keep her in the hospital for observation. She could have a concussion after a whack like that."

"You know how obstinate Ada is. I promised the doctors I would keep an eye on her."

Thelma pulls his face down to hers. Their lips make contact, and for the next fifteen seconds, he responds to her searching tongue before she pulls back. "Dinner will be ready by the time you finish your shower."

He slides a hand into his pocket and pulls out a thick roll of cash. He has an overwhelming distrust in financial institutions and credit card companies, so it isn't unusual to carry up to $5,000 on his person at any one time. However, he does have a healthy savings account with City Investment Banks, but only because his parents opened it when he was young and in the years before they died, his mother made him promise to keep it up if anything happened to them. Being a person of honor, he continues to deposit a monthly contribution. However, he told Thelma at the outset of their relationship that credit would never be an option, but he always makes certain she has plenty of money to buy food, pay the utilities, and for herself.

He peels five one-hundred-dollar bills from the roll. "Give this to Ada when you take dinner over to her."

"You _know_ she's going to refuse it."

"Yeah, she's a proud bitch for sure, but she'll have me to deal with if she doesn't take it." Cobra walks toward the bedroom door, but midway across the living room, he stops and turns around. "Hey, did you feel the earthquake this morning?"

_"Everyone_ in New York felt it, honey. It was a four point five."

Cobra glances at the computer monitor and smiles. He should have known better because whenever anything happens, she goes on an information-gathering quest.

Thelma inclines her head with a sparkle in her eyes. "I bet you don't know that it was caused by an earthquake near the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, though?"

Cobra is astounded. "And we felt it here?"

"Kinda. It was an eleven point four—strong enough to trigger more than two thousand five hundred major quakes and thousands of smaller ones around the globe. There were some pretty big tremblers along the San Andreas Fault from Point Delgada down to San Diego." She pauses briefly. "There's also a whisper that the geography in the Bay of Bengal was changed, although there's been no official confirmation yet."

"A _whisper_?" and he chuckles softly as he studies Thelma's face. The context of this word means just one thing. "Have you been hacking again?"

_"Moi?_ " she says, pointing a finger at her chest with a look of innocence in her eyes. "What makes you think I'd do something like _that?_ "

"You forget that I know you too well." He has no objection to her pursuit because she's smart enough to avoid detection whenever she breaches a secured data system, but she always keeps her activities to a minimum and never uses her talent to commit fraud, theft, or to execute any other nefarious operation. Her operations are only to quench a personal and near-insatiable thirst for knowledge, and Cobra turns to resume his course for the bedroom, and ultimately, the shower.

"Oh, by the way, Jacko called."

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "What did he want?"

"We're invited to a New Year's party."

Cobra throws his head back and laughs. "Can you imagine how wild _that's_ going to be?"

A tiny smirk curls at the corners of Thelma's lips. "I'm trying not to."

Jacko is five inches shorter than Cobra, but with a physique to match. The twenty-six-year-old biker is the leader of the New York Harlequins, who has earned notoriety among rival chapters over the years, and while they never hunt for trouble with intent, they won't turn their backs when it comes looking for them. He's secretive about his descent, and he is reticent about his ethnicity to everyone—even to his close friends, but his countenance, dark skin, and straight, long black hair suggest his origins could be somewhere in Central America.

The truth is, he doesn't know who his parents are; nor does he know anything of his ancestry. He grew up in foster care, moving from one home to another, and he often wonders whether he has any biological brothers or sisters somewhere in the world. An intense rage burns in his chest whenever people talk about their parents, siblings, and even their relatives, because it's something he can't relate to and it makes him feel anonymous.

The biker carries a concealed firearm, but it's not his weapon of choice. He's lethal with a six-foot length of half-inch stainless steel chain that hangs from his right hip in two and a half loops, which he can pull free with a single tug and have in action faster than most people can draw a gun. His rivals perceive him as a cold-blooded and ruthless foe, but friendships are inviolable to him, and he is loyal down to a fault. He won't hesitate to take care of a situation on their behalf, and quite often without their knowledge because he never expects a friend to feel indebted to him.

His unusual alliance with Cobra began when they were in junior high, and the construction worker is unaware that Jacko tracked down the driver who killed his parents seven years earlier, and one night, he embarked on a surreptitious quest to avenge their deaths. It was the first time he had intentionally killed someone.

Cobra is still chuckling as he steps into the bedroom and closes the door. Thelma turns back to the computer to see new information has been posted on the internet while her back was turned, and she stares in astonishment at the official satellite image of the Bay of Bengal just released by the Indian government.

# Part Two
10

Davis Street

Stanley, Falkland Islands

Coordinates: 51° 41' 42.4" S, 57° 51' 33.6" W

Sunday, June 21, 2020, 1540h

Stanley is a quaint little town situated on the side of a north-facing hill overlooking a semi-sheltered harbor more than five miles long from east to west, and three-quarters of a mile at its widest point. Prior to the opening of the Panama Canal, it was a haven to the sail and steamships of the era, which sought shelter from violent storms or put into port for repairs after being battered by heavy seas when they rounded Cape Horn. Remnants of the many hulks condemned as unseaworthy still litter the rocky shores, mere skeletons of their former glory ravaged by weather and time. There are 161 known wrecks around the islands, but perhaps one of the most famous was Brunel's _S.S. Great Britain_ , the first ocean-going steamer built of iron and equipped with a propeller; the first iron ship to cross the Atlantic, which she did in fourteen days, and the longest passenger liner in the world between 1845 and 1854. She arrived in the Falklands in 1884, where she became a warehouse until she was scuttled in 1937. A successful effort was made to refloat her in 1970, and she was towed back to Bristol on a pontoon where she is now a museum ship and listed as part of the National Historic Fleet.

John Starker, whose home is on top of the hill, pauses at the garden gate and shivers in the subzero temperature. There is an inexplicable eeriness in the still air, and he glances over the brightly colored corrugated tin roofs with a quizzical expression on his face. He is mesmerized by the atypical glassy calmness of the harbor, which has become a natural canvas reflecting the low-lying hills of the Camber along its northern shore with the sharp clarity of a mirror. Not a single ripple interrupts the sublime image; not a single sound pervades the peculiar tranquility, and there are no cars, no people, and, even stranger, no seagulls.

It's surreal, and John feels like he's been plucked from reality and plunged into a mysterious yet wondrous dimension—an immutable bubble hidden from the creatures of the mortal world. The sky is ninety-nine percent obscured by a layer of _altostratus_ undulatus, which is deeply scarred with varying shades of gray by heavy east-west wind shear. The only portion of blue is in the cradle formed by the twin peaks of the Two Sisters Mountain, where the sun is about to take one last peek at the small town before plunging it into darkness for the next sixteen and a half hours.

A cloud of condensation is suspended in the frosty air for several seconds each time he exhales, and John's chest rises up and down in nervous anticipation that something is about to happen. Another minute passes.

_"Psst_."

He swings around, and a prickly chill runs down his spine. He could've sworn that someone uttered an interjection from behind, but no one is there. He turns his attention back to the blue gap between the two peaks where the bottom rim of the sun is beginning to slide into view. Its rays start bouncing along the base of the cloud from west to east, flowing through the valleys and over the peaks of the formations, and weaving in and out of the gray shadows until the sky is illuminated in a blaze of breathtaking color. John is beguiled as the heavens come alive with bright hues of red and orange, blending into pastel shades of pinks, soft tones of purple, and indigo. The incandescent radiation of the dying sun wriggles gently in and out, snaking through the wavy undulations, and the spectacular display is so impressive he forgets about the hiss in his ear moments earlier.

John's eyes are drawn to a movement in the periphery of his vision, and he gapes in awe at the vibrant reflection of the skies skating across the glassy surface of the harbor. Nature is painting a three-dimensional picture of magnificence beyond anything he could ever imagine as the heavens and water become two living creatures entwined in a fervent, but slow, pulsating tango of exquisite passion until the entire world is emblazoned in breathing color.

He is barely aware of a gentle snicker close to his right ear, and another minute passes before his rapture is interrupted by a giggle that has an unnatural tinkling sound to it. He pivots full circle, but as before, no one is there.

"Isn't it beautiful, man person?"

The voice is soft and soothing, yet it has a strange, crystalline timbre that induces a vision of tiny ice chips tinkling together like wind chimes. However, nature's hypnotic performance is too impressive to miss, and he turns his attention back to the extraordinary extravaganza going on around him. His eyes alternate between the sky and the surface of the harbor, but the sun is slowly sinking behind the ridge and the intense exhibition will soon begin to fade.

"Enjoy my beauty while you can, man person."

Is it his imagination... or did he feel an icy breath brush against his earlobe? While John is still fixated on the light show rippling across the sky, he frowns, because he's unable to discern whether the voice is male or female.

Almost two minutes pass before the voice tinkles again, but now it's moved to his left ear. "Tonight, I bare my soul to you, man person. Drink deep of my beauty and take pleasure in what you see. Remember me this way, for my compassion will forever elude you when your soul is consumed by an incredibly cold loneliness." The voice pauses for a few moments, perhaps to give him time to absorb and decrypt the enigmatic phrases. "This moment is for you and you alone. It is my greatest creation, and the next time such beauty will bring you this much pleasure and warmth again will be when the sun rises from whence it dies tonight."

John glances around for the source of the voice, but it's moving with his ear as he turns his head. There is no one, and he begins to wonder if he's going crazy, suffering from a psychotic break, or perhaps he's even slipped through a crack in the pavement into some strange dimension. Yet he feels compelled to respond.

"Where are you?"

The voice switches back to his right ear and the invisible entity answers unhurriedly. "You are looking at me, man person. I am all around you. I am the beauteous pleasure that fills your soul with bliss in our last moments together, but alas, we must soon part, and without me by your side, your final journey will not be pleasant."

The sun sinks further into the cradle of the Two Sisters, and only a third of it remains in view. The brilliant shades of color in the sky are starting to fade, and John's intoxicated exhilaration is crumbling with it. Another short interlude ensues before the mysterious voice speaks once again, but this time it has a melancholic ring.

"My strength is sapped, and I fear my sister has grown stronger than I. Beware, man person, for she is evil by far and her definition of beauty can be found in a sinister, hellish world where no mortal should ever venture. Every soul has a dark side, and mine is emerging—a millstone I shall bear for eternity. I am too weak to keep her contained, and soon she will be free to unstitch the splendor I sew for the enjoyment of every creature. The world you know will become a dystopia permeated with the sordid stench of death, for which death itself will be the only means of escape." The voice is fading into the distance as if the invisible being is moving away from him. "It's time for me to go, man person, but remember this moment when the cold malevolence wraps her arms around you. It may be the only thing that keeps you from going insane."

The amazing display of natural beauty and the strange quintessence seem to be synchronized in some way because they are evanescing together, and the nervousness he felt earlier is starting to return. _What do I have to fear?_ _The cold? The dark? Loneliness?_ A small portion of the sun's upper rim is still in view, but the colors that danced seductively across the heavens are all but gone. The voice is almost inaudible, but he can still discern the final words.

"Good-bye, man person... good-bye..."

The clouds assume a deathly gray tint as a cold, stony silence descends over the town. A heavy sense of foreboding begins to claw at John's heart, and he turns his eyes to the east to see a huge black cloud racing in from the horizon; a misaligned demiurge twisting and turning in demented fury as long, sinister tentacles lash back and forth across the heavens in a wild feeding frenzy. The cancerous aberration is engulfing the earth below in a light-impenetrable darkness, harvesting the fear and trepidation of the mortals living in the surface below, and he covers his ears with the palms of his hands and drops to his knees in veritable terror when a raucous outburst of bloodcurdling laughter reverberates off the surrounding hills and mountains.

"And now you are _mine_ , man person... aaaallll _mine_." The voice rises to a maniacal scream, and like a fearsome carnivore pouncing on its prey, the black tentacles whip around in a circular motion before diving down from the sky toward him at incredible speed.

John sits up in bed with his heart thumping hard and his forehead heavily beaded in sweat, and it takes him several seconds to orientate. He often has a vague awareness that he has dreamed when he awakens, and perhaps a fleeting glimpse of something might flit through his consciousness like a gray shadow, but this is the first time he can recall every detail with so much lucidity. Every word spoken by the invisible entity echoes around inside his head, and above all, he can still see the bright hues and shades of the extraordinary sunset with absolute clarity. He swings his legs over the side of the bed.

John was born into a dysfunctional family in Coventry, England, and in spite of an aimless and troubled childhood, he passed his GCE A-level examinations with high commendation. It was good enough to net a college scholarship, where a fascination for climatology and weather-related phenomena steered him on a pathway to meteorology. However, he quickly became disillusioned because advancement through the ranks was a slow process and felt he'd ended up in a dead-end career in spite of its allure. He married his childhood sweetheart at twenty-two, but it finished up in a divorce court less than a year later when a growing addiction to alcohol began to compromise his personal and professional life. His eccentricity was his worst enemy, though, and slowly he slipped further away from society.

It was several days before his thirty-ninth birthday when an associate drew his attention to an opening for a head meteorologist in the Falkland Islands, and he made some casual inquiries to learn that the post came with a rent-free house, a vehicle, and best of all, he'd be in an authoritative position, albeit one apprentice. Nevertheless, he considered it would be a favorable credit on his résumé, so he applied for the three-year contract.

John is now eighteen months into the indenture and anxious to get the other half behind him. He enjoyed being a solitaire when he was in the United Kingdom, but there were times when he craved company in a bizarre kind of way. He would go to a shopping center, sit on a bench at Charing Cross, Waterloo, or one of the other busy train stations, or take a walk down Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon—anywhere that was crowded. These were places he could enjoy an anonymous singularity among the masses, but here? The only collectives were sheep and penguins, and with less than three thousand inhabitants on the islands, everyone knew his face, name, and more details about himself than he did. The Islanders seem to thrive on gossip and rumors, and it was once suggested that the CIA knew the color of everyone's underwear.

John glances at the clock. It's almost five to four and he realizes he's just slept through the daylight hours of the shortest day of the year. The winter solstice is celebrated by the locals with a costume dance and a glorious piss-up in the community hall, but the observance of Sunday as a pious day is upheld by Falkland's law, and because it prohibits festivities of a nonreligious nature to begin on the Sabbath, the event was brought forward to Saturday. He only went for the alcohol, and to the amusement of the locals, he kept his costume amazingly simple. Dressed in a boiler suit, a pair of Wellingtons, and a four-cup anemometer strapped to his head, he went as "the weatherman."

His brain is pounding from the consumption of too many drinks, and he contemplates on whether he should go into the office. He's responsible for the tutorship of Gavin Fletcher, a twenty-two-year-old apprentice, who is eager to learn the trade and listens attentively to his instructions. The practice of allowing a trainee to do unsupervised shifts during the first four years is prohibited under the contractual agreement, but with less than a year before he graduates, John advanced the budding meteorologist onto a weekend shift every fortnight. Gavin is capable of maintaining operations on his own, but because he's still accountable if something goes wrong, he generally goes in at four o'clock for the last hour and helps to shut the station down after the apprentice has drawn up the local and shipping forecasts. John has faith in his capability to deliver an accurate prediction—more so, since the British Antarctic Survey program looped them into the Infinity satellite network. He often voices his disdain for the American company's advanced intelligent weather system because it has reduced the art of meteorology to a degree where forecasts can be easily published by a five-year-old at the push of a button.

John reaches for the telephone, and it rings several times before Gavin picks up. "Hey, lad, I'm a wee bit poorly after last night's bash. How do you feel about drawing up the last daily by yourself today?"

An apprehensive tenor is noticeable in Gavin's tone. "I'd like to say yes, but I'm not sure if I can."

This isn't quite the reaction he expected and he's somewhat surprised. "Why?"

"There's something _weird_ going on, and I think you should take a look at it."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

_"Mmm_... not really."

John is disappointed but decides not to push the youngster beyond his comfort zone. "Okay, lad, I'll be there in a jiffy."

Gavin is a fresh-faced young man who loves the outdoors. He has a saddle nose that was inherited from his father, thin lips, gray eyes, a shock of tightly curled but unruly brown hair, and a five-foot-ten-inch frame that has the slim physique of a sixteen-year-old. He spends most weekends fishing, egging, or sailing during the spring and early summer, but he also has a penchant for brewing wine from edible fruits and wildflowers found in the islands. This year, he experimented with the vitamin C-rich scurvy grass corolla, which he hopes to develop into a health drink, and diddle-dee berries. John found both brews to be far too tart, but the latter is an acquired taste enjoyed by the native Islanders in its fruit form or as a preserve. He was served a bowl of stewed diddle-dee's and custard as a dessert in a local restaurant shortly after arriving in the colony, and not expecting them to be so vile to his taste buds, he spat the first mouthful out onto the table.

John walks into the office fifteen minutes after calling in. Gavin looks up from his desk and opens his mouth to speak, but he cuts him off in a gruff voice. "Hold that thought."

The meteorologist pulls his gloves off and stuffs them into a pocket in his Parker before hanging it on a coat peg near the exit. He then heads across the room to his terminal, slumps into a chair, and puts on a pair of reading glasses while he waits for his computer to fire up. Their desks are placed front-to-front, which means they are always facing each other, but it's easier to communicate, especially when the young man is under hands-on instruction. "So, what's going on, lad?"

The young man peers over the monitor. "You've got to see these satellite pictures, sir." Sixteen images are spread out across the top of Gavin's desk, and he shuffles them into a small stack before he gets to his feet and walks around the side. "There's an unusual weather system developing in the Antarctic." He stops behind John and places the first exposure in front of him. "These were taken at thirty-minute intervals since eight o'clock this morning. This is the first one."

The picture shows a clear satellite view of the Weddell Sea. The Antarctic Peninsula is on the west, Coats Land is to the east, and a section of the vast Ronne Ice Shelf is at the bottom. Surface temperature, wind speed, and barometric pressures are overprinted on the image in different colors. They appear random and meaningless to the untrained eye, but it's a comprehensive report to a meteorologist.

Gavin drops a second print on top of the first. "Thirty minutes later."

This one has a few wispy clouds over the Weddell Sea about 165 miles east of the peninsula, but nothing out of the ordinary jumps out at him.

He places a third image on the desk. "Nine o'clock."

John notes a decrease in barometric pressure, suggesting that perhaps a low depression is forming, and a tiny band of thin cloud is spiraling clockwise toward the center, but there's still nothing unusual about it.

The young man drops another image on the desk. "Nine-thirty."

The clouds have thickened significantly over the thirty-minute interval, and a second band is beginning to wrap around on the outer side of the first with another big drop in pressure. John speaks without looking up. "It's a small, localized winter storm, probably caused by a pocket of warm air over the ice shelf. It'll peter out by the morning."

With perfect timing clearly aimed to maximize the impact, Gavin slides the last picture from the bottom of the stack and drops it in front of him. "This came in ten minutes ago."

The image shows a full-blown storm in the Weddell Sea, which has grown to seven hundred miles in diameter, and the Antarctic Peninsula, Elephant Island, and the South Orkneys are obscured by expanding bands of thick cloud.

"Well, I'll be buggered!" John exclaims. He pivots on his chair and snatches the rest of the prints from Gavin's hand, and glances through them one after the other.

"I wasn't sure if I should call you or not, but it seemed pretty bizarre to me."

_"Bizarre?_ I've never seen _anything_ like this before." John flips between the first and last images. The barometric pressure has dropped one hundred five millibars and the wind speed has increased from less than three miles an hour to more than ninety-five in eight hours, but the hub is spinning in the same location with no directional movement to suggest which path it might take. The storm is well organized, and it bears all the hallmarks of a typhoon right down to the formation of an eye, yet tropical storms can't exist in the cold waters of Antarctica.

"The outer band was fifty miles south of Elephant Island at two o'clock, and I decided to run a prediction for the region, including the Orkneys."

"And?"

Gavin walks back to his desk and rifles through some papers before reading some notations he'd jotted onto a notepad. "Wind speed less than three miles an hour, skies clear, humidity at thirty-five percent, and temperature minus twelve centigrade. No change in the outlook for the next twenty-four hours; cloud cover less than point oh one percent, barometric pressure stable."

John is scornful of the satellite's apparent inability to predict a storm only fifty miles out, yet he's never known the Infinity system to produce misleading information at any time in the past.

The apprentice looks across at him. "I ran a second forecast for the same location after the clouds moved over the island, and it invalidates the previous one. The wind speed is forty-five miles per hour, barometric pressure has dropped significantly, the temperature was minus twenty-three centigrade, and the Doppler shows heavy snow is falling." A tiny smirk appears on Gavin's lips. "The outlook is unpredictable."

John throws his head back and laughs. "That's a new one on me."

"That's why I didn't feel comfortable. I didn't want to get the forecast wrong the first time I do it by myself."

"Aye, lad, I make you right there, but even if the storm begins to move straight at us, you'll be safe for at least forty-eight hours." He runs through the images again. "I can't see what's keeping it anchored in one spot, though. Did you run a spaghetti chart to see where it might go?"

"Yes, but the results were negative."

He gives his student a puzzled look. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"The satellite is unable to compute a probable path, owing to insufficient data."

John is astounded because the model is based on the surface temperature of the ocean. "Did you try to force it manually?"

"Yep, but it only swings back in on itself no matter what direction I try to push it in."

_"Hmm_ , that _is_ odd." He shrugs and makes an assertion. "Perhaps it doesn't intend to go anywhere."

"So, should I issue a forecast without focusing on this?"

"Where's the Russian fishing fleet?"

"According to their last OBS report, they were about 120 miles southwest of South Georgia."

"Then you'll be all right, lad. What's happening fifteen hundred miles south won't influence the current weather around the islands or the Russians in the immediate short term. It's probably a localized freak that'll be unable to sustain itself, and it'll fall apart just as fast as it developed once it begins to move."

John continues to stare at the last image with a distant expression in his eyes, and he wonders if perhaps something like this isn't so rare in this part of the world.

# 11

97-20 57th Avenue

Corona, New York, USA

Coordinates: 40° 44' 12.9" N, 73° 51' 48.2" W

Sunday, June 21, 2020, 1907h

Thelma is reading an article on the Internet when the doorbell chimes, and she glances up at the clock. It's probably Jacko, who called earlier in the day to make sure they had no plans for the evening before he dropped by for a visit. The muffled gush of water coming from the bathroom means Cobra is still in the shower, so she gets to her feet and heads for the hallway to let him in.

The biker greets her with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thelma. How're ya doin', gal?" He thrusts a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates into her hands, and her eyes open wide in delight.

"Aww, thank you, Jacko, that's so _sweet_ of you." She sniffs at the inflorescence as she leads him into the living room. "Cobra told me you were going to stop by this evening, but he also said I shouldn't hold my breath."

The biker laughs. "Oh ye of little faith," he intones. He extends his arms out sideways with the palms turned up and tilts his head back. " _A_ _h_ _h_ , you don't know how good it is to feel the cool breeze of an air-conditioner."

Thelma smiles as she leads him through to the dining room. "I don't intend going outside until the weather cools down. The last four days have been over a hundred degrees, and the forecasters are saying it's the hottest summer ever. We still have July and August to get through yet."

"It's the damn humidity that makes it so vexatious, but I think you'll know all about that. Aren't you into that kind of thing?"

She places the bouquet and box of chocolates on top of a large table that comfortably seats twelve people—five along each side and one at each end. It is steeped in antiquity, and not a single scratch or blemish mars the polished oak surface and intricately hand carved legs. A dozen matching chairs complete the well-cared-for suite. "I know a fair bit, I suppose," Thelma calls out over her shoulder as she walks into the kitchen. "What would you like to know?"

"I'm not really that interested, but I expect they're saying it's the effect of greenhouse gases and global warming, as always."

"Of _course_ , and in particular, it's caused by bikers who roar around on their CO2-spewing Harleys." She smiles when his laughter drifts in through the door and picks up an unusual vase depicting a view across a lake. The surface is cleverly pixilated with shades of blue to create the illusion that ripples are moving across its surface, and she runs some water into it from the faucet. "Would you like a beer?"

"Are you going to force me to answer the obvious?"

Thelma giggles and places the vase on top of the dishwasher before opening the fridge. She pulls a bottle of Corona from the top shelf, and after popping the cap, she picks up a glass from the rack and walks back into the dining room.

"Thanks, darlin'," he says as he relieves her of the bottle and tumbler, and he continues to speak while pouring the cold amber liquid. "I'm happy to guzzle straight from the bottle like a _real_ man, but for you, I'll be dainty."

Thelma is on her way back to the kitchen to retrieve the vase. "You'd drink from a chamber pot if there wasn't anything else around."

"C'mon, gal, even _I_ have limitations... but I'm sad to say that's not one of them."

Laughing at his confession, she returns and sets the vase on top of a large coaster to prevent a water stain from being deposited on the tabletop.

Jacko glances around the room. "I can't get over the size of this apartment."

Thelma removes the protective paper from the bouquet. "I've been trying to convince Cobra it's time we should move. The management doesn't give a crap about security, and they scam us with high fees for services they're not even providing."

"It's not like you guys can't _afford_ to live in an upscale part of town," and a smile flits across Jacko's lips. "I don't think Cobra wants to introduce his rough-and-ready friends into a decent hood."

"Don't be silly, Jacko. He doesn't want to move because this is where he's lived for most of his life. He tried to get his grandmother to move into the house he inherited from his parents, but this is where all her memories were and there was no way in heaven she was going to allow _anyone_ to persuade her to leave, not even her own grandson. He ended up selling it and moved in here so she wouldn't be alone."

Cobra's parents were struck at high speed when a car flew through the red lights of a pedestrian walkway, and his mother died instantly. His father was rushed to emergency with severe head trauma, where the doctors tried to save his life, but he passed away some hours later. Jacko was not convinced that the cops were making a concerted effort to track down and apprehend the offender, so he conducted his own investigation and discovered that the reprobate was an off-duty police officer. He flipped when he learned that the lead investigator assigned to the case was the actual perpetrator, and he was subverting justice by covering his tracks. Jacko went to the detective's home late one night and told his prey the reason for the visit before he served a punishment befitting the transgression. He has never spoken to anyone about the incident, not even to Cobra, but Thelma has an uncanny knack for extracting information from people without intent. Fearful she might ask some awkward questions, the biker hastily changes the topic. "This table is fascinating."

"Yes, it belonged to Cobra's grandmother, and you can tell by its immaculate condition that it was her pride and joy. I did some research, and the set is a genuine antique. Three handmade suites were made by her great-grandfather in 1900 as wedding gifts for his children."

"Can I be the first to carve my initials into it?"

Thelma bursts out laughing. "As long as I can whittle mine into your wooden stumps after Cobra rips your legs off."

The glazed image on the porcelain vase catches his attention. " _What_ the _fuck_...?" He rubs his eyes before taking a second look. "The flower jug—"

"Cool, isn't it?"

"Jesus, woman, the water's moving!"

"You don't need to munch on 'shrooms or drop acid for a hallucinogenic experience in _this_ household."

Cobra comes out of the bedroom wearing a pair of khaki shorts. "Hey, bud!"

The two friends greet each other with a fist punch and a grapple, while Thelma arranges the blooms to her satisfaction.

"Flowers? Are you trying to spoil her now?"

She looks up at Cobra. "That's what _real_ gentlemen do, honey. When was the last time _you_ bought me a bouquet or a box of chocolates?"

Cobra wavers before he responds hesitantly. " _Er_... our first date?"

_"Ooh_ , _how_ you _lie_ , mister. You've never given me as much as a dead daisy."

"I _did_ buy you an expensive dinner, though."

Thelma laughs and walks back into the kitchen to get him a beer from the fridge. They move to the living room, where Cobra and Jacko sink into a pair of armchairs, while she goes over to the computer. The biker calls out to her just as she is sitting down.

"Who're you hacking tonight, gal?"

"Everyone and anyone I can."

He chuckles softly. Cobra strikes up a dialogue with his friend, and Thelma half listens to their conversation as she resumes the research she was doing before Jacko arrived.

"So, what have you been up to, bro?"

"The usual, you know. I spent the night in my favorite weekend hotel last Saturday."

"Another bar fight?"

"Something like that. I got into a scrap with a spaghetto who thought he was the bear's tits, and I was giving him a powerful life lesson until the fuckin' cops turned up. Hendrickson paid my bond, but I'm still up before a judge on an assault charge next month."

"What's a spaghetto?" Thelma asks without turning her eyes away from the monitor.

"It's a derogatory term for an Italian who acts like he's black."

"Hmm, I've never heard the expression before," and she pauses. "Have you ever killed anyone, Jacko?" She asks the question in a nonchalant tone, and because she has her back to him, she doesn't see his expression or the way his jaw muscles tighten, but she does notice the long pause before he answers.

"Yeah, I topped a cop once."

"How come you're not doing life?"

"I never got caught."

Jacko has a dark sense of humor, so she's not sure whether to believe him, but she gets distracted by an excerpt posted on the Internet moments earlier and falls silent while she reads it. "Sweet _Jesus!_ "

"What's up, honey?"

"They've just released an update on Rift Ridge Island. You need to take a look at this."

The two men get up and amble unhurriedly across the room.

"Why did they call it Rift Ridge Island?" Jacko asks.

"It's an informal designation used by the scientists until the Indian government gives it an official name, but it's an apt name if you know the history behind it. The whisper is in favor of the 'New Andaman Island.'"

She hears Cobra scoff. "There she goes with those fucking whispers again. Why don't you say straight up that you hacked into their records?"

"That would be an admission of guilt, and you know I never have mea culpa moments."

The two men peer over her shoulders at a satellite picture that was released by the Indians a month earlier. "No one's been on the island yet," Thelma explains. "They've been waiting for it to cool down first, and the Institute of Seismic Research is planning its first expedition next week. The Indian Navy has a tight cordon around it because they're claiming the region is still unstable, but now it seems there might be another reason for the high security."

"Didn't they lose most of their warships in the tsunami?" Jacko asks.

"They lost ninety-five percent of the boats stationed at the Eastern Naval Command." Thelma turns her head to look up at the biker. "Didn't you see those amazing pictures of the _Vikrant_?"

He shrugs his shoulders with a vague expression on his face. "I can't say I did."

"It was their newest aircraft carrier commissioned in 2018, but anyway, she's perched on a hill twenty kilometers from the ocean."

"What's that in miles?" Jacko asks. "I have no perception of distances on the metric scale."

"Around about twelve, give or take a few yards."

Cobra inserts himself into the conversation. "Every ship in port that day ended up on dry land after the water drained back into the sea."

_"Fuck_ , that's a long way in. How did they get them back into the water?"

"They didn't. The navy salvaged their top-secret equipment and weaponry from the stranded vessels before turning them into shelters for the homeless."

"I heard the tsunami destroyed a couple of coastal towns too."

She chuckles and looks back at the monitor. "You really _don't_ follow the news, do you, Jacko? The entire east coast slid into the ocean and took every city, town, and village with it. Cartographers are remapping the Bay of Bengal so they can open up shipping channels and all the rest of it, but getting back to the original subject,"—she points at the picture on the screen—"this was published by the Indian government, but it's been doctored."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because they're hiding something they don't want the world to see. Google took a series of pictures so they could incorporate the geographical changes into their online maps." She depresses the Alt and Tab keys and flips to a second image. "Can you spot the difference?"

Thirty seconds pass before Cobra shakes his head. "I've no idea what I'm supposed to be looking for."

Thelma points to a series of indistinct blemishes that have an unusual whitish glow as if they're reflecting the sunlight. She returns to the picture released by the Indian government. The objects are not visible, and after giving the men enough time to see the difference, Thelma goes back to the preceding picture and zooms in.

"They look like rocks," Jacko says.

Thelma raises her voice slightly in excitement. "Damn _right_ they are, mister. Just listen to this statement released today." She scrolls down and begins to read the report aloud. "'Google was mystified by clusters of reflective blocks scattered around the center of the island. While most range from the size of a small family car to an SUV, some are larger than a tractor-trailer. The pictures were passed to scientists, who confirm that they are the largest diamonds ever disgorged from the planet's interior.'"

Jacko emits a low whistle. " _Jeee-_ zus... no wonder there's heavy security around the island. Every criminal in the world will want to get their hands on them."

_"Shush!_ I haven't finished," and Thelma continues to read the article. "'Analysts are baffled because the precious jewels are formed in the upper mantle at a depth of ninety to a hundred twenty miles, and this is the first non-volcanic event to ever extract a wealth of diamonds from the earth. However, it has spawned renewed concerns over the extent of the internal damage that may have been caused by the Andaman Event.'"

Cobra frowns. "That happened six months ago, so why are they only finding them now?"

"The island was obscured by clouds and steam for several months, and Google couldn't get a clear picture until now. The exposures released by the Indians were obtained by military satellites using specialized cameras and top-secret equipment."

"They probably intended to keep it quiet until the island cooled down enough for them to get onto it and camouflage the rocks from aerial observation," Cobra says.

Thelma doesn't know why, but something about the discovery is troubling. "I follow every major earthquake, volcanic eruption, and weather phenomenon that happens, and while there's a lot I don't understand about geology and so on, I think the Andaman Event is still an ongoing threat in some way."

Cobra makes it clear he doesn't share her view. "Oh, c'mon _,_ Thelma... don't you think we would've known by now if something was going to happen."

Thelma isn't ready to be as dismissive, though, but without facts to validate an argument, she remains silent and turns back to the computer. She needs to do more research.
12

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Monday, June 22, 2020, 0815h

Steve Jaeger steps out of the elevator onto the top floor of Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc. and begins to stride at a brisk pace along the corridor towards his office. The light swish as the material of his trouser legs brush against each other and the thick carpeting dampens the pad of feet approaching from behind, and he is oblivious of his partner approaching from behind until he draws level.

"Boy, am I glad to see you, Steve."

He turns his head and looks at his friend without slowing. "Good morning, BB."

Brad Bentley, known as BB to his friends and colleagues since middle school, is a portly man of five feet ten inches, who is a few weeks away from his fiftieth birthday. His age is evident in the slightly flaccid cheeks, thickening downturned eyebrows, a receding scalp line, and thinning gray hair over his crown. A pair of brown, deep-set eyes is separated by the bridge of a medium size Roman nose protruding above a pair of narrow lips.

The two men were born days apart, but in contrast, Steve has aged with more grace. Fine strands of silver are starting to thread their way through a full head of tightly curled brown hair, but they are only noticeable on close inspection. The taut, nicely tanned skin on his face gives him a strong, youthful appearance, but the crow's feet around his eyes and light lines at the corners of his mouth is a clear indication that he's older than he looks. He is slightly shorter than Brad at five feet six inches, and he hasn't begun to develop a middle age spread yet.

Their friendship began in nursery school, and by the time they moved up to kindergarten, the pair were inseparable. Steve's interest in weather phenomena eventually led to a career in meteorology, where he spent several years as a forecaster for a local television channel, but it wasn't enough to quell the ambitious aspirations churning around inside. He wanted to get into investigative research, and even storm hunting was appealing, except fate had other plans.

Brad was the first to get married, and it was no surprise to anyone when Steve was best man. Eighteen months later, it was Brad's turn to stand beside his friend at the altar, and it was on one inconspicuous Sunday afternoon during the late summer of the same year, that he stopped by to visit Brad and Janice with his new bride. The two men fired up the barbeque, and after eating, they relaxed in deck chairs beside the pool. The early evening air was pleasant, and they made small talk over a beer as the sun sank behind the palm trees.

"I overheard Shirley calling you her dust devil," Brad said.

Steve laughed. "She thinks I'm hyperactive—you know—weatherman... whirling around." It was then that he made an offhand comment, which was lacking any seriousness or thought, yet it would set them on the road to a remarkable and successful future. "We should go into business."

Brad, who was a software developer in the gaming industry, seemed amused. "What do you have in mind?"

"Anything... I'm fed up with reciting the weather to an invisible TV audience every day."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I'm running out of new ways to blast virtual characters into gory oblivion, and to be honest, I'm getting bored with it. I need something more challenging."

"Why don't we combine our skills to do something innovative?"

"Like what?"

Steve slid a finger up the bridge of his nose to adjust his sunglasses before answering. "Oh, I don't know, but we're a pair of smartasses. I'm sure we can come up with something revolutionary that's out of this world."

Brad smiled. "How about designing games and drawing up weather forecasts for Martians?"

Steve was silent for a moment before making an off-the-cuff remark. "We could design a computer system capable of predicting accurate weather patterns _before_ they develop."

Brad gave a short satirical laugh. "I don't think it'll be as popular as iPhones. Even if we _did_ invent something inspiring, what are we going to do with it?"

"Install it in a satellite and sell it."

"You weren't joking when you said _something out of this world_. Meteorologists are going to love us when they end up going the way of the Dodo."

Steve gave him a broad grin. "Not quite... _I'll_ still be here."

The discussion ended there, and it didn't enter his head again until Brad reignited the subject a month later. "Do you remember when you said we should invent new technology for predicting the weather?"

"Yeah, but I wasn't serious about it."

"Perhaps you weren't... but I am. I've been giving the idea some thought, and while it'll be exigent, it's the kind of challenge I need right now. Above all, I think it'll be achievable."

His curiosity was aroused. "What would be our ultimate goal?"

"Making loads of money, of course."

"Well, _that's_ a given."

"How about a satellite network with the capability of predicting the weather weeks in advance with great accuracy for specified coordinates anywhere on the planet? Sensors will collect the temperature, pressure, formulation of weather patterns, and a whole load of data that can be fed into a central nervous system and processed."

"It needs to be different from anything else out there, though."

"Oh, it _will_ be." It was impossible to miss the confidence and enthusiasm in Brad's voice. "I've been doing some research, and we can sweep existing systems right off the grid. You'll need to educate me on how meteorology works, though, but I think I can design an artificial intelligence that'll teach itself from the information it gathers and predict the weather with incredible accuracy days before stuff develops. And if I allow enough space for memory expansion, it'll never go obsolete."

_"Christ_ , BB, slow _down_. Don't you think you're being a bit overambitious?"

"Maybe, maybe not, but the technology is there and all we've got to do is apply it properly. We don't need to restrict ourselves to meteorology, either. We'll give it the capacity to gather other data, such as greenhouse gas emission levels, polar ice melt, measurements of the earth's magnetic field, and more."

Brad was aiming high, and Steve was dubious about the parameters his friend was trying to set. "What would we do with the things not related to weather?"

"Sell it to scientists, of course. They'd pay a fortune for it."

Steve mulled the scheme over in his head. He didn't understand enough about computers to know if Brad was right, but years of friendship had instilled an inherent trust between them, and if he says the technology is available to bring this to life...

"BB, we must be realistic. The cost of one satellite will run into millions of dollars, much less a whole fleet. Have you thought about how we're going to finance a project like that?" Steve had always been the businessman, and everything must work on paper before he contemplated practicality, but this never dampened Brad's enthusiasm.

"We'll start out by taking baby steps. Let's develop the software and come up with a viable product first, then once the crinkles are chipped off, it'll be easier to get the interest of investors."

Steve didn't share Brad's optimism but decided to humor him. His friend immediately built a prefabricated shed behind his home, where they began to transform the dream into reality, but he burst out laughing when he saw the crude hand-painted sign nailed over the door that read "BS Weather Management."

"What's the 'BS' stand for? Bull Shit?"

"No, you idiot... it stands for Brad and Steve."

This eventually gave way to the more appropriate name of Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, and the pair devoted eight years to the venture. They suffered many setbacks along the way, but their perseverance began to pay off, and when the Palo Alto city administrators moved their offices and the police department that backed up against them to a new building, they eyed the old City Hall as an ideal place to set up their operation. The tower would make a great executive suite, while the law enforcement station was perfect to convert into a research laboratory and workshop subdivisions. Steve came up with a strong business plan, and it wasn't long before they had a line of investors waiting in the wings. However, the bank was hesitant to grant a loan to acquire the structure, and it took so long for them to make a decision that the two entrepreneurs almost lost the site to a construction company who wanted to redevelop the land.

Infinity was one of the first successful businesses to rise up from the ashes of the 2008 financial disaster. It took every cent the pair could muster at a time when people were cautious about their investments, and potential sponsors looked on with interest as the first rocket carrying the designated MD1000 satellite system was launched by a pioneering space exploration company in November of 2009. There was no room for failure, and eight months later, their order books were backed up when governments and private enterprises across the world began to realize the benefits of the Infinity network.

Brad preferred to keep a hands-on position in the company so he could stay involved with the software development and maintenance, and he was happy to be the Chief Technical Officer. Steve slipped into the business end as the CEO, and he quickly formed a board of directors, which included themselves as equal-share majority holders, and the top eleven financiers.

They now have sixty satellites positioned around the globe, but seven units over the oceans in the Northern Hemisphere are still unsubscribed. They have no direct advantage for any entities as of yet, but they are necessary for the overall function of the network and ten more are required to close the black spots that still exist over the southern seas. This is an argument the two friends have to justify at a special investor's meeting scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, and since revenues are engendered largely from subscriptions, it won't be an easy task to convey the gains additional satellites will bring in the short-term. However, it will be a win-win for the long-term investor, because they'll be able to lease the seventeen 'spare' satellites placed over the water to shipping and airline companies once the network is complete. It will provide unlimited access for up-to-the-minute weather information for their vessels and aircraft.

Additional income is generated from the massive amount of scientific data unrelated to meteorology, which is downloaded, stored in the laboratory databanks and sold to researchers, universities, and scientists all over the world, including NASA.

Steve opens the door to his office and there's a disquieting timbre infused in Brad's voice as he follows him inside. "We have a problem."

He walks across the floor and places the briefcase beneath his desk before sinking into a large leather chair. He leans back and clasps his hands around the back of his head while his partner pulls another seat forward and sits in it. "I'm sure it isn't anything you can't handle."

"I got a call around three-thirty this morning advising me that the satellite subscribed to the Australian Antarctic Division has malfunctioned."

Steve raises his eyebrows in surprise. Infinity has high preservation standards, and they've invested heavily in a proficient technical agenda to ensure the customer has a platform with guaranteed reliability and support. Routine maintenance schedules are performed with clockwork regularity, and this is the first time a problem has been reported since the launch of the first satellite. "How serious is it?"

"Well, it's bad enough to crash the onboard computers."

"You've established the cause... yes?"

Brad shakes his head. "No. The techs are working on it, but up until now, we've drawn a blank. I came straight in and ran some preliminary tests when I got the call, and when nothing out of the ordinary showed up, I reset everything to the default values and rebooted the satellite. It came back online, but only long enough to return an error message before it shut down again."

"What was the message?"

"'Invalid input command: data out of range.'"

Steve is getting nervous and begins to twiddle his thumbs. "What does that mean, BB?"

"To be honest, I don't know. I haven't been able to locate the source event or even determine at what level it's being invoked. Neither can I find reference to an error message like this in the troubleshooting manual, which means the code was never assigned in the first place."

He is perplexed. He had been involved in the development of the software and watched Brad calibrate everything with meticulous assiduousness to ensure it would operate within the parameters of the meteorological data he provided. Yet if he _had_ left something out, why would it wait eleven years to reveal itself? "Did you run _all_ the diagnostic tests?"

"Twice... and I ran a quick scan too, but I was forced to initiate a comprehensive test when it didn't unveil any anomalies. Everything came back normal and showed the equipment to be fully functional. I even accessed the command interface via a manual override, but all I keep getting is the damn 'data out of range' message."

"Have you tried a complete shutdown and restart?" Steve asks.

"The techs are doing that right now, but it'll take some time because they need to follow specific procedural steps." Brad shakes his head with a mystified expression in his eyes. "I only hope to God it resolves the problem; otherwise, we could be in deep shit."

He muses for a few moments. "What are the odds of a repeat occurrence if it works?"

Brad shakes his head slowly. "The threat is far too great to ignore. I'll download an operations report because whatever the origins are, a record will be saved somewhere in the codex. I hope the shutdown gives me a reprieve for the interim because I'll need time to examine the data streams in depth and analyze trillions of bytes, which could take weeks if I'm lucky and months if I'm not." His iPhone rings, and he unhooks it from his belt and looks at the caller ID. "It's Danny," he says, referring to the head technician, and he raises the device to his ear. "Yes..." His expression grows dark as he listens. "... all right." He snaps the cover closed and gets to his feet. "I need to go downstairs. We're back to square one... the shutdown failed."

"I'll come down to the lab in a bit, but I need to clear this paperwork from my desk first." Although Steve is trying to convince himself that it's a temporary hiccup, he's feeling far from comfortable as his eyes follow Brad, who is striding across the floor to the door muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
13

Met Office

Stanley, Falkland Islands

Coordinates: 51° 41' 54.9" S, 57° 50' 58.8" W

Monday, June 22, 2020, 0959h

Gavin's attention is drawn from the computer by the muffled sound of an engine, and he squints against the fierce glare of the early morning sun reflecting off the heavy overnight frost as he looks out of the window. The town council's injudicious decision to abolish daylight savings time in 2011 means the midwinter sun doesn't rise until nine fifteen, and because it's weak at this time of the year, the layer of white will linger for a couple of hours.

John's Land Rover is coming up the gravel driveway. He is a good boss and an excellent tutor despite his eccentricity, but he's very contemptuous of the Infinity system and reiterates the same line of reasoning every time he forces him to draw up the forecasts using long outdated manual practices. "Computers make us lazy and dumb, and no one will know how to do anything if something catastrophic happens and technology vanishes overnight." Yet Gavin was born into the electronic age and he can't imagine how people used to live without it.

John is usually in by nine o'clock, but today he had to take the Land Rover down to the maintenance yard for a scheduled fluid change. He steps into the office and removes his gloves before signing the login book, noting that Gavin was in at eight instead of the usual start time. "You came in early?"

Gavin doesn't give a direct answer, but his motivation is obvious in his response. "The storm has grown into a _monstrosity_."

He emits an obnoxious snort as he takes his jacket off. "I used to have the same passion at one time, but you can see where _I've_ ended up." He removes his boots and slides his feet into a pair of bedroom slippers. "Is it on the mooch yet?"

"No, but it's one thousand, eight hundred and ninety miles in diameter with a well-defined eye. The ten o'clock image should be coming through at any moment."

Right on cue, the printer clacks as the feed draws a sheet of paper into the print channel. John ambles across to retrieve the document from the tray, and he stares at it in bewilderment. " _Holy Toledo!_ "

"Rather impressive, eh?"

John has never seen a high-pressure system collapse so fast before, and he saunters back to the desk with his eyes locked on the image. The barometer has dropped to an impressive 874, which is only four millibars above the lowest on record when the eye of Typhoon Tip fell to 870 three hundred miles west of Guam on October 12, 1979. But that was a tropical storm, and this kind of thing isn't supposed to happen in Antarctica. The temperature in the outer extremities is minus five degrees centigrade, decreasing incrementally to minus seventeen at the nucleus, but it's a bone-chilling minus forty-three when the wind chill is factored into the equation. "I think it's finally on the move. Run another spaghetti chart and see if it'll map a path this time."

He turns his attention to the tightly packed isobars. The markers indicate that a sustained wind speed of 105 miles per hour is spinning around the outer extremities, but it's a terrifying 198 close to the eyewall. He wonders what kind of elements have come together to create a freak hurricane in the Antarctic, because that's exactly what it looks like. " _Christ_ , I hope this chappie stays well away from us."

Gavin peeks over the top of his monitor. "Why? It's about time we got a decent storm."

"You'd best be careful what you wish for, lad. Besides, it's _always_ stormy here."

"High winds are normal, yes, but not _storm_ stormy."

John grunts before refuting his trainee's characterization. "Your definition of 'stormy' and mine are on different planes. Trust me, son, this is something you _don't_ want to get caught in."

Gavin's computer emits a loud beep. " _Ah ha_ , it's finished cooking the spaghetti."

"Good. Send it to my terminal."

Moments later, he's sits scratching his head again. Only three strands are intertwining with each other as they follow the same basic path, and at no point do they stray for more than a mile apart. The storm is moving northeast toward the South Sandwich Islands, where it uses the eastern contour of the archipelago like a slingshot to sweep around to the northwest. The eye is predicted to pass a couple of miles south of South Georgia, and twenty miles north of the Falklands with no sign of weakening. "I think you're going to get your wish, lad."

The apprentice has been studying the chart too, and the disappointment in his voice is clear. "The eye is going to miss us."

"It's almost two thousand miles across. We'll still be hit with two-hundred-mile-plus winds, no question about it."

The smile on Gavin's face dissipates. "You think it'll be that strong?"

_"Hah!_ All of a sudden you don't sound so enthusiastic." The sarcasm in John's voice is raw, but it seems that Gavin chooses not to respond because he opts to get on with his tasks. He continues to study the storm data, barely aware of the click of keys and the occasional rustle of paper that pervades from Gavin's desk, and ten minutes pass before the apprentice speaks again.

"Is the _Akademik Knipovich II_ the only ship out there?"

John sits back, slides both index fingers beneath the lens of his reading glasses and rubs his eyes before answering. "I doubt if she's alone. The Russians never tell us how many ships are in their fishing fleet, but you can guarantee she supports at least a dozen trawlers."

"I don't understand why they're so secretive."

"Their cold-war-era mentality hasn't changed, even after all these years. You won't know much about that because it was before you were born, but Putin revived all the old paranoia again when he was president."

The _Akademik Knipovich II_ is a huge factory ship stationed permanently in the Southern Ocean. The captain is responsible for a fleet of trawlers who rendezvous with the giant vessel at regular intervals to off-load their catch and pick up oil, food, and general provisions. It is a tough, thankless existence for the crews on the smaller vessels, who are forced to work under treacherous conditions for up to twenty hours per shift without a break, and fatigue and sleep deprivation is an occupational hazard that often leads to serious accidents, and life-altering injuries and death are common.

After the catch has been transferred to the mother ship, a conveyor carries the fish, squid, krill, and shrimp into the main factory line where they are sorted, cleaned, and gutted. Some are cooked prior to being canned or bottled, packed into cases, and sent to a cold storage hold. The _Akademik Knipovich II_ is regularly serviced by a chain of cargo vessels and oilers who bring supplies in from Vladivostok and return with the products.

John and Gavin draw up a weather forecast based on the position of the mothership twice daily, but because the Russians are sensitive about disclosing the number of vessels in the region and their locations, the trawlers are not authorized to communicate directly with outside entities.

"Have they sent in their morning OBS report yet?"

"It should be in your inbox."

John opens the e-mail and notes that the ship is farther southwest than it was on the previous evening. It is now two hundred miles from South Georgia—and right in the path of the giant storm. He begins to draft a response.

To: Captain Vladimir Khlanostikov, _Akademik Knipovich II_

From: Falkland Islands Met Office, Stanley

Priority Level: Urgent

Severe storm warning:-

A cyclonic depression 70° south 37° west, moving northeast at 4.7 knots is expected to turn northwest over South Sandwich to reach your position within the next 24 hours. Barometric pressure is 874 mb and falling; sustained winds at 91 knots from east to southeast, increasing to 192 knots over the next 86 hours. Mean temperature, minus 17C; wind chill, minus 42.7C. Tempest extends 3,041 km current with whiteout conditions imminent. Refer to the attached chart and satellite image. Advise you seek immediate shelter at Grytviken.

"Are you going to mention anything about the storm in the next local forecast?" Gavin asks.

"Yes." He ponders for a moment. "In fact, it'll be wise to call the governor and brief him before we release it."

John has a king-size crush on the civil administrator's sophisticated thirty-five-year-old private secretary, and he begins to have inappropriate visions as he reaches for the telephone, but he knows she's well out of his league and his dreams can never be more than a wild fantasy.

Her soft, sultry voice answers the phone. "Government House; this is Linda Russet."

"Hello, Miss Russet. This is John Starker at the met office. May I speak to Sir Glenwick, please?"

"Would you like to leave a message? I'll make sure he gets it as soon as possible."

"Um... no, it's urgent."

Linda makes no objection. "All right, Mr. Starker, please hold."

He waits for a full minute before the robust baritone voice of the royally appointed sixty-year-old civil commissioner booms down the line. "How can I help you, John?"

"Sir, a dangerous storm is moving up from the south, and its path will bring it across the islands over the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours."

"Can you define 'dangerous' for me?"

"It's a subzero cyclone, and unless it weakens significantly before it gets here, it'll produce whiteout conditions with sustained winds in excess of two hundred miles an hour."

"I see," the governor replies in a slow, reflective voice, and it's followed by a long pause. "How long do you think it's going to last... a few hours? A day?"

"That's difficult to project since its slow-moving, but I should know more in about six or seven hours. It could be with us for a few days if it doesn't pick up speed. I'll be issuing a warning in tonight's weather forecast."

Sir Glenwick's tone sharpens. "No. If it's as big and bad as you say, the Islanders need to know so they can stock up with food and other essentials. I'll declare a state of emergency at eleven o'clock, and authorize the immediate closure of schools and nonessential services. Government employees will be sent home at midday to give them time to prepare, and in the meantime, I want you to draft a provisional warning to broadcast with my announcement."

"Yes, sir."

"Keep me updated every two hours."

The civil administrator hangs up, and John looks over the desk at his underling. "C'mon, lad, there's work to be done. The phone will be ringing off the wall once the forecast goes out." A wicked grin spreads across his face. "I'll let you deal with the punters."

"Oh, _thank_ you. I get the _shit_ end of the stick."

"An apprentice always does."

"You got that right," Gavin complains indignantly. "What am I supposed to tell them?"

"You can say whatever you want as long as it's truthful."

An evil glint flashes into Gavin's eyes. "Can I have some fun, like exaggerate a little to anyone I don't like?"

John gazes at the trainee with an astonished expression on his face, which gives way to another big grin. "Go ahead, lad. I'd _love_ to hear how you're going to embellish the parameters of _this_ storm."

"Doom, gloom, death, and destruction."

He stands up and splays his fingers out on top of the desk to support his weight as he leans toward the young man, and he speaks in a low, sinister voice. "Be careful what you say, munchkin. There's truth in jest, and you've already made one wish today."
14

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Monday, June 22, 2020, 1417h

The main doors to the Infinity tower slide open and Steve greets the security guard with an unassuming nod as he walks through the lobby at a brisk pace. He is returning from a previously scheduled business luncheon with the executives of Massey Electronics who are seeking a license to tap into their satellite network. Brad was supposed to attend too, but because his immediate primacy was to get the defective satellite operational again, he advised Steve to steer the discussion toward the business end and avoid the technical facets until another meeting could be arranged.

He makes a beeline to the elevators and hesitates with a finger poised over the call button before changing his mind. Instead, he turns right and walks through a tiled corridor that leads to the laboratory. The single-floor structure at the rear of the main tower used to be the Palo Alto Police Department before it was split 40–60 to accommodate two operations. The smaller division, known as the soft lab, is the most sensitive area in the building, and access to it can only be made through the corporate tower _._ This is Brad's chief domain where the software is developed and routine satellite maintenance is performed. Thousands of databank storage stacks and control servers are secured in neatly rowed racks at the back, their tiny red, orange, green, and blue LED lamps blinking tirelessly as they download, process, store, or search through trillions of gigabytes of data every second.

A solid divider separates the soft and hard labs, and entry to the workshop is via an entrance on Forest Avenue. Brad employs an undermanager to supervise a team of design engineers who build the satellites and wire in the 'dead' hardware. In order to reduce the chances of theft, the software is not loaded into the space vehicle until after it's been launched and placed into a permanent orbit above the earth, an operation known as prepping.

Steve arrives at the double security doors of the lab, swipes his identity card through a wall-mounted reader, and enters a PIN into the keypad. The electromagnetic locks deactivate with a solid clunk and the doors swing open. Brad is engrossed in a thick stack of data sheets with a deep frown across his forehead, and Steve wanders over to his desk with a feeling of apprehension. "Have you managed to fix the satellite?"

Brad swivels around in his chair to face his friend. "Not yet. I downloaded the data streams before deleting the entire program to prelaunch status, and Danny should be finished prepping it from the master discs in the next few minutes."

"Do you think it'll work?"

"It _has_ to; otherwise, I don't know what to do next." Brad hesitates, and his eyes grow dark. "However, another situation came up twenty minutes ago. The Siberian satellite shut down at two o'clock with an error message: 'Invalid input command; data out of range.'"

Steve is alarmed, and he stares at his partner in stunned silence before seeking clarification to ensure he understands. "You mean we have a second one with the _exact_ same problem?"

"Yes."

He pulls a chair up close to Brad's desk and slumps into it. "Sweet Jesus, we have a board meeting tomorrow afternoon and this isn't going to help our argument for another ten satellites."

"I hope they'll be back online before then because we'll be in deep shit if they aren't... and not just with the investors." Steve's consternation is growing, and he listens as Brad tells him where he's at with the investigation. "Jim ran a diagnostics test on the second satellite. Its functionality is normal too, yet when he reboots it, the whole caboodle crashes again."

"When did they go into operation?"

"We put the Australian unit up in April 2014, and the Russian one went into orbit in June 2016."

"Could it be a component failure?"

Brad shakes his head. "That would've been revealed in diagnostics. Every analytical test we've performed shows nothing wrong. It even passed a simulation, but as soon as we put it back online, it shuts down again. It just doesn't make _sense_."

"Could there be an issue with the satcoms?" He's referring to the communicators, which are the earthbound units used by the meteorologists when they need to commune with the satellite to print the current weather charts, maps, and forecasts.

"No, that possibility was eliminated when we used our satcom and the outcome was the exactly the same. Whatever the problem is, it's definitely up in the sky."

Steve looks up as Danny Walker calls across to his boss. The twenty-eight-year-old has been with the company for nine years, and being the senior technician, he's the supervisor whenever Brad is absent. "The Australian satellite is prepped, BB."

"Rebooted?"

"Restart successful, and..." Danny breaks off and Steve sees him run his fingers through the black hair of a well-manicured flattop as he stares at his monitor. " _Oh_... it's just shut down again with an 'invalid input command; data out of range.'"

Brad slams the ball of a clenched fist on top of his desk. " _Fuck!_ " The quiet hum of electronic equipment sounds louder than usual in the uncomfortable silence that follows, and he gazes down at the floor for several seconds before speaking in a subdued, toneless voice. "We've overlooked something, and we need to figure out what it is fast."

Steve lays a hand on Brad's shoulder. "BB, you've been working for twelve hours straight, and you're tired, irritated, and your mind isn't functioning properly. You need to go home and get some rest."

Brad protests fervidly. "I can't leave this in limbo until tomorrow."

"We're not going to, but it's easy to overlook something important and make mistakes when you're fatigued. You have three very capable technicians, and they can go on three overlapping shifts so someone is working on the problem around the clock until it's resolved, but I absolutely need you at the board meeting tomorrow with a clear mind."

Brad is reluctant to agree, but common sense seems to prevail, and he gets to his feet. "Okay, guys, this is how it's going to go down. I'm heading home, but I'll be back here at midnight—"

Steve interrupts in a sharp voice. " _No_ , you _won't_. If you come back tonight, you won't be worth shit by the time the meeting rolls around."

Brad throws an angry glare in his direction before turning back to address his employees again. "Danny, you'll work on the Australian unit until eight. I want you back here at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. Jim, you can go home at midnight, but you need to be in by midday, and Bill, you leave now but be back in at ten tonight. That'll give two hours for Jim to bring you up-to-date with what he's doing, and where he is in the process before he leaves."

Steve inclines his head inquiringly. "You're putting them on a twelve-hour roster?"

"Yes. It worked when we implemented an emergency shift to clean up the mess after the string of earthquakes caused by the Andaman Event." He looks back at his staff, glancing from one to the other while he speaks. "Our priority is to get the Australian unit back online. Once we discover what the problem is with that one then we'll probably find the other satellite has the same ailment. If _anything_ happens, or you discover the cause of the malfunction, you _will_ call me on my iPhone regardless of the time. Is that clear?" The three technicians acknowledge with a nod of heads. "I'll be back at six in the morning." Brad looks at Bill. "All right, off you go."

Steve turns to Danny. "I'm going up to my office, but I'll be back down around four o'clock. You and Jim think about what you'd like to eat, and I'll buy it for you." He looks at Brad and scowls. "What are _you_ still doing here?"

"Okay, _okay_... I'm leaving."
15

M/V Akademik Knipovich II

South Atlantic Ocean

Coordinates: 55° 36' 34.1" S, 41° 12' 14.2" W

Monday, June 22, 2020, 2104h

Captain Vladimir Khlanostikov paces back and forth across the bridge of the _Akademik Knipovich II_ , keeping in perfect synchronization with the roll of the ocean. At 167 centimeters, the sixty-four-year-old bachelor is the typical image of a sea salt, complete with a thick white beard and a bald dome with a strip of silver hair over his ears. The odds he will ever get married are next to none, and retirement is not an option in his eyes. He has spent 78 percent of his life on the water, and it's where his final resting place will be.

His career began as a cabin boy when he was fifteen. Intelligent, ambitious, and dedicated, he studied hard to earn his master's certificate, and by the time he was twenty-two, he took command of his first vessel. The _Kiel_ was only a small supply boat, but it was his pride and joy, and now, after fifty years on the water, he's a veteran of the Russian Fisheries & Research Institute and the first master of the largest factory ship in the world. His command encompasses a flotilla of fifteen trawlers, and his knowledge of the Southern Ocean is so vast that he knows where to place the fishing boats at any given time of year to attain maximum haul. On an abstract level, he compares his responsibilities to an equivalency of a fleet admiral in the Russian Navy, but it's an innocuous delusion that serves only to boost his self-importance, and the subsequent result is a gratifying sense of accomplishment.

Vladimir was appointed to the _Akademik Knipovich II_ when she was commissioned as a replacement for her smaller predecessor in 1991, and he's the only captain she's ever known. This puts him at twenty-nine years of service on the same craft—a noteworthy triumph deserving of an acknowledgment in the record books. Although he's accountable for the safety of the vessel and every soul on board, he has no jurisdiction over the factory workers, who are supervised by a production manager.

He turns the collar of his thick duffel coat up against the harsh cold, opens the door, and steps out onto the port bridge wing. The increasing swell is a cause for concern and he looks up at the sky. The stars and gaseous nebula of the Milky Way directly overhead are breathtaking, but to the south, the moon is obscured by heavy cumulonimbus clouds stretching from east to west along the horizon. Its ambient reflection draws a defined silvery-white outline along the puffy tops of the cloudbank. Earlier in the day, he had received a storm warning from the Falklands advising him to seek shelter in Grytviken, but protocol dictates that permission must be sought from the authorities in Vladivostok before entering a foreign port, albeit a tiny museum settlement with a population of twenty and a defunct whaling station. They were fast to respond, and he chews the words over in his head as he gazes at the skyline.

Satellite image of 0900 hours your local indicates no cyclonic activity in, near, or approaching your location. Request to enter Grytviken harbor is denied.

The contradiction between the two communications is bothersome. The twice-daily weather forecasts from the Falkland Islands are tailored to their locale, and they have _always_ been reliable for as long as he can remember. As captain, he has the authority to override the Russian command, but it'll introduce a preliminary summons of disobedience, which will be impossible to vindicate if he sends the trawlers into Grytviken and no storm materializes. Punishment is harsh and often ends up with the revocation of the skipper's credentials, and while the company can't take away his certificate, the government can. It'll be a shameful end to a successful career that he's carefully nurtured by respecting the strict principles imposed by the Russian Federation, yet keeping them in balance with the unpredictable laws of nature.

He curses under his breath. He should have gone with his gut instinct and taken measures to neutralize the risk by positioning the flotilla close to the island but outside of territorial waters; it would have given them a short distance to run for shelter if necessary. But if the clouds along the southern horizon _is_ a storm barreling toward them, then it's already too late. South Georgia is 165 nautical miles northeast, and they are too far out to reach it in time.

Icicles are forming on the guardrails and Vladimir rests his gloved hands on the top bar as he leans over to look down at the M/T _Mikhail_ moored alongside. The trawler, which is illuminated by floodlights beaming down from the mother ship, is being buffeted against the pontoon that protects the hulls of both vessels by a swell that's notably heavier than it was twenty minutes earlier. Captain Khlanostikov reaches into a large pocket in his duffel coat where he keeps a two-way radio used to communicate with the trawlers when they're tied up alongside, and raises it to his lips. "Are you almost done, Stefan?"

A long silence follows, and Vladimir is about to call again when the device emits a rapid series of beeps, a brief crackle of static, and Captain Abarnikov responds. "Aye, we've just finished offloading the catch, and the crew is preparing to load our supplies. We should be casting off in thirty minutes... forty, max."

"Good. You're the last transfer until I know what this weather's going to do." There is a loud, hollow thud as the wash slams the trawler against the pontoon and a spray of water squirts upward between the two vessels.

The radio beeps again. "I think we're going to be in for a rough time, Captain."

"I have conflicting weather reports, so set course for Grytviken when you cast off. I want you to heave to just outside the territorial limit. You'll be close to shelter if a serious storm does break out."

"Aye, Captain, understood."

Vladimir steps back into the sanctuary of the bridge where it's not much warmer than it is outside, but at least its protection from the cold bite of the wind. He glances at Fyodor Boyarov as he heads across to the chart desk. The lanky twenty-three-year-old helmsman has a quiet, unassuming disposition and obeys orders without question or complaint, and he is doing a decent job at keeping the huge vessel steady despite the increasing swell.

A door in the rear wall opens. It leads to the ship's radio station, and Mika Nardin walks through holding a communiqué in her hand. The 158-centimeter twenty-nine-year-old is the chief communication officer; a pretty woman with a desirable figure when it's not hidden beneath layers of bulky clothing. "Captain, I have an urgent message from the _Walvisbaai_."

Vladimir leans over the chart and notes the last recorded position of the trawler. "What do they want?"

"They're experiencing heavy seas, and the skipper says they're taking on more water than the bilge pumps can handle."

Captain Khlanostikov stands upright and turns to face the young woman. "Do you have their coordinates?"

Mika tears the top page from a small notepad and hands it over to him. The _Walvisbaai_ is less than three kilometers east of her last location, and a hundred forty kilometers southwest of the mothership.

"It'll take four or five hours to reach her _if_ the seas are in our favor," he mumbles.

Mika appears uncertain as to whether he's talking to himself or addressing her, and there's a slight hesitancy in her voice. "I'm sorry, sir; I didn't hear what you said."

Vladimir chooses not to respond and studies the chart to find the location of the nearest trawler to the _Walvisbaai_ before speaking again. "Send a message to Captain Boris Poltorak. The Nemanskii is eighty kilometers east of the _Walvisbaai's_ present position." He hands the notepaper back. "Order him to these coordinates but tell him to remain on standby until we get there. He must not attempt to transfer the crew under any circumstances, and if they need to abandon ship, they must do so via life raft. It'll allow for a safer and more effective rescue. The last thing I want is a double disaster if the two vessels slam together." Mika begins to exit the bridge when he calls out to her again. "Miss Nardin, when you're done, I want you to send a general signal out to the fleet with instruction to set course for Grytviken. They are to remain outside of territorial waters and call in for further directions if conditions continue to deteriorate."

She scribbles the instructions into her notepad. "Will that be all, sir?"

He hesitates briefly before dismissing the officer. "For now, Miss Nardin."

Vladimir strides across the deck, pulls the door open, and steps onto the port wing again. He leans over the guardrail and looks down at the _Mikhail_ with the radio in his hand. The stiff breeze has developed into a gusty wind that is whipping around his cheeks in icy blasts, and he depresses the transmit button. "Stefan, are you done yet?"

"I need another fifteen minutes."

"You can't have them. Cast the moorings now."

A brief pause ensues before the skipper of the _Mikhail_ replies in the same dispassionate tone. "Aye, Captain."

A dark figure appears on the starboard wing of the boat below, and Vladimir listens to the wind-lashed voice shouting orders to the crew. The ropes are thrown almost immediately, and as the vessel drifts away from the side of the mother ship, the faint throb of diesel engines are carried up on the blustering wind. The water begins to churn as the Mikhail's propellers bite into the murky black seas of the South Atlantic, and like a specter melding into the shadows, the trawler slips out of the halo of the floodlights until the only visible signs of her presence are the navigation lights and a couple of dimly lit portholes riding with the ocean.

Vladimir steps back into the wheelhouse, walks over to the control panel, and makes an announcement to the crew through the speaker system. "This is Captain Khlanostikov. Secure the booms and hold davits, and batten the hatches. Deck Foreman, report to me after inspection."

The winds have increased dramatically over a matter of minutes, and Mika stumbles back onto the bridge, trying to keep her balance as the vessel rolls in the heavy swell. "Captain, the _Nemanskii_ is on course for the _Walvisbaai_ , but the skipper is concerned because headway is being restricted by gale-force winds and increasing seas from the south."

"I understand his dilemma, Miss Nardin, but he's the only vessel in the vicinity until we get there."

Mika holds a sealed envelope out to him. "I have another communiqué from Vladivostok."

Vladimir takes the missive from her. "Thank you, Miss Nardin. I'll come to you if this needs a response." He breaks the seal as she disappears back into the communications center, and pulls the slip of paper from the envelope.

2100 hours your local. A cyclone is bearing on your location from the south and southeast, wind speed 100 knots plus. Cease all operations. Permission granted to enter Grytviken harbor. All vessels must comply.

_So much for protocol_ , he thinks with resentment, and he crumples the message into a tight ball before dropping it into the right pocket of his duffle coat. He's weathered his way through some fearsome storms throughout his life on the sea, but now he's being forced to sail into the jaws of what could be the largest storm ever generated in the Southern Ocean due to the negligence of an administrator in Vladivostok. He picks up the telephone and dials the extension to the factory manager's office. "Khalani, stop production forthwith and strap down anything and everything that slithers."

The manager snorts derisively. "Closing down the cannery is not an option, Captain."

There is little benevolence between the two men, but they're able to tolerate each other because it's not usual for a conflict of professions to put them at odds. However, Vladimir's patience is short, and he has no time for arguments. "With respect, my orders override you, and I won't hesitate to send a report to Vladivostok and request your immediate suspension if you fail to comply."

He replaces the handset without waiting for a response. He'll give Khalani fifteen minutes before he orders the chief electrician to cut the power to the factory—an action sure to inflame his ire, but he doesn't have the authority to abrogate Vladimir's directive.

The door on the starboard wing opens, and the deck supervisor walks in. "All hatches and ports are sealed, Captain."

"You're dismissed." Vladimir picks up the microphone again. "All personnel are ordered below decks. Topside is out of bounds until further notice, and a compulsory mandate to wear a life jacket is now in full effect, no exemptions." He walks over to where several orange vests are hanging on the rear wall. " _Mr. Boyarov_." Fyodor turns his head, and the captain tosses one in his direction. "Put this on; then strap yourself to the helm. It's going to get rough."

Both men pull on the bulky jackets and tighten the cord. A hollow boom caused by a giant wave slamming into the port bow echoes through the hull and Captain Khlanostikov snatches at a handrail to prevent himself from being thrown off his feet as the ship lurches violently.

_"Man at the helm_ , _full speed ahead_." He hears the muted bell of the telegraph as the engine room confirms the instructions, and Fyodor validates the order by repeating the captain's words in a strong, clear voice. Vladimir feels a vibration through the deck beneath his feet as the engines power up and the propellers engage. "Steer two hundred twenty-seven degrees."

Fyodor brings the huge vessel around to a 45-degree angle into the wind. The bow pitches upward and rolls to starboard in a singular movement before it yaws and plunges down into a huge breaker. The forecastle disappears as the water washes over it in a white spray, and a flurry of wind-driven snowflakes swirl against the transom. Vladimir takes up a stance behind the helmsman, synchronizes his body to the motion with his feet planted apart, and glances at the compass. "Keep her steady at two hundred twenty-seven degrees."

In less than fifteen minutes, they are in the grip of a howling blizzard and visibility is down to absolute zero. Powerful waves are ramming the vessel to starboard by more than twelve degrees each time they smash into the port bow quarter, and the helmsman is struggling to counteract the drift. Whenever he brings the craft back on course, another sturdy roller pushes them off again, and Vladimir calculates a new heading. He raises his voice so he can be heard over the fearsome boom echoing through the ship each time the wave's crash against the hull, and the chilling howl of the wind blowing through the masts, rigging, and superstructure. "Bring her to bear two hundred fifteen degrees."

The door to the communications center swings open, and caught off guard by a violent yaw, Mika skates through on her feet. She is almost thrown back again as the deck slopes in the opposite direction, but she maintains a tight grip on the handrail. "Captain... the crew is abandoning the _Walvisbaai_."

"Where's the _Nemanskii_?"

"She's sustained significant damage to the hull and listing fifty degrees to starboard. The skipper fears they may not have more than a few minutes before they capsize."

Captain Khlanostikov is filled with bitterness for following etiquette instead of trusting to his own instincts, and he weighs the situation. He has never lost a trawler before, and there are no protocols laid out for the kind of situation he's trying to navigate, probably because no one ever considered that an entire fleet could be in peril at the same time. With two boats clearly on their way to Davy Jones' locker, he could continue to the last coordinates of either vessel, but it's unlikely he'll be able to affect a rescue while the tempest is in full fury. His overriding priority must be for the _Akademik Knipovich II_ , which means that the trawler crews will have to ride the storm out in the tiny crafts. "Are you in contact with the lifeboats from both vessels?"

"Yes, sir."

"And no one else has sent out a distress call?"

"Not as of yet, but I instructed everyone to sail for Grytviken as per your orders."

Vladimir curses. It's unlikely that any of the boats will reach the shelter of South Georgia because they are simply too far away, and their best chance of survival might be to run before the wind. "I want a roll call on the trawlers every thirty minutes, and instruct the lifeboats to conserve the battery power on their radios until the storm has passed. They are _not_ to fire any Very flares until we're in the vicinity." He inclines his head to one side. "And Miss Nardin, would you like to be written up for breach of regulation LV972?" She looks at him with an astonished expression on her face, and he points to the orange life jackets hanging on the wall. "You're not exempt."

She acknowledges with a nod, and Captain Khlanostikov turns to peer through the windows as she staggers off the bridge. The high-speed wipers have been rendered ineffective, and the rubbers are simply gliding over a frozen film of moisture that's formed on the outside of the strengthened glass. The only eye he has left is the radar. "Mr. Boyarov, new heading: one hundred thirty-seven degrees, ahead half, and hold steady."

Fyodor repeats the order and brings the ship around into the wind. Vladimir's intention is to ride out the tempest by holding this position, but he's unaware of its incredible parameters. The unrelenting fury of the winds are whipping five million square kilometers of Southern Ocean into a boiling white froth as they rotate around the eyewall at an implausible 204 knots per hour, and while the _Akademik Knipovich II_ is in the direct path of its hub, it'll still take a daunting five days before it reaches them.

Three hours later, Captain Khlanostikov is more afraid than he's ever been in his life. Mother Nature is often moody in this part of the world, and while he's witnessed her anger on more occasions than he cares to remember, he's never seen her throw a tantrum like this before.

Fyodor looks at the captain. "The controls are getting sluggish, sir."

Vladimir suspects it is being caused by the way the ship is riding against the heavy swell. It's difficult to estimate the wave height without a visual, but they are at least 14 meters, perhaps more, and he takes the wheel to assess the helmsman's complaint. However, it takes just a few seconds to get a feel on the way the ship is responding for him to realize the issue doesn't have anything to do with the giant rollers, and he hands the helm back to Fyodor before calling down to the chief engineer. "Mr. Kozlov, the steering is unusually heavy and reacting in a manner inconsistent with the storm. I want you to check the hydraulic lines to the azimuth gondolas and make sure they haven't sprung a leak."

The engineer hesitates. "The sensors are showing that the line pressure to the thrusters is normal, but I'll inspect them right away to make sure there isn't a secondary problem."

"We could be taking on water, too, so if you don't find anything, I want you to go through the ship to the cargo and storage holds to make sure all the hatches are properly sealed."

Vladimir hangs up, and he hears a loud metallic groan over the booming crash of the waves. It's not a familiar sound, and he's quick to notice that recovery is becoming more sloth-like each time the vessel rolls. He looks at Fyodor, who appears to be putting a lot of weight on the helm. "Is the problem worsening?"

"Yes... it's seizing up, Captain."

Vladimir grasps the handles on the wheel to assist, but even the strength of both men can barely pull it around. It's critical they keep the factory ship pointing into the wind because they'll be caught in a broadside if the bow is allowed to swing around too far, and there's no doubt in his mind that the _Akademik Knipovich II_ will capsize. But he also knows they can't maintain the status quo indefinitely either, and his fears are recognized twenty-five minutes later when the helm locks solid. The next few seconds are torturous as he waits helplessly for the expected forty-five-degree spin, the simultaneous assault of wind and waves against the hull and superstructure, and the inevitable rollover; long enough to contemplate his own mortality and suffer the shame of his ineptitude to fulfill a captain's obligation to the crew.

The ship slews around to the starboard, but it's a lethargic movement rather than the violent jerk he was anticipating. Fortune appears to be prevailing as the powerful swell pushes the bow around while they're still riding up the leeward side of a giant wave, but it offers sufficient protection from the wind to avert a disaster, and it's only by the grace of God that they come out of the uncontrolled maneuver with the best possible results. He reaches for the telephone to call down to the engine room when the burly figure of Olaf Kozlov stumbles onto the bridge via the communications center. Blood is trickling down one side of his face from a cut to his left temple, and his nose is bleeding.

"What happened to you?" Vladimir asks.

"Walking through the gangways is an acquired skill when the seas are this heavy. I lost my footing, but I'll be okay." The chief engineer is panting from exertion. "The hydraulic lines are fine, and the hatches are secure," and he takes a deep breath before he continues in a nervous voice. "I think there's a buildup of ice around the Azipod gondolas."

Vladimir is puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I went to the stern ramp to make sure the gate was closed, but the access door was frozen shut and it took ten minutes to open it just a few centimeters with a blowtorch." He points to the iced-up transom. "The snow and ocean spray is freezing, and the decks and superstructure are encased in a layer of ice. We're being turned into a fucking iceberg, and if we don't find a way to stop it, the ship will get top-heavy and capsize."

Vladimir is alarmed, and his heart starts thumping hard in his chest. "How thick is it?"

"It's hard to be sure... perhaps a hundred to a hundred thirty millimeters. I tried opening several exits leading to the decks, and they're all frozen closed. We're trapped in here."

The captain staggers over to the starboard wing door and tries to open it, but it doesn't budge. The window is an opaque white sheet, and a searing cold radiation emanates from the glass. A lump rises into his throat, but his demeanor and voice remain calm as he turns to look at Olaf. "Did you check the lifeboat stations?"

"The boats and davits are encased in a... a... well, I guess you could call it an ice cube. Even if there is a way to chip them free, the cables are probably frozen to the drums. According to the deck thermometer, the outside temperature is minus fifty-two centigrade."

Vladimir's feels a tightening in his chest. They're trapped in what is essentially a floating coffin, but in spite of the grim reality, his outward demeanor is calm. "The doors to the boat decks must be freed and the davits deiced at all costs."

The chief engineer leaves, and Vladimir is making his way across the bridge when the ship yaws with a violent judder. The deck tilts to an angle of almost 60 degrees with another blood-chilling groan, and he holds on desperately to the handrail with both hands as his feet slide out from beneath him. Several long, heartwrenching seconds pass before it begins to right itself slowly, and after pulling himself upright, he stumbles into the communication center where Mika is making an entry into a log book. "I need to send a message to Vladivostok."

"I can't, sir—there's a problem with the antenna. I'm getting some serious RF feedback, and if I attempt to transmit before repairs are made, I'll burn out the final stage. I need to go outside to find out why and fix it."

The likely cause is obvious to Vladimir, and while he doesn't want to scare her more than she is already, she needs to know. "Miss Nardin, I've reason to believe the radio masts are encased in ice."

She hesitates. "What are you saying, sir?"

Vladimir is not obligated to share the determination he's made of their likely fate with a subordinate, but given the circumstances, it won't make any difference. "Ice is building up around the ship and nothing short of a miracle will prevent it from keeling over under the weight."

Mika's eyes open wide. "There must be _something_ we can do."

Vladimir shrugs. "Prayers—and hope they get answered."

Eighty minutes later, the _Akademik Knipovich II_ succumbs and slowly capsizes with all hands imprisoned inside of the ice-enclosed sepulcher. The element sealing them in is also keeping the water out, and stuck inside a frigid bubble of air without power, lighting, or heating, the disoriented men and women snuggle up to each other in a desperate attempt to stay warm. The temperature plummets rapidly, and the frightened sobs of three hundred fifty souls are masked by the deafening crash of the sea slamming against the steel plates, their hair and eyebrows turning white in a thickening layer of frost formed by the condensation of their breath. They cling to life for more than five hours, keeping their spirits elevated by telling jokes and singing, but gradually, the voices fall silent as hypothermia slowly claims them one by one until the only sound is the hollow boom of the waves breaking against the overturned hull.
16

Met Office

Stanley, Falkland Islands

Coordinates: 51° 41' 54.9" S, 57° 50' 58.8" W

Tuesday, June 23, 2020, 0916h

John stares at the nine o'clock image in astonishment. The eye is following the path predicted by the spaghetti chart, but the storm's diameter has expanded to 2,500 miles and the outer band is only 50 miles southeast of the Falklands. He looks at Gavin. "I'll be taking you home soon, lad."

The apprentice glances out of the window. "Why? The sky is still clear."

"Not for much longer. That blizzard will be here in less than an hour, and I intend to be in the comfort of my home when it arrives."

The trainee turns his attention to the monitor. "Strange. Our Russian friends haven't sent us any OBS this morning."

John looks back at the satellite image. South Georgia is obscured by thick clouds, and the chart indicates that the 185-mile-per-hour sustained winds sweeping across the island will increase to at least 239 miles with gusts in excess of 300 miles as the hub creeps closer to the British outpost. There isn't anything comparable on record in terms of ferocity, and he shakes his head in awe at the incredible dynamics. He gets up from his desk, walks over to the door, and glances at the wall thermometer beside the entrance before stepping out into the crisp air. The external temperature is minus three degrees centigrade, and with both hands thrust into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cold, he strides to the end of the annex where he has a clear view across the headland at the South Atlantic Ocean. The dark purple base of a huge bank of cumulonimbus clouds stretches along the southern horizon at sea level, and they are boiling ferociously as the strong updrafts draw the moisture skywards until they spill over at the tropopause like puffy cotton wool. The eyeball is a physical validation of this dangerous and deadly storm, and he stares at the frightening manifestation of nature for several minutes with mounting trepidation before walking back to the entrance.

"Did you see anything?" Gavin asks when he reenters the building.

"Yes, and it's definitely a formidable sight."

The apprentice leaps out of his chair. "I'm going for a gander," he says excitedly.

The telephone begins to ring, and John picks it up. "The met office."

"Good morning, John, this is Linda Russet from government house. Sir Glenwick wishes to speak to you."

He hears an almost inaudible click, and the deep voice of the civil administrator rumbles in his ear. "The schools and government offices are closed, but it's such a beautiful morning out there, people are starting to question whether a blizzard really is imminent."

"I assure you, it's going to turn very nasty within the hour." The earnestness in John's reply is salient.

"So, you're still expecting the worst, then?"

"Yes, sir, its grown overnight into a two-and-a-half-thousand-mile diameter monstrosity and the eye is still halfway between the Weddell Sea and the South Sandwich Islands. It'll eventually pass less than thirty miles to the north of Stanley."

"Eventually? That's sounding a little ominous."

"It's moving at a leisurely three and a half miles an hour, and at that speed, we could be inundated for about ten days, give or take twenty-four hours."

The anxiety in Barry's voice is ubiquitous. "Emergency services will be withdrawn at ten o'clock. The doctors and nurses have volunteered to live-in at the hospital for the duration, and the radio station will stay on the air for as long as the situation allows."

John is aghast. "That's not wise, sir. They won't be able to broadcast once the power goes down."

"Two programmers offered to play music and whatnot to keep the locals entertained. They are fully versed with the danger, but really, it's irrelevant where they hunker down provided adequate preparations are made beforehand."

"Well... I guess that's their choice, but I'm no hero, so I'll be closing the met office at ten and going straight home after I drop my apprentice off."

"I'm not asking for heroes. I simply want you to fax a detailed forecast to the announcers before you leave. Can you do that?"

John is surprised by the sudden sharpness in Sir Glenwick's voice. Perhaps his previous remark was taken as some kind of admonishment, which was not intended. " _Uh_... yes, sir.

"Good. Then we'll talk again on the other side."

The satellite communicator starts beeping as John hangs up, and he saunters over to the console to read the message on the screen: "Invalid input command; data out of range." He scratches the side of his head while he recalls the correct procedure before going through the reset sequence, and he waits the recommended thirty seconds before sending a new request. The alarm goes off again and the same error code flits onto the screen.

John groans and walks back to his desk to send an e-mail to the British Antarctic Survey office in the United Kingdom and advise them of the malfunction. He uses the last charts to draft a new forecast, and after he has finished, he begins to sift through some papers sitting on his desk until Gavin returns from outside. His face is glowing from the cold air, and John waves a two-page document over his head. "Here, lad, fax this over to the radio station and then I want you to shut your terminal down. Give me a quarter of an hour to sign off on some of this stuff, and then we'll be leaving."

The time is five past ten when John's eyes make a final sweep of the office to make sure everything is off before he follows Gavin outside. The world suddenly darkens as fingers of heavy cloud move across the sun, reminding him of the strange dream he had two days earlier and the déjà vu sends a cold chill crawling down his spine.

The first snowflakes float down from the sky just as he pulls up in front of Gavin's home. They are huge; more than an inch in diameter and John speaks as his passenger begins to get out. "Make sure you stay warm, lad."

"Don't worry; I will. Thanks for the ride."

The snow is falling heavier, and visibility is reduced to eighty feet by the time he parks the Land Rover in front of his garden gate. He climbs out of the vehicle into an ominous gray-white twilight; a strange world shrouded in an eerie blanket of tranquility, and he clears his throat in a deliberate act to introduce some corporeal noise into this chillingly quiet place. Without any physical objects to reflect his voice, there's no resonance in the air, and he's afraid to make another sound for fear of disturbing some evil entity lurking somewhere just beyond his ocular range. The snow is already an inch deep, and it crunches beneath his feet as he trudges up the garden path to the front door.

The Islanders inherit a natural propensity to their environment, and John has a sudden and somewhat unexpected yearning to be part of this unique way of life. Yet he feels a disconnect somewhere—an inability to assimilate to the isolated lifestyle. True, he's grown fond of penguin eggs, which are a seasonal delicacy in the spring, and perhaps he will get to like diddle-dee berries too... but he could only become a Kelper by proxy over time, and he will always be an expat in their eyes.

He opens the pantry door to see how much food is on the shelves. There are enough fresh victuals to get him through the week, and sufficient canned provisions to last a month. However, the electricity will fail for sure, and so he places a torch on the table where he can find it in the dark. There are plenty of spare batteries in the kitchen and more in a drawer beside his bed.

Satisfied he has enough provisions for an extended stay indoors, he turns the radio on. The scheduled programs have been canceled, and the announcers are inviting listeners to call in and suggest song titles that reflect the current weather, while the elderly are encouraged to share lighthearted yarns of years long gone, or tales passed down by their ancestors. Steppenwolf's "Snowblind Friend" is playing, and he gets caught up in the spirit as he fixes himself a grilled cheese-and-onion sandwich and a cup of tea; a midmorning snack known in the islands as _smoko_ , but he can't think of an appropriate title to call in.

The current song ends, and the announcer speaks. "I have Gavin Fletcher on the line, and as most of you know, he's our local weatherman-in-training. Good morning, Gav."

John tilts his head to one side and listens attentively as he munches on his food.

"Hello, Josie. It's nice of you to keep us company. Can you play 'Snow Hey Oh' for me?"

"Isn't that by the Red Hot Chili Peppers?"

"You got it."

The announcer laughs. "Hey, did you conjure up this weather just to get a few days off?"

Gavin chuckles softly. "Y'know, John is a great tutor and he always has the patience to explain everything to me in detail, but he hasn't taught me how to summon it yet."

"I hope your boss will join the party and call in. We'd all love to hear from him. In the meantime, what can _you_ tell us about this storm, Gav? The morning started off nice and sunny, and now it's snowing very hard out there."

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Of course, chay, because I bet a lot of people are already greasing their runners and want to know when they can hit the hills."

John chews slowly on the sandwich as he listens with some amusement when the lights flicker and go out, and the storm heralds its arrival with a gigantic gust that roars across the town at eighty miles an hour. It slams into the side of his home with a bang so sudden and so intense, that he drops the remainder of his sandwich in fright and leaps to his feet with his heart thumping wildly. The house shudders violently from the impact, and the carpet billows upwards when an icy draft is sucked up between the floorboards to replace the warm air being siphoned out of the room through the cracks around the doors.

He knew conditions would deteriorate fast, but he never expected the storm to arrive as a literal wall of force, and still shaking from the shock, he sinks back onto the chair. The wind is howling around his domicile like some unholy wraith run amok, and it's the most ungodly sound he has ever heard. The house trembles and quivers as it is pummeled by one vicious gust after another, and though it's still the middle of the day, there's barely any natural light coming in through the windows.

John is filled with renewed panic as the initial surprise wears off. The temperature is dropping at a horrific rate, and it's only taken three minutes to turn the room into a cold storage chamber. A white cloud of condensation hangs on the air each time he exhales, and he realizes he needs to find a way to stay warm... and fast.
17

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Tuesday, June 23, 2020, 1022h

"Nancy, I'll be down in the soft lab if anyone calls."

"Thank you, Mr. Jaeger."

Steve turns the intercom off and makes his way down to the laboratory. It had been his first stop when he came in this morning, but a tentative optimism that the cause of the malfunction had been identified overnight was quickly dashed. He walks over to Brad's desk. "Have you found anything yet?"

His partner shakes his head with a doleful look on his face, and frustration is evident in his voice. "Nope."

"Could it be a structural problem within the software rather than a technical one?"

Brad is quiet for a moment. "I can't see how. The program was designed around your knowledge of meteorology, and besides, even if there is a glitch because you left something out, or I misinterpreted your instructions, it wouldn't wait for eleven years to show up."

"No, what I mean is could it have outgrown its capacity?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well... you devised a form of artificial intelligence that teaches itself about pre-climatic conditions and the development of weather patterns over time, but a lot of data are stored daily, and I can't imagine that the memory is illimitable. It must get full at some time?"

Brad shakes his head. "You _know_ that can't happen. Unused files are dumped into the database bank twice daily to free up space for new information."

"That's what I _mean_. If the processor is trying to refer to something it dismissed to the recycle bin seven years ago, it could be searching for information that isn't there anymore." Steve's knowledge is boundless where meteorology is concerned, and he understands how to use technology, but his comprehension is superficial when it comes to how it works.

"Nothing gets recycled, and it's always there." Brad sweeps an arm toward the racks of data storage units. "This is its consciousness and every byte since the first satellite went online is stored in these boxes. This is where they'll search if they need information on something that's not in the onboard databank."

"And what if it still can't find what it's looking for?"

"Then a whole new facet is set up automatically for future reference."

Steve ponders for a moment. "I don't suppose you were able to retrieve the last forecasts made by either satellite before they malfunctioned?"

"It's all in the database. Jim discovered that the satellites are still going about their business as though nothing is wrong."

He gazes at Brad with a mystified expression. "What do you mean?"

"The sensors are still gathering, processing, and storing the data, and we can access the individual streams from storage after each download. It looks like the error is being invoked at the interface where the information is compiled into a forecast."

Steve contemplates before he makes a request. "BB, do me a favor and send a copy of the last projections and graphic charts to the printer in my office. I'll take a look to see if I can find an anomaly in the general meteorological physics that might be a contributor."

"I hope you have some luck because we're at a total impasse down here."

Steve returns to his office and spreads the charts across his desk. He pores over them for almost two hours, but there isn't anything to suggest that the meteorologies are a factor. He twiddles a pen between his fingers while he stares at the opposite wall with a perturbed expression on his face. A glitch was common and easy to troubleshoot in the early days of development, so why is this one being evasive? His pondering is broken by a sharp rap on the door, and Brad walks in. "You didn't find anything, did you?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Brad slumps into a chair and clasps his hands around his stomach with his elbows on the armrests. "I didn't think you would."

Steve's bitterness is reflected in his voice. "The investors aren't going to _consider_ funding for the next phase of our program while all this is going on."

"Then don't tell them."

"You know that isn't an option. It'll amount to fraudulent intent if I fail to disclose the information, and besides, it's better they hear it from my mouth rather than through the media. The Russians have threatened to bring a lawsuit against us if the Siberian satellite isn't back online by midnight. They subscribe to four satellites and our stocks will take a serious tumble on Wall Street if they do go public, or even worse, if they decide to wake up and reinstate their old ones."

"They can't switch back. The 2016 ISC Act was fully implemented last year, and the Tin Man has cleaned out almost every defunct satellite and piece of detectable junk, including the weather satellites that went dark after we put our network up."

The act he's referring to is a mandate proposed by the International Space Commission to reduce the buildup of space junk after a near-fatal collision four years earlier, and every nation with a space itinerary signed a treaty to remove nonfunctioning satellites from orbit except for North Korea. The intentional destruction of an SV is prohibited, and the cost to design, construct, and launch the special unmanned craft was shared between the space agencies. The garbage disposer, which is also known as the 'Tin Man,' drags the trash by remote operation to a lower orbit before sending it on a trajectory to burn up in the earth's atmosphere. It's docked at the International Space Station when it's not in operation. North Korea, who refused to sign the accord, showed contempt for the directive with the deliberate detonation of two satellites. This led to a unanimous resolution by the ISC to intercept and destroy all rockets launched by the DPRK before they reached the upper atmosphere.

Brad clears his throat forcefully. "Anyway, I didn't come up to talk about this afternoon's meeting or the garbage disposer. A call just came in from the British Antarctic Survey. The satellite covering the Falkland Islands, dependencies, and territories on the Antarctic Peninsula went down forty-five minutes ago with exactly the same symptom."

Steve's eyes open wide in alarm. "But how can that _be?_ " He gazes at Brad in silence for almost a minute, his mind numbed and confused. "Is it possible that someone's hacked our network?"

"I doubt it. Our security software is the best in the world."

"But these people are smart and catching them isn't easy. Just because _we_ have the notion our system is impenetrable doesn't mean it isn't."

Brad unclips the iPhone from his belt, turns the speaker on, and taps in a number. It rings several times before Danny picks up. "Run a security report to see if there's been any attempt to hack into the network."

"I've already done that, BB, and no breaches have been recorded."

Steve leans over the desk and speaks in a loud voice so the iPhone can pick it up. "Most cyberpunks are smart enough to cover their tracks before they exit, aren't they?"

"Not really. They always leave a trail of poop somewhere in the system."

"Can you run another scan to make absolutely certain?"

"Of course—I'll let you know if I find anything."

Danny hangs up, and Brad turns his device off. "Even if someone _did_ succeed, you know there's no way he or she will ever get past Mad Max."

The network operates on a unique code that can't be decoded by any software outside of Infinity, and "Mad Max" is a nickname given to a firewall designed by Brad. It's installed on the satellite at the input and output interface, and while it can identify both the Infinity and standard machine codes, it cannot translate from one language to the other and it only obeys a limited number of preset commands. Any form of malware needs to be transferred to the encrypted Infinity code before it can be installed, and Krazy Kath is a one-of-a-kind device resembling a slim-line DVD recorder capable of converting the two languages and create the master discs used to program the satellites.

Brad speaks again after a brief silence. "Give me one good reason why _anyone_ would want to compromise our systems?"

"Because they can?"

He dismisses the idea with a snort. "That's a lot of effort for someone without a serious agenda. They'll need to crack our code first, and that'll take decades _if_ they can do it at all. You and I are the only two people in the world who knows that Krazy Kath exists."

Steve glances at an artist's impression of an Infinity weather satellite suspended in orbit above the earth. It conceals a double safe behind a sliding panel, where the special machine is secured along with the blueprints for their entire system. "Corporate theft?"

A look of astonishment appears on Brad's face. "We don't even _have_ any competitors."

"I'm just saying that all avenues can't be eliminated until we're one hundred percent certain. Three satellites have failed with an identical problem, and that's more than a mere coincidence when you consider how impeccable our record has been up until now." Steve stands and begins to pace back and forth across the floor behind his desk in frustration. "We need to expand our search from the improbable to the impossible. It's foolish to put total faith in our security wall when the one thing we haven't dismissed is a viral infection." Brad opens his mouth but closes it again without speaking. Steve sits back down. "Don't forget about the Chameleon. No one knows for sure what its capabilities are."

The Chameleon is a clever virus discovered by the FBI several months earlier. It mimics the background codes to slip through some of the most complex security software on the market without detection and remains transparent by evolving as it shifts from one file to the next. It was a chance discovery, but cyber forensics found it difficult to isolate the alien intruder and they still haven't figured out exactly how it works, its true purpose, or how deadly it may be, and until they do, there's no protection against it.

"It'll never get past Mad Max," Brad says in a confident tone.

"I disagree. If it's been planted in the development computer, it could insert itself on the transfer disc and get translated by Krazy Kath to the master."

Brad groans. "Come _on_ , Steve. That can only be done by someone who's familiar with our protocol, and I can count the number of people who know what it is on one hand."

The conversation is interrupted by the buzz of the intercom, and Steve leans across the desk to answer his secretary. "What is it, Nancy?"

"I have a Mr. Samuel Peters of the Canadian Meteorological and Oceanographic Center on the other line. He's asking to speak to you."

He casts a suspicious glance at Brad, who is preparing to leave, and he gives him a hand signal to sit back down. "Put him through."

A click on the line as the transfer is made is quickly followed by an irate voice. "Is this Mr. Jaeger?"

"Yes. How can I help you, Mr. Peters?"

"The weather satellite for Nunavut Territory and the Northwest Passage isn't working, and it would be nice to get it back online again."

A horrible sensation begins to simmer in the pit of his stomach, and he rolls his eyes at Brad. "Can you tell me what the symptoms are, Mr. Peters?"

Samuel's response is indignant. " _Symptoms?_ There _aren't_ any symptoms, Mr. Jaeger. The fucking thing just shut down on us."

Steve tries to soothe the enraged man by speaking in a slow, calm voice. "Are there any error messages?"

The sharpness in the Canadian's tone softens. "Yes, I'm looking at it now. 'Invalid input command: data out of range.'"

"Thank you, Mr. Peters, I'll get our techs on it right away. I'm going to transfer you back to my secretary so she can take your contact information, and someone will call you when it's back in service."

He transfers the line to Nancy, and just as he replaces the handset, the telephone rings again. The caller ID shows it is Peter Noble from the PR department. "Yes, Pete?"

"I've received a complaint of another malfunction."

"Yes, I know. I just spoke to Mr. Peters a few moments ago."

"Who?"

"Samuel Peters... from Canada."

The public relations officer hesitates before speaking with some uncertainty in his voice. " _Uh_... the call came from David Bower of the Alaskan Weather Center. Their satellite has failed with an 'Invalid input command: data out of range' error message."

Steve feels the blood draining from his face. "I need you to keep on top of diplomacy until we identify the problem."

"I will."

He holds the handset several inches above the cradle and lets it drop into place with a clunk. "The Alaskan unit is now kaput, too."

Brad's face is expressionless. "I assume it has the same error message?"

"But of _course_."

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"I don't know if it has any bearing, but I think the Nunavut and Alaskan satellites are in orbit on the same parallel."

"Let me get the satellite directory," Steve says. He gets up, walks over to the bookcase, and turns his head sideways to read the spine labels before returning to his desk with a manual in his hand. He opens the cover, slides a finger down the index, and then he leafs through to a page about a third of the way through the book. "You're right, BB. They're both on the sixty-fifth parallel." He closes the book and lays it on the desk.

Brad appears to contemplate for a couple of seconds before he mutters almost as if he's thinking aloud. "Two simultaneous failures on the same parallel... I don't know how or why it could be relevant, but it's an avenue worth exploring."

"I'm convinced it's a virus."

"I'm inclined to disagree," Brad replies, shaking his head. "It doesn't have the characteristic signatures associated with a malicious code, and besides, the satellites are initiated by the communicators, and no entity can access a unit they're not subscribed to."

"But they're still linked in an unobtrusive manner. Infect one satellite and the virus could be passed from one to the other through data networking."

Brad gets to his feet. "If it makes you feel better, I'll sever the connections between the defective units and the functioning satellites. _If_ there's a virus, it can't be passed on." He starts walking toward the door singing an out-of-tune aria. "A-hunting we will go, A-hunting we—"

"BB?"

He stops with one hand on the doorknob and turns his head to look back at him.

"Don't forget the meeting at three o'clock."

Brad nods in silent affirmation, and Steve slumps back in the chair with a heavy sigh as his partner leaves the office.
18

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Tuesday, June 23, 2020, 1347h

Steve continued to excogitate after Brad left the office, and his conviction that the malfunctions are the result of a virus persisted until he eventually picked up the telephone and called the FBI, who promised to send a cyber forensics team out to investigate. By one-fifteen, he had calmed down, but his anxiety was renewed when Brad reported that another satellite shared by Finland, Sweden, and Norway, had gone offline, bringing the total number out of commission to six. However, the CTO was strongly opposed to getting the feds involved while there was still no evidence of a crime.

The intercom buzzes, and he answers in a weary voice. "Yes, Nancy?"

"There are two federal agents here to see you, Mr. Jaeger."

He perks up. "Send them in," he says before closing the connection and calling Brad. "The FBI is here."

"So?"

"So—I need you to come up to my office."

The door opens just as he terminates the call, and a blond man with a short-textured haircut and a clean-shaven 'John Wayne' face, walks in with a self-assured swagger in his gait. He is six feet tall with the physique of someone who works out on a regular basis, dressed in a gray suit, light blue shirt, and a red-and-white diagonally striped tie. Steve puts his age at somewhere in his mid-thirties. The second man is a few inches shorter than his partner, but he has a pudgier build. He could be a year or two younger, but Steve immediately feels like he's being psychoanalyzed under the steady gaze of his piercing, gray-green eyes.

He gets to his feet and walks around to the front of the desk to greet the visitors. "I'm Steve Jaeger. Thank you for coming."

The taller agent shakes his hand firmly. He's soft-spoken, and his gregarious attitude puts Steve at ease. "Clarke Richards, and this is my partner, Ben Thomas."

Steve offers them a seat before he sits back down and proceeds to give them an overview of the situation. Ben is taking notes on a legal pad, but he keeps looking up at him often and Steve is disconcerted by his silent stare and dour expression. He's relieved when Brad walks in, and he quickly introduces him to the agents. "This is the co-founder and chief technical officer of Infinity, Brad Bentley."

Once the formalities are over, Clarke gets the investigation back on track. "Mr. Bentley, do you have tangible evidence that your network has been hacked?"

Brad throws a censorious glance at Steve in clear disapproval of his decision to involve the FBI. "Not really."

"Then what leads you to conclude that the satellites are infected by a virus instead of something technical like faulty wiring or component failure?"

"Diagnostics show the units are functioning properly, but the system shuts down again each time they're rebooted. Because they have the same error message, a virus is an option I need to keep on the table until it can be eliminated."

"And you're unable to trace the source of the code?"

"Analysis indicates it shouldn't even exist."

Clarke purses his lips with a thoughtful expression on his face. "It's possible that the error message _is_ the virus."

"Hmm, I never considered that angle."

Steve interrupts the discourse between Brad and the agent. "There's another reason why I suspect it's a virus too; we've never had an issue with the satellites in eleven years until yesterday morning."

"But technical failures do occur, Mr. Jaeger. It's just a simple fact."

"Of course, but six with the same symptom in thirty-six hours is rather suspicious in my opinion."

"I'll concur to that argument, but if it's a virus, how do you think it was introduced into your network?"

Brad shrugs before he answers. "That's something I can't explain. The scanners didn't find any instances where an effort was made to hack the system." For the next ten minutes, Clarke listens with a pensive expression as Brad explains their cybersecurity protocols.

When he finishes, Ben speaks for the first time. "It sounds like an inside job to me."

Brad is quick to respond adamantly. "That's _highly_ improbable."

Clarke raises his eyebrows. "Why do you say that?"

"No one knows about the Infinity code except for Steve and me."

The agent appears astonished. "I imagine your techs know, don't they?"

Steve shakes his head. "Updates and modifications are written on a computer that runs a simulation of our systems in binary, and BB analyzes the compatibility to ensure the adjustments are glitch-free before they're translated into Infinity code by Krazy Kath. The master disc they use for reprogramming can't be read by a regular PC or laptop."

Clarke inclines his head inquiringly. "Who's BB?"

"Oh, uh... yes, it's Brad... Brad Bentley." Steve indicates his partner with a casual sweep of his hand. "It's a soubriquet that stuck to him since kindergarten."

"Am I to presume that Krazy Kath is an alias as well?"

Steve grins. "She's a top-secret device that translates binary to the Infinity encryptions and the _only_ piece of equipment in the world that can do this. It's locked away in a secure location, and no one—including the techs—knows of her existence."

It appears that Clarke is beginning to understand the protocols they've established to protect themselves from intellectual theft, and he rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Have you considered industrial sabotage?"

"We don't have any competitors in our field."

The agent sits forward in the chair. "It doesn't have to be a rival business—only a greed-driven corporate ambition to acquire a viable and successful company."

Steve is startled by Clarke's allusion. "Are you talking about the Luther Corporation?"

"I am."

"Well... I've heard some crazy rumors about their underhand tactics to acquire assets and how they conduct business in general, but I don't know how true they are."

Clarke's expression is serious. "What you've heard is probably accurate. I _can_ tell you they're the focus of an FBI probe, but I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation." He turns his head and looks at Brad. "Is there a pattern that indicates the presence of a virus?"

The CTO shakes his head. "That's what makes it so perplexing."

"It's possible that a latent virus was planted in your network years ago. A dormant code is usually awakened by a date-time combination, and perhaps triggered by a specific action."

Brad is quick to push back against this theory. "The activation key would have to be incredibly complex."

"What makes you say that?"

"We have sixty satellites in orbit, and if there's a time or date element in the trigger, they would've _all_ gone down by now."

Clarke is clearly puzzled. "How do you figure?"

"Regardless of what time the virus was woken up, it would take an hour for the satellite to perform every possible function that could be used to set it in motion. This gives a maximum window of twenty-five hours for all of them to fail."

The agent hesitates before agreeing in a slow voice. "Okay... I would concur."

"Good, otherwise it would be difficult to explain the thirty-six-hour lapse between the first and last failures. Neither did they drop out with the progression of the timeline; they jumped indiscriminately between time zones, so I think that eliminates the basic date–time theory."

_"Ah_ , I see what you're saying." Clarke pauses. "Could it be a disgruntled employee?"

"We don't have a revolving door when it comes to staffing," Steve says. "In fact, we've only had one resignation in the tech department in eleven years, and that was only because he moved out of the area to get married."

Brad affirms with a nod. "Yes, a bright lad by the name of Harvey Worrell. I was sorry to see him go. He and Danny are good friends, and I think they still keep in touch with each other."

"Our highest turnover is in the janitorial department," Steve adds.

"You don't subcontract the cleaning?"

"No."

Clarke hesitates. "I'll start with a security screen to see if anyone is flagged by the NCIC database, but I'll need access to your employee files, Mr. Jaeger."

"Which departments are you most interested in?"

"Everyone from the janitors up is a suspect until they're cleared, including Mr. Bentley, yourself, and the board of directors."

"I don't have a problem with that," Steve says, and he looks up at the time. It's close to three o'clock. "Brad and I have an investors' conference in a few minutes, but I'll call down to Human Resources and tell the manager you have unrestricted access to their records before I go."

"Will you be bringing this up at your meeting?"

Steve throws a wistful glance at Brad before answering. "We'll be in violation of a transparency clause in the investor agreement if I fail to disclose what we know. This is a multibillion-dollar business, and it'll be impossible to keep it out of the media for too long."

"I understand. It won't compromise the investigation, and who knows, it might flush out the rat if there is one."

The agents leave, and he calls down to Human Resources. He looks at Brad as he replaces the handset after a brief conversation. "We'd better get over there."

The investors are chatting among themselves when Steve and Brad walk into the boardroom and the CEO motions with one hand as they begin to stand. "Please, remain seated." His voice is brusque but polite, and he heads for his chair at the head of the conference table. He pulls a file from his briefcase and opens it before glancing around at the two women and nine men on the panel. His expression is grim, and his voice does not have its usual effervescence as he opens the meeting. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Due to an unforeseen crisis, I'm hereby forced to invoke paragraph ten of the investors' agreement, which postpones the intended agenda on today's schedule to a later date, and instead, this will be an informative session only."

It's the first time he's summoned a citation in eleven years, and the uncomfortable hush that settles over the room lasts for several seconds.

_"That_ doesn't sound good."

The voice belongs to Jack Mason and the one person who will oppose the addition of ten more satellites. He always tries to block any proposals they put forward, and he can get particularly nasty when the vote doesn't go his way. Steve ignores the remark and continues to speak. "There's been a string of failures in the satellite network since early yesterday morning, and six units are currently offline, leaving eight subscribers without access to weather services. Mr. Bentley will provide you with an update on what we know from a technical standpoint."

He sits down while Brad delivers a five-minute précis of the problem and the diagnostic procedures they pursued in an attempt to trace the source. His partner has barely finished when Jack Mason springs to his feet, and Steve rolls his eyes as the cantankerous seventy-one-year-old launches into a diatribe. "How can you say it's _not_ a fault when it's so damn clear that a fault exists? If it's a _malfunction_ , it's a fucking _fault_ —end of debate."

Brad's tolerance for the man is zero, and it's clear he is trying to constrain his sarcasm. "Let me elucidate, Mr. Mason. We've had no issues with our satellites in eleven years, so what are the odds that six units suddenly malfunction with an identical error code in less than two days? Give it some thought for a moment."

Jack emits a contemptuous snort. "I suggest you employ proficient technicians who _know_ what they're doing."

Brad's face turns red, and fearing things are about to get ugly, Steve stands and intercedes by placing a hand on his partner's shoulder. "I'll handle this," he mutters in a low voice. Brad gives him a sharp glare and hesitates before sinking into his chair.

Steve locks eyes with the sanctimonious old man and reproves him in a calm voice. "Mr. Mason, there are people here who are interested in what we have to say even if you're not. With respect, please refrain from interrupting until we finish our report." He turns his attention to the rest of the board. "The techs are working around the clock, but because of the nature and number of failures, we can't rule out the possibility that this is a deliberately orchestrated attack by one or more individuals."

Fifty-six-year-old John York is the most tech-savvy investor at the table, and he looks at Steve with a concerned expression on his face. "Are you suggesting the network may have been compromised by hackers?"

"It's a probability."

Jack raises his voice again. "This stinks of incompetence and negligence. You convinced everyone except me to invest in a costly security system with the promise it would make the satellites impenetrable, and now it appears you made a false claim."

Steve is getting irritated. "Please stand corrected, Mr. Mason. I said the firewall would _lessen_ our chances of being hacked, not eliminate them. I think everyone around this table will agree we do our best to prevent network intrusions, but it's _never_ a guarantee. The technology we employ is revolutionary and remains unpublished, and there are corporations out there who are desperate to get their hands on the blueprints. You don't need me to tell you that the high dividends you enjoy will take a dramatic dip if _anyone_ duplicates our technology."

Rita McLeod raises a hand. "Mr. Jaeger, do you have a way of knowing whether someone tried to crash the firewall?"

It's really a technical question, but Steve is able to answer for Brad. "Yes, Mrs. McLeod, but the security logs show no unauthorized attempt has been made to get into the network."

Jack cuts in again, and he ensures that everyone can hear him by speaking far louder than necessary. "If the failures are as abnormal as you'd like us to believe, and no one has hacked into the network, I'd be thinking by now that it has all the traditional hallmarks of an inside job, wouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't say there's a traditional sign of _anything_ , Mr. Mason, but that avenue is being investigated by the FBI. I called them this morning, and everyone associated with Infinity, past and present, are being scrutinized."

Jack sneers. "I hope that includes you."

"Yes, it does... and Mr. Bentley, myself, and everyone at this table is not exempt."

Jack's face turns red, and he stabs a finger at Steve as he bellows at him one pitch below a scream. "I will _not_ be subject to harassment, and if you don't put a stop to it right now, I will sue you."

His objection doesn't surprise Steve, because it's what he does best. "No one is being harassed, Mr. Mason, and no one will even be questioned unless something suspicious is uncovered." He looks around and makes brief eye contact with each person as he continues to speak. "Is anyone else opposed to an FBI investigation?"

Jack scoffs. "Of _course_ they are, but they're all too pussy to tell you."

The vulgar insult brings an angry reaction from the rest of the investors, and John York adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose before speaking directly to the old man. "Mr. Mason, I, for one, do not have _any_ cavils because I _know_ they won't find me involved in anything nefarious. I'm also a director on the board of a renowned Internet security company, so I'm well acquainted with the problems consumers and businesses face from hackers on a daily basis. Hundreds of new threats appear every hour, and security software has no value whatsoever if it isn't updated regularly. In my opinion, Mr. Jaeger appears to be making a concerted effort to get to the bottom of this tragic situation, and I applaud him for taking the initiative." He turns his head to look at Steve. "Mr. Jaeger, I apologize for jumping in without addressing you first."

"No offense taken."

"You suggested corporate sabotage. Do we have competitors in this field now?" John asks.

"I'm not aware of any, but the FBI said we shouldn't dismiss the Luther Corporation as the instigators behind the satellite failures."

"They're a bunch of evil, loathsome bastards." John is usually calm and pragmatic, so Steve is surprised at the unexpected level of venom in his voice. "They prey on viably profitable companies and somehow force them into bankruptcy before initiating a takeover bid with an offer to bail them out of trouble. Anyone who doesn't accept their terms _always_ ends up insolvent."

Rita joins in with an emphatic bitterness in her voice. "They stomped on my husband's business and completely destroyed him when he refused to sell-out to them last year, but he has no direct proof of their involvement... at least, not yet."

Steve folds his arms on top of the table. "It follows a pattern. A reputable company begins to spiral downward for no apparent reason, and then the Luther Corporation steps in with an offer to buy them out at a fraction of their value. It seems that a business perceived as a threat to any of their holdings is closed down thirty days after they acquire control, while others have a sudden reversal in fortune. It's a worldwide operation, and while the FBI doesn't have sufficient evidence to indict them at the moment, they are working on it."

A dark scowl appears on John's face. "It's said there are instances where business owners have died suddenly or vanished under mysterious circumstances after turning down a proposal. However"—he hesitates before finishing the dialogue—" _if_ the Luther Corporation has infiltrated this company, it likely means that the traitor is in this room."

Leon Chesney is a shrewd businessman, but it's clear he is surprised by John's revelation. "One of _us_ is a corporate spy?"

Steve has had the same suspicion since his meeting with Clarke, and while he hadn't intended to make any insinuations until the FBI investigation was over, he's forced to address the subject now that John has brought it up as a major concern. He nods his head slowly. "I'm inclined to concur with Mr. York."

"What a _preposterous_ charge, Jaeger. The _only_ villain in this room is _you_ ," he glances at Brad, "... _and_ him."

"I never made an accusation, Mr. Mason... but come to think of it, you seem to be the only person taking it as a personal affront."

"What are you implying?"

"You figure it out."

"I already have." A white spittle forms at the corners of Jack's mouth as he continues to rant. "When word of this fiasco gets to Wall Street, our stocks will sink faster than a sack of shit in a goldfish pond. We'll lose millions all because of your ineptitude at running this venture the way it _should_ be run."

Steve is quick to fire back. "Mr. Bentley and I have more to lose than money. Our reputation and integrity are at risk, and I do _not_ intend to lose either."

Jack snickers scornfully. " _What_ fucking integrity, Jaeger? You _have_ none. I want to call for a motion of no confidence in your position as CEO"—he glances around the table at the other investors—"but no one else has the guts to tell you to your face."

Brad leaps out of his chair so fast that it scoots backward along the floor. "You obnoxious little _prick_. Mr. Jaeger is more qualified than _anyone_ to manage Infinity. He knows this business from top to bottom, he's respected by his peers, and he puts the interests of this company, its employees, _and_ its investors before his own."

_"Bullshit!_ "

Steve gets ready to intervene as Brad clenches his fists. " _Bullshit?_ Mr. Jaeger has more integrity in the tip of his little finger than you'll _ever_ accumulate in that tiny pin-brain of yours. You've fought every proposal we put forward, and you go into a vulgar invective when a vote doesn't go your way." Steve has never seen his partner this fired up before, and he tries to catch his eye. "I've always wondered why you were the only person who was against the security upgrades, but now I think I'm beginning to understand. The improvements would inhibit any plans you had of hacking into our network."

Jack's eyes are blazing with fury. "You'd still be in the gutter without my cash, boy. If you think I'd throw money away by compromising a company in which I have an invested interest, then you're more of a dimwit than I give you credit for."

"I'm no idiot, Mr. Mason. Any person affiliated to the Luther Corporation wouldn't lose a dime, and well you know it. The acquisition of Infinity would triple the investment at _least_." He glowers at the old man, his lips quivering with rage. "If you're _that_ unhappy, then I think it's time for you to cash your stake and move on. We can operate as effectively without your money as with it."

Steve reaches out and gently tugs on the sleeve of Brad's jacket, but Leon intercedes in a calm voice. "I propose we wait and see what the FBI turns up. If the problem is something that could've been avoided, then we'll decide on what our next course of action should be. It does no good pointing fingers or casting the blame on an individual when we don't know what the problem is yet."

John speaks out in support of Leon's suggestion. "I agree. We should adjourn the meeting until we have more information."

Jack snatches up his briefcase, gets to his feet, and his eyes are burning with intense anger as he glances around the table until they settle on Steve. "Jaeger, you have until tomorrow morning to get a grip on this ignominious debacle, because if normal order of business hasn't resumed by then, you can expect my resignation." He spins on his heels, stomps across the floor, and exits the boardroom. The tension begins to dissipate as the door slams closed behind him, and Brad retrieves his chair while Steve glances around the table.

"I apologize for what's happened today. I guess we're all a bit on edge. Shall we reconvene at the same time next Tuesday?"

There's a loud rustle as everyone checks their itinerary on their electronic devices before agreeing to the new schedule, and Steve stands up. "Thank you and I appreciate your understanding. Feel free to call in at any time for an update."

He spins on his heels and heads for the door with Brad following close behind.
19

National Weather Center

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Coordinates: 34° 37' 47.2" S, 58° 22' 05.5" W

Wednesday, June 24, 2020, 0811h

A cold, blustery wind sweeps across the cemetery, and Carlos Castelli glances up at the dark clouds blowing across the sky from the southeast. Heavy rain showers are in the forecast, but he is hoping the precipitations will hold off for a couple of hours, and he opens two folding chairs before placing a knee pad on the damp grass in front of each one. Because it's midwinter and the weather is bleak, he positions a beach umbrella to ward off the wind and rain.

His slender, forty-four-year-old wife, Isabella, is propping a large wreath against a headstone, her hazel eyes red from crying. This is the only day of the year she doesn't put on makeup to minimize the lines of age on the light-brown skin of her elfin face, and a black pin in her curled, shoulder length golden-brown hair, prevents it from fluttering across her face in the wind.

Carlos is forty-eight-years old and a devout Catholic, but he feels that Isabella has lost her faith even though it's something she won't admit. He's a slim 175 centimeters tall, and his skin is a shade darker than his wife, but his age is engraved on his sunken cheeks and arched eyebrows, and his receding black hair is brushed sideways across his head in a feeble attempt to cover the thin patch over the crown.

When they were married twenty-two years earlier, Carlos had just started a career at the National Weather Center. He took out a mortgage on a five-bedroom house in Santa Rosa in anticipation of the large family they planned to have, but when Isabella failed to conceive after three years, they went to a fertility specialist. The young couple were devastated when tests revealed her chances of a natural pregnancy were less than one percent, and they also advised against _in vitro_ fertilization because she had a rare condition that could endanger the baby's life before it was fully developed. Isabella's yearning for motherhood became intolerable, and it almost tore their marriage apart. But then a true miracle happened. Against all odds, she fell pregnant.

At the beginning of the eighth month, the fetus developed an erratic heartbeat, and fearing it would go into cardiac arrest, the doctors made a decision to deliver the infant by cesarean section seven weeks premature. An ultrasound revealed that the left atrium and ventricle were barely working, starving the baby's body of oxygen, and the distraught couple was told he wouldn't survive for more than a few hours. Carlos called their priest from Santa Bartholomew, who rushed to the hospital to conduct a special bedside baptism. It was a harrowing experience, because one minute after the hastily arranged christening, the monsignor administered the last rites. Isabella was inconsolable when the infant passed away thirty minutes later.

She steps back and loops an arm through his. While his own grief has diminished over time, Isabella's anguish has not, and he gently squeezes her shoulder. "We'll be with him again when it's time."

Isabella removes a tissue from her handbag, and she sniffles as she dabs the tears from her eyes. His iPhone begins to ring, and she looks up at him. "Why didn't you turn that thing off?"

"I wasn't expecting anyone to call," Carlos replies. He gets annoyed when he looks at the display and sees it originated from the National Weather Center. His colleagues are aware of the reason for his absence, so he lets it go to voicemail before returning the phone to his pocket.

"Who is it?"

"Someone from work," he says with some scorn in his voice. "They _know_ not to call me until after midday."

She hesitates as if to make some remark, but then she dismisses it with a casual wave of her hand. "Let's say a prayer."

They kneel on their respective pads, and holding hands, they recite the Apostles' Creed. "Amen" has barely rolled off Carlos's tongue when the iPhone rings again. His office is still trying to get him to answer, but he chooses to ignore it again. He will check the messages when they get back home and deal with the guilty party when he goes into the office tomorrow morning.

He's halfway through the rosary when the phone interrupts his orisons once more, and his wife scowls at him. "Why don't you turn it off?"

"Let me see what they want." Their persistence is irritating, and Carlos pulls the mobile out of his pocket. "Hello?"

"Mr. Castelli, this is Jose... from the weather center."

Jose Panteras is a nineteen-year-old intern who was orphaned at fourteen. He was working on a school science project at a friend's house, and he returned home to discover the battered and bloodied bodies of his parents, who were victims of a brutal home invasion robbery. The perpetrators made off with a few trinkets and electronic devices, and Carlos took the young man under his wing when he learned of his disturbing experience. He could not begin to comprehend how traumatic it must have been.

"Jose, have you forgotten what today is?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm getting some strange weather data I think you should know about."

"There are people there who can help you. I don't want to be bothered anymore today."

Jose hesitates. "They're the ones who told me to call you, sir."

"What a bunch of useless fu—" He bites his tongue and pauses to control his anger. "Okay, what's the problem, son?"

_"Um_ , well, you need to see for yourself. The satellite image shows a huge storm moving in over Terra del Fuego, but there's no mention of it in the summary."

"Then draw up a manual forecast... or have you forgotten how to do one?"

"I've tried... and no one else is able to, either."

Carlos is confused. He had checked the charts before going home on the previous evening, and he didn't see any indication that a drastic change was in the offing. He glances at his wife, who is looking at him with an anxious expression in her eyes, and while he is irked, the department is his responsibility. "All right, I'll come in and see what's going on, but you can tell everyone there that heads are going to roll if this turns out to be something they could've taken care of." He disconnects and turns to Isabella. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I have to go into the office. It seems I've employed a bunch of useless morons."

_"Why_ , Carlos? This is _always_ our day with Pablo."

The disappointment on her face fills him with guilt and he takes hold of both hands. "I'll try to be quick, honey, but I'll leave the car for you just in case I get delayed." He hands the keys over and gives her a kiss before hunching his shoulders against the damp wind and sets out for the main exit at a brisk pace. A taxi pulls up to drop off a fare just as he reaches the cemetery gates, and unable to believe his luck, he jumps into it.

Carlos walks into the main office at the National Weather Center and comes to an abrupt halt. He makes no effort to conceal the displeasure on his face, and the staff stares at him in silence as he glances around the room until his eyes settle on Jose. He beckons to the intern with one finger, and then he heads for his office with long, purposeful strides. He is already sitting behind his desk when Jose appears in the doorway with a manila folder in one hand, and his nervousness is obvious as he lays it in front of Carlos.

He opens the cover. "What are we looking at?"

"The storm at the bottom of the image is inconsistent to the seven-day forecast for southern Argentina."

The ambit of the satellite sensors covers Puerto Lobos in the north to south of Cape Horn, and fifty kilometers east of the Falkland Islands, to the Southern Pacific Ocean west of Chile. The unit leased by the British Antarctic Survey transfers information on the events moving out of its own territory into its neighbor's domain, which is integrated with its own data. But unknown to Carlos, the failure of the BAS satellite has left a blind spot in the network, and it's not receiving the necessary intelligence to update the data bank. Therefore, it's using the only source available to generate an outlook—a constant loop of the last transmission.

Carlos studies the image. A heavy cloud formation in the bottom right quadrant obscures the Falkland Islands, sweeping in a gentle arc to the southwest across the tip of Tierra del Fuego. A sustained wind speed of 210 kilometers per hour is stamped around the outer limits of the system, but the chart is void of any other information. He makes the presumption that the storm needs to move further into range before the sensors can detect the barometric pressure, moisture content, temperatures, and so on, but he is puzzled. That data should have been passed on by the British satellite. He pulls a small box from the top drawer of his desk and removes a compass, protractor, ruler, and a pair of dividers. "I can barely recall the last time I used these."

"What are you doing?" Jose asks.

"Simple mathematics," Carlos replies. "I don't know why the satellite isn't giving us any vitals, but the clouds are clearly rotating around a central core. There's enough of an arc to calculate the circumference and diameter, which will give me a rough location of where the center of the low-pressure system is."

Jose points to the figures imprinted on the image. "It does have a wind speed."

"I can tell by the arc that it's a pretty big storm, but it's unlikely that the winds are 210 kilometers per hour on the outer extremities." He draws a straight line in a southeasterly direction from the edge of the curve to a point near the South Sandwich Islands, and he whistles. "When did this image come in?"

"About an hour ago."

"Run another for me."

Carlos rechecks the math. In his estimation, it's a phenomenal four thousand kilometers or more in diameter, which means it has the potential to do serious damage if it moves across mainland Argentina. A new chart should give some indication of its speed and direction.

Jose returns and lays the new printout on his desk. The wind is still shown to be 210 on the edge of the outer band, but overall, there's no significant change between the two images. Its apparent movement is northwest, which will bring the system across southern Argentina and Chile, but what he fears most is its speed. It's moving at less than four kilometers an hour, and if his calculations are correct, a storm of these dimensions could inundate the South for days. With much of the data missing, he wants to dismiss the accuracy of the wind velocity, but one simple fact is nagging at his consciousness; during the six years they've been looped into the Infinity system, not once has he had to question its reliability.

He picks up the forecast for the cape and reads it slowly. Cold but clear weather is predicted for the next seven days, but there's no suggestion of a storm, which means something serious is amiss and it puts him into a quandary. _Do I believe the forecast, or should I put my faith in the chart?_ Carlos ponders for a moment. "Tell me, son, would you trust the map or the seven-day projection?"

"The map, sir."

He is surprised at the confidence in Jose's voice. "Why?"

"Well, the portion of the storm that's visible in the chart has moved albeit a little, so it has more substance than the seven-day forecast... which is false anyway."

Carlos stares at the intern in astonishment. " _False?_ How do you figure _that_ out?"

"When have you seen seven consecutive days and nights with precisely the same metrics? The report is duplicating itself every twenty-four hours."

His mouth drops open as he realizes that Jose is right, and he feels a little foolish for not spotting the discrepancy himself. But it also means he might have to conclude a worst-case scenario, yet if the sustained winds _are_ that strong in the outer band and he's estimated its size correctly, then just how bad _will_ the worst be? After several minutes of silent debate, he picks up the telephone and dials the switchboard.

"I need to speak to President Hernandez, or an official at the _Quinta de Olivos_ who has direct contact with him. Call me once you've got someone on the line... and it's urgent."

Carlos has nothing but contempt for the Argentinean president, who puts his personal interests ahead of the nation and conceals the corruption within his administration behind a wall of fascism. The country is returning to the seventies, a time when anyone who criticized the government suddenly disappeared without explanation, and he predicts that a power struggle and the eventual ousting of the obnoxious leader by a military coup is a clear inevitability.

Twenty minutes pass before the operator calls back. "President Juan Hernandez is on the line, Mr. Castelli."

Despite his abhorrence for the man, he greets him with civility. "Good morning, sir. This is Carlos Castelli at the National Weather Center."

"I know who I'm talking to," the president snaps.

Carlos is taken aback by his arrogance, but he tries to brush it aside. "I'm about to issue a severe winter storm warning for southern Argentina, sir."

There's an awkward pause. "Correct me if I'm _wrong_ , Mr. Castelli, but I believe that _is_ your job, isn't it?"

His air of superiority irks the meteorologist. "Yes, you are right, and the other part of my job is to inform the president when adverse weather conditions may be a threat to the nation."

"Then _inform_ me."

Carlos pauses to control the anger bubbling in his chest before he continues. "It's an extraordinary storm—unstable, erratic, but predictably dangerous. It's over the Malvinas and Terra del Fuego and moving across Ushuaia as I speak to you."

"Define 'extraordinary' for me."

Carlos takes a deep breath. "It's four thousand kilometers in diameter, moving northwest at about less than four kilometers an hour, and a blizzard with subzero temperatures and sustained winds in excess of 200 kilometers could engulf southern Argentina for up to a week. There will be structural damage, millions will lose power, and it's inevitable that lives will be lost."

The president sneers in a repulsive manner. "How poetic. I couldn't have said it with more flair myself. Tell me, Mr. Castelli, do you see me as a fairy godmother with a magic wand I can wave to make it all disappear... _poof?_ "

"No."

"Then tell me exactly what is it you expect me to do?"

Carlos is feeling debased by the president's mockery, but he needs to stand his ground against this subhuman imbecile. "I'm doing my duty, which is to counsel you on a serious and potentially dangerous weather system. What _you_ do with it is your decision, but I thought you might want to make plans for disaster relief."

President Hernandez gives a loud, raucous laugh. "It's hardly likely I'll announce a state of emergency or declare southern Argentina a disaster zone _before_ any kind of catastrophe occurs. Likewise, how the hell do you expect me to put a search and rescue mission together when there's nothing to search for or rescue?"

Carlos has better things to do, and he decides to end the worthless conversation. "Thank you, sir, and goodbye." He abruptly terminates the call by hanging up on him just as Jose returns with a new image and chart. The outer band has inched across Terra del Fuego and over Ushuaia, but the prediction still shows the current conditions are calm and clear. He connects to the online telephone directory to find the number for the southern town's weather office, and he isn't comforted when he hears a prerecorded message from the telephone company.

"We are unable to connect your call at this time. Please try again later."
20

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Wednesday, June 24, 2020, 0927h

Steve is in a petulant mood when he pulls into the underground parking garage at the Infinity Tower. Two more Russian units failed simultaneously with a 'data out of range' message seventy-five minutes after the conclusion of the board meeting on the previous afternoon. Brad confirmed that just like the Canadian and Alaskan satellites, their orbits were on the same parallel too. This leaves the country with just one functioning satellite.

He heads straight for the laboratory, where Brad and Danny are working in silence at their respective terminals. "I hope you've got the satellites back online," he says snappily.

Brad looks up from a thick printout, presumably a data download from one of the satellites. "Good morning to you, too," he responds with sarcasm. "The remaining Russian satellite went offline at 0245."

Steve's temper brims over. "What the fuck is up with you guys? You call yourselves technicians, but you can't even fix a simple little problem."

"Well... if it's _that_ fucking simple, _you_ fix it." Brad gets to his feet and picks his jacket up from the back of his chair. He looks across to the only other person in the room as he slips his arms into the sleeves. "Come on, Danny, we don't have to put up with this crap. Let's go for breakfast."

Steve is infuriated and heads for his office in exasperation. He has barely sat down at his desk when there's a knock on the door and Peter Noble walks in. The public relations officer never comes up to see him unannounced, so his unexpected visit can't be good.

"The Russians have just announced to the media that while they're filing a lawsuit against us with the International Court of Justice, but the White House is the primary defendant in the litigation."

He stares at Peter in astonishment. "Associated to the satellite failures?"

"Apparently, because according to the Kremlin spokesperson, the administration is being accused of willful intent to compromise their meteorological services and we're being indicted for complicity in state-sponsored sabotage."

Steve is surprised but somewhat puzzled, and he falls silent while he toys with an absurd notion. "Do you think the CIA or the NSA could hack in and take control of our satellites?"

"I would assume they have the capacity if they had good cause, but why would they knock out the Australian and Canadian units... even our own one in Alaska?"

Peter has a point. If the Russians have chosen to go down a path of chicanery rather than a straight breach of contract, it might work to Infinity's advantage. But he's not an attorney, so he couldn't be sure. "I think the White House will give this one a wide berth."

"They may not be able to," Peter replies, and he inhales deeply. "But the _really_ bad news... the Canadian, Finnish, Norwegian, and Swedish governments followed with their own press release, and they're filing legal proceedings which are not based on some non-existent conspiracy theory."

Steve scowls at Peter. "Do you have _anything_ good to tell me?"

"Well, we haven't heard anything from the Australian and British Antarctic divisions yet, but it would be a bit premature to construe that as good news."

"How does the market look on Wall Street? I haven't had an opportunity to check it out yet."

"We opened with a one percent dip," Peter says bluntly.

Steve curses under his breath, although he isn't surprised. "If you start getting calls from the media, be diplomatic with your answers but keep them as opaque as you can without giving them the impression that you're being evasive."

Peter shakes his head and scoffs. "Boy, the things I do for the love of my job... but I'll see what I can do."

Steve has never felt so miserable, and a hollow pit forms in his stomach as the public relations officer leaves the room. He sits forward in his chair and holds his head in both hands with his elbows resting on the desk. There's little he can do except go with the flow and follow the advice of their lawyers. The intercom buzzes. "Yes, Nancy?"

"Mr. Mason is here to see you, sir."

He rolls his eyes. "He's the _last_ person I want to see today. Tell him I'm occupied and give him an appointment for next week."

The CEO didn't realize Nancy was on speaker, and before she has a chance to reply, Jack Mason's angry voice booms through the intercom. "Like hell, I will."

There's a moment of silence before she speaks again. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jaeger. He's heading to your office. Shall I alert security?"

"No, I'll handle this p—" He was going to say "prick" but he's cut off when the door bursts open, and a furious Jack Mason strides into the center of the room.

"How _dare_ you treat me as an inferior? I'm _not_ one of your fucking peons."

The urge to shout back is irresistible, but he restrains himself and responds in a calm voice. "My serfs are classier and a lot less vulgar, _and_ they know how to knock on the door before they come in... but I digress. Respect and politeness are not your forte, are they?"

"Fuck you, Jaeger." Jack is staring at him with fire in his eyes. "How do you intend to prevent this debacle from getting into the media?"

Steve's reply is bland. "I don't think that has anything to do with you."

"It has _every_ thing to do with me. It's _my_ money you're farting around with."

"Mr. Mason, you're not the only person with an invested interest in this company. We're doing everything possible to protect everybody's money until the problem is resolved."

"And _that's_ a goal you and your bunch of vaqueros seem to be incapable of achieving," Jack fires back.

Steve's desire to rip this bad-tempered creature apart like a wild animal is overwhelming, but he retains some measure of professionalism and extends an invitation. "Why don't you assist us if you're so concerned?"

Jack pulls a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket with a loud, contemptuous snort. "Go fuck a pig, Jaeger." The seventy-one-year-old slings the missive toward the desk, where it lands with a slap and slides along the polished top. Steve keeps his hands clasped with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and makes no attempt to arrest the letter as the momentum carries it across the surface. He watches it slip over the edge and drop to the floor with a nonchalant expression on his face while Jack continues to shout. "That's my notice. I'm withdrawing my support as of this moment."

"Have you forgotten that under the investors' proviso, resignations from the board do not become effective for ninety days after submission?" Steve's lips curl into a tiny smile. "It looks like you'll be taking the fall along with the rest of us after all, Mr. Mason."

Jack begins yelling so loud that he's certain everyone in the adjacent offices can hear him. "You _can't do this!_ "

"I'm not. The law is." Steve is gloating at the investor's infuriation, and he moves to the front of his chair and clasps his hands together on top of the desk. "And I have some more news for you. I believe journalists call it a tidbit... or is it a scoop? But anyway, it matters not. What does matter is that the media has already started reporting our satellite problem this morning, and Wall Street is far from happy." Jack splutters and he's almost salivating like a rabid animal. Steve knows the best way to antagonize his adversary is to remain calm, and a carefree attitude has more of an effect than an angry retort. "Now, if you _don't_ mind, Mr. Mason, I have more pressing matters to attend to." He smiles politely. "Oh... and please feel free to slam the door like a little girl when you leave."

Jack glares at Steve with so much loathing that someone more timorous might have felt intimidated. He hunches his shoulders, clenches both hands into a fist, and—with a loud, angry snort—punches them down toward the ground. "My lawyers will be in touch, Jaeger. You haven't heard the last from me by a long stretch." Red-faced and fuming, he yanks the door open with as much force as he can muster. It swings on its hinges and slams into the doorstop on the baseboard, and Steve smiles with satisfaction as the old man storms out of the office.

The encounter with Jack was a temporary reprieve and lifted his spirits, but it's short-lived. He gets up from his desk and closes the door before frustration sets in again. He stands the middle of the floor and combs his fingers through his hair. He should go down to the lab and apologize to Brad and Danny for his earlier outburst, but as he walks over to retrieve his jacket, there's a light knock on the door. Steve sinks into his chair before inviting the visitor to enter, and Clarke Richards pokes his head around the corner.

"Is this a good time?"

"As good as any, I guess," Steve replies tetchily, and he invites the agent to take a seat.

Clarke sits down and opens a folder he brought with him. "I'd like to ask you about one of your investors—a Mr. Jack Mason."

Steve throws his head back and laughs. "You've just missed the crabby old bastard by minutes." He glances down at the envelope containing the investor's letter of resignation, which is still lying on the floor, and he becomes curious. "Why are you asking about Mason in particular?"

"I shouldn't say anything, but because of your situation, I think its best I furnish you with some details. The FBI has been interested in him for quite some time, and it's possible he _may_ be the root of your problem."

Steve squirms uncomfortably on his seat. " _Oh?_ "

"Are you aware that he's on the board of several companies besides Infinity?"

"No, but our investors aren't required to declare other interests under the terms of our agreement."

"Well, they all have financial crises with possible bankruptcy on the horizon."

He raises his eyebrows in consternation. "Are you _serious?_ "

"We have insufficient evidence to indict him at the moment, but we're confident he's with the Luther Corporation." Steve stares at Clarke in astonishment as he listens. "Mason has a remarkable track history. He's been the top financier of twenty-three companies, who have collapsed under quite unusual circumstances. In each case, he suddenly withdrew his investments at a time when they were most vulnerable, which sent them into a tailspin; and until this week, Infinity was the _only_ business he's linked to that didn't have a problem."

"He's just handed in his resignation, but there's a ninety-day clause that prevents the immediate withdrawal of his money and it's pissed him off no end."

The agent leans forward, rests his right forearm across the folder on his knees, and lowers his voice. "I've reviewed his contract, and while that particular clause is an inconvenience to him, it may not be enough to save your company."

Steve is aghast. "What are you talking about?"

"Guess who comes to the rescue when Mason quits?"

"You're going to tell me it's the Luther Corporation?"

"Uh-huh, and he's made two more new acquisitions this week alone."

A puzzled expression falls across Steve's face. "How the hell is he doing it?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. Every case points to industrial sabotage, but we haven't been able to nail anything specific on him to date. Of course, the Luther Corporation executives claim they're helping the companies get back on their feet, which isn't illegal on the surface, but there's more behind the veil than we can see. Their operation is a high-tech, mafia-style takeover scam that stretches right across the globe."

Steve sits back, clasps his hands together across his stomach, and twiddles his thumbs nervously. "I did some research on the Internet last night. The Luther Corporation comprises a panel of twelve advisory investment directors with no other employees, and all executives were named. Mason wasn't among them... unless they're aliases."

"Oh, they're real enough. The names of the directors are publicized for legal reasons, and of course, they're squeaky clean. What they _don't_ mention are the fifty-one ad hoc investors they're not required to declare because they're freelancers. We have circumstantial evidence of Mason's acquisitive involvement with the corporation, but we lack anything of substance to ensure a successful prosecution. However, he's also under investigation by the IRS because his lifestyle far exceeds his annual income declarations, so we _will_ get him on something."

Steve is gobsmacked. "How do these twelve... or fifty-one men get control over so many businesses? Is he selling his shares to the Luther Corporation by arrangement when he resigns?"

Clarke shakes his head. "No, they already own the stock. Mason's investments as a private shareholder are _not_ his own. He uses his position on the board to exploit vulnerabilities that'll bring the company to its knees, and then the Luther Corporation move in with an offer to get them out of trouble... but only on their terms. They'll want full control over a business like Infinity, which means you'll be required to give them something like a fifty-five to sixty percent controlling majority or face liquidation, and you'll become a salaried employee. A business considered as competitors in a market they've already got their paws into are shut down, which obviously gives them a field advantage and consumers pay the price."

Steve is dubious. "That's monopolization, and there are laws against that."

"True, but it's an ingenious operation, and so far, they've been able to skirt the regulatory controls."

"What's Mason getting out of it, then?"

"Freelancers reap a high reward for each acquisition—something like fifty percent of the profits each company generates. He makes more money in one month than you and I earn combined in our lifetimes, but at no time is his personal wealth _ever_ at risk."

"He's got to be raking in _millions_ ," Steve says in astonishment.

"Try billions, Mr. Jaeger. He's sitting on more than two and a half trillion dollars that we know of, most of it in offshore accounts."

Steve stares at the agent in bewilderment. "I know it's nice to have money, but he'll _never_ spend that much in his entire life."

"Freelancers have a satisfactory arrangement with the Luther Corporation in exchange for a luxurious existence, but they're required to sign a last will and testament bequeathing seventy-five percent of their net worth to a designated charitable organization before they're allowed to participate. The other twenty-five percent goes to their beneficiaries. Heirs are designated only as a wife and children born in wedlock, and if there are no legatees, then one hundred percent is left to a specified charity."

"And let me guess... the trusts are set up by the Luther Corporation so the money can be filtered back into their pockets."

A big grin spreads across Clarke's face. " _Now_ you're catching on, Mr. Jaeger."

"Isn't there a way you can get a freelancer to come clean?"

"No. You see, Mason and the rest of their cohorts aren't as free as a lancer should be, and while they're not employees, they're still part of the organization. That's where it starts getting complicated and believe me when I say we haven't even chipped the iceberg yet."

Steve is growing curious. "In that case, how do you know so much about them?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to reveal our sources, Mr. Jaeger."

He suspects that the FBI has managed to infiltrate the organization with their own freelancer, but he's more concerned about his immediate problem. "So what of _our_ situation?"

"I'm looking for the actual saboteur, who is likely a member of your staff. Mason is on the board to learn your weaknesses, and the Luther Corporation will exploit your flaws by enticing an employee to do their bidding, preferably someone long-term who has the complete trust of his or her administrator."

Clarke's disclosure is disturbing. "I'd like to think my staff is loyal to the company, especially those who have been employed with us for years."

"Money talks, Mr. Jaeger. They'll target someone who is low income like a janitor and offer an attractive payday most won't turn down. The other alternative is to get a gopher employed or contracted by Infinity, but it's always done through a shell business that disappears overnight if the perpetrator is caught. This limits their knowledge, and they never know enough to give up information that might be useful."

_"Fuck_ them. Brad and I built this company up with our own blood, sweat, and tears, and I'd rather lose _everything_ than let them steal our business." He pauses for a moment. "Do you think they're behind the Chameleon?"

Clarke sighs heavily. "We have our reservations, but again, there's no evidence. I called forensics this morning to get the most recent update, but our knowledge of the bug is next to nothing. They seem to think they've only got part of the code, which makes it impossible to figure out how it works."

"How can they only get _part_ of a virus?"

"Our cyber team added a marker to track its progress through an isolated system, but nothing happened. Now they're thinking it's incomplete, and they don't have enough pieces to determine its intended purpose."

Steve is still discombobulated, and he gazes at the agent with a perplexed expression in his eyes. "But I still don't understand how you only have _part_ of a virus."

"Forensics suspects it's formed by several passive codes and each one carries a portion of the virus's instructions. When a system is infected, the routines scatter and hide in various files. They are harmless and completely undetectable to every antiviral and firewall software on the market, and it's likely that they can remain dormant for years, but once they are activated, they'll congregate at a predestinated location and plug into each other to form a malicious code. The attack is swift and often deadly."

The desk telephone starts ringing, and he can see Brad's name on the caller ID. He apologizes to Clarke for the interruption as he lifts the handset. "BB, please tell me you've got some news."

"I do, but you're not going to like it. We've lost another two satellites."

He groans. "Who are they subscribed to?"

"Canada."

"Both?"

"Yes. They went offline at the same time."

"And I take it that they're on the same latitude?"

"You would be correct—fifty-six degrees north."

Steve heaves a heavy sigh. "We're going to end up losing all of our satellites if you don't hurry up and find a solution."

Brad is silent for a few seconds. "A pattern _is_ emerging, and if I'm right, the United Kingdom will be next to lose service somewhere between thirteen-thirty and fourteen hundred hours."

"Does that help us to isolate the virus?"

A note of irritation creeps into Brad's voice. "Steve, I still don't know how the code is being activated—if there is one in the first place, and until we do, well..."

Steve's exasperation reaches its peak, and his anger boils up for the second time. "BB, why are you wasting time predicting which units will crap out next if it isn't going to resolve the problem? Find that fucking virus and get our network back online."

"Don't speak to me like that," Brad fires back. "I'm as frustrated as you are. The lads are trying to trace malware that I don't think exists, and if I know which satellite is going to fail next, it's a step that might help unravel the mystery."

_"You're_ the technician. Do what needs to be done." Steve replaces the handset and wipes his forehead with the back of a hand. "We've just lost two more satellites."

"Will that affect the ones that are still working?" Clarke asks.

"Yes. It's starting to create too many black spots which will eventually result in a catastrophic failure of the entire network."

An awkward pause follows. "Out of personal curiosity, Mr. Jaeger, what's so unique about your weather satellite program that's made your company successful?"

Steve realizes that Clarke is deliberately changing the subject in an effort to calm him down, and he goes along with it. "Our technology is described as futuristic by many scientific publications. The satellites have hundreds of sensors that monitor the atmospheric pressure; air, surface, and ocean temperatures; humidity levels; moisture density; wind speed and direction; oceanic currents; and a whole plethora of scientific data that's shared with the immediate neighboring satellites—a process we call 'networking.' Each unit amalgamates the information it receives with its own and analyzes it to provide a more accurate prediction in advance as weather systems move from one quadrant into another."

"Are you suggesting that one day they'll be able to predict what the weather will be at any given location, weeks or months in advance?"

Steve's current woes slip to the back of his mind, and he laughs. "I'd like to say it's where we're heading, but I don't want to be too presumptuous. Our system is powerful, and its learning abilities have far exceeded expectations, but it'll be a novel concept to plan a vacation around the kind of weather you want and be sure you're going to get it."

A smile breaks across the usually sober face of the FBI investigator. "I do like the idea." He hesitates. "Why do countries like Russia and Canada subscribe to more than one satellite?"

"The reliability of a prediction is only accurate over a relative area," Steve explains. "The satellite sensors are set at an optimum obliquity of one point two eight seven degrees, which covers one point six million square miles. A wider angle corrupts the data due to atmospheric refraction, and the information networked would be too indistinct for the neighboring satellites to process with any degree of accuracy."

Clarke closes the folder and prepares to leave. "It's fascinating stuff, Mr. Jaeger, and it's piqued my interest, but I'd better get back downstairs before Ben starts thinking I've left him to do all the work." He walks over to the door and pauses with a hand on the knob. "Is it possible that only one satellite malfunctioned and because its data never got transferred, it's triggered a shutdown of the network?"

"That's been ruled out because the first failure was in Antarctica and the second was over Siberia. They couldn't be any farther apart, and there's absolutely no communication between them."

Clarke waves the folder. "I haven't found any meteorologists in your employee files yet."

"If you do, then I'd like to know who they are. We don't employ people with meteorological skills."

The agent gives him a quirky look but doesn't ask any more questions. "Call me if Mason happens to stick his face in the door again. I'd like to speak to him."

He looks at the investigator with a wry expression, and sighs. "Somehow I think I'll be dealing with his lawyers from here on out."

"That'll be even better. His councilors will be employed by the Luther Corporation, and I'd like to know who they are too. I'll catch you later."

Steve takes a deep breath as the door closes behind Clarke, puffs his cheeks out, and expels the air through tightened lips. _How much does Mason know about the satellite failures? If he's the problem, it means his accomplice is still with Infinity, and that's an unsettling thought._ He glances at the pile of paperwork on his desk, decides to procrastinate, and goes downstairs instead.

It's unnaturally quiet when he walks into the lab. Brad and Danny are sitting at their respective terminals, and his friend leans back, removes his reading glasses, and rubs his eyes as Steve approaches his desk and pulls a chair up beside him. "This is the most confounding problem I've ever seen."

"Do you want to take an hour for lunch?"

Brad shakes his head slowly. "No. I'm following a new thread, and I need to keep on top of it. You can take Danny though."

Steve is curious. "What's caught your attention?"

He hesitates before answering. "Well, I'm convinced the problem isn't technical, and I'm not so sure it's a virus, either. A pattern _has_ emerged in the way they're going offline, and all I need to do is figure out why." Brad turns to the console, minimizes the current screen, and opens another window to reveal a 3-D image of the globe. The geostationary orbits of the satellites are on display, and the units that have shut down are flashing red. "Whether the satellites are in the Northern or Southern Hemispheres is irrelevant. The pattern is in their latitudes." He points to the one farthest south. "The Australian Antarctic Division, which is at seventy-two degrees, was the first to fail." Steve's eyes follow Brad's finger as he identifies each one in sequence. "The Siberian satellite was next; its orbital path is seventy-one degrees north. The third belongs to the British Antarctic Survey, which is at sixty-seven degrees south, and back in the north, we saw the concurrent collapse of the Canadian and Alaskan units on the sixty-fifth parallel within a millionth of a second of each other. Then there was the Scandinavian failure at sixty-four degrees, and the two Russian satellites that went down at four-thirty yesterday afternoon are on the sixtieth. Can you see the pattern now?"

"They're going offline in some sort of sequential countdown."

"Exactly... and they're failing on a constant timeline. To be more precise, they're moving toward the equator from the north _and_ south at a constant rate of twenty-six point six six arcseconds per second, or one degree every two hours and fifteen minutes. This is how I can calculate the date and time each satellite will invoke the error code in both hemispheres."

"Which one will go out of service next?"

"I told you earlier, the United Kingdom. Its orbit is fifty-four degrees north and I anticipate it'll go down at thirteen forty-five."

In spite of the conviction in Brad's voice, Steve still isn't persuaded. "But only two satellites have malfunctioned in the south while a whole bunch has gone down in the north?"

"That's because we have more units on this side of the planet. Eighty percent of the Southern Hemisphere is ocean, which is where the blind spots are that need to be filled by the ten new satellites in our proposal. The next failure south of the equator will be one of the Argentinean units at twenty-three hundred tonight, and a Chilean satellite will go down about two hours later." He has a grim expression on his face. "The last one will go dark at three o'clock Monday morning if we don't get things resolved by then."

"If you're so sure it's not technical and it's not a virus, what else _can_ it be?"

He shrugs before responding. "I have a gut feeling that a natural phenomenon is interfering with the electronics. It could be anything from X-ray emissions to magnetic disturbances or unusual RF signals from deep space playing havoc with one or more of the sensors."

Steve's cynicism increases, but he doesn't mock his friend. "Is that possible?"

"I don't see why not. After all, we don't know everything that's out there in the universe. It's possible a sensor is picking up data that aren't aligned to information in the database, and the computer has locked itself into an infinite loop trying to locate a set of values that don't exist, thus invoking the error code."

"What about solar flares?" Steve asks. "There were some serious problems when the sunspots peaked at an exceptional level a couple of years ago."

Brad shakes his head. "While that event caused outages to various global services, it never interfered with _our_ equipment. I've checked the current spot activity, but they're at a minimum, so I'm leaning toward something less periodical—perhaps a supernova or some rare event for which we don't have enough data to know what its effects are."

Steve ponders for a few seconds. "The subscribers can communicate with the satellites, and the systems are still recording and storing the data, so wouldn't that mean the malfunction happens when the computer creates the forecast."

"Correct, but do you realize how much information goes through the interface every millisecond? I need to narrow down the vicinity; otherwise, I'm searching for a pin in a field of haystacks."

Steve is unconvinced that a natural phenomenon is the culprit, and he can't shake the thought of a possible connection between the Luther Corporation and Jack Mason from his head. He looks across the room to the lab's senior supervisor. "Danny?"

The technician looks up. "Yes, Mr. Jaeger?"

"C'mon, you and I are going to lunch."

The young man casts an inquiring glance at Brad, who motions with his head toward the door. "Get out of here. I'll have a new task lined up for you when you get back."
21

Dover Heights

Sydney, Australia

Coordinates: 33° 52' 36.5" S, 151° 16' 56.1" E

Wednesday, June 24, 2020, 1347h

The affluent neighborhood of Dover Heights is an eastern suburb of Sydney situated on top of a crag overlooking the Tasman Sea. A grassy verge runs between the front of the houses and the cliff edge, where a safety fence has been erected to prevent walkers from accidentally falling onto the rocks below. It is a sought-after community, but it's very rare for any of the oceanfront dwellings to appear on the market.

Fifty-nine-year-old Graham Lane stands in the doorway of his home. The bitterly cold onshore breeze is making his eyes water as he stares at a huge bank of foreboding clouds several kilometers out to sea, where a localized storm cell has been growing heavier, darker, and more threatening since early morning. He is mesmerized at the way it boils up from the ocean and surges up to a high altitude before spilling out to form a huge anvil. It's been organizing itself into a fearsome entity for the last couple of hours, which could deliver a powerful punch if it decides to move ashore.

This is the harshest winter Graham can ever recall. The low temperatures are topping the headlines on every news broadcast, and the meteorological center confirmed a new record of minus two degrees centigrade was set at Observatory Hill for one hour and eleven minutes overnight, beating the previous record set way back in the day—so far back he can't even remember. He is dressed in a thick, fur-lined jacket, and the 174-centimeter-tall retiree briskly rubs his hands together, but the peace is shattered by the thin, whiny voice of his wife yelling at him from inside.

"Shut the damn door, will yer. Ya letting the heat outta the house."

Martha is a small, thin woman with straggly shoulder-length hair, easily excitable and often flustered. She always wears loose-fitting clothes that hang from rather than fit her frail frame, yet after more than forty years, he can't imagine life without her. Whether they're good for each other or not is questionable, but there's no doubt that they somehow need each other to exist.

He steps back into the warmth of the house, removes his jacket, and he hangs it on the coat rack before wandering toward the living room. Martha hurries into the hallway from the kitchen, and she reaches the portal one pace ahead of him.

"That's one mean-looking mother out there."

"Aw, don't worry about it, Gramps." She bustles over to the sideboard and takes something out of a drawer. "We gots more concerns to fret over on this earth than a little drop of rain."

Graham shakes his head in stupefaction as she breezes back out of the room. She has a strange purview on life that he's never understood, and he calls out to her as he sinks into his favorite chair. "Martha, bring me a Castlemaine from the cooler."

He picks up the remote and increases the volume on the television, where the newscaster is giving a summary of the headlines. A few moments later, Martha blusters back into the living room with a can of Four X in her hand and stops beside his chair.

"At your command, O gormless one," she says sarcastically, and she stretches her arm out at shoulder level and lets the beer fall.

He snatches it out of the air with a deft movement of his right hand and a grimace just before it lands on his genitalia. She's been in a feisty mood since getting out of bed this morning, and while he has no idea what's eating her, she's acting as if he should. "God _damn_ it, Martha. You didn't even crack it for me."

"Yer got a friggin' ring-pull finger, don' ch'ya?" she retorts as hurries back to the door and disappears into the hallway.

He pops the top and settles into the armchair to watch the news, where Quinton Andrews is talking about the cold snap. "A massive stream of bitter air is being swept up from Antarctica and pulled across the Australian continent, but the real problem—"

Graham is startled by a scream from the kitchen, and he almost drops his beer as he leaps to his feet. "Martha, Martha, what the hell have you done this time?" He bounds across the living room, charges down the hallway, and bursts through the kitchen door expecting to see the frying pan on fire, or blood spurting out of her hand after slicing herself with a sharp knife. He comes to an abrupt stop and stares at her in bewilderment. She's looking out of the window into the back garden, jumping up and down like an excited child.

"Look, _look_ , looook _,"_ she yells, pointing through the glass pane.

"God _damn_ , you almost gave me a friggin' heart attack."

Martha has worked herself up into so much of a frenzy that her voice is getting squeaky. "Look... quick."

The dramatics are irritating, and he begins to walk over to her. "Okay, okay, don't get your knickers twisted, woman... I'm coming."

"Look... it's snowing."

Graham peeks out into the yard. Snowflakes are floating past the window, and suddenly energized with as much excitement as his wife, he hurries out of the kitchen and down the hallway, pausing just long enough to snatch his jacket off the peg. He pulls the front door open and steps out into the calm but cold air while inserting his arms into the sleeves. There's been a significant drop in temperature, and while the brunt of the storm is still several kilometers offshore, the black clouds are now moving towards them at a pretty fast lick.

Martha appears in the doorway behind him and walks into the front garden with her eyes open wide in wonderment. A white flurry swirls on a light eddy of wind. It's the first time either of them has seen snow falling in Sydney, and Graham cups a hand to catch one of the flakes, but he feels disappointed as he studies the fine particles of ice. "This isn't snow. It's graupel."

She walks over to his side and admonishes him. "Quit being a grump. It's all the same to me, and it's still so beeeauutiful."

_"Strewth!_ " Graham ducks reflexively when a solid object suddenly skims past his left ear with a short but noisy hiss, and he glimpses a white flash out of the corner of his eye. He hears a loud, metallic clang from somewhere behind, and his mouth sags in astonishment when he swings around in time to see an empty fifty-five-gallon drum on the corner of the house teeter and fall over. He had put it there to serve as a temporary water catch until he could get the drain runoff for the roof gutter repaired, but whatever slammed into it with enough force to bowl it over like a skittle, has also put a huge dent in its side.

"What the fuck was that?" He doesn't see anything in the vicinity, but it was moving so fast it probably ricocheted and could be anywhere. A shiver runs down his spine because he realizes he just missed death by centimeters. If it were capable of doing that much damage to the drum, a direct hit would have smashed his head open like a watermelon.

There is a crash to his right. His precious 1947 Riley RMB is rocking from side to side with a twenty-five-centimeter hole in the soft roof panel, and while is gazing at the damage in stunned silence, a strong gust of wind sweeps across the top of the sea cliff. He's still not sure what is happening, but alarm bells are starting to go off in his head and he turns to Martha. "Get into the house."

His wife is rooted to the spot with a horrified expression on her face, and Graham takes a tight grip on her forearm. He vies to compete with the increasing noise of the wind as she resists. " _Get the fuck inside_." Graham tugs her towards the door several steps at a time, and once inside, he secures the locks and leans with his back against it, panting from exertion.

Martha is getting hysterical and starts shouting in a shrill voice. " _What's_ happ _—argh!_ " She screams and cowers away with her arms raised protectively over her head as a solid object slams into the front door with a deafening thud. Graham feels the jar across his shoulder blades, and he leaps away from the door in fright. A loud crash on the roof is almost obliterated by the shriek of the fast-rising wind, and the house begins to shake and tremble as one fierce gust after another slam into it.

Graham races down the hallway to a door beneath the stairs and yanks it open. "Get down into the cellar." Martha is petrified, but his patience is beginning to wane, and he yells at her again when she doesn't move. "Get your arse downstairs, you stupid fuckin' bitch."

A white projectile smashes through the decorative oval window in the center of the door panel, missing her by a couple of centimeters before embedding itself into the opposite wall. A gigantic hailstone close to 250 millimeters in diameter is glaring back at him like an evil white eye, and he runs back to Martha and pulls her to the cellar door. Because he is fearful she might fall, he picks the quivering woman up in his arms and carries her down to the basement, where he sets her back onto her feet before rushing back upstairs to close the door. His wife is whimpering in fear, and Graham takes her hand and leads her to the far corner beneath the strongest part of the house. "Sit down."

She ignores him again. Her entire body is trembling, and afraid she'll lose her balance, he forces her to the floor before lowering himself on the bare concrete beside her. The wind is muffled but it's getting louder, and she emits a long moan when the windowless room is suddenly plunged into total darkness. Graham wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls the terrified woman close to him, but he's not sure whether he can be of any comfort because he's feeling just as frightened.

A deafening overhead explosion sends a sharp jolt reverberating through the concrete floor and walls of the cellar, and the couple clings to each other as their dark world shakes and shudders all around them. A noise scarier than anything Graham could ever imagine resounds along the ceiling, and he's convinced that they've reached the final moments of their lives. The demonic howl of the wind and pounding of giant hail could easily be a legion of hellish ghouls trying to smash their way through to get inside. Martha's body is going into convulsions and worried she'll go into cardiac arrest, he doesn't relinquish his protective embrace for the next quarter of an hour.

A sudden silence descends over the room. Graham remains tense for several minutes, and he begins to relax when it becomes clear that the grim reaper has left empty-handed. His wife is sobbing uncontrollably with her face buried into his shoulder, and he whispers into her ear. "Martha, wait here while I go upstairs to check things out."

She doesn't respond, and Graham gets to his feet and carefully makes his way to the foot of the wooden staircase, feeling for the risers with his toes as he begins a cautious ascent. He reaches the door and pauses with a hand on the knob while he presses an ear against the wooden panel. He listens for any unusual sounds on the other side, but it's quiet, so he turns the doorknob and gives it a push. It doesn't budge. He shoves harder and it gives a little, but something on the other side is preventing it from opening, and he leans the full weight of his body against it until the gap is just wide enough to squeeze through.

Graham stares at the destruction in disbelief. The sun is streaming down from a cloud-free sky, and he's standing under the only upright structure in the ravaged community of Dover Heights—a doorway beneath a partial staircase. The neighborhood has gone through a blitz of incomprehensible proportions, and an enormous vortex has reduced fifteen square kilometers to a flattened wasteland.

"Bloody Norah," he whispers in awe. The ground is covered in a two-foot layer of giant hailstones, and his Riley RMB is crushed beyond recognition. The roof is gone, and the bonnet has been pummeled so hard it is beaten into the shape of the valve cover beneath it. He tears his eyes away and looks around. People who were fortunate to have a retreat are beginning to emerge and wander about aimlessly with stunned expressions on their faces, but he recoils in horror when he sees an open hand with its fingers partially curled reaching up through the chunks of ice. They are stained red where the warm blood has seeped up before congealing, and elsewhere, the gigantic hail is starting to thaw, revealing the bodies of dozens of victims who have been stoned to a bloody pulp with such severity that immediate identification is impossible. The gory scene is nauseating, and moments later, he drops to his knees and vomits.

Martha's timid voice floats up from the cellar. "Gramps? Is everything okay?"

He has no idea how to break something like this to her gently, and a scuffle from below warns him that she's making her way up the stairs. He decides that it's probably best to let her see for herself, and he gets back to his feet and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "We don't have a house anymore, Martha. Our home is gone... it's _all_ _gone_..."

Her voice rises to a shrill pitch. " _Whaaat?_ "

She pushes through the cellar door, and she lasts ten seconds before she makes a gurgling noise and sways, but Graham is prepared for her reaction and catches her as she swoons. He can hear the faint sound of emergency vehicle sirens and the distinct chopping of helicopter rotors somewhere in the blue sky above.
22

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Wednesday, June 24, 2020, 1506h

After Danny returned from lunch, Brad told him to punt around for a bit until he was ready to give him a new assignment. The young technician embarked on a series of capricious mini-tasks to keep his mind active while he waited, and the glum silence was broken just once in the following two hours when Jim called in to say he'd be late due to a family emergency.

Brad's eyes are getting sore from staring at the columns of tiny figures on the monitor, and he sits back for a few moments to give them a rest. His frustration continues to bubble because nothing is panning out, and he looks over to Danny. "What're you up to?"

"I've found something on the Australian satellite." He pauses for a moment before expounding. "I'm getting a brief power spike at the database interface when information is submitted by one of the astral sensors, but it's so small I can't see how it would have a negative effect. It's about one-thousandth of a microamp."

Brad deliberates for several moments. "I doubt if it's anything more than a data transfer."

"That was my first thought, too, but I couldn't find any references to the peak parameters when I checked the technical manual."

"It's probably under a different section."

Danny shrugs. "It doesn't matter anyway, because I pulled the data files on the working and non-working satellites for comparison. A spike is being produced when there's an exchange of Intel with the database on every unit that's gone offline, but it isn't happening to any of the functioning satellites. Similarly, the records on the defective units show there were no spikes prior to the first error message in each case."

"What sensor is it?"

"It's the one that maps the sunrise and setting times."

The function of the astral sensor is basic and the least complex of all, and the likelihood that it's the source of the shutdown is improbable, but Brad is intrigued. The two men huddle around his console conversing in epigrammatic phrases as they isolate the data stream from the main text, but the peace is shattered when Steve storms in through the lab doors. "Are you two going to get a handle on this, or do I need to hire someone who knows what the fuck they're doing?"

It takes every ounce of willpower Brad can muster to constrain his anger, and in spite of the intense burning in his chest, he ignores Steve and continues to speak to Danny in a calm voice without taking his eyes off the monitor. "I'm going to override the code dominion so we can advance the procedural sequence one line at a time by manual input, and that should enable us to identify what action is taking place at the precise moment the code is invoked." His fingers flit over the keyboard as he punches some commands into the computer.

Steve stands behind the two men and gesticulates wildly with his arms and hands. "Am I a goddamn nobody now?"

Danny is glancing back and forth between the two men, and Brad senses his discomfort at the heavy atmosphere. He smiles and speaks in an even voice. "Don't let an asshole distract you. If we're lucky, he'll get fed up and leave." He looks back at the monitor. "Now, we were just going to—"

_"What_ the _fuck?_ Now I've got a pair of Jack Mason clones."

Brad swivels around on his chair. "It's clear we're as useful as three tits on a gelding because this is the second time you've walked in and berated us today. If you have someone who can find the problem and sort it out, then by all means, bring them in and Danny and I will go home."

"You already _know_ it's a virus."

He glares sturdily at Steve. "I _do?_ "

Steve scoffs, retorting in a scorn-filled voice. "It's fucking obvious. Even _I_ can see that."

"Then you fix it," Brad fires back.

He begins to shuffle some papers together as if he's getting ready to leave, and Steve pulls a chair toward his desk and slumps into it. Although he doesn't apologize, he lowers his voice to a more acquiescent level. "The UK satellite went down just as you said it would."

Brad's eyes are unwavering as he stares at Steve. "I know you're frustrated, but so am I, and you're crossing a line when you come in acting like you're God Almighty."

"I've just come from a meeting with our financial advisors. Wall Street has hit us hard, and we now hold the undesirable record for the worst one-day loss for a private sector company."

Brad is disturbed and he's hesitant to ask the next question. "How much did we lose?"

"We closed fifty-three percent down on the day." He scoffs again and shakes his head. "We lost one point six trillion during the last hour of trading—also another record."

Brad is astounded, and his cheeks begin to tingle as his face pales, but he can't afford to let their pecuniary woes become a distraction. He turns his attention back to the task in hand. "We were following a fragile thread when you barged in."

Steve leans forward to look at the monitor between the shoulders of the two technicians. "What is it?"

"Danny found a minor current surge at the database interface when the astral mapping sensor is activated, but I'm not sure how relevant it is. It's only happening on the nonoperational satellites, though."

"How long before you know?"

"Give me a few more seconds."

Ten columns of figures flash onto the screen, and a minute later, Danny highlights one of the rows. "Isn't this the intel collected by the astral sensor?"

"Yes." Brad begins to explain what is happening with each event as he begins to execute them manually. "We're going to inspect the data from the sun-mapping sensor by advancing through the sequence one step at a time." He pauses to click on the mouse. "Okay, the collected data are in the RAM..." He presses the Enter key once, "... and now it's making a request to the database for the sunrise and sunset times pertinent to the date and time of the specified coordinates." He pauses to type in a recovery string. "The database is searching for the relevant file... and this is where it retrieves the appropriate information." Brad taps another command into the keyboard. "Now it's making a comparison with the new data and that which is stored in the ROM. When a match is confirmed, everything in the RAM is discarded to prevent it from getting cluttered with redundant files."

"Isn't the database updated with the new information?" Steve asks.

"No, it _can't_ be overwritten. The only way to do that is to delete and reprogram the entire operating system from the master disc. _If_ there's a discrepancy in the readings, it gets flagged, but that never happens." Brad looks back at the screen. "Now it's validating the... _oh_."

Danny points to a set of readings halfway down the data column. "The error code has been invoked... and _look_ , it's happened at the precise moment of the power surge." The excitement in his voice gives way to one with more seriousness. "Could it be a data mismatch?"

Brad is perplexed, and he contemplates before replying. "I can't see how. The sensor's only function is to map the sun's position in relation to the earth and match it to the index stored in the database. There should never be a disparity between them."

"That's probably where the Chameleon is," Steve says.

The CTO's irritation at his partner's unremitting insistence of a virus continues to grow, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep him humored. "The astral data aren't integral to the forecast, and they're on the Internet for anyone who needs them. The only..." He falters, and a frown forms across his forehead.

"What?"

He ignores Steve and turns to Danny. "I want you to check the coding and algorithms two seconds prior to, through to three seconds past the spike. _If_ there's a virus in the interface, that's where you'll find it. Let's eliminate that probability once and for all."

"If it's the Chameleon, you should be able to trap it by isolating the sensor at the precise time it's initiated," Steve says. His obsession with a virus has given him tunnel vision, and Brad suspects he'll go loopy when they don't find one. "Clarke Richards will be very happy to get his hands on a complete code."

"That'll be difficult since your virus is orbiting the planet."

"Can't you download it to disc?"

Brad snorts. "I could, but I won't. What do you think will happen if perchance it gets loose down here? We'll be screwed big time because anyone capable of writing codes as complex and as devious as the Chameleon will be smart enough to take stringent measures to protect it. And besides, I wouldn't be surprised if it has the ability to clone itself once it's been released into the targeted network."

Steve appears alarmed and the smile fades from his lips. "What're you talking about?"

"It's probably a master code that finds a safe file to nest where it reproduces at will. The actual attack is carried out by kamikaze clones that complete their mission and self-destruct before they can be purged. It happens in a millisecond, and short of scrubbing the operating system and installing a new one, we'll never get rid of it."

"I thought you tried that?"

Brad smiles. "I did, which adds credence to my belief that the network is _not_ being compromised by a virus."

Steve is quick to fire back. "I beg to differ."

"Of _course_ you do," Brad snaps. "But for now, I need to figure out how to reroute the forecast routines around the astral sensor without interrupting the millions of other calculations that are going on."

"What should Peter say to the media... and our customers?"

His eyebrows move closer together and he scowls at Steve. "It would be irresponsible to make a public statement just yet."

"We need to release some positive news to try and reverse the sell-off trend on Wall Street."

Brad is getting heated, and he takes a moment to calm down. "I know you're keen to instigate damage control, but a presumptuous announcement when we don't even _know_ what's causing the satellites to shut down could be more detrimental than staying quiet, and—"

"But you've just said that the error code is due to some kind of a spike."

His partner is making him feel exacerbated. "Yes, it is, but we haven't identified the reason for the power surge yet. You'll be paving the way for a total disaster if you issue a press release before we know what it is. The media will want a detailed explanation and subscribers will be expecting their satellites to be back in service almost immediately."

The CEO gets to his feet with his anger resurfacing once again. "I want the virus isolated and the satellites back online by the end of the day, _Capiche?_ " He spins on his heels and marches out of the lab without waiting for a response.

Danny peers at Brad with an inquisitive look in his eyes. "What makes you think it _isn't_ a virus?"

"How many people in the world can author a malicious code?"

_"Huh?_ I'd say hundreds of thousands... perhaps even millions."

Brad shakes his head. "Allow me to rephrase. How many people are capable of writing one customized with a specific intent to strike at _our_ satellites?"

"Oh... um..." He trails off, and there's a long pause before he speaks again. "They'd have to be familiar with our technology and have an intimate understanding of our network." His voice drops an octave. "That means it would have to be Steve, Jim, Bill, you, or me."

"You've forgotten one other person... your friend who used to work here."

Danny is clearly dumbfounded. " _Harvey?_ You _can't_ be thinking he's—"

Brad cuts him off in midsentence. "Not for a single moment. I'm adamant that something other than the Chameleon—or any other virus for that matter—is at the root of this mess." He sighs. "Right now, we have to figure out how to isolate the sensor without allowing a gaggle of conflicting statements to run wild, otherwise we'll have glitches galore and an already bad situation will turn into something worse. But first..." He leaves the sentence unfinished and turns back to the console.
23

The Oval Office

The White House, Washington, DC

Coordinates: 38° 53' 50.6" N, 77° 02' 14.5" W

Wednesday, June 24, 2020, 1559h

President Lloyd Sinclair saunters through the Rose Garden, heading for the cooler confines of the Oval Office. This is the hottest June on record and the unprecedented heat wave is affecting every country in the Northern Hemisphere, where temperatures are breaking new records almost daily. Ecologists are alarmed that an unexpected and aggressive upward trend in climate change is taking place and warn that a prolonged period of abnormally hot weather could do irreversible harm to the Arctic.

When he moved into the White House, Lloyd gave full authority over the internal furnishings and decor to his fifty-three-year-old wife, Diane, but being an avid gardener with a passion for roses, he transformed the Rose Garden into a semblance of an English country garden. A winding gravel pathway lined with a wide variety of common and rare rosebushes weaves its way through the center of the lawn, while rose trees laden with white, yellow, and pink blooms form a perfect backdrop. The trail disappears into an amazing blaze of perennial colors such as sweet williams, foxgloves, lavender, and bellflowers to name a few, and the only thing missing from the picture is a rustic thatched cottage. The scent has a soothing effect on his senses as it wafts and swirls gently on an imperceptible movement of air, sometimes distinctive to a particular flower or a mellow blending of two or more at others. This is his haven—his world away from politics and his go-to place when he wants to relax, gather his wits, and make peace with the universe. His favorite time is in the early evening just as the sun is sinking and the heat of the day is on the wane.

The fifty-six-year-old accredits the first lady for his robustness and sculpted five-foot-ten-inch frame. She keeps him on a well-balanced diet and insists he joins her in a fifteen-minute exercise routine every morning when he's not away, but his most notable attribute is not his broad shoulders, thick neck, the clean-shaven golden-tan skin stretched over a square face, aquiline nose, or even the full head of curly brown hair treated with Grecian Formula. It is his unusual eyes. The irises are a rare form of coppery amber with a yellowish ring around the pupil that moves with the membrane as it contracts and dilates, and his steady gaze has been described by many as intimidating at best to downright evil and scary when he's annoyed.

The fulfillment of campaign promises and hard-line, no-nonsense policies made him favorite to win a second term in a strongly contested election year, even though his popularity has been in decline since he was forced to break his most important pledge—not to commit the nation to another war during his tenure. Kim Jong Un stunned the world by launching an unexpected and horrendous triple attack on Guam, Japan, and South Korea during the 2018/19 New Year celebrations. A barrage of missiles targeting US military and naval installations on the Micronesian island was successfully intercepted, while most of the rockets targeting the Japanese were also stopped—except for one. It exploded in a densely populated suburb of Tokyo amid the pealing bells and firework displays, killing seven hundred civilians and wounding more than two thousand. The assault on Seoul was brutal, and in addition to conventional shelling and scuds, he ordered the launch of a KN-02 fitted with a 100kT nuclear warhead. The despot became so incensed when his signature event failed to detonate that he ordered more than a million ground troops across the border on a bloody orgy of murder, pillage, and rape.

President Sinclair was reluctant to sanction direct engagement by sending American troops into North Korea, but he did authorize the deployment of the largest military defensive in US history to protect the towns and villages in the south, and approved logistical and intelligence support to the South Korean army. It came at a time when relations with the Chinese had continued to deteriorate over the construction and militarization of some artificial islands in the South China Sea, and the Pentagon first supposed it was an attempt by Kim to manipulate the dispute to his advantage by forcing China to engage in a military confrontation by proxy. It would serve to strain the Chinese-US relations even further, but suspicions that China instigated the North Korean offensive were roused when it took ten days for Chairman Yuan Tien to condemn the attack. Counterintelligence uncovered circumstantial evidence that Kim was promised material support in exchange for the initiation of limited hostilities on the south, intended as a diversionary tactic to benefit China, but the Asian superpower was forced to retract their pledge and distance themselves from the unpredictable dictator when he overstepped the margins of their agreement.

One month later, Israeli intelligence discovered a secret underground installation in northeastern Iran, where Persian scientists were engaged in the enrichment of uranium in defiance of the Joint Comprehensive Plan drawn up in 2015. President Reuven Beinisch didn't hesitate to order an attack, but because of its depth, the facility was impervious to bunker bombs and penetration missiles. The Islamic Revolutionary Guard and the Iranian army were quick to respond and bound to yet another treaty he couldn't back away from, he committed two hundred thousand ground troops to the defense of the Jewish state.

Lloyd steps into the Oval Office. A copy of the _New York Times_ is lying on top of the Resolute Desk with the headlines, "Is Syria a Russian State?" printed in bold lettering on the front page. The complex war against ISIS in Syria and Iraq took a new twist several days earlier when unconfirmed reports of Bashar al-Assad's detention by the Russians triggered a flurry of diplomatic activity throughout the western coalition. The secretary of state, Brian Harding, who had flown to Geneva for an emergency session of the United Nations Security Council, called in an hour earlier with a disquieting update.

Vice President Terry Schofield saunters in through the northwest door with his right hand thrust deep into his trouser pocket. Eight years his senior, Lloyd's choice for his VP wasn't based so much on their closely aligned ideologies as it was for his experience with the previous administration. His position as a senior advisor in the state department before being appointed as the White House chief of staff made him an invaluable asset, particularly during the first year when a little guidance was welcomed.

_"Jesus!_ It's _hot_ out there."

Lloyd ignores the complaint. "I suppose you've read the headlines in the _New York Times_?"

"Yes. And the _Washington Post_... and all the other damn newspapers."

"The Russians have just announced that under a Kremlin directive signed by President Bazhenov, the Syrian borders will be secured as of midnight, all foreigners will be arrested and jailed pending trial, and unauthorized aircraft entering Syrian airspace—military or commercial—will be shot down."

"They have no right to... unless..." and Terry falters with an alarmed look in his eyes.

Lloyd scoffs. "Come on, Terry, you know _exactly_ what an annexation looks like, except this one should come as no surprise. It's been playing out in slow motion for six years. The security council has declared by an overwhelming majority that the Kremlin has no legal jurisdiction over Syria, and the unlawful occupation of a sovereign nation is contrary to international law."

"Another Crimea," Terry mutters. "What's our response?"

"Brian made it clear that the edict will not be recognized by the United States, and airstrikes on ISIS targets in Syria will continue. If any coalition fighters are shot down, it'll be deemed a deliberate act of provocation with serious consequences."

"A third war for someone who promised eight years of peace will be a bitter pill for the country to swallow— _especially_ in an election year."

Lloyd doesn't need to be lectured on the corollary, and he shrugs. "I've ordered Homeland Security to have SWAT teams on standby, and if any planes are shot down by the Russians regardless of nationality, they will execute an immediate hostile takeover of all five Russian consulates."

"They won't like that."

"Tough titties," he mumbles, and he pushes the newspaper to one side. "Our ambassador in Moscow has been alerted... and NATO has an emergency meeting in Brussels later today."

Terry wanders over to the window and looks out into the Rose Garden. "What about this other business with the weather satellites?"

The president ruminates for several seconds. "It isn't our practice to meddle in the affairs of private businesses except where it's a threat to national security, and I don't see it as precipitating such a risk. Foreign governments and corporations invested in the network on their own volition, so they can't expect _us_ to accept liability just because it's an American company. It's Infinity's responsibility to acknowledge accountability, which, I believe they've done, and to resolve any disputes with the plaintiffs."

Terry turns away from the window and strolls into the center of the floor with his hand still in his pocket. "But we shouldn't pretend it doesn't exist, either. In my humble opinion, we should offer some assurances by taking appropriate yet limited action to show we have their interests at heart, but _without_ accepting liability for contractual infringements on an agreement negotiated between Infinity and the customer." He pauses. "It's a fluid situation, so you'll need to act before the end of the day."

Lloyd contemplates for almost a minute before speaking again. "I want the Feds to partially freeze the company's accounts and assets, including the personal savings and chattels of Jaeger and Bentley, by midnight."

Terry looks puzzled. "What do you mean by 'partially freeze'?"

"Our objective should be to secure the maximum amount of restitution for the claimants. A federal auditor will be appointed to manage essential financial commitments like salaries, utility bills, and expenditures necessary to maintain enough functionality so the satellites not affected by the blackout remain in service, but suspend pecuniary support for projects, production, and research until the matter is resolved."

"They won't be happy about that."

The president is unsympathetic. "That's too bad. Their accounts and assets will be unfrozen once the satellites are back online and applicable compensation proportionate to the inconvenience is bestowed to the clientele, or appropriate reparation is negotiated."

"I'll have someone waiting on the doorstep to greet them at the start of business in the morning," Terry says. "Will the auditor be instructed to lay off employees?"

"Permanently?" Lloyd shakes his head. "No. That'll be a corporate decision, but they do have the authority to furlough nonessential staff indefinitely."

"What about the price tag for our intervention?"

Lloyd gets to his feet and begins to pace the floor with his head hung and arms folded. After almost half a minute, he stops and looks up at the vice president. "Infinity operates a specialized, one-of-a-kind service, so it's important to ensure it isn't closed down. I know it doesn't qualify under the Fed's 'too big to fail' policy, but our options are restricted because there's still an obligation to service the satellites still working."

"I think we can navigate that ruling because we're not offering the company a bailout loan, but I need to check. Do we have an estimated value on Infinity's assets?"

"We'll have to wait until the auditors go through the ledgers, but there surely won't be enough to reimburse every litigant if the entire network collapses."

"Then we should put together a contingency plan just in case we have to cross that bridge." A short period of silence follows before Terry speaks again. "I wonder if they have an insurance policy that covers this kind of thing."

"The Feds will figure that out." The president sighs. "Getting back to the Middle East crisis, I have a briefing with General Morgan in my study at eighteen hundred and I want you there."

Terry smiles an acknowledgment and leaves the room by the same door he entered. Lloyd swivels around in his chair and stares distantly through the window into the rose garden. _If only the rest of the world could be as peaceful_.
24

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Wednesday, June 24, 2020, 1637h

Brad is talking on his iPhone when Steve walks into the lab with an air of optimism. The CTO had called his office ten minutes earlier and asked him to come downstairs, and while his partner didn't elaborate, he is anxious for some good news.

"I _know_ what the charts indicate, Mr. Seville, but please humor me," Brad is saying. "I'm trying to get your satellite operational again, and it's _crucial_ for you to do an eyeball tonight _and_ in the morning." He pauses to listen to the person on the other end. "Thank you. I'll be waiting for a callback regardless of the time."

Steve is curious. "What was all that about?"

"That was Alex Seville. He's the head meteorologist at the Alaskan weather center, and I've asked him to carry out a physical check of the time the sun sets tonight and rises in the morning."

He gazes at his partner in astonishment. " _That_ information is in the database."

"Give me some credit," Brad replies in an irritable tone. "I'm not a _complete_ moron, you know. I simply need someone to carry out a real-time check, all right?"

"So, you haven't found the problem?" Steve is barely able to hide his disappointment

"Pull up a chair because I want you to look at this," Brad says, and he points to the monitor. "The first and third columns show the time the sun is supposed to rise and set respectively as per the database while the second and fourth are the times recorded by the astral sensors. As you can see, they don't match."

Steve compares the data before he responds. "I thought we set a margin of tolerance well beyond the expected maximum parameters to prevent this exact thing from happening?"

"Happen it did, but why? Well, that's what I'm trying to determine. If you remember, we decided a variable is possible and calculated it would be less than one-thousandth of a second, but since precise accuracy isn't critical for the required applications, it gets rounded up."

"That was so long ago I can't remember how much we allowed, but I know it was a lot."

"The parameters we set were forty-five-seconds, simply because it would be impossible to exceed." Brad leans forward, and, with the click of a key, he opens another window. "These samples are from the failed satellites. The database shows the sun should set over South Georgia at sixteen oh nine and eighteen seconds, but the astral map sensor registers an actual time of sixteen oh seven and twenty-eight seconds. That's a full one minute fifty seconds early— _well_ outside the settings by two hundred forty-four point four percent, so when it searches the database, the readings conflict, resulting in the error code."

Steve scratches the side of his head, uncertain what to make of this new development. "Did you check the files for inconsistencies? Perhaps it was programmed with the incorrect info for this date?"

"That was the first thing I verified. The information in the database is correct, which means the mystery lies in the data collected by the sensor." He pauses for a moment before reading from a list he compiled in advance. "Stanley, Falkland Islands: Yesterday, sunset was one minute three seconds early, and today, it's advanced by forty-seven point six two percent to one minute thirty-three seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, sunrise in Anchorage was fifty seconds early yesterday, while this morning it was one minute thirty-four seconds early. The sun also rose prematurely in Helsinki by one minute seven seconds, but this morning it's one minute fifty-one seconds. Ushuaia, Argentina: Yesterday's sunset was ahead by one minute ten seconds, while today it sank one minute forty-four seconds early." Brad turns his eyes toward his partner. "Are you getting the picture now?"

"Did you check the satellites that are still in working?"

"Yes, and they _all_ show a shift in sunrise and sunset times, except they haven't reached the forty-five-second margin yet, which is why they're still online."

"So that means the virus is hiding somewhere in the sensors?"

Brad sits back in the chair and strokes his chin thoughtfully. "It's the pattern that's rather discerning. The daylight period in the Southern Hemisphere is getting shorter instead of longer, while in the north, the reverse is happening—the daylight hours are still increasing. It begs the question as to why _anyone_ would go to the trouble of writing a code with such complexity when he or she can jeopardize the entire network with something far more basic."

"Who knows what goes on in a hacker's head?" Steve replies bitterly.

"What I'm trying to tell you is that this is beyond the scope of a virus no matter how multifaceted it might be, and I'll be able to prove it once Alex Seville carries out my request."

Danny calls across from his terminal in a loud voice. "I've found it."

Steve glances over to the technician. "The virus?"

Brad is quick to interpose. "No. I had him pull data from the storage bank so we can pinpoint when these anomalies began," and he begins to read from some notes scribbled on a piece of paper. "We checked the first of each month going back six months, and these are the results we found on the British Antarctic Survey satellite. The sun was tardy by thirty-seven seconds when it rose on the first of January, and it also set late by thirty-four seconds, but on the first of March, it came up prematurely by thirty-two seconds and sank thirty-one seconds ahead of time—a swing of one minute nine seconds over a thirty-one-day period. On May first, it rose and set late again by twenty-six seconds and twenty-four seconds respectively."

"But it's within the forty-five-second margin, so why is that a problem?"

Steve is surprised by the earnestness in Brad's reply. "Those kinds of swings shouldn't be happening. How was something important like this missed by the scientists?"

"Perhaps it wasn't overlooked. Maybe they know what the anomaly is and considered it to be inconsequential."

"I can guarantee they're not unimportant anymore," Brad snaps. "Somehow, it's the crux of our problem. I had Danny check the first of each month for unusual readings going back a whole year to last June. The variations were within the expected parameters: less than five ten thousandths of one percent of one-millionth of a second in either direction, but something happened between December 2019 and January of this year that threw everything off balance."

Danny walks up with a piece of paper in his hand. "December 26... the sun rose within the normal bounds but set thirty-nine seconds late."

Brad's forehead wrinkles into a frown. He connects to the Internet and types the date into the Google search engine. "Yes, of course... the Andaman Event."

Steve stares at his partner in bewilderment. "Are you trying to tell me that something that happened six months ago is shutting down our satellites?"

"The Andaman Event caused the planet to oscillate; swinging back and forth in space like a pendulum," Brad reads aloud, and he is clearly amazed. "I wasn't even aware our equipment could detect anything like that."

Steve fails to grasp the relevance. "Okay, I _get_ that, but what _I_ want to know is why it's affecting us _today?_ "

"It's not the oscillations that are causing the problem, because they're subsiding over time, but what I _think_ is happening is too ridiculous to even contemplate. I need to run some more tests, but I won't have a solid answer until Mr. Seville calls me back."

He's getting petulant at Brad's vagueness. "Then I propose you find a way to take the astral sensors out of the loop so we can get the satellites back online. We can focus on this other thing once they're back in service again."

"I'm going to be here all night. Bill will be with me, and I'll snatch catnaps while I'm waiting for the data to upload to the satellites, but I don't want to miss Alex's call."

Steve wonders whether his partner is chasing a ghost, but decides not to argue. He's obviously pursuing something he feels strongly about even if he doesn't want to share his thoughts, and he gets up to leave. "Well, I'm heading off home. Call me if there are any significant developments."
25

CPC Central Headquarters

Zhongnanhai, Jing-Jin-Ji, China

Coordinates: 39° 54' 55.4" N, 116° 23' 04.3" E

Wednesday, June 24, 2020, 1800h

Yuan Tien walks into the conference chamber with his usual punctuality and strides over to the empty chair at the head of the table at a brisk pace. He is the general secretary of the central committee, China's leader, and a perfectionist who expects nothing less from the other six members on the standing committee. The Chairman is greeted with a robust "ni hao" in unison, but he rarely reciprocates and lays his briefcase on the tabletop before sitting down. He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose while the rest of the committee follows his lead. Yuan is soft-spoken but with an icy, often callous temperament and a brusqueness to match, and he waits for the rustling to die down before speaking.

"While the inception of the air defense identification zone antagonized the Japanese, Americans, and South Koreans, the reason it was implemented was to reinforce autonomy over our lawful territory. Unfortunately, Kim Jong Un blighted the perfect equation with an unpardonable attack on Guam, Tokyo, and Seoul, which he claimed was a calculated gesture to validate our presence in the South China Sea and rights over the Spratlys reclamation project."

Sun Shikai's expression darkens angrily. "It was rather a strange and foolish deed, yet I'm convinced it was motivated by someone on this committee and he assumed it's what we wanted him to do."

Mao Xiaoping appears uncomfortable and clears his throat. "We intended to use him as a puppet, and negotiations _were_ taking place with regard to a specific operation, but Kim annulled them when he went rogue."

Sun sweeps an arm around the table. " _We?_ I shouldn't need to remind you that an individual _doesn't_ have the authority to make surreptitious agreements with a foreign entity without the unanimous approval of this committee."

"I intended to bring the proposal to the table once the minutiae had been established... but that was until Kim added his own twisted touch. Ninety-nine percent of what occurred was of his own volition, and I give you my unequivocal surety that a military confrontation was not part of any dialogue."

Yuan is growing uncomfortable because he was fully aware of Mao's ill-fated plan and had given his assent at the time. "Kim was consumed with a desire to engage in an armed conflict with the West for a while, but we should not forget that in spite of his bravado, he's fearful of defeat. He's an opportunist, but he doesn't want to go it alone and he made a gross miscalculation when he thought we'd stand behind his actions. Now he's irked because we refused to cross that boundary with him."

Chiang Yat-sen, the committee's vice chairman, speaks. "The Westerners still believe we encouraged him with promises of military support we failed to keep."

Yuan takes a deep breath. "I had an audience with an emissary for the North Korean diplomatic corps earlier today, and they made a formal appeal for assistance that extends beyond the aid we've already rendered. The mess Kim has gotten into is of his own conception, and while he's undeserving of our benevolence, his foolishness has put us in an unfavorable position. The North Korean border butts up with ours, and we have no alternative but to take some course of action if only to avert the occupation of a Western alliance."

Chiang shakes his head slowly. "The Asian-Western coalition won't stop until Kim's head is on a lollipop stick. We're lucky that Sinclair took a defensive stance in the South, but we don't know how long the status quo will last. South Korea's strike-and-retreat tactics are working for us at the moment, but the rate of success is questionable, and they're not going to keep that strategy up indefinitely."

"The primary objective is to degrade their nuclear program for decades to come, and there's no doubt they'll succeed," Yuan says. "The US secretary of state called last night, and he strongly believes we can still influence Kim. It's worth serious consideration because it'll give us the opportunity to manipulate the outcome."

"Interesting," Zhu Duxiu mutters. "I expect they're making specific demands?"

Yuan confirms with a nod. "But of course. They want Kim's unconditional capitulation and to surrender himself into the custody of the United Nations."

Chiang snorts contemptuously. "We all know _that_ won't happen, and neither should we agree to such demands. The most they can hope for is a truce, which, as we're well aware, will be celebrated as a victory by Kim. What we _don't_ want is his capture or assassination because it'll throw the country into greater turmoil and the repercussions will put _us_ at a disadvantage."

"We _can_ give them Kim," Zhu says, enthusiastically. "All we have to do is back a viable challenger to oust him."

Mao agrees. "A coup is his greatest fear."

Yuan holds a hand up to signal for silence. "I've not responded to the American request yet, but Zhu has the right idea. We'll groom someone who's politically motivated with an affinity for communist values, but he must be a man we can influence once he's in power. In the meantime, we'll arrange for a dialogue with Kim to broker a truce with the west to ease the tension while we search for a suitable candidate."

"Do we know where Kim is or how to contact him?" Mao asks.

"Not yet, but I'll let you have the pleasure." Yuan leans forward and rests his forearms on the conference table with his hands clasped together. "I'm sure it'll take a little time, so I'll give you one week." A gentle smirk forms on his lips before he glances around at the rest of the committee. "In the meantime, I've deployed additional ground troops to the border with orders to establish a thirty-kilometer dead zone, and citizens living within the sector will be given twenty-four hours to evacuate. We will not take in North Korean refugees, and anyone who enters the prohibited quarter after the deadline will be shot unbounded of status or nationality."

Chiang gets to his feet and glances at a document in his hand. "We've had sporadic pockets of civil disobedience in the Da Hinggan Ling Prefecture, demanding a temporary—"

Yuan interrupts in a harsh voice. "I don't bow to demands."

"I never suggested you should," Chiang replies coldly, and he hesitates before he picks up from where he left off. "The weather in Heilongjiang Province is unusually hot, and they want a temporary change in work ethics so they're not exposed to the high temperature when it peaks in the afternoon."

"What calefaction are we talking about?" Zhu asks.

"Thirty-five centigrade."

Yuan is irritated. " _That's_ not hot. Perhaps they should work in the South and experience _real_ incalescence."

Chiang has a tendency to be empathetic, and he defends the disruptors. "The climate for that region is generally mild... around twenty-three degrees at this time of year, but the hot weather has gone on for more than a month and they're starting to suffer heat-related fatigue."

"I don't want excuses," Yuan replies in a cold, soft tone. "Dispatch additional police to quell the disturbances if you have to, and make sure the penalties are harsh for anyone who fails to comply." He turns his head to look at Mao. "Are the security plans complete for the celebrations next Wednesday?"

July 1 is the CPC Founding Day, but this year the event will be more special than usual when the integration of Beijing, Tianjin, and seven other cities in Hebei Province into a megacity will be officially recognized. The inauguration will happen at midnight in Tiananmen Square when it'll be formally named Jing-Jin-Ji—a single city seventeen times larger than Sydney with a population in excess of 132 million. The highlight of the celebrations will be the largest firework display ever conceived, with the simultaneous launch of shell bursts every second from more than 200,000 locations. The entire 134,140-square-kilometer constituency will be under a red umbrella for three minutes, and yellow shells will be strategically placed to paint a single large star and four smaller stars in a half circle in the sky. Whilst it won't be noticeable from the ground, the Chinese flag will be visible when observed from the International Space Station, and power to the supercity will be cut for the duration of the show to ensure it'll be seen with clarity.

"Yes," Mao replies. "I'll be meeting with the event organizers on Sunday to make sure the commemoration is synchronized."

"Good. You can give me an update on Monday." Yuan closes his briefcase with a snap and dismisses the committee with his usual abruptness. "We'll meet again at this time tomorrow."
26

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Thursday, June 25, 2020, 0758h

Steve turns out of University Avenue onto Ramona Street, and he is surprised to see a number of television and radio news vans parked near to the Infinity tower. A large satellite dish is installed on top of one vehicle, and a tall periscope mast extends into the air from a second. He slows down as he approaches Hamilton Avenue, where he turns left. A sizeable group of reporters is milling around in the courtyard, and a couple of TV cameras are set up at the front, but to one side so as not to cause an obstruction.

He drives into the underground parking lot unobserved, and after pulling into the space reserved for him, he remains in the driver's seated while he runs through his options. He could make his way through to the rear and use the service bay entrance to avoid the crowd, or alternately, he could face the media and use them to his advantage. His third choice would be to sneak back out and go home... but he knows that isn't a viable solution.

He takes the iPhone from his inside jacket pocket and dials Brad's number. "BB, are you in the lab?"

"I've been here all night."

"I'm in the parking garage. Do you know the forecourt is crowded with news reporters and television crews?"

"I didn't until Danny came in and told me."

"Are the satellites back online?"

"No."

He isn't even out of the car yet, and his frustration is already surfacing. "I thought you were going to bypass the solar sensors?"

Brad is silent for several seconds before he responds. "It's gotten a bit more complicated. The lunar readings are in conflict with the database too, but it didn't show up because it's further along in the sequence and the error code was invoked before the application could be applied."

"You _are_ kidding, _right?_ "

"I wish I were." His voice becomes quieter. "Actually, I know what the problem is now, but I must warn you that it'll be hard for you to swallow."

Steve removes the keys from the ignition and begins to climb out of the car. "I'm coming straight to the lab."

"I think you'd better go up to your office first. Nancy's called down here several times looking for you. Clarke Richards is waiting in her office, and she says it's urgent."

"Yeah, I'm late because the alternator on my car went out this morning," Steve says as he opens the rear door to retrieve his briefcase. "I'd better see what she wants first."

He locks the car from the key fob before striding through the loading bay to the service entrance to avoid the media, and calls the elevator. A few minutes later, he walks into the office and hangs his jacket on the backrest of his chair before leaning over the desk to press the Speak button on the intercom. His secretary greets him with her usual cheerfulness.

"Good morning, Mr. Jaeger. Mr. Richards is here to see you."

"Thank you, Nancy. Please send him in."

Clarke strolls in through the door with a manila folder in one hand and a grave expression on his face. "Good morning, Mr. Jaeger. I see you have a welcoming committee outside."

Steve replies in an enervated tone while inviting his visitor to sit with a hand signal. "It looks like they've settled in for the duration. It's going to be another hot day, so if I'm lucky, the heat will drive them away."

His body stiffens as Clarke settles into the chair because he seems to be avoiding his gaze. It gives him a sense that something is wrong, and he begins to get anxious as he waits for the agent to speak.

"I've been instructed to inform you that Infinity's bank accounts and assets have been partially frozen since midnight, and all financial transactions are now under the supervision of the federal government."

He leaps to his feet and rests his clenched fists on the desktop to support his body as he leans forward towards Clarke, raising his voice in disbelief. " _What?_ "

The agent gestures defensively. " _Please_ hear me out, Mr. Jaeger." Steve sinks back into the chair, his mind numb with shock. "The order came from the White House administration."

Steve glares at him in exasperation. "What the hell has _this_ got to do with them?"

"Sinclair is under pressure from Russia to intervene, but he's more concerned that the crisis will have negative consequences on international relationships, particularly among American allies, if other subscribers who have also lost their services follow Bazhenov's lead."

He glowers at Clarke. "And exactly how will a government takeover of a private business change anything?"

"The president is making a strident effort to minimize their losses, which could run into the hundreds of billions... perhaps trillions of dollars if the entire network collapses, and he's hoping it'll ease tensions if they see he's trying to ensure that maximum funds are available for restitution."

"In other words, he wants to make sure I don't disappear or whisk billions of dollars out of the country," Steve retorts bitterly.

Clarke's reply is blunt. "In a proverbial nutshell, yes, but while I don't know the finer particulars, I can tell you that any necessary funding to resolve the issue will _not_ be cut off. They intend to transfer control back to you once the satellites are functioning again and the threat of litigation is over. Federal auditors will move into your finance department in the next hour or so, and the controller and accounting staff will be allowed to stay providing there's no enmity and they don't inhibit, complicate, or try to undermine their authority."

Steve's head slumps forward and he gazes at the floor in silence with burning acrimony, and the agent speaks again after several seconds.

"Can I give you a friendly word of advice, Mr. Jaeger?"

He rolls his eyes up to look at Clarke from under his brow and answers in a toneless voice. "I'm listening."

"Federal auditors are not a particularly friendly bunch, so don't exacerbate the situation by refusing to comply with their demands because of their attitude. While they're here, they're God, and they'll do whatever they want regardless of any remonstrations you may make. Trust me, they can, and will, make life hell for you if you're uncooperative."

"I'll be respectful, but I won't put up with too much unnecessary shit."

"That's your prerogative," Clarke says. "And just so you're aware, I submitted a report to the White House in your defense this morning. It won't change their position, but it's on record that Infinity may be the victim of industrial sabotage and you took positive steps to neutralize the situation by calling us prior to its escalation."

"Thank you." He is dispirited and feels powerless to stop the rot while his world continues to crumble. "You're going to carry on with the investigation, though, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course I am." Clarke sighs as he gets up from the chair. "I'll be in Human Resources if you need me."

Steve stares at the opposite wall in a daze after the agent leaves, and he wonders at what point he'll be dragged out in a straightjacket. He reaches for the telephone and calls the finance manager to instruct him to liaise with the auditors when they arrive, and his iPhone begins to ring just as he is hanging the handset onto its cradle. The display shows it is Brad.

"Hello."

"Hey, you'd better get down here. There's been a significant development."

Steve is suddenly reanimated, and he leaps to his feet and grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. He is halfway across the floor when there's a knock on the door.
27

National Weather Center

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Coordinates: 34° 37' 47.2" S, 58° 22' 05.5" W

Thursday, June 25, 2020, 0823h

Carlos walks into the National Weather Center, and after stopping at reception to sign the logbook, he returns the pen to the breast pocket of his shirt before heading for the elevator. Gabriel Santos, who is the director and his immediate boss, is making a beeline towards him with a solemn expression on his face.

"Good morning, Mr. Castelli." The timbre in his voice suggests that he is irritated, but he waits for the meteorologist to reciprocate his salutation before revealing why. "I've received a disturbing complaint from President Hernandez alleging incompetence and, in particular, your attitude towards him. What's going on?"

Carlos bristles, and he doesn't attempt to conceal his annoyance. "I followed protocol and called to warn him about a treacherous winter storm moving into Argentina from the south. I don't see how _that's_ being incompetent."

"He says you were vague on details and evasive about its severity."

"I told him everything I knew, and he chose to react like an arrogant clown," Carlos says indignantly. "I don't come in here to be insulted by anyone, not even Hernandez. I hung up on him after he began to ridicule me... for having done my job, no less."

Gabriel's voice is stern. "I'm not pointing fingers until I investigate further, but he told me he received grievances from the mayors of Comodoro Rivadavia and Ushuaia, and the governors of Chubut and Santa Cruz Provinces this morning. It's my understanding that you gave them insufficient time to prepare ahead of its arrival."

Carlos is puzzled. "He told you he spoke to them this morning?"

"Yes, he said he'd just gotten off the phone with Ushuaia moments before calling me."

"Then he's a liar. I know for a fact that the telephone service to Tierra del Fuego went down before midday yesterday."

"That'll be easy to confirm with the telecommunications company," the director says, and his tone sharpens. "But a storm of this magnitude doesn't just materialize overnight, so you must have had some knowledge of its existence at least two or three days prior to yesterday."

It sounded like a statement rather than a question, and he shakes his head. "The satellite owned by the British Antarctic Survey failed to transfer data to our southern unit because of a malfunction, so we were not aware that a storm was present until it moved into range of our one. By then, the outer fringes were already moving in over Tierra del Fuego, but there still wasn't enough hard information to craft an explicit forecast."

"Yes, I heard about the satellite failures on the news this morning," Gabriel says in a contemplative tone. "All right, Mr. Castelli, I want a written statement along with charts and any documentation to corroborate your defense on my desk by the end of the day, and I'll decide whether you should face a disciplinary panel once I've reviewed both sides."

"That _won't_ be a problem, sir," Carlos replies huffily. The director is renowned for his neutrality during a dispute and his investigations are thorough and fair, but he's furious at President Hernandez's deviation from the truth.

He is still furious when he enters the main center a few minutes later. He strides across the room to his office, and after sitting behind the desk, he picks up the phone and calls Jose's extension. "I want to see you in here _right_ _now_."

Thirty seconds later, the intern appears in the doorway with a nervous look in his eyes. "Good morning, sir."

Carlos ignores the greeting. "I want the most recent charts and images from our southern satellite."

"W-we don't have any."

"Why not?"

"Erm... it went offline at ten forty-five last night, and it keeps shutting down with a 'data out of range' message each time I reboot the computer."

"Then bring me its last report," Carlos snaps. His anger at the president's attempt to twist the truth continues to fester while he waits for Jose's return. The intern hands him a folder, and he quickly rifles through the contents. He could access the files through the mainframe, but he has a preference to view the printouts because he can spread out across his desk rather than flip back and forth between windows on the computer.

The satellite had gathered enough data to revise its files before going offline, and while he'd anticipated the worst, he's still astonished. "Holy _hell_. Why didn't anyone call me last night?"

"I'm not sure... I wasn't here." Jose is looking at him with uncertainty in his eyes. "I don't know if it'll help, but the satellite was able to network its data to the one in the north before it went down."

The meteorological stats would only be networked if the storm is predicted to move into the periphery of their northern unit, so it's unlikely that any relevant information would have been included in the transfer. However, it wouldn't do any harm to look it over, and he sends Jose to bring in the file.

He returns two minutes later, and Carlos gasps in disbelief when he opens the second folder and flicks through the documents inside. Heavy clouds are visible just inside the southern limit of the satellite's sphere, stretching northwest from Puerto Madryn through to the Chilean border, but the metrics are in excess of anything he'd thought possible. He clicks an icon on the desktop to open the international meteorological directory and looks up the telephone number for the Chilean Weather Center in Santiago.

Two minutes later, he introduces himself to the head meteorologist. "I'm Carlos Castelli from the National Weather Center in Buenos Aires. Our satellite in the south has malfunctioned, and the one in the north is indicating that southern Argentina and Chile may be in the grip of a powerful blizzard. Can I bother you to fax me the latest reports, images, and charts from yours?"

"Ours failed at one o'clock this morning and it's not back in service yet, señor."

_"Crap_." He clings to the hope that their defunct unit managed to network with their second satellite before it went offline. "What about the forecast from the one that's still working?"

There are several seconds of silence before the person on the other end speaks again. "The charts I have in front of me were downloaded thirty minutes ago, and nothing exceptional is showing. The seven-day forecast is fair with no expected change."

"That's because the satellite didn't network, and I assure you, it's not a reliable prediction. A treacherous blizzard is going to hit southern Chile—if it hasn't already." Carlos glances down at the satellite image. "Puerto Montt... or even from Osorno... all the way to Cape Horn is in its path."

Another long silence ensues. "I'm sorry, señor, but there's nothing like that on any of our charts."

"The information you have is _wrong_ ," Carlos reiterates as he tries in earnest to convince his counterpart of the incongruities. "Give me your e-mail address, and I'll send you all the info I have. It's limited, but there's enough for you to see how bad it's going to be." The person on the other end conforms, and he scribbles the contact information on a notepad. "Check your inbox in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Señor Castelli."

Carlos replaces the handset and turns to Jose. "I want you to draw a line on a northwest trajectory from Puerto Madryn to San Carlos de Bariloche in the foothills of the Andes, and then you are to issue an imminent storm warning to all provinces on the southern side." He hesitates. "And when you've done that, draw a second line from Punta Alta across to Chos Malal and send out an advisory for everywhere between the two parallels."

"How long do you want the warning to be in effect?"

"What does the seven-day outlook say?"

"I... er, I didn't look, sir."

"By my calculations, it's at least four thousand kilometers in diameter and moving at four kilometers an hour, so it could last for a week, maybe longer if it doesn't pick up speed."

_"Wow!_ " Jose exclaims. "Shouldn't it break apart once it comes ashore?"

"I don't know what it's going to do," Carlos says wearily. "Hell, let's shoot in the dark and hope for the best and publish a four-day warning for now. We'll assess the situation as soon as the satellites are working again."

"When do you think that'll be?"

He shrugs. "Today would be nice."

The documents are spread across his desk, and he begins to shuffle them back together and put them into their relevant folders. It feels as if his eyes have been gouged out, and he tries not to speculate on the amount of damage a storm of this caliber could inflict in just fifteen minutes, let alone a prolonged blitz lasting several days. His chief concern is that the core will become stationary before it moves across the coast, which would spell an insurmountable disaster for Argentina.

He suddenly remembers that he needs to submit copies of the charts, satellite information, and a written statement to the director, and he pushes the files from both satellites across the desk toward Jose. "I want a photocopy of every document in these folders, pronto, _and_ every byte of data collected by the northern and southern units over the last three days. Oh..." He almost forgot the promise he'd made minutes earlier, and he continues to give instructions to the intern as he rips the top page out of his notepad. "This is the e-mail address to the Chilean Weather Center. I want you to send the last satellite reports from both of our satellites before you do anything else."

"Yes, sir."

Jose leaves to carry out the duties he's just been tasked with, and Carlos leans forward with a thoughtful expression. He picks up the telephone receiver, dials an internal extension number, and waits for the director to answer the phone.

"Mr. Santos, I think you'd better come down to my office. We have a crisis, and it's far from pretty."
28

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Thursday, June 25, 2020, 0902h

Steve is anxious to find out what Brad has discovered, and he is preparing to go down to the lab when there's a knock on the office door. He opens it to two men dressed in dark gray suits, white shirts, and narrow, black ties.

"Mr. Jaeger?"

"Yes, but I'm busy right now." He gestures with an arm towards Nancy's office. "Please check in with my secretary to make an appointment."

The taller man pulls himself up to his full height and looks down on him with an air of self-righteousness that irritates Steve. "No, you'll see us now." He holds up an identification badge and the CEO groans inwardly when he reads 'Federal Auditor' in bold type along the top. "I'm Kevin Porter, and this is my associate, Jeremy Hill. We need to run through some details with you."

Even though Steve had tried to prepare himself after Clarke had given him the heads-up, a subjacent numbness begins to spread through his stomach. "Come into my office." He removes his jacket again and sits back down at his desk while Jeremy pulls two chairs forward. "Mr. Richards told me our accounts and assets were frozen and you'd be here sometime this morning, but beyond that, I'm ignorant."

_"Partially_ frozen, Mr. Jaeger. Expenditures unassociated to resolving the satellite failures won't be accredited, including accounts payable with the exception of utility bills and payrolls for designated employees."

Steve's golden rule that creditors must be paid before the invoices are overdue is sine qua non, so Kevin's statement is disquieting. "But you will honor the bills for supplies and materials purchased prior to today's date, yes?"

"No."

"That's unwarranted."

"You can protest as much as you like, but we have specific guidelines to follow." It is hard for Steve to contain his anger, but he heeds Clarke's advice not to antagonize them and remains stoic as Kevin continues to lay the law. "Staff not involved in the troubleshooting process will be furloughed, including Research and Development, Production, and Sales personnel. Whether you promise back pay is your prerogative, but they won't be allowed to return to the company's payroll until full control is handed back to you again. Outside contractors will be curtailed, and all requisitions for the purchase of materials necessary to reinstate the defective satellites must be filed through Mr. Hill or me for approval."

This isn't what Steve expected to hear. He slumps back in the chair and begins to twiddle a pen abstractedly between his fingers. "That's a bit harsh. Production schedules and contracts still need to be met.

"It's pointless for you to proceed with manufacturing until you know what's interrupting your services. I think it'll be more perceptive to identify the problem and incorporate the modifications into your schedule, because it's unlikely that prospective clienteles will be interested in your product until fixes are implemented and you can guarantee it won't happen again."

In spite of his resentment, Steve knows he is speaking the truth. "Please tell me the federal intervention isn't going to be made public until the satellites are back online?"

Kevin's response is abrupt and unsympathetic. "A press release will be made by President Sinclair later today. This isn't to discredit your company; it's to reassure the affected parties that the White House is doing everything to minimize the defalcation."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to keep this between us if you want to maximize the amount available for restitution? Our stocks are already taking a massive hit, and when Wall Street knows you're here, we're going to lose billions more."

The auditor hesitates before nodding his head in agreement. "That's good sagacity, and I'll put that in a memo. However, I think it'll get rejected because President Sinclair intends to assure the world governments that he has their interests at heart."

Steve throws his arms up in despair. "It's _all_ about politics, isn't it? Sinclair doesn't give a flying fuck whether the problem is resolved or not." He glowers at the two men. "I hope you guys make the same effort to bring the perpetrator to justice and get remuneration for our losses once the source is identified."

"You can be assured that judicatory proceedings will be brought before a federal judge against any individual indicted for criminal behavior, but claims for restitution will need to be pursued through a civil court, and that'll be _your_ responsibility."

An awkward silence ensues as Steve continues to stew. It's getting harder to contain his temper, and he needs to escape before it explodes. "Are you finished?"

The actuary gazes at him with a hard expression in his eyes. "Not quite. The warrant also decrees that all personal bank accounts owned by you and Mr. Bentley be frozen, credit cards suspended, and liens placed on your properties, including your home, land, and vehicles. You're required to declare possessions not mentioned in the diktat, and you must not remove any chattels on or within these domains. If the company has insufficient funds to settle with the litigants, then your personal assets will be sold by auction to make up the shortfall." He pauses and seems to reflect before concluding. "Investments made by your board of investors are frozen too, and they won't be allowed to withdraw their holdings until the crisis is over."

"How can you freeze shareholder money? Those are private stock."

"Risk by association... they chose to invest, which means they suffer the consequences."

Steve emits a loud groan. "So, in other words, I'm _fucked_."

Kevin shrugs in a nonchalant manner. "If that's how you perceive it, Mr. Jaeger, then yes, you are."

Steve restrains himself from an urge to rant and rave around the office in an unmitigated fury, and it's an effort to keep his voice calm. "Is there anything else, Mr. Porter?"

"We'll be taking up residence in your finance department, and we do expect full cooperation from your staff. I'll be going through your employee files, and you'll be provided with a list of names that _must_ be served with a furlough notice by the end of their shift today."

Steve gets to his feet and begins to pace back and forth across the floor. "How am I supposed to live if my bank account and credit cards are suspended? I don't carry cash on my person, and I still have utility bills to pay and groceries to buy."

"Does your wife work?"

"No, she's a volunteer at a special hospice for children with chronic disabilities and terminal illnesses."

"Perhaps she should consider taking a paying job as a temporary means to get by." He pauses, and his tone softens slightly. "You'll get a salary to cover basic living expenses, and I'll authorize a petty cash payment for you and Mr. Bentley on the last day of each month."

Jeremy speaks for the first time. "Do you have enough food to last the next five days?"

"I think so, but I'll need gas for my car. I can't speak for Mr. Bentley, though. I don't know his current predicament."

"I'll ask him later," Jeremy says. "I can arrange for a petty cash payment for fuel before you go home today, but I'll need a receipt for each transaction each time you fill up." He opens a briefcase and removes a couple of thick documents, each one consisting of about forty pages clipped together. "These are copies of the executive order. I need you to sign the last page to confirm you understand the terms and conditions and agree to abide by them. The other copy is yours."

"And what if I refuse to sign?"

"The order will still be enforced regardless of whether you consent or not," Kevin replies, but with a sharpness that warns Steve not to test his limits. "I believe you are an intelligent person, Mr. Jaeger, and if you work with us and don't create any obstacles, we'll be more sympathetic in respect of your position and treat you with equal esteem. On the other hand, if you choose _not_ to"—he shrugs—"you'll find we can be as disobliging. I'll leave the documents on your desk to give you a chance to read them, but they must be signed and returned to me by the end of the day. If you want an attorney to review and negotiate one or more clauses on your behalf, print 'legal representation is pending' beneath your signature, but you only have seven days to file an official complaint with the courts."

Steve's iPhone begins to vibrate, and he apologizes to the two visitors as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve it. "Excuse me one minute; I need to take this call."

Brad is on the other end, and he sounds frustrated. " _Steve!_ What in hells name is going on? I thought you'd be down here by now?"

"I've been sidetracked by a couple of federal auditors who turned up at the wrong time," he says flatly, and he glances at Kevin. "Are we finished?"

"For now, if you don't have any more questions," the agent replies.

"I'll be down there in a couple of minutes, BB."

He throws a scornful glance at the documents on his desk as Kevin and Jeremy leave, and he decides to fax them over to the lawyer's office after he comes back up from the lab.

Danny is sitting beside Brad at his terminal when Steve walks into the laboratory.

_"Humph!_ It's about _time_ ," Brad says in a grumbling tone. "What did the auditors want?"

Steve doesn't want to discuss company business and personal affairs in the presence of staff, and he shrugs it off. "We'll talk about it later."

It's clear that Brad is more interested in whatever progress he has made because he doesn't press him on the subject. "Pull up a chair up and prepare yourself. I don't think you're going to like what I've found."

"Whether I like it or not is irrelevant. Just get it fixed."

Brad chuckles softly. "There's nothing to fix."

"What do you mean?"

"It's quite simple—if something isn't broken, there isn't anything to fix. Our system is running _fine_."

"If there isn't anything wrong, then the satellites should be _working_ , and they _aren't._ "

"The satellites _are_ working," Brad says. He swivels around on the chair to face the computer and selects an icon to bring a chart up on the screen. "We lost another four satellites overnight—Argentina south, Chile south, Poland, and Kazakhstan."

"Isn't the Polish satellite part of a multiple subscription package?"

"Yes, it's shared by Belarus, Romania, and Ukraine. Danny checked the solar sensors, and the spike appears on all four satellites, but only _after_ they went offline."

"So there _is_ a virus?"

"No, there's not." Brad falls silent while he concentrates on the data scrolling up on the screen. "Ah... here we go." He sits back in the chair to give Steve a clearer view of the monitor over his shoulder. "These four columns refer to sunrise and sunset times. We're going to analyze line five, which is the data from the Alaskan satellite that failed on June 23. You can easily see the discrepancy. The sun rose one minute and twenty-five seconds early, which is forty seconds in excess of the preset margin and it's the reason why the data are out of range."

"You explained all this to me yesterday, and as strange as—"

Brad holds up a hand and cuts him off in midsentence. "The inconsistency _appears_ to shut the satellite down, but in reality, it's not. The only thing it's doing is blocking the charts at the print interface. The insertion of the solar and lunar information is required to format a forecast, but the function is failing because it's outside the preset boundaries. The daylight period should now be shortening as the Northern Hemisphere moves toward winter, but instead, the days are still getting longer." Steve's skepticism is growing as Brad points to the third line in the chart. "This is a download from the unit subscribed by the British Antarctic Survey. The latitudinal times vary, so these samples are established for Stanley. On January 23, the sun was supposed to set at 3:49 p.m. local, but instead, it was recorded at 3:47:22... two minutes and six seconds early. Yesterday, it set prematurely by three minutes eight seconds, and today, the solar mapping sensor is recording an additional time lag. In actuality, the daylight hours in the Southern Hemisphere are still getting shorter when they _should_ be increasing."

"Is the malware making changes at the sensors or in the database?"

The expression on Brad's face changes to one of frustration. " _No_ , Steve. You have tunnel vision and you need to get the idea of a virus out of your head. Samples taken from several working satellites in the Northern and Southern Hemispheres are painting a mural so consistent that I know what units are going to fail next. There's only one reality; for some inexplicable reason, the sun is still rising earlier in the north and setting prematurely in the south."

"Can you prove that the false times _aren't_ being generated by a virus?"

Brad clasps his hands around the back of his head and takes a deep breath. "Alex Seville carried out visual observations of the sunrise and recorded a time of 0419 hours, which is a precise match to the solar mapping sensor—and five minutes earlier than the database."

Steve is beginning to understand where his partner is trying to go, but he is having serious issues with its conception. "What do you think it all means?"

"I'm not an astrophysicist, but I'd say the summer solstice hasn't yet happened. If the recorded data are accurate, and Alex Seville has confirmed they are, the Northern Hemisphere is still tilting toward the sun."

Steve emits a short, uncertain laugh and stares at his friend in astonishment. "That's not possible, BB. Daylight expansion and retraction changes in relation to the earth's orbital path around the sun... we _all_ know that."

Brad swings a hand towards the chart on the computer screen. "Then _you_ explain this! I'm willing to consider _any_ rationale that makes more sense than mine, but you've got to believe me; what I'm looking at scares the crap out of me. I'd give my right hand to be proven wrong because this is going to have a profound effect on the earth's ecosystems."

_"How?_ I mean, it's only four days and a few minutes off— _if_ you're right."

_"Only_ four days and a few minutes off," Brad echoes contemptuously. "It shouldn't be off at _all._ " He sits forward in his chair, and Steve has never heard his friend speak with so much passion since Infinity's birth. "Four days and a few minutes longer are exposing the Arctic to higher temperatures for an extended period of time, contributing to additional melt of the polar ice cap, warmer oceans, and more intense storms. You only have to step outside to feel the effect it's already having."

He looks at Brad warily and scoffs. "Come _on_ , BB. Are you trying to tell me it's responsible for the heat wave too?"

His reply leaves no ambiguity to his conviction. "Unequivocally."

Steve is hesitant to accept Brad's assertion, but he's unable to come up with a cogent argument to dispute his disturbing claim. He tries to shrug it off. "I'm sorry, but changes to the ecological structure of the planet are the least of my concerns right now. What we _need_ is a fix to get our satellites operational again."

"You _do_ need to be concerned," Brad fires back. "We are working on a bypass for the astral sensors, but we _can't_ ignore the connotation shown by the data."

"What do you suggest we do, then?"

"We've got to report it to the proper authorities and let them handle it."

"Perhaps they already know," Danny says.

"Maybe they do, but it's still our place to say something."

Steve inclines his head and looks at Brad thoughtfully. "Who would we report something like this to?"

"I'm not sure, but perhaps we should drop this into President Sinclair's lap."

He likes the idea, mainly because he interfered with the affairs of a private business and unjustly initiated a takeover of Infinity by the federal government.

"We could tell the media," Danny suggests.

Brad gives the technician a fiery glare. "No."

The technician is clearly taken aback by the unexpected sharpness in his voice. "Why not? It'll get them off our backs."

"That would be somewhat irresponsible considering we're not qualified to make those kinds of affirmations. I don't want to be held liable for essentially creating a replay of the Orson Welles syndrome."

Danny stares at him with a puzzled expression on his face. "What's _that?_ "

"In 1938, the CBS network broadcast a radio adaptation of _The War_ _o_ _f_ _t_ _he Worlds_. The first twenty minutes was presented as a series of simulated news bulletins, and terrified listeners believed an actual Martian invasion was in progress."

The young man begins to laugh. "You're joking?"

"No, I'm not. Look it up on the Internet if you don't believe me. Back then, AM radio only had a short range and the audience was much smaller in comparison to today's standards. If we make a statement like that to the press, it'll be sensationalized, social media will carry the news around the world in seconds, and the panic will be on a far grander scale."

Steve's mind wanders. He's more concerned about getting the feds off their backs than something that happened eighty-two years earlier. "As the White House has poked their noses into our business, proof that the problem is natural and not technical will exonerate us."

Brad casts a horrified glance at his partner. "How is the president involved?"

"I'll explain later, but on another level, I hope you're suspicions are right. The natural disaster clause in our contracts stipulates that we're not legally responsible for damage to, or failure of our equipment resulting from a natural event emanating from within the cosmos. They can only claim for indemnity, and that's an argument between themselves and their underwriters."

"Aren't they covered by more than one insurance agency?" Danny asks.

"Sure they are. We warranty the equipment for defects for twenty-five years, but that's where our liability expires, and they cover everything else." Steve turns his eyes to look at Brad. "Who's going to tell President Sinclair that the earth is... is doing whatever it's doing?"

"You're the CEO, so it falls on your shoulders."

Steve becomes obdurate. "Oh no, I'm not. He'll _nev_ er believe me and besides, _you're_ the one who figured out what's happening and more knowledgeable about what's going on than I am."

"I'm only the chief technical officer, and besides, I still need to work on a fix to get the satellites operational again," Brad says. "I'll gather all the evidence into a package and include my own report with it. I imagine that Sinclair already knows we have a problem, and even if he _is_ skeptical, it would be tantamount to negligence if he didn't follow through and get an assessment from someone who is qualified."

Steve is reluctant to accept the responsibility. "But what if you're wrong, BB? I'll be ridiculed and at the butt-end of every fucking joke on late-night television."

Danny grins. "Look at it this way. If Brad _is_ right, you'll be an international hero overnight."

"Well, I guess the only way is up because I feel like an international villain at the moment." He takes the iPhone from his inside jacket pocket and dials Nancy's extension. "I want you to track down Clarke Richards and ask him to meet me in my office in fifteen minutes."

"Do you have his number?" she asks.

"No, but you'll probably find him in Human Resources."

"Okay."

He slips the device back into his pocket. "I'm going upstairs. Call me when you've got everything together that'll convince the president I'm not a nut job while I get Richards to pull some strings for a face-to-face."

"Don't tell anyone, _including_ the FBI," Brad warns. "Let President Sinclair decide whether the information should be made public or not."

"You don't need to worry about that. I don't intend to become the court jester for the bureau. Just let me know once you've found a way to bypass the sensors."

He leaves the lab and heads for the lobby, where he waits for an elevator. The ding of a bell signals the arrival of a car, and he stands to one side and waits for the passengers to exit. Clarke Richards steps out and begins to walk toward the main doors.

"Mr. Richards."

The agent pauses in midstep and turns his head. "Oh, hello Mr. Jaeger. I'm sorry; I didn't see you."

Steve takes a few paces toward him and lowers his voice. "Brad's found the cause of the problem."

"That _is_ good news," he replies. "Was it a virus?"

"Well, not exactly, but I'm not at liberty to discuss it because it might be... well, a bit sensitive."

Clarke appears offended. "Oh? Then why are you telling me?"

"I need an audience with President Sinclair, and I want you to make it happen."

The agent hesitates. "I don't have that kind of authority, Mr. Jaeger. Perhaps if you share some details with me, I can ask my chief to pull a few strings if he validates the request."

Steve shakes his head. "No offense, Mr. Richards, but I can't disclose the information to anyone except the president. I assure you, it needs his personal attention and only he can decide how it gets handled."

"I think it'll be near to impossible unless you give me something that'll convince the chief of staff of its urgency. Is it to do with his decision to place Infinity under federal control?"

"No, not at all," and he scowls. He needs to be more deceitful and wonders if Brad's discovery could be categorized as a threat to national security. "The satellite failures aren't restricted just to Infinity. _Every_ satellite in orbit is under the same threat, and ours just happened to be first."

"You have my assurance that whatever you say _will_ be in confidence, Mr. Jaeger."

"You're not the one I distrust, Mr. Richards. I don't have faith in bureaucracy or the people who'll be handling the information beyond you, and if it gets leaked to the media, the president may have a crisis much bigger than North Korea or Iran on his hands."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel like that," Clarke replies slowly. "I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything. Perhaps if you're lucky, he might agree to slip you into his schedule in the next week or two."

"I can't stress how _urgent_ it is, and I assure you... I'm _not_ playing games. It could be too late if I wait that long. I _must_ see him today."

Clarke's eyes narrow, and aware that he is trying to figure him out, Steve throws his hands up in a submissive gesture. "I'd better get going, Mr. Richards. I have a statement to prepare for our clientele, and I want to get it out before lunch." He pauses before he adds, "But I think the president will be pissed that he wasn't told first."

Clarke is beginning to look uneasy. "And that should bother me because?"

Steve shrugs offhandedly. "No reason in particular, except there will be an inquiry. I'm sure he'll be unhappy when he learns that you blocked my request to see him."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're being overdramatic?"

Steve smiles. "That's your privilege, Mr. Richards."

"How do you intend to get to Washington _if_ I were able to arrange a meeting?"

"We have a company jet."

"Have you forgotten that the federal government has seized your assets?"

Steve curses under his breath, and he realizes he won't even be able to purchase an airline ticket with his credit cards suspended. "Then you'd better find a way to get me to the White House before the end of the day." The elevator dings again. "I'll talk to you later, Mr. Richards."

Sometimes a flair for the thespian is crucial to get attention, and without waiting for a response, he spins on his heels and heads for the elevator. He steps into the car and turns to see Clarke gazing back at him as the doors close.
29

The Oval Office

The White House, Washington, DC

Coordinates: 38° 53' 50.6" N, 77° 02' 14.5" W

Thursday, June 25, 2020, 2104h

Kevin Porter knocked on the door to Steve's office at midday, and his attitude seemed more amiable than it was earlier, perhaps because it's close to lunchtime. "Mr. Richards tells me you've requested a personal meeting with President Sinclair?"

"Yes."

"I've spoken to the chief of staff and he said they may be able to set up a five-minute telephone conference for later today."

Steve laid a hand on top of a thick folder. "Brad has put together some detailed physical evidence, which I need to give him."

The auditor was silent for a few moments. "Mr. Richards told me you wouldn't reveal the reason for the request, but it's highly irregular for the chief of staff to approve a personal meeting without adequate information. The decision to grant a one-on-one is based on how important he considers your adjuration to be, so you need to tell me something that'll help your case."

"I can tell you that the sensors on our satellites are recording an abnormal phenomenon that that's likely to have devastating consequences on the planet and adversely affect other space vehicles." Steve had chosen his words carefully with just enough information to pique their curiosity. "But I'm not prepared to disclose anything else beyond that except to the president."

"Are you suggesting it's a threat to national security?"

Steve laughed. "What do _you_ think, Mr. Porter?"

"My opinion is irrelevant, Mr. Jaeger," he replied in a cold voice. "Just give me a yes or no."

"Then I have to say it's an undeniable yes."

Kevin was quiet for a few seconds. "Do you think you can get your satellites back in service again?"

He was cautious with the answer. "Brad is working on a fix, but as it stands right now, the chance of getting them back online is fifty-fifty. He won't know whether it'll be successful until later today or sometime tomorrow. Our clientele and the media will be asking some pretty tough questions if we do manage to get back online, though, which is why it's essential to apprise the president ahead of time."

"Why is it important to brief him first?"

"Mr. Bentley's personal interest in the subject matter gives him a better concept of its effect, but he succeeded in scaring the shit out of me and I assure you, it's not something the president will want to learn from the front page of the _Washington Post_."

"Let me talk to the chief of staff again."

Steve began reading the contractual clauses related to the acts of nature while he waited for the auditor to return. His dubiety towards Brad's asseverations continued to linger, but it may be the only way to save Infinity from ruin.

Thirty minutes passed before Kevin walked back in. "All right, the chief of staff has reluctantly acquiesced and he's granted you five minutes with the president."

"That's all I need." Steve pondered for a few seconds because now, he needs to find a way to get to Washington. "Can I use the company jet?"

"It's been impounded, Mr. Jaeger. You're going on my watch, and I'll be held responsible if this is a clever ploy to abscond." Steve felt like a little boy under castigation for some innocent mistake, but he has no choice except to follow the ground rules. "Mr. Richards will drive you to San Carlos Airport where you'll board a federal plane. It takes off at three"—and he glanced at the time—"which gives you forty-five minutes to get your stuff together. You'll be frisked by the Secret Service, so travel light and take only what's necessary to prove your case." He paused and pursed his lips as if he was making a big decision. "Because you're meeting the president, I'll suspend the proposed furloughs for twenty-four hours."

Steve was surprised because he didn't expect a stay, but he's appreciative, and his gratitude was signaled by the sincerity in his voice. "Thank you, Mr. Porter."

The plane took off on time. Steve attempted to engage in a conversation with three federal agents who were also on board, but when they showed no desire to be sociable, he and opened the folder and began to familiarize himself with Brad's statement. It is lengthy but detailed, and he wanted to absorb and understand as much of the content as possible before his audience with the president.

After a five-hour flight, the Learjet lands at Ronald Reagan International and taxies to an isolated hangar at the far end of the airport. A black Lincoln pulls up, and he is searched before being invited to get into the rear of the car. Twenty minutes later, he is escorted through the west wing of the White House by two Secret Service agents and ushered into the Oval Office. President Sinclair is standing close to the Resolute Desk with his legs apart and hands clasped behind his back. The chief of staff walks in as if on cue and dismisses security before he positions himself beside the door.

The president doesn't conceal his agitation and greets Steve with a peremptory statement. "If this is in relation to the federal order imposed on your company this morning, this interview is terminated forthwith."

Sinclair's disharmonious attitude instantly riles Steve, and his response is as cold. "I'll be equally blunt, Mr. President. Infinity is _not_ responsible for the failures, but we _are_ trying to fix the problem as a matter of courtesy to our clients."

Lloyd's expression remains stoic. "Are you disclaiming liability for the failure of _your_ equipment?"

"With due respect, that is _not_ what I said, sir. The satellites are not defective. The network is being compromised by something dissociated from Infinity."

President Sinclair saunters a few paces toward him. "What kind of something are you implying, Mr. Jaeger?"

This is the decisive moment, the thin line between crazy and mad, and Steve takes a deep breath. "The data we've analyzed shows the planet's axial inclination may have changed—a shift large enough that some of the information recorded by the sensors is no longer within computing range."

"I thought the axis was always shifting, but perhaps I'm wrong." It isn't difficult to read the skepticism in his eyes. "Shouldn't you be seeking the opinion of a scientist?"

"I'm not looking for opinions, Mr. Sinclair." A fiery blaze in the president's amber eyes is making Steve a little nervous, and he fumbles with the locks on his briefcase before they pop open. He removes the folder and holds it out towards Lloyd. "Twenty satellites are now out of service, which includes one of our own that went offline just before I left my office this afternoon. This file contains documented evidence and data downloads, and I think someone more qualified than Mr. Bentley or I should check it out."

"I still fail to understand why you think I'm the appropriate authority."

"I'm concerned that what's happening could be a grave threat to national security. Mr. Bentley describes the earth as 'tumbling,' and he seems to believe it poses a serious danger to the earth's ecosystems, and, dare I say, the possible extinction of millions of species."

President Sinclair unclasps his hands from behind his back, and his voice becomes harsher. "That's a rash and irresponsible statement. I hope you don't intend to include that in your clientele report?"

"I'm certainly not going to tell them they're the proud owners of billions of dollars of space junk without providing a satisfactory explanation."

Lloyd takes a couple of steps toward his desk with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Mr. Jaeger, you've just made an unsubstantiated declaration of an Armageddon-style event only seen in science fiction novels and movies. I don't think it'll be wise to publicize a theory that mankind is being threatened with extinction... which is what you're insinuating, isn't it?"

"I suppose I am, but I did use the word 'possible.'"

"Mr. Jaeger, did you know that up to two hundred species of plant, insect, bird, and mammals become extinct every twenty-four hours? We're in an era where news flashes around the world in seconds, and an overstatement of facts could stir up a global panic." He hesitates. "If you _must_ provide your customers with an explanation, I suggest you stick with the virus. It's far more credible than what you're suggesting."

Steve stares at the president in bewilderment. "That'll be corporate suicide, sir. It'll leave us wide open to litigation if I fabricate something a lie, and besides, we have a clause in our contracts that exonerates us from liability in the event of a natural disaster."

Lloyd seems to reflect for a moment. "There are thousands of scientists in the country, and I'm wondering why none of them brought it to my attention before you did."

"Perhaps they're not trying to keep a satellite network in operation," Steve retorts. "I made a logical supposition that our satellites might just be the first ones compromised, and others will follow—like your military satellites, for example."

President Sinclair looks him up and down with a wary expression, and Steve can tell he's succeeded in casting a shadow of doubt in his mind. His voice takes on a softer tone. "I'm going to follow through with someone who's qualified to confirm the substance of your claim, but it could take a day or two. I'd like you to delay the release of any statements or reports to your clientele until Monday afternoon."

Steve twists his lips as he contemplates, but undisputed scientific evidence will be valuable when he cites the act-of-nature clause, and he concedes. "All right, then, but no later."

Lloyd's voice takes on a sterner tone. "You do realize that if your hypothesis turns out to be true, it won't precipitate the automatic release of your company from federal control?"

He gazes at the president in astonishment. " _Why_?"

"Caution. There's a likelihood that the natural disaster element in your contracts will be contested, and it might even be necessary to have it annulled to avert an international crisis."

Steve is stunned, and he responds angrily. "Contracts are legal and binding, and not even the federal government, the White House, _or_ Congress can override a signed agreement between two parties."

"Perhaps, Mr. Jaeger, perhaps," Lloyd says in a condescending manner as he walks over and accepts the folder. "I'm not sold on the notion that the planet is doing what you say it is, but I'll find out who these documents should go to for clarification and I'll let you know."

Steve is unsettled, because he's not sure if he can trust the president to be honest, and suspects he'll try to lay the blame on Infinity regardless. It's a concern he'll raise with his lawyers in the morning. "Then I'd best be getting back to Silicon Valley."

He turns to leave, and the chief of staff, who had been silent throughout the interview, opens the door and follows him out of the Oval Office.

President Sinclair walks through a door in the west wall that leads to his private study and drops the folder on top of the desk. He sinks into the chair with a heavy sigh and remains in a thoughtful repose for almost a minute before pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He presses a button on the speed dial, and it rings twice before the vice president answers without formality.

"Hello there."

"Terry, Mr. Jaeger's just left. He had an impressive pretext for the failure of their weather network, and if anything, he has an incredible imagination. He tried to convince me that the earth's axis began shifting five days ago, and it's having a negative effect on their satellites."

"Hmm, does he have any physical evidence, or did he expect to be taken at his word?"

"He gave me a thick file, but I can't tell whether it's fact, fiction, or a mixture of both." He pauses. "Who would we go to with this? Hell, how do I know? I'm only the fucking president."

"At a guess, I'd say it falls somewhere in the spectrum of physics, but shouldn't it be his responsibility to chase it down?"

"Yeah, but he's threatened to go public. I need some facts so I can discredit his integrity if he does. Whether it's real or not, it could trigger a worldwide panic if it gets out."

"I _think_ what you need is an astrophysicist."

"Can you root one out for me?"

"I'll call NASA in the morning."

"No... I want a qualified individual rather than an entity, because if there's a sliver of truth, NASA will go public too. I think it's best to keep it concealed until we figure out what to do. Jaeger's file is on the desk in my study, and I want a preliminary evaluation as soon as possible. We have a campaign going on, and fact-chasing to satisfy some feral world of science fantasy is a distraction I don't need."

"Okay, I will do."

Lloyd bids a goodnight and places the iPhone back into his pocket. He gazes distantly at the cover of the folder for several moments before he opens it and begins to read the first page of the top document.
30

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Friday, June 26, 2020, 0814h

Steve is somnolent after the overnight flight from Washington, but he has never been able to sleep while flying and it's an effort to keep his mind focused on the paperwork as fatigue catches up with him. He's about to ask Nancy to make a strong pot of coffee when Brad walks into his office sporting a big grin.

"Well, did Sinclair believe you?"

"He was pretty cynical as expected, but I got the impression he'll follow through."

"No matter, we fulfilled our obligation by bringing it to his attention, and it's his privilege whether he acts on it or not," Brad says nonchalantly. He pulls a chair forward, and his expression becomes more solemn. "We lost twelve satellites since ten o'clock yesterday morning."

Steve sits forward and screws his face into a pained expression. More than half their fleet is now out of service and the unpleasant news is equivalent to a shot of caffeine. "Do you think the axis will keep on changing?"

"It's got to stop at some point otherwise the planet is going turn upside down."

"I once read a report in New Scientist how a reversal of the magnetic field has happened several times in the past, and I was wondering if this is how it betides."

"Swapping the physical positions of the ice caps won't switch the north-south polarity." Brad appears somewhat ambivalent. "I think this is linked to the Andaman Event in some way."

Steve is perplexed because he's unable to comprehend how a catastrophe that occurred six months earlier could be the perpetrator. "Do you really believe all that stuff you told me yesterday about the atmosphere heating up, climate change, and extinctions?"

"Every damn word; but how bad it'll be is beyond the boundaries of my wisdom."

A weary smile appears on Steve's face. "Perhaps that's a good thing for both of us, BB."

Brad chuckles in response. "Anyway, we'll have to carry out an extensive overhaul of the operating systems and upgrade the databank, but we can't evaluate the differentiation and figure out what the new normal will be while the situation is still a fluid situation."

Steve is aghast. "Are you saying we can't get the satellites back online until this thing stops whatever it's doing?"

"That's kinda the picture," Brad replies. "Unbeknownst to me, Danny, Jim, and Bill worked through the night writing new routines and program modifications in an attempt to bypass the sensors and presented the package to me when I came in this morning. The definitions look good when I ran a preliminary scan, and so far, it's passed every test. It's now going through a final simulation, and I'll know in a few more hours whether it's ready for Krazy Kath."

Steve gapes at his partner in astonishment. "And there are no corybantic codes?"

"I haven't found any." Brad puffs his chest and his voice is suffused with pride. "Our guys are the brightest and the best, and their teamwork is impeccable."

"But won't the satellites fail again if the axis continues to change?"

"We'll lose connectivity unless manual adjustments are made to each unit every eight to twelve hours... but here's the problem. The technician will need to write one hundred twenty different programs customized to the specific orbital orientation of each satellite during one shift, but it'll take twenty to thirty minutes to download the necessary data to revise and modify the codes; it'll be overwhelming for one technician and impossible to keep the network in service."

"It sounds like you want to employ another tech?"

Brad's frustration is beginning to brim over. "Steve, I have to employ at least another _six_ just to keep the network running."

The unknown is disconcerting, and the CEO mulls over the situation for several seconds. "What'll you do with them once normality resumes?"

"Don't worry, I'll find a way to assimilate them. Let's just get through the now, first, and we'll worry about the future once we get there." He takes a deep breath. "I take it we'll be released from federal control once they verify my report?"

Steve snorts in disgust. "Sinclair wants to use his executive power to invalidate the disaster clause, which is the only protection we have."

The look of stupefaction on Brad's face would've made Steve laugh under normal circumstances, but there isn't anything amusing about the president's threat. "He can't do that."

He nods in agreement. "Can you imagine how a ruling like that will be exploited? Hundreds of thousands of businesses will scramble to disengage from international trading for fear that their contracts will be nullified by a presidential stroke of a pen whenever an overseas client is dissatisfied. It'll do irreversible damage to the economy, and there would—" Steve is interrupted by the buzz of the intercom and leans forward to turn on the speakerphone. "Yes, Nancy."

"Mr. Porter is here to see you."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Okay, send him in." He clicks the disconnect button and looks at Brad. "Damn. He probably wants to discuss the furlough list."

Brad stands and stretches his arms with a long groan. "I need to get back down to the lab. I'll stop by a little later."

"BB?" He turns to look back at him. "Tell your guys not to talk about this outside of the lab. I promised to keep it quiet until Monday."

"They already know. I had a chat with them yesterday afternoon."

"Thanks."

Brad opens the door just as Kevin Porter is about to knock and Steve smiles to himself as both men eyeball each other with enmity as they pass, but they don't acknowledge one another in any other way. The auditor continues into the office and crosses the floor toward his desk. "How did your meeting go with the president?"

"It was satisfactory," Steve replies pleasantly. Kevin appears surprised at his amiable attitude—and perhaps a bit curious. "I expect you're here to give me the furloughs?"

"Uh... yes, I am. Are you ready to go through the list?"

"Let's get it done."
31

The President's Private Study

The White House, Washington, DC

Coordinates: 38° 53' 50.6" N, 77° 02' 15.1" W

Friday, June 26, 2020, 1123h

President Sinclair flips to the second page of a two-sheet fax as he reads it for the third time when the door opens and Brian Harding and Robert Klaus walk into the room. He makes a hand motion towards a large reading table in the center of the study. "Take a seat. We'll get started as soon as Terry gets here."

His professional relationship with the sixty-two-year-old secretary of state spans twenty-five years. Brian's flat-faced appearance, long chiseled chin, and short forehead sets him apart in a crowd, but it was his strong negotiating skills and knowledge of foreign policy that made him the obvious choice to lead the department, and Lloyd is happy with his performance. However, he is less familiar with Robert, who was recently promoted as the secretary for Homeland Security after the sudden death of his predecessor. Lloyd had been hesitant to nominate the forty-nine-year-old. During the interview, he came across as egotistical, overambitious, and perhaps one who might be inclined to disregard policy, but because he was recommended by the vice president and endorsed by the chief of staff, he finally relented.

Brian and Robert have barely sat down when Terry walks into the study. "Good morning."

The two men return the greeting, but Lloyd, who had returned his attention back to the fax, reciprocates with a preoccupied grunt. He waits for the vice president to sit at the table before he gets to his feet and saunters around to the front of the desk with the communication in his hand. "Infinity has blamed the failure of their weather satellites on a natural phenomenon that seems... well, more than a little implausible."

Robert sniggers. "Let's see... they've been hi-jacked by Venusians?"

He gives the DHS secretary a sharp, disapproving glance before looking at Brian. "Jaeger submitted what he claimed to be evidence of incongruities, but the documentation contains scientific expressions, charts, and abstract mathematical calculations that make no sense to me." He pauses to perch himself on the front edge of the desk with one foot on the floor. "The report infers that the angle of the earth's axis is changing, and he believes it'll be the catalyst for an enigmatic global disaster."

Robert chortles loudly, but he quickly checks his mirth when he realizes that neither the president nor Terry appears amused. "What? Am I the only one with any humor this morning?"

Lloyd's patience with Robert is eroding fast, but he chooses to ignore him. "Terry faxed the Infinity report to a respected astrophysicist and professor at Harvard, Dr. Jack Bailey, Ph.D., for his perspective with the sole intent of discrediting Jaeger." He raises the papers in his hand. "His response came in thirty minutes ago, and in spite of my cynicism, there seems to be more substance to Jaeger's fairy tale than I'm willing to believe." He starts reading from the fax. "The earth's obliquity to the ecliptic is typically twenty-three point four four degrees. Its angle as recorded at ten-forty this morning is twenty-four point nine one four two, confirming that the planet's axial inclination has advanced by one point five degrees from the position considered normal."

Brian frowns. "What does he mean by oblique to... uh, whatever?"

Lloyd raises a shoulder and screws the left side of his face into a half-grimace. "It's a scientific expression. The obliquity is the angle between the rotational and orbital axis of the planet, while the ecliptic is the celestial sphere of the apparent path the sun takes through the stars, as observed from earth."

Terry raises his forehead and he looks at the president with amazement in his eyes. "Christ, Lloyd, do you even understand a word of what you just said... because _I_ sure as hell didn't?"

"That's because I did my homework," he replies with a smug expression. He had actually looked it up on the Internet before they'd all arrived, and he had scribbled the definition across the top of the page as a reminder. "Dr. Bailey says that evidence of a continued progression of the planetary alignment is inconclusive, and he requires twenty-four hours to substantiate whether a change is still occurring."

"But does he refute Jaeger's claim that it'll cause some kind of natural disaster?" Brian asks.

Lloyd flips the first page of the fax and lets it dangle down from the top corner. "He writes that while a shift of one point five degrees may seem insignificant, in reality, it will induce major environmental changes and cause irreparable damage to the planet's fragile ecosystems, which will be a critical challenge to millions of species."

Terry is clearly puzzled, and his eyebrows move closer together. "Does he elaborate?"

The president shakes his head. "Not really. The professor says he isn't going to make any premature conjectures, but he'll have a better idea of the corollary once he's confirmed whether the obliquity to the ecliptic is still increasing." President Sinclair gets up from his perch on the desk and begins to walk around to his seat again. "To be honest, I'm not comforted by this evaluation. It's too brief, imprecise, and extremely nebulous."

An uncomfortable silence follows, which lasts for half a minute before it's broken by the vice president. "We shouldn't allow this to become public until we know exactly what it means. You know the fringe groups will come to some wild conclusions before the facts are known, and that could be dangerous on its own merits."

"I concur," Lloyd says, and he glances from one man to the next. "I've designated tumble as highly classified for now, and while I think we'll be able to downgrade its status once we get a comprehensive report from Dr. Bailey, it stays between the four of us. If we need to bring anyone else into the fold, it'll be at _my_ privilege."

Brian sits forward with a concerned expression in his eyes. "We aren't the only people who are privy to this information, and we need to assume the employees at Infinity and Dr. Bailey's assistants—if he has any—are also in the loop. That'll make it pretty hard to contain."

Lloyd's tone is contemplative. "We have four federal agents at Infinity who are unaware of Jaeger's speculation, and they would have mentioned it in their updates if there was any gossip or rumors among the employees. It suggests that Jaeger, Bentley, three technicians, and perhaps his private secretary are the only people with knowledge of what's purported to be happening, but the question is how long will they keep it a secret?"

"Statistics imply that an average of ninety-seven percent entrusted with a secret will share it with someone else within twenty-four hours," Robert says.

Terry gazes at him with a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Why don't we move them out to Nevada for a few days... just until we know more facts?"

"Do you mean the Nora Hartley Center?"

The vice president affirms with a nod, but Robert is quick to oppose the idea. "Its existence and location are classified, and it's not a hotel to hide people; that's what safe houses are for."

Lloyd folds his arms and rests them on top of his desk. "That isn't true, Robert. People are placed in safe houses for their own protection, but it won't stop them from talking. I think the research facility is exactly where they should be." The contradiction appears to embarrass the DHS secretary, but the president casually brushes it away. "Do you know if there's any workspace available?"

"An entire level was vacated last month."

"Excellent," Lloyd replies He gazes at Robert in silence while he determines what he wants done, and several seconds pass before he speaks again. "Brad Bentley seems to be a pretty sharp tool. Move him to the Nora Hartley Center with any specialized toys he requires to maintain communications with his satellites—and do it today, but with absolute discretion. I imagine the data he collects from his machines will be valuable to Dr. Bailey because really, they're the only eyes we have on the tumble if there really is something like that happening."

Robert taps the keys on an electronic notepad. "Then I take it you want the professor taken out to Nevada too."

"Not yet. Put him on lockdown at the university for the next twenty-four hours so he can finish the assessment; no telephone calls in or out, and no physical contact with anyone. Whether we move him to Nora Hartley will depend on what he writes in his report tomorrow morning."

"Is he married?"

"Damned if I know, but if he is, then his wife and any minors under twenty-one still living at home must go as well. It'll bring too much attention if a man of his status vanishes without a trace, but a little less mysterious if his family disappears with him. It's easier to cast off suspicion by explaining that they've gone on vacation, or had to travel due to a sudden illness or death in the family"

"What of Jaeger and the rest of the geeks at Infinity?"

Lloyd scowls at the DHS secretary. "Robert, _you're_ in charge of homeland security. Do whatever is necessary to keep things under wraps until Monday afternoon." He pauses to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, and then he swings his head in the direction of the door. "All right, Mr. Klaus, you're excused. I want you to get a handle on this posthaste."

Terry is looking at Lloyd with a perturbed expression on his face as Robert leaves. "Aren't you overreacting just a tad? I don't think it's necessary to put everyone under sequestration."

"I'm merely being cautious." Lloyd hesitates before he continues. "I might have to reschedule tomorrow's rally in Kansas for another date."

"I'll warn the campaign manager," Terry says, and he jots a reminder onto a post-it. "You also have back-to-back appearances on Sunday. Do you want to postpone them too?"

"Sunday? _Sunday?_ " Lloyd repeats, trying to recall where he should be. "Oh... in Ohio? Hell, no, I definitely can't afford to blow those two off so easily."

Brian gets to his feet and prepares to leave. "I'll be in my office for the rest of the day if you need me. I have a lot of shit to catch up on."

Lloyd pulls a thick folder from the top of a stack sitting on the side of his desk and opens it. "I have some congressional paperwork that requires my attention, so I'm going to be stuck here for a while too." He looks at Terry. "Go on, you can fuck off too."

"I'm all caught up," the vice president replies.

President Sinclair smirks. "That's a wrong answer. I've got lots of lovely work you can help me with."
32

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Friday, June 26, 2020, 1242h

Steve slumps into his chair, lays a spreadsheet across the top of his desk, and throws himself into a chore that requires a lot of concentration. After ten minutes, it becomes clear that it isn't going to be so easy to push his emotions aside, and he slowly succumbs to an overwhelming feeling of desolation. The auditors had followed him from one department to the next when he announced the furloughs in compliance to their instructions, but in spite of a guarantee that no one would be laid off permanently, umbrage and anger simmered among his employees due to the unexpected and unpleasant manner in how it was executed.

The telephone rings, and he answers it to a formal and somewhat prickly voice. "Mr. Jaeger, this is Secretary Robert Klaus, Homeland Security, and I'm calling on behalf of the President of the United States. Two of my agents will be with you by the time this conversation is over, and you _are_ required to abide by their instructions. Do I make myself clear?"

Steve's body stiffens. "What are they—"

The voice on the other end of the line cuts him off sharply. "Have I made myself clear?"

He's getting tired of being pushed around by the White House, and the caller's arrogance thrusts his anger into the red zone. "Yes, like a fucking _bull_ horn, now give me—"

The person on the other end hangs up while Steve is talking, and infuriated at the disrespect and obnoxious attitude of the DHS secretary, he slams the handset back on its cradle before pressing the Talk button on the intercom. Nancy is a valuable asset, and in spite of his pleas not to include her on the furlough list, the auditors deemed her expendable. He doesn't want to lose her, and afraid she might seek alternative employment, he had pulled her aside and asked her to treat the time off as a vacation with assurances she'd get full back pay as soon as the feds release their accounts from appropriation. However, she was upset and never gave him any assurances.

She takes her time to answer his call, and the cold hostility in her voice when she does wrenches at his gut. "Yes, Mr. Jaeger?"

He chokes back on his anger. "The Department of Homeland Security called to tell me they're sending a couple of goons over to see me. Can you—"

Her voice is toneless. "They're here, Mr. Jaeger, and they're heading for your office."

He is startled by a scratchy sound at the door, and he looks up to see a head peering around the corner. A burly man in his late twenties is trying to open it stealthily, but now he's been seen, he steps into the office with an egotistical swagger. He's a little over six feet tall and dressed in what the CEO categorizes as typical federal agent garb—a dark suit, shirt, and tie, and he oozes an air of arrogance. Steve closes the intercom and addresses the stranger with an icy glare in his gray eyes. "It's clear you're parents never taught you etiquette, but the polite thing to do is to knock and wait until you're invited to enter."

The man walks into the center of the room with his eyes fixed on him, while a second agent—a little shorter, but just as muscular—follows him into the office. Steve's anger ticks up a notch because they still haven't acknowledged him, and it's clear that their aberrant behavior and unsettling stance is intended to intimidate. Conversely, Steve is not someone who is easily coerced, and he looks from one to the other with a denigrating gleam in his eye. "You don't scare me if _that's_ what you're trying to do. It's time you quit acting like little children and tell me who you are and why you're here."

The first man finally speaks in a deep, gravelly voice. "You know who we are."

"I fail to see how when you've not had the courtesy to introduce yourself."

"We're here to escort Mr. Bentley and his equipment to the White House."

_"What_ equipment?"

"Whatever is necessary to communicate with the satellites—or at least that's what we were told."

"Show me some identification."

The man glares at him fiercely as if he Steve doesn't have the right to question his authority. "You got a call from our boss."

Steve's patience is waning, and his tone becomes more dour and demanding. "You haven't even told me who _you_ are, let alone who the fuck your boss is."

"Robert Klaus, the secretary—"

Steve cuts him off with a scornful snort. "I had a brief exchange with someone who _claimed_ to be Robert Klaus, but he never gave me an attestation as to whether he really was the person he claimed to be."

"You were ordered to be cooperative."

"I don't take orders, nor do I comply with demands from people who fail to identify themselves to my satisfaction. Our equipment is protected by corporate _and_ private laws, so you _will_ show me your credentials and a warrant before _anything_ is removed from the premises. And that includes my CTO." They continue to stare at him with clear defiance. Steve realized they are testing his resolve, and he shrugs in a nonchalant manner. "You've got thirty seconds before I call the police." They wait until he is reaching for the telephone before conceding, and the two agents produce a gold five-pointed star and a picture ID.

Steve beckons with a finger. "Don't be shy, children. My eyesight isn't _that_ good." The pair glances at each other before they finally walk over to the desk, but he continues to antagonize them by deliberately taking his time to scrutinize the cards, even though he has no idea whether the badges are authentic. They are identified as Roland Jennings and Paul Robbins.

The CEO is averse to permitting any equipment to leave the tower, but the fact that Brad will be in charge of the apparatuses offers some consolation. But he's also beginning to realize there must be some substance to Brad's theory after all, and his eyes glint with curiosity. "Why is Mr. Bentley needed in Washington? We can communicate quite effectively with the satellites from here."

"I obey orders without prejudice or question."

Steve is about to make a sarcastic comment in response, but bites his tongue and takes his iPhone out of his pocket. "Hey, BB, I need you to come up to my office."

"I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

The agents move back into the center of the room where they take up a sentinel-like stance with their arms folded across their chests. The atmosphere is thick and uncomfortable, and Steve tries to break the status quo. "Would either of you like a cup of coffee or anything to drink?"

"No," Roland replies, and it is clear he is speaking for both of them. The agent saunters over to a window in the west wall and Steve swivels his chair into a position where he can keep both men within his field of vision. "I hear the weather is as hot in Washington as it is in California."

Roland places a finger and thumb between the slats of the Venetian blinds, and stretches them apart to peer down into Hamilton Avenue. "Hotter."

The conversation falters, and Rowland prowls over to the bookcase against the south wall, which is directly behind Steve. Now he's unable to keep an eye on both men, but because Roland is the one nosing about, he swings his chair around to watch him. The agent angles his head to one side to read the titles on the spines.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?' Steve asks.

The agent doesn't answer, and after selecting a tome that seems to catch his interest, he begins to flick casually through the pages.

The door opens and Brad walks into the office. He hesitates in midstep, glancing from Roland to Paul and then to Steve with an enquiring look in his eyes.

"BB, these two... uh, gentlemen... are from Homeland Security."

Roland closes the volume and, to Steve's surprise, replaces it in the correct location before he meanders back toward Paul with his eyes locked on Brad. "Mr. Bentley?"

"Yes."

"At the behest of President Sinclair, we've been requested to escort you with all equipment essential to communicate with your satellites and analyze the data, to the White House."

Brad is clearly confused. "Analyze _what_ data? Why does he want me to go to Washington when I have the ability to communicate with the satellites from here?"

"I'm following orders, Mr. Bentley. The president likes to have his advisors close at hand during a crisis."

"Advisors? Crisis?" Brad echoes. He appears somewhat perplexed and looks at Steve. "How long did _you_ know about this?"

"They just walked in and surprised me too."

Brad looks back at Roland and scratches the side of his right temple; an action that Steve recognizes as a sign of frustration. "I don't know... there's a lot of sensitive, heavy, and bulky equipment."

"We have a truck parked in your service bay at the rear of the building, and our orders are to assist you in getting your stuff loaded and transported safely."

He looks at Roland with a wary expression in his eyes. "You seem to have anticipated that I'll agree to go with you."

"Are you refusing?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet, but I'll let you know on Monday."

"Unfortunately, you are required to come with us today, like now."

Brad recoils, and his eyes darken. " _Today?_ No, I can't. My wife will kill me if I bail without warning."

"That's _not_ an issue, Mr. Bentley. A limousine is already on its way to your house and Mrs. Bentley will join you at the airport. The first lady is truly a great hostess, and I'm sure your wife would love the opportunity to spend a weekend at the White House."

"You know where I live?"

"Of course we do."

The CTO hesitates and purses his lips for several seconds. "I don't know... we still need to arrange a sitter for the kids."

Roland speaks in a persuasive tone. "It'll be an adventure for your children too. You'll be in a family-friendly environment, and they'll be the envy of their friends at the start of the new semester." He continues to encourage Brad to accept, but with more firmness in his voice, and Steve wonders what will happen if his partner flat-out refuses. "Now call your wife and let her know you're taking the family on a surprise trip... but be certain _not_ to tell her where you're going; otherwise, it wouldn't be a surprise, _would_ it?"

Steve can see his partner is unhappy at the way he's being shanghaied. "I still need to go home and pack some clothes."

Roland emits a short, gruff laugh. "I'm sure your wife is capable of doing that. I know it's unexpected, but I've been assured this _is_ extremely urgent."

Brad is clearly trying to come up with a polite excuse not to go. "I'll need dedicated high-speed cable connections to communicate with the satellites."

"Not a problem, Mr. Bentley. The White House has the fastest in the world. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

Brad's eyes are blazing angrily and he emits a contemptuous snort. "You have an answer for everything."

The agent glances at his wristwatch, but his tone is noticeably colder. "I don't want to be pushy, but we've got a plane to catch."

Brad gives a short sardonic laugh before spinning on his heels and heads for the door in long angry strides, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
33

Bir Lehlou

Western Sahara

Coordinates: 26° 21' 00.2" N, 09° 34' 33.1" W

Friday, June 26, 2020, 1317h

Bir Lehlou is a tiny oasis town in the northeastern sector of Western Sahara, a disputed territory in the Maghreb region of North Africa contested by the Polisario Front and Morocco. It is populated mainly by Sahrawis and comprises of a few shanty homes, a small shop, a mosque, a dispensary, a school, a crude gas station, and a general supply store, which stocks necessities for the townsfolk and doubles as a post office.

Visitors to the dusty desert village are rare, and a small group of Arabic children watches in curiosity as Randy Middleton appears in the doorway of the tiny mart, gripping the ears of a large sack of rice over his shoulders. He stumbles down the three wooden steps and trudges across to a Land Rover, where he lets the load slide from his back onto the tailgate with a loud grunt. The heat is brutal, and he pauses to pull a handkerchief from a pocket and mops the sweat from his face.

The fifty-one-year-old is the leader of a small British archaeological expedition who was invited by the Polisario government to investigate some large fossils unearthed in an old phosphate mine. It wasn't long before he realized they'd stumbled on the mass grave of an undiscovered species of dinosaur, and excitement began to mount as they brushed the sand away from the aged bones with painstaking patience. Preliminary tests dated them at 220 million years, which is close to the beginning of the Triassic Period, but Dr. Middleton is waiting for confirmation to come back from the laboratory, because if true, the reptile is three times larger than any known to exist during that era.

The importance, value, and immense size of the ancient graveyard required additional workers, and Randy sought permission to employ local Sahrawis to perform manual labor duties. They are one of the major Bedouin ethnic tribal groups in the region, but language was a major obstruction until he came across nineteen-year-old Sekkouri al-Taheel. The young man spoke English and Hassaniya, an Arabic dialect common in this part of the country, and because of his linguistic skills, Randy gave him a supervisory position.

Bir Lehlou is a 250-mile drive across a hot, sandy, and unforgiving wilderness, but it's the nearest town to the archeological dig site, and the import of provisions and equipment are coordinated through the supply depot. Randy was irritated when the old man who owns the store seized the opportunity to extort a fee to allow the shipments to pass through the town, but his options were few, and he needed someone to hold the supplies until Sekkouri could drive in to pick them up. However, today he wanted to break away from his usual routine and decided to do the run himself.

An older model jeep pulls up close to his with a beefy roar, and he shoves the damp handkerchief back into his pocket as a tall, slim Arabic man in his mid-forties leaps out of the driver's seat. There's something familiar about his form and gait as he approaches with a smile of recognition on his face. " _As'haab_ , Randy! This _is_ a pleasant surprise?"

Randy pauses to look the man over, and then he begins to chuckle. "Well, I'll be a... Firkin al-Mouhand! What brings you to such a desolate part of the world?"

"Allah, and my jeep," Firkin says, and laughs. "I'm doing a dig at an abandoned phosphate mine west of here."

"So am I." Randy steps back and looks his old friend up and down. "I see you're just as skinny as ever."

_"Bah_ , it's the bloody diet. I'll never get a belly like you if I can't eat some decent food once in a while."

"I know what you mean. Even the occasional stewed camel would be welcome, eh?"

"Ah-so, even if the meat _is_ tough to chew." His eyes are gleaming with curiosity. "I can't imagine you're here on a pleasure trip, so I think you must be onto something big, yes?"

"I'm in the country at the behest of the Polisario government to investigate some fossils in an old mine about 250 miles northeast of here."

Firkin's eyes darken with hatred, and he turns his head to spit on the ground before speaking in a scorn-filled voice. "Fuckin' Polisario's—they're as worthless as the piss that dribbles down a camel's hind legs." He looks back at Randy. "Don't take it personal, my friend, but we never get the opportunity to explore anything important. It's _always_ given to an outsider."

Randy is sympathetic. Bias has always leaned towards awarding archeological contracts to foreign entities because of an unproven principle that it's easier to prevent the theft of artifacts.

The brooding on Firkin's face dissipates as fast as it had appeared. "I suppose this is a big find, is it not?"

"Better than I expected," and he lowers his voice. "We've uncovered a new species of dinosaur."

Firkin's mouth drops open in astonishment. "You don't _say_ , you lucky fuck. You Britishers smell like roses while my feet are rooted in camel shit."

"Why don't you come back with me? You can stay for as long as you like."

His expression changes to one of excitement. "As'haab _,_ Randy, you will allow this for me?"

"But of _course_ I will."

Firkin's facial expressions change faster than a light switch can be flicked on and off—a habit he's had in all the years Randy has known him—and he suddenly looks forlorn. "I can't come today. Mayhap we can arrange something for next week?"

"Does Friday sound good to you?"

Firkin is unable to contain his excitement. "I'll be here early, as'haab."

An older man of Sahrawi descent appears in the shop doorway holding a large cardboard box, and he speaks to Randy in Hassaniya.

Firkin looks at him and smiles. "Do you understand what he says? This is your last carton."

Randy walks up the steps and takes it from the man. " _Shu-_ kraan _._ "

The storeowner nods his head once in response. " _Ma-_ salaam," he replies before he turns and disappears back into the store.

"I didn't know you could speak Hassaniya," Firkin says as Randy sits the box in the rear of the Land Rover.

"I don't. But I know how to say 'thank you' in about two dozen languages." He grins as he slams the tailgate closed and dusts the palms of his hands together. "I'd love to stay and chat for a bit, but I have a long drive ahead of me." He takes Firkin's shoulder in a firm grip and gives it a gentle shake. "So, I'll meet you here next week?"

"But of course, as'haab! I want to see this monster you dig up and sup a few glasses of quality scotch while we reminisce. Take care, my friend, and beware of the dust devils."

"Hah! They're more scared of me than I am of them," Randy says as he climbs into the Land Rover. He looks back and snarls like a wild animal, and Firkin is still laughing when he tugs the door closed and starts the engine. It's hot, and he takes a swig of tepid water from a bottle lying on the passenger seat while he waits for the climate control to cool the interior. Two minutes later, he pulls onto a dusty road leading out of the village, and a thick ecru cloud kicked up by the tires stretches out behind the vehicle like the vapor trail from a jet for more than half a mile before it slowly dissipates in the still air.

He stays on the track for three miles before he turns off and heads northeast into the open desert, where the imposing golden-brown dunes have challenged the strength and courage of travelers and explorers for centuries, shifting and morphing like ancient immortal guardians as they march before the wind across the unforgiving wilderness. There are no landmarks, and because it's easy to drift off course, he keeps his eye on the GPS. He has been driving for thirty minutes when his attention is drawn to a discoloration on the horizon, and puzzled but unconcerned, he slows to a stop and climbs out of the bubble of cool air in the cab. The heat is fierce, and Randy removes his sunglasses and shades his eyes from the glare of the sun with the open palm of his right hand. During the journey into Bir Lehlou, the outline of the distant dunes had stood out with sharp clarity against the clear blue sky, but now a thin brownish hue from east to west blends between the terrain and the firmament.

But of _course_! The morning air had been cooler, but now the atmosphere has heated up and he's probably looking at an illusion caused by the hot air currents rising up from the surface. Satisfied it isn't anything to worry about, he gets back into the cab, but after another fifteen minutes, he comes to a standstill for a second time. The hue along the horizon is thickening, and its color has changed to a darker reddish-brown.

"Well bugger me purple, Paddington, if it isn't a bloody sandstorm," he mutters. The name is in reference to Paddington Bear, a fictional character in children's literature which he uses as an appellation for 'mate' or 'buddy,' and he grabs the satphone from the passenger seat. He gets out of the vehicle and dials the number to one of his associates at the dig site, but he still keeps a wary eye on the advancing wall while he waits for the call to connect. A red light on the telephone unit begins to flash, indicating a failure to connect with the satellite. It's usually a reliable service, and under the assumption that communications are being disrupted by the storm, he tosses it back onto the passenger seat in annoyance after the third attempt.

A hot breeze ruffles his hair. It isn't the first time he's been caught out in a sandstorm so he knows how formidable they can be, but this one is frightening. Huge brown clouds of sand billowing up from the ground are being sucked high into the atmosphere, and aware of the intense energy it takes to generate an animal like this, he leaps back into the Land Rover. It would be impossible to outrun, and his only option is to make himself as small as possible. He would get some shelter if he parked on the leeward side of one of the huge dunes, but then the risk of being buried beneath the sand drifting over the crest is indubitable. He slams the transmission into gear with a crunch and turns the vehicle around until the rear is toward the storm, hoping it will mitigate the chance of a rollover, but the problem with hot air storms is their instability. While they move in one direction, the wind can sweep in from another.

Randy pulls the parking brake on and cuts the ignition. He can hear his heart thumping in the ominous silence as he waits with his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. A tingle sweeps over his scalp and the hairs on his head bristle from a sudden atmospheric buildup of static electricity. He begins to wish he was still at Bir Lehlou, but he's unaware that the tiny town is about to be obliterated by the greatest sandstorm to ever rise up from the desert. Born in southern Egypt and northern Sudan, it's the leading edge of a massive frontal system marching across the North African continent with relentless fortitude. The five-hundred-mile-wide freak has already swept through more than two thousand miles, obliterating hundreds of tribal towns and communities across parts of Libya, Chad, Niger, Algeria, and Mali, and now as it continues on a path of destruction through Mauritania, Western Sahara, and southern Morocco.

A small dust devil swirls up nearby and rapidly dies down, but a second vortex is larger and more sustained. A faint rumble is growing in intensity, and multiple layers of nightmarish sounds ranging from a deep roar to a godless shriek are quickly building up until the chthonic noises emanating from the entity is petrifying; chilling enough to curdle the blood and strip away the courage and heroism of the bravest of warriors.

The sand begins to churn and twirl around the vehicle, and trembling in fear, Randy is making a perfervid supplication to Aeolus for compassion when daylight is almost vanquished by the sheer volume of solid material passing before the sun. He's abruptly plunged into a murky dystopian-like world, and two seconds later, the wind slams into the rear of the Land Rover with unparalleled fury. His fingers are clenched tightly around the steering wheel as the vehicle lurches forward for twenty feet with the wheels locked, rocking violently from the enormous gusts buffeting along the sides. A resounding rattle fills the vehicle from the millions of sand grains smashing into the body like tiny pellets of hail, and the gut-wrenching minutes of sheer terror that follow are the worst he's ever experienced.

Weakened by the pitting of the gritty granules, the rear window suddenly implodes, and a sharp pain spears his head when an instantaneous change of air pressure within the vehicle ruptures his eardrums. He leans forward in agony, and reflexively covers them with the palms of his hand.

But he doesn't get the time to dwell on his injuries. The wind streams into the Land Rover at over one hundred and fifty miles an hour, and the windshield, door, and side windows shatter simultaneously into thousands of tiny fragments from the rapid buildup of pressure inside the vehicle. Particles of laminated glass hang suspended in front of his eyes for a brief moment before they're whipped off into obscurity by the fierce wind.

The back of his neck and head are peppered by thousands of searing hot needles as the tiny granules blasting through the off-roader rip into his skin, and he clasps his hands around the back of his skull in an impulsive effort to shield it from the acute pain. Within moments, he suffers an unbearable burning in his fingers and arms and he pulls them away involuntarily, but he is horrified when he sees the shredded tentacles of flesh hanging from the white skeletal bones of his fingers with blood dripping from the gory mess. Before he is able to react, the Land Rover pivots 180 degrees, and the flesh on his face and chest begins to dissolve until the white bone of his skull and breast slowly materializes through the bloody pulp.

He is barely alive when the sturdy vehicle flips over and starts rolling across the desert before the wind with the ease of an empty cardboard box.
34

Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, Inc.

Hamilton Ave, Palo Alto, California

Coordinates: 37° 26' 39.9" N, 122° 09' 36.2" W

Friday, June 26, 2020, 1446h

Danny casts his eyes over the electronic equipment and boxes of cables and connectors stacked on the floor, and satisfied his boss has everything he requires to hook up with the satellites from a remote location, he looks at Brad. "I think this is everything you'll need."

"Too bad if it's not," he mumbles.

Brad did not hide his displeasure at being deracinated against his will, and Danny switches the topic. "The simulation on the fix is complete, and it's a one-hundred percent pass."

The attempt to lighten his mood seems to work because the CTO looks around at the three technicians with a beam in his eyes. "You've all made me proud, and I couldn't have expected more from anyone. I'll make sure you get the reward you deserve when I get back from the White House." He pauses and turns to Bill. "I suppose we're still losing satellites?"

"Yes. South Korea and the SV shared by Portugal and Morocco failed earlier, and Uruguay went offline fifteen minutes ago."

Brad shakes his head slowly. "We can't upload the modifications until things stabilize, so I suggest you all enjoy a well-earned weekend off."

His words are sweet music to Danny's ears. "Oh, _great!_ It's my kid brother's twenty-first birthday, and he's having a big party tonight."

"Have a great time, then," Brad replies, "but don't forget—the data still needs to be recoded before the fix can be installed, so make sure you give the memory sticks to Steve before you go home today."

Danny wonders why Brad and Steve are the only two people authorized to validate any new or revised software. It's a set modus operandi established prior to his employment years earlier, and while he knows they are stamped with some kind of security code before they can be loaded into the satellites, he is curious as to why it's been kept hidden from the technicians. He dismisses the thought from his head and looks over to the two DHS agents who are standing near the exit. "The equipment is ready to load."

Roland steps forward. "Is this everything?"

"Yes."

The agent turns to Brad. "I'll walk you to the car; it's waiting in the parking garage."

"What about my wife and kids?"

"They're already at the airport, and from what I hear, your missus is a little feisty."

_"Humph_... you've poked a sleeping dog with a sharp stick, except _I'm_ the one who'll end up getting bitten."

Roland ignores the comment and looks at Bill and Jim. "Okay, lads, my partner will help you take this stuff down and load it into the van... and _you_ "—he points to Danny—"can stow it in the box. You know what can be stacked and what needs to be top-loaded."

Brad sighs. "Well, I'll see you on Monday." He pauses before he gives Danny a final reminder. " _Don't_ forget to take the fix to Steve before you go home. Now, enjoy the weekend."

"I'll be back to help once Mr. Bentley is on his way," Roland says.

Paul speaks for the first time after the doors close on the two men, and it's clear he's disgruntled at being the subordinate when his partner is present, but now he's in charge for a few minutes at least and he doesn't waste time exerting his authority. "Anyone got a dolly?"

Jim nods. "Yup, there's a couple in the loading dock."

Danny lashes the last piece of equipment into the box truck, and once he's satisfied everything is secure, he walks to the rear and reaches up to take hold of the canvas grip cord attached to the roll-up door. The slats rattle noisily as they slide down under his weight when he leaps to the ground, and he looks at Paul. "Hey, you got the key for the padlock?"

The agent pats his trouser pocket and confirms with a nod. He has a strange temperament, speaking only when necessary, and with as few words as possible.

"So much for your buddy coming back to give us a hand," Danny says as he snaps the lock closed. The words have barely rolled off his tongue when Roland appears at the front of the van with a vexed expression on his face.

"Does he always fuss and dither around like that?"

Danny is perplexed, and his eyebrows arch closer together. "What are you talking about?"

"Mr. Bentley."

His eyes open wide in surprise, and he scoffs. "He's far from being a ditherer."

"He went back to the lab twice because he'd left something behind, and then he wanted to return a _third_ time to change some instructions he'd given you. I had to tell him I'd relay the message, otherwise, he would've missed the flight."

Something isn't adding up in Danny's mind. Brad is flying to Washington on a private flight, which begs the question as to why they seem so desperate to rush him to the airport when the plane can't leave without the equipment; but there again, Roland and Paul are an odd pair, and Danny doesn't read anything into their strange behavior other than eccentricity. "What did BB want to tell me?"

"He's canceled your weekend leave."

The blunt reply is like a punch in the gut, and Brad's unexpected change of heart leaves Danny stunned. "Did he say why?"

"He said something about data downloads... but it's all above my head, you know."

Danny points to the truck in frustration. "He's got everything in there to do that himself."

The agent raises his hands in surrender and shrugs. "Hey, don't snap my head off. I'm just the messenger."

Bill lays a hand on Danny's shoulder. "Hey, man, there's no need for you to miss out on your brother's party. It shouldn't make any difference which one of us is here as long as someone comes in to cover the shift, so I'll do it."

Roland clears his throat. "Um, excuse me, but he made it crystal that he wants all _three_ of you to come in."

Danny is astonished. " _All_ of us? Did he say what time he wants us to start?"

"Mr. Bentley said he'll call in at six o'clock."

He rolls his eyes and groans. "Oh, my good gawd _!_ Why so fucking early?"

"He wanted to start at seven until I reminded him that Washington is a different time zone and there's a three-hour difference."

"And he probably wasn't tickled by that, either." Danny is disheartened, and he stares down at his feet for a few seconds before he agrees with a great deal of reluctance to abide by the new instructions. "We'll be here."

An air of disappointment swirls around the trio as they set out across the service bay without bidding farewell to the DHS agents, and Danny gazes back at the box truck pulling out of the loading dock while he waits for the elevator car to arrive. Something doesn't feel right, but he decides not to share his anxieties with Bill and Jim.

"There's no need for either of you come in tomorrow," he finally says. "I'm the supervisor when BB isn't here, so I'll take full responsibility if he goes into a shit fit."

Bill shakes his head. "I'd rather not take the chance. He wouldn't give specific instructions like that without good reason."

"I concur," Jim adds. "United we stand, and all _that_ crap. I'll be here too."

A bell dings to signal the arrival of the car, and Danny pulls an iPhone from his pocket as he steps inside. He's trying to reach Brad to confirm the changes, but his call is redirected to his voice mail and he waits for the beep before asking his boss to return his call.

Danny heads up to the top floor with the USB memory sticks, and he stops by at Nancy's office to make sure Steve is alone. She is clearly upset and he is quick to notice that she is fighting back tears. "Hey, what's wrong?"

He has always been attracted to her, but she has never shown any interest in extending their relationship beyond that of a work colleague and friends, so he is a little afraid to ask her out lest he is rejected. It might be embarrassing to her, which would certainly make him feel awkward. "I've been furloughed."

He is dumbfounded to learn that she's been included in the layoffs. While she's single and doesn't have any children, he does know that she has some hefty financial commitments like a mortgage and car payments, and he lowers his voice. "Nancy, you have my number, so don't hesitate to call me if you need _any_ help. I'm still working, and I have a decent amount saved up."

She reaches out and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "I appreciate the offer, but you know I don't use friends in that way."

"God _damn_ it... _that's_ what friends are for." She pulls a tissue from a box on her desk, and he glances at the time. It's twenty minutes past four, and he's starting to worry that he'll miss Steve. "Is the boss alone?"

"Yes."

"Then give me a few minutes, and I'll be back. I'm taking you out for dinner tonight."

She shakes her head disconsolately. "I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood."

"You don't have a say in the matter," he replies firmly. "I'm going to my kid brother's twenty-first birthday party afterward, so I won't keep you out late." He grins and holds two fingers up. "Scout's honor."

Steve shuffles some papers into a neat stack and places them on the side of his desk. They are routine authorizations that he needs to be signed off, but they can wait until Monday. He gets to his feet and begins to pull his jacket on when there's a knock on the door. "Come in."

Danny walks in with some USBs in his hand. "Mr. Jaeger, BB asked me to bring these up to you before I go home."

"Ah, I presume these are the fixes for the satellites?"

"Yes."

"Good. Put them on my desk, and I'll come in and code them sometime tomorrow."

Danny walks across and sits the packages beside the computer keyboard. "Do you think BB will be back on Monday?"

"That's what he's hoping, but I have my doubts." Steve rests his rump against the side of the desk and folds his arms. "I want you to report to me here, in my office, at nine o'clock on Monday morning." He can see that Danny's curiosity is aroused. It's an unusual request, but it's too late in the day to divulge his intent to promote the technician. "How many satellites are out of commission now?"

"Thirty-four, but we expect to lose another two before midnight."

Steve snaps his briefcase closed. "Well, I'm going home, and I suggest you do the same. It's been a hard week on all of us, and a couple of days of relaxation will be good for everyone."

Danny grunts. " _Humph!_ I still have to come in tomorrow."

He looks at the technician in surprise. "BB told me he gave you guys the weekend off?"

"He did, but I guess he changed his mind for some reason." Danny shrugs. "Anyway, let me go down and set the security alarms in the lab. You have a nice weekend, Mr. Jaeger."

Danny leaves and Steve picks up his iPhone. He sends a text to his wife, then feeling upbeat, he leaves his office and heads down the corridor for the elevator. A few minutes later, he strides purposefully across the lobby toward the exit and walks through the doors into a stiflingly hot afternoon. He comes to an abrupt stop at the top of the steps. He had forgotten about the media, and the courtyard erupts into an unintelligible wall of vociferous babble as the journalists compete with each other for an answer to their questions. His first impulse is to retreat into the building again, but the temptation to placate Wall Street with positive news is too good to miss, and he sits his briefcase on the ground before motioning for silence with his hands. An expectant hush quickly falls over the courtyard.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The alcove is amplifying his voice to where it can be heard with perspicuity by the audience below. "The Infinity network has been in operation without downtime except for scheduled maintenance and updates for more than eleven years, so the events happening this week are extraordinary on any terms. It's tested our patience and resolve, but I'm happy to announce that the cause of the problem _has_ been identified, and corrective procedures are underway. Satellites will continue to go offline over the next day or so while modifications are integrated into the software, but we expect to have the entire network back in service again within the next few days. I want to take this opportunity to apologize publicly to our subscribers, who will receive a detailed report after midday on Monday, and to extend my gratitude to our staff who has worked hard to resolve the problem and bring this unpleasant chapter in our history to a conclusion."

A scurry, followed by a low murmur, ripples across the forecourt and explodes into a barrage of questions. Intuition tells Steve to walk away while he's on top, but he hesitates before signaling for quiet once again. "I can't understand anything when you all yell at once. _Please_." He points to a reporter close to the bottom of the steps. "You, sir, you in the blue T-shirt."

"How many satellites have failed to date?"

"Thirty-four."

His eyes settle on another journalist. "Yes, sir—you in the sunglasses and green cap."

"Mr. Jaeger, was it a fault in your own computer systems, or was it something else that brought down so many satellites in such a short period of time?"

Steve should've been prepared for the obvious question, but that is one of the problems with an impromptu press conference when the possible consequences haven't been considered in advance, and his mind races in search of an appropriate response. He can't reveal the true nature of the phenomenon without breaking his promise to President Sinclair, but he needs to be careful not to say anything that may be construed as an acceptance of culpability. It would be better to enunciate how inappropriate it would be to release the details before a report has been submitted to their clientele, but wondering if it'll be enough to keep them mollified he vacillates... perhaps just long enough to make someone nervous.

He doesn't hear the distant crack of a high-powered rifle. Nor does he feel the high-velocity bullet penetrating his forehead directly between the eyes. The parietal bone explodes with a sickening but distinct pop as the projectile exits the back of his skull, and the splat of blood and clumps of brain matter hitting the glass door behind him is heard by everyone in the courtyard. Dozens of reporters stare on in stunned silence as the human tissue begins to slide down the smooth surface of the window, leaving a bloody trail in its wake. His legs slowly bend at the knees, and his body crumples into a lifeless mound with a muffled thud in front of the business he started from nothing with his lifelong friend.

Somewhere in the forecourt, a woman screams.
35

Los Robles Avenue

Barron Park, Palo Alto, California, USA

Coordinates: 37° 24' 44.4" N, 122° 07' 50.6" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 0601h

Danny is lying face up on a king-size bed with both arms stretched out to the sides. He is dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, a once-white T-shirt with an ugly brown stain down the front, and a black sneaker laced on his left foot. A sock hangs off the other one.

He opens his eyes with a loud groan. His head is throbbing like a son of a bitch, and he rolls it to one side to look at the time. It takes a few seconds for the lens to focus on the digital display of the bedside clock. It is one minute past six, and suddenly animated into life, he swings his legs out of bed in a panic. The only reason he went to the party was because he didn't want to snub his brother, but he was feeling antisocial after what happened to Steve and hid in a corner with a flask of Jack Daniels. He has no idea how much alcohol he consumed or how he got home, but that is probably a good thing for his self-esteem if the state of his T-shirt is anything to go by.

Danny staggers into the bathroom and drops the soiled clothes in an untidy heap on the floor before stepping into the shower. He had called Nancy at five o'clock on the previous evening to tell her about Steve's assassination, but it went straight to voicemail. She failed to pick up when he tried again at the prearranged time of six, and while he couldn't imagine she'd want to go out for dinner after what happened, it only seemed proper to make it formal. His last attempt to contact her an hour later was as futile, which irritated him because she never bothered to return any of his messages.

Danny spends less than three minutes in the shower, and by six fifteen, his blue 2018 Toyota Corolla is speeding north on Route 82. He is approaching the off-ramp when his iPhone starts ringing. He cusses under his breath when he realizes he's left the Bluetooth earpiece at home in his rush to leave, and he checks the rearview mirrors to make sure no police cruisers are behind before he answers it.

"Danny, where _are_ you, man? Jim and I were getting to get worried."

"I overslept. Has BB called?"

"Not yet."

He breathes a sigh of relief and begins to exit the freeway. "I'll be there in another six or seven minutes, so if he calls, tell him I'm taking a crap or something."

Bill laughs, but it's dry and humorless. "The feds were here all night. They were just leaving when I got in forty-five minutes ago." He pauses. "Were you here when it happened?"

"Yes, but we'll talk about it later," Danny says. "I left my Bluetooth at home and the last thing I need is to get pulled over by the cops."

"Fair enough, I'll see you in a few."

Danny tosses the iPhone back onto the passenger seat. He is driving along University Avenue a little faster than the posted speed restrictions, and a few minutes later, he turns into Ramona Street.

He is one block from the Infinity tower when a sudden, blinding white flash is expelled from around the ground floor, and Danny slams his foot on the brake pedal. The Toyota skids to an abrupt stop, rocking wildly from the shockwaves of the massive explosion as they hit the vehicle from beneath with a hard, resounding thump. Danny is numb with horrified helplessness as he watches the concussion visibly move up through the tower, shattering every window one floor at a time until it exits the top of the structure in an enormous shower of dust and debris. Millions of glass shards rain down in a wide circle around the building, and thick plumes of smoke cling to the side of the tower as it billows upwards before drifting away at a gentle angle into the clear morning sky.

The intense heat from the ferocious roar of flames raging voraciously around the first two floors radiates through the windshield, and a series of huge explosions emanate from behind the main edifice where the laboratories are located. Danny's jaw sags in disbelief as several gigantic fireballs roll skywards on the crest of a heavy column of black smoke, and while he can't come up with a rational argument as to why he should leave, something is warning him deep in his consciousness not to be seen in the vicinity.

The distant sound of sirens jerks him back into the moment, and still in a daze, he obeys his instincts. He restarts the engine, makes a U-turn, and drives back towards University Avenue. The traffic signal is green, but he's forced to stop and wait while two fire engines and a police car turn onto Ramona. After they've passed through, he drives across the junction, makes a left at Lytton Avenue, and then right onto Alma Street. He continues for another mile before turning into a McDonald's opposite Menlo Park train station, and he pulls into an empty space in the far corner of the parking lot.

He turns off the ignition and tries to recapitulate what has just happened in his head, but something doesn't measure up. They don't store chemicals on the premises, at least not enough to cause such a powerful blast, and after a few minutes, he leans across the passenger seat to retrieve his iPhone from the floor where it was thrown when he braked hard. His hands are shaking as he selects Bill's number from the directory, but deep in his gut, he already knows the probable fate of his colleague and isn't surprised when it goes straight to voicemail. He then tries to call Brad, but once again he's invited to leave a message and tears of frustration well up in his eyes as he contemplates for another minute before dialing Nancy's landline. It is seven o'clock and she may still be asleep, but he has a dire need to speak to someone, even if it's only to ascertain that he hasn't slipped into the twilight zone.

He is surprised when the phone is answered by a male voice, and he suddenly feels awkward because he didn't realize she was in a relationship. "Uh... hello, I-I'm sorry for calling so early, but may I speak to Nancy?"

There's a long pause. "Who is this?"

"Danny... Danny Walker. I'm a work colleague."

"Oh, yes, you're the one who left a string of messages for her last night. I'm Brian Pritchell... Nancy's younger brother."

Danny is relieved that he isn't talking to some jealous boyfriend, and he begins to relax. "She was furloughed because of the satellite crisis, and I promised to take her out for dinner last night." Another awkward pause follows, and he realizes it would probably be better to clarify why he's calling this early. "I, um... I didn't call to talk about that, though. I... I don't know how to say this..." His lips are quivering, and he brushes the tears from his eyes with the back of a hand. "Infinity offices and laboratories... there's been an explosion..." he swallows hard in an attempt to stifle the quaver in his voice. "I think Jim and Bill are dead... and anyone else who was inside. It was a _huge_ explosion... and Steve... her boss... the CEO... he was assassinated last night."

Brian is silent for such a long time that a background hiss is the only indication he's still connected, but he finally sniffs and clears his throat before speaking again in a strangled voice. "The brakes on Nancy's car failed when she was driving home from work yesterday... a-and she was killed." Danny feels like he's just been slammed in the gut with a sledgehammer, and Brian's voice becomes distant and echoic in his head. "It happened when she was coming down Masons Hill, and a couple of witnesses say they saw flames inside the car before it crashed. A police detective said it looks like a brake hose was deliberately cut, but it'll be a day or two for the autopsy and forensic reports to come back." Although he doesn't raise his voice, a cold, menacing cadence slips into his tone. "If she was murdered, I _will_ track down the bastard who did it and kill him with my own hands."

"I-I'm so sorry," Danny stammers in a hoarse whisper. "Did you have to go down to the morgue?" He can't imagine a task more unpleasant, but deep inside he's clinging to a desperate hope that someone has made a dreadful mistake.

"They won't let me see her," Brian says. "The car exploded, and the detective said she was burned beyond recognition. The only way they can confirm her identity will be from dental records."

"I-I don't know what to say." Danny is unable to envisage a death more brutal or horrendous than being burned alive, and his head is spinning. He can barely think, let alone speak. "Can I call you back later?"

Brian gives him his mobile number, which he adds to his contact list before slipping the iPhone into a pocket. He lays his head against the headrest, closes his eyes, and begins to mull on the dreadful moment he learned of Steve's assassination on the previous afternoon. He was heading for the parking garage when he heard a woman scream, and the first thing he saw when he turned into the foyer was an ugly red splatter sliding slowly down the outside of the glass doors. Two security guards were kneeling over a motionless form lying on the top step, but he couldn't discern what was happening or who had collapsed. Henry Jackson, a crippled black security guard who usually sits behind a counter logging staff and visitors in and out, was standing close to the exit brandishing one of his two walking canes to stop people from using it while one of his associates ushered everyone through the building toward the rear doors.

He took a few paces towards the forty-five-year-old man. "What's going on, Henry?"

The guard looked at him through round, tear-filled eyes. "Someone just shot Mr. Jaeger."

Danny stared at Henry in stunned silence as he tried to absorb the full significance of his statement, and several seconds passed before he spoke again. "H-how bad is it?"

"It's worse than awful, son," and tears rolled out of the corners of his eyes. "He's dead."

He suffered a sudden bout of dizziness and had to swallow hard to stop himself from vomiting. "Nancy? Did you see _Nancy?_ "

"Miss Pritchell left a few minutes ahead of Mr. Jaeger."

Danny stares out of the windshield in an unfocused stupor as he tries to put everything into some kind of perspective that made sense. What are the odds that four employees from one company would die in an extremely violent manner in less than fifteen hours? Even a diehard skeptic would be forced to admit it's too many to be coincidental, and his mind begins to wander. _Does it have anything to do with the phenomenon being recorded by the satellites?_ Yet it's not a reason to kill people. And besides, no one knew what was happening except for the tech team, Nancy, Steve, and President Sinclair... _u_ _nless_...

The conception that they had unwittingly stumbled on a secret experiment or some kind of government conspiracy is too ridiculous to contemplate. Brad is at the White House... _or is he?_ Why hasn't he answered his phone or returned any of the messages left on his voice mail? There _must_ be a rational explanation, and all he needs to do is figure out what it is. He's feeling quite miserable, and his hangover isn't helping, either. Perhaps a black coffee and an egg burger will clear the miasma in his head.

He gets out of the car and hurries across the parking lot to the restaurant. There are only a few people inside, and after making a purchase, he sits at a table close to the television where the fire raging out of control is dominating the early morning news. The first eight floors of the Infinity tower are engulfed in flames, and the newscaster is saying that the heat is too fierce for the firefighters to get close to the building and all they can do is take a defensive stance. But Danny is puzzled when the reporter contradicts himself by declaring, with no ambiguity, that two technicians, and possibly a third, were killed in the mysterious explosions. Yet how would they know whether anyone, let alone _who_ was inside the building when he just said that the fire is too intense for the first responders to get near the structure?

His iPhone rings, and he pulls it from his pocket. He is overwhelmed with relief when he sees Brad's number is on the display, and his hand is shaking as he opens the connection. "BB... thank _God_."

"Is this Danny Walker?"

The baritone voice doesn't belong to his boss, and he becomes cautious. "Ye-e-es."

"I'm speaking on behalf of Mr. Bentley. He's been trying to call you at the office, but he's not getting a reply. Where are you?"

Alarm bells are ringing in his head. "May I speak to Brad?"

"He can't come to the phone right now." The caller pauses before he repeats his question in a more forceful voice. "Where are you?"

The hairs on the back of Danny's neck prickle. "I'm in the lab."

"Now, we _both_ know that's not true, Mr. Walker." Danny's skin crawls in trepidation at the sudden chill in the person's tone. "Why were you late for work?"

While it's difficult to control his agitation, he doesn't want to convey to the person on the other end of the line how afraid he's feeling. "Tell Mr. Bentley I'll call him back."

The man's voice suddenly sharpens and becomes more demanding. "Where are you?"

Danny terminates the call. In some demented fashion, it seems to confirm that the deaths of his associates were not accidental and it's clear he was supposed to die in the explosion too. But the nagging question is _why?_

He pushes the tray with the half-eaten burger away, and nervous and confused, his anxiety increases when the phone rings again. If they are desperate to find him for whatever reason, they can triangulate on his location by sending a ping to his mobile device, and his fingers tremble as he removes the sim card. He drops it into the trash as he leaves the restaurant and throws the iPhone into a thicket at the far end of the parking lot before getting into his car.

Danny is beginning to feel like he's accidentally fallen into the pages of a John le Carré novel halfway through without knowing the story up to that point. He has no idea where to go, but he knows he has to drive as far away from here as fast as he can. It will be too risky going back home because if the feds are after him, it's probably under surveillance by now.
36

The President's Private Study

The White House, Washington, DC

Coordinates: 38° 53' 50.6" N, 77° 02' 15.1" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 1017h

President Sinclair is reading a fax he's just received from Dr. Bailey when the telephone rings, and he answers it without taking his eyes off the document. "Yes?"

Brian Harding is on the other end, and he is speaking with exigency in his tone. "Mr. President, a new satellite situation is developing. DirecTV consumers lost reception two hours ago, but now the affliction is spreading to global corporations like Sky, Art, ABS-CBN, and a bunch of other major broadcasters."

The president looks up from the fax and stares pensively at the opposite wall. "Can they still commune with their satellites, you know, like Infinity?"

"I've just spoken to the CEO of DirecTV, and he says they're able to exchange limited technical data, but the signal is erratic and they're scared of losing it completely. He admits that their engineers are stumped, and he's anxious to talk with someone from Infinity to learn how they're resolving the dilemma."

Lloyd's forehead wrinkles. "Do you think the outage is being caused by the same problem?"

Brian's reply is slow, and there is uncertainty in his voice. "I'm not sure, but maybe. They're in a geostationary orbit, so I guess it's _possible_ , but I'm not a NASA scientist. I mean, Jaeger contends that the shift is responsible for taking down their network, so why wouldn't it affect other satellites too?"

It's an inference Lloyd would prefer not to be contemplating, but in spite of his ongoing skepticism, the unwelcome prospect that the tumble could be a real threat to the world is becoming unavoidable. "I don't have a full verification from Dr. Bailey to support Infinity's argument yet, and until we do, it remains an open debate."

"But you can't disregard it, especially as it may now be starting to affect other networks."

Lloyd bristles at the antipathetic note in Brian's tone and his reply is sharp. "I'm not ignoring it." He places the fingertips of his right hand against his temple and closes his eyes to mull it over before speaking again. "If a satellite is in geostationary orbit, doesn't it mean they stay in the same position without moving?"

"I think they _appear_ to be stationary from our perspective on the surface because their orbital speed is synchronized to the earth's rotation." Brian pauses. "However, if the earth has moved out of alignment with the satellites, then their position will change relative to a fixed point on the ground... at least, that's how _I_ perceive it."

Lloyd grimaces and looks back down at the fax in his hand. "To be frank, it's starting to make me uneasy." He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "I want to see you in the Oval Office at fifteen hundred... and bring Barbara with you. I'm sure Diane will be overjoyed to have someone to talk to, because God knows, I've not been the best company of late."

Lloyd replaces the handset, and after a few moments of deliberation, he picks it up again. "Terry, can you come over to my study for a moment?"

The vice president walks into the room two minutes later, and Lloyd flaps the fax in the air. "This came in from Dr. Bailey fifteen minutes ago. He says that the planet's obliquity to the ecliptic has increased by point two one oh six degrees in the past twenty-four hours, and as at ten o'clock this morning, the angle is twenty-five point one two four eight degrees."

Terry inclines his head and gazes at him with an inquiring look in his eyes. "Is that a confirmation that the earth is, uh, tumbling, as it's been so eloquently described?"

"Hmm-hmm," Lloyd affirms with a nod of his head. "And he's added a disturbing footnote which says"—and he begins to read from the fax—"the shift will trigger natural forces of titanic proportions that will destroy the planet's ecosystems and result in unprecedented changes to the environment. The inevitable consequences will culminate in the mass extinction of millions of species. Because Mother Nature does _not_ discriminate..." and he raises his eyes to look at Terry before he perorates, "... mankind is _not_ immune."

The vice president is clearly startled. " _Ouch_... that's a pretty unambiguous statement. Does he expound?"

Lloyd places the document on the desktop and clasps his hands in front of him. "No, but his fax would indicate that he has some knowledge of what's happening. Bailey is under the supervision of Homeland Security, so I want you to instruct Klaus to bring him to the White House. I want to see him in the Oval Office by three o'clock."

"Is he still in Cambridge?"

"I believe so." He ponders for a moment before he appends the order. "Have his wife and children brought here too, because depending on what he tells me, I may have no choice but to move them to the Nora Hartley Center too."

"Don't you think you're being a bit presumptive?"

"I'm not closing any doors while the situation is fluid," Lloyd says. "Dr. Bailey is a valuable and highly qualified asset. He'll help us to comprehend what's happening and advise the best way in how it can be resolved."

Terry doesn't remonstrate, which means he recognizes the sagacity of his decision. "What about his assistants?"

Lloyd shakes his head. "He's been working on his own since yesterday."

"Well, I guess that makes it a little easier. I'm sure it would raise a few eyebrows if half of Harvard were suddenly whisked off into the night with no explanation."

"Dr. Bailey isn't your average Joe," Lloyd says. "His disappearance is going to cause a bit of a stir."

Terry sighs and gets to his feet. "All right, let me chase Robert down."

President Sinclair raises an index finger in the air. "Oh, I should tell you... global satellite TV networks have been hit by an unexplained blackout. It began two hours ago, and I need to know if it's interrelated to the same aberration that's knocking out the Infinity network or if it's something else."

"I don't believe in coincidences, but I'll see what I can find out," Terry says

He leaves the study, and Lloyd sits back in his chair and rereads Dr. Bailey's fax once again.
37

Petro Santa Nella Service Station & Diner

Gustine, California, USA

Coordinates: 37° 03' 17.1" N, 121° 00' 57.6" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 1114h

Danny is driving south on route 101 at a steady seventy miles an hour, and debates on whether he should get off the freeway at Gilroy. However, he isn't familiar with the surface streets, nor does he know if he has a federal posse on his tail, and confused, frustrated, and becoming more paranoid, he chooses to take the transition road onto the 152 eastbound instead. Because he is partial to early techno music, he slips a KLF album into the CD player and cranks up the volume, but even Tammy Wynette's mellifluous voice isn't enough to banish the unpleasant thoughts floating around in his head. The persistent anxiety is a constant distraction affecting his ability to focus on the highway, and his perception of time is practically nonexistent as he stares through the windshield in a trance-like state.

He glances down at the fuel gauge and curses at his inattentiveness. The needle is hovering on empty and he scours the arid landscape to identify his locality, but he drives on for another mile before he sees a sign for Gustine, a small town he's never heard of before. However, he is relieved to find a gas station at the end of the exit road, and sucking fumes, he pulls in onto the first pump.

A fierce blast of blistering air floods into the car when he opens the door. The canopy over the forecourt shades the customers from the direct sunlight, but it offers no protection against the brutally hot breeze blowing in from the desert. He removes the fuel cap, inserts the nozzle into the filler tube, and swipes his credit card.

The reader approves the transaction with a beep, and his thoughts begin to drift while he waits for the gas to pump. Logic tells him he can't drive around aimlessly forever, so this would be a good time to take stock of his unwitting predicament and organize his priorities. It's wise to have a cohesive game plan, because if the feds are searching for him, then the Gods are pitting him against professionals who will be hard to outsmart. Four of his associates are already dead, and Brad is AWOL—fate unknown—so this isn't an appropriate time to dwell on misfortunes if he wants to stay alive. He can mourn for his co-workers later.

_Harvey Worrell!_ Why didn't he think of his African American friend and ex-colleague a little earlier? The pair met when they turned up at an open interview and exam to compete for the only position offered by Infinity in its formative years. Brad was suitably impressed with their test results and because no other applicants had turned up, he offered them both a job. Their brief rivalry turned into a strong friendship and they became inseparable... until Harvey met Anita at a science convention in San Francisco. She lived in South San Gabriel just east of Los Angeles, and after exchanging telephone numbers, it wasn't long before a long-distance courtship began to develop. Danny was honored to be their best man when they were married two years later.

Harvey's move to the City of Angels was by choice, and he applied for a meteorologist position at LAX. The airport had just installed a communicator enabling them to loop into Infinity's network, and his experience and knowledge of the system gave him an unfair advantage over more than one thousand six hundred candidates. They've seen little of each other since the wedding, but they speak on the phone two or three times a year and if there's anyone he can trust, it's Harvey.

Danny sees a diner on the opposite side of the forecourt, and while he assumes it has a public telephone, Harvey's number is in the contact list on his iPhone, which is no longer in his possession. Driven by a whim, he begins to rummage through the car glove compartment where he used to keep a little black address book. He transferred the information into his mobile device some years earlier, but he's not sure if he even has it anymore. The technician is thrilled when he finds it at the bottom of the box, and once the tank is full, he replaces the nozzle on the hook and moves the car to a parking space close to the diner.

There are only a few people in the restaurant, but the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon buns tickles his smell receptors and Danny vows to leave with one inside his stomach. He needs to call Harvey first, though, and he looks around for a pay phone. He doesn't see one, so he questions the waitress who comes over to greet him. She has a bright sparkle in her eyes, and he's instantly charmed by her British accent.

She points over to the far corner. "Over that-a-ways... by the loos."

"Loos?"

_"Oops_ , I means the restrooms, luv." She chuckles softly. "Will you be eatin'?"

"Yes, I'll have a couple of cinnamon buns and a latte."

"They smelling bloody good, don't they?" she says, and she sweeps her hand around. "Sits anywheres you wan' to n' I'll have 'em ready for you when you've finished natterin'."

"Thank you."

Danny walks over to the telephone, opens the address book, and punches Harvey's number into the pad. He's greeted with a four-tone chime followed by a prerecorded message from the telecom company; "The number you've dialed is not in service." When he rechecks the number, he realizes the area code is for Palo Alto, and he swears softly under his breath. He never updated the book when he put Harvey's new number in the iPhone, but at least his address is there... except it isn't even written in his handwriting. That would imply that Harvey must've entered it at some point when he went to his wedding.

The waitress is standing beside an empty window table when he walks back into the dining area, and she beckons with her hand. "Here you goes, luv. Make yerself nice n' comfy an' I'll bring your latte n' buns over in a mo."

He is fascinated by her enunciation, and when she returns with his order, he questions her origins. "I love your accent. Are you Australian?"

She giggles flirtatiously. "Nah, mate, I'm an Essex girl from across the puddle." She inclines her head inquiringly. "So, are you passin' through or wot?"

Danny grins and whispers, "I'm on the run."

Her eyes open wide and she stares at him with a look of mock astonishment on her face. "You don' say? Are you a real-life fugitive like Clyde?"

He nods as he takes a bite of the hot dough and savors the delicate flavor of cinnamon.

"How _erotic!_ " she exclaims in a loud whisper. "Can I come wiv ya? P'raps I can be your Bonny or somefink."

While he doesn't think she's gullible enough to believe him, the cold reality of his jibe suddenly makes him feel uncomfortable. "Hey, I'm only teasing. I doubt I'd be sitting here eating these delicious buns if the law was breathing down my collar."

"Good, ain't they?" She smiles. "D'ya 'ave a moniker. Mine's Deana."

His lips are sticky from the white frosting, and he wipes them with a napkin before replying. "I'm Danny."

She looks across the restaurant at a family of four who is walking in through the entrance. "Hey, Danny, I gotta scoots over n' serve these people, but I'll be back."

Deana is kept busy for the next twenty minutes, and Danny has finished when she returns.

"Can I gets you somefink else?" she asks.

"Only the bill," he replies, and he hands her his credit card.

Danny slips a twenty-dollar tip beneath the coffee mug while he waits for the receipt, and she slips a piece of paper into his hand when she gives the card back to him. "My number, luv," and she gives him an alluring smile. "I finishes at four if you wants to give us a ride 'ome."

More patrons walk into the diner, and Deana gives his hand a quick squeeze before heading off to wait on them. Danny toys with the idea of taking her up on the offer. There's no doubt that a mutual attraction exists between them, and perhaps this will be a good place to lie low. But it's also possible he _is_ a fugitive even though he's not guilty of a crime, and it will be wrong to drag an innocent person into a dangerous situation. However, he will keep her phone number and call her later to apologize and explain why he couldn't hang around.

He drives out of the parking lot and a few minutes later, he's back on the freeway. Interstate 5 is just a few miles farther on, and he smiles inwardly. Harvey is going to be surprised when he turns up unannounced on his doorstep.
38

LAX International Airport

Los Angeles, California, USA

Coordinates: 33° 56' 38.9" N, 118° 24' 09.1" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 1326h

Flight Captain James Faraday is performing a routine check of the instrument panel as the 787 banks out of a turn and lines up with the runway fifteen miles ahead. His flying career began with a seven-year stint in the Royal Air Force, where he flew military transporters over Iraq. He then spent the next sixteen years flying 747s for British Airways, and in 2016, he went to work for Eton, a new airline based in Dublin, Ireland. The move was for the benefit of his Irish wife, who needed to be close to her elderly parents, and he was required to take a training course on the Dreamliner to get on the international roster. However, the hi-tech cockpit took all the fun out of flying because it practically flies itself. The choice to land manually used to be at the behest of the airliner's captain, but a string of accidents attributed to pilot error brought about mandatory changes, extenuating circumstances excepted, and since 2019, new FAA regulations necessitated all aircraft to use automated GPS controlled systems when landing at a major airport. It wasn't long before the CAA and ICAO adopted the same policy.

He glances at First Officer Patrick O'Ryan, who is sitting in the co-pilot's seat. This is his first flight with the burly Irishman, and his jovial demeanor, sociability, and laid-back attitude strike an accord with the captain. "I hope it won't be long before we get to fly together again."

Patrick flashes a big grin. "Aren't you going on vacation when we land at LAX?"

"Yes. My wife's flight is scheduled to land in another hour, and then we're off for a fortnight in paradise. Can you believe? Hawaii is one of the few places I've never been before."

"Well, I hope you have a good time," Patrick replies with sincerity in his voice. "Are her parents staying in a nursing home while you're away?"

"No, we've hired a caregiver to babysit. They suffer from dementia and forget the simple things, like how to wipe their arses." James casts a habitual glance at the horizontal situation indicator as he answers. The attitude of the aircraft is steady, and the GPS shows they are locked in on a satisfactory glide path. "I'd rather be dead before going through an undignified end."

Air Traffic Controller Eddie Masters is tracking the Eton Airlines flight on radar. There is something troubling about its approach, and even though he's not sure what it is, he still brings it to the attention of the on-duty supervisor. "Sir, I think we have a problem."

Larry McDermott saunters over to the console, leans over his shoulder, and assesses the information on the screen before he speaks. "What's wrong?"

Eddie is hesitant, and he studies the radar for a moment longer. "I... I can't explain it, but something isn't right with the glide path."

"It looks good to me."

The controller gazes at the sweeping arm of the radar. A Qantas 747 is descending on a parallel path for runway three under the supervision of his associate, Bobby Flowers, who is sitting at the next terminal, and both aircraft are due to touch down within seconds of each other. He is puzzled. They're a safe distance apart, so why does he feel so apprehensive? "Echo Tango 364, you're cleared for runway one."

Captain Faraday has a faint smile on his lips as he listens to air traffic control. "Roger, Control. I think Marvin already knows." He has named the Dreamliner's computerized system after the depressed android in the books by Douglas Adams, and he sits back and looks ahead at the runway. His smile quickly melds into a troubled frown, and his eyes flit over the instrument panel, but he doesn't see anything unusual on the dials. "Pat, I want verification on our glide path."

The first officer leans forward and checks the navigation panel. "It's all good, Captain. The nose wheels are going to put down right on the center line."

Patrick's reassurance doesn't quell his anxiety, and he speaks to the tower once again. "Control, this is Echo Tango 364. Something isn't right with our descent."

Eddie stares attentively at the radial arm wiping around on the radar screen. "Captain, can you elaborate?" He turns his head to look up at his supervisor. "The flight captain isn't happy with his approach either."

Larry grunts, and it's clear he is getting irritated. "Stand up and let me sit there."

The controller slips out of his seat and passes the headset to the overseer, who tosses it to the side of the console. He pulls a desk microphone forward and flicks a switch to redirect the communications through a speaker. "Echo Tango 364, state the nature of your problem."

Eddie notes the calmness in Captain Faraday's tone as he replies in a slow and precise voice. "Control, I've flown into LAX thousands of times in the past twenty-one years, and from my perspective, we're not on a good landing path."

"Captain, I have you on the radar. You are locked in, and your approach is good."

"Confirmed... the GPS and navigational instruments indicate everything is fine, but my visual concerns me, and I want permission to override the computer and take manual control."

Larry's response is immediate and authoritative. "That will _not_ be necessary, Captain. Our instruments show you are coming in for a good landing. Your request is denied."

Eddie inhales sharply as he listens to Larry's pointed reply, but because he feels strongly there is a problem that needs to be identified, he interpolates in defense of the captain. "Chief, there are two of us who feel that something isn't right, and one of them is up in the sky. I think you should consent to manual control."

Larry swivels around in the chair and glares at Eddie, his eyes blazing with anger. "How _dare_ you question my authority."

"Sir, I was _not_ questioning your authority, and I don't—"

Eddie is interrupted by Captain Faraday's voice coming loud and clear through the speaker. "Echo Tango 364 to control. I knew I wasn't wrong. If I get out of this one alive, your arse will be on the roaster, boy... and if I don't, then I'll be waiting to greet you at the gates of hell."

The starboard wheels of the Dreamliner touches down on the tarmac, but the port side misses the runway by six feet and the aircraft bumps violently as they roll across the hard, uneven surface. The unequal traction drags the 787 to the port, pulling the nose down too fast and causing the front landing gear to slam onto the ground with tremendous force. The tires explode under the shock and a violent judder races through the airframe, but the wheel rims strike a pothole and already weakened by the first jar, the gear collapses. The undernose crashes to the ground amid a deafening screech of tortured metal and a shower of sparks and debris as the huge airliner careens out of control across the median separating the taxi lanes from the main runway. It misses a 747 by a matter of feet and the doomed aircraft begins to disintegrate as it barrels through a concrete parapet over Sepulveda Boulevard, a busy highway that runs beneath the airport runways. The wings crumple under the impact when the nose slams into the south wall of the underpass at more than 100 miles an hour, rupturing the fuel tanks and immediately igniting the high-octane jet fuel. The plane explodes violently, and the blast sends a deadly ball of fire rolling through the 1.3-mile tunnel, instantly incinerating dozens of vehicles and their occupants.

Eddie hears a double explosion, and everything around him rattles as the shockwave shakes the control tower like a small earthquake. He stares in horror at the thick clouds of oily black smoke billowing up from behind a terminal building.

Bobby is still at his console, and he looks up at Eddie and Larry with a white face, his voice thick with panic. " _Chief_... oh, my _God_... _chief!_ The Qantas flight from Sydney has crashed... oh, _Christ_... it's just _exploded_."

Eddie continues to gaze in disbelief at the heavy plume of smoke climbing higher into the sky, and Larry replies in a choked voice without looking away. "No, it's an Eton Airways flight from Dublin on runway one."

_"No_ , chief," Bobby shouts in an earnest voice. "It's definitely Qantas. It's missed the runway... out on number three."

Eddie turns around, and through the windows on the opposite side of the tower, he can see huge, fuel-fed flames boiling skywards amid a thick column of black smoke rising up from the broken fuselage of a 747.
39

The Oval Office

The White House, Washington, DC

Coordinates: 38° 53' 50.6" N, 77° 02' 14.5" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 1434h

President Sinclair walks over to General Barry Morgan, who is standing in front of the Resolute Desk. Lloyd had disagreed with Terry at first when he suggested they bring the fifty-eight-year-old five-star military commander into the small circle of confidants but changed his mind after giving it a little more thought. "These are the two faxes I received from Dr. Bailey."

The general reads both documents before passing comment. "They don't tell us much."

"I know, but we'll learn a lot more when he gets here in another thirty minutes or so."

Terry walks into the Oval Office and heads straight over to the two men with an expression that indicates something isn't well. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's been a spate of airline accidents and the FAA has ordered an indefinite mandatory grounding of all aircraft in US airspace forthwith. The CAA and ICAO, supported by the ANC and CANSO, followed with similar directives moments later."

Lloyd is bewildered. "What the hell does _that_ translate into?"

"It means _all_ private, commercial, and military aircraft around the globe are grounded. At least one hundred sixty-three commercial airliners on a GPS-controlled landing missed the runways by one hundred forty-three feet—and they happened almost simultaneously—thirteen thirty-nine, give or take a few seconds. The actual count is probably higher because the statement precludes aircraft carrying less than sixty passengers." He glances at some hastily scribbled notes in his hand. "Two in Los Angeles and one in Miami exploded on impact, and hundreds are gravely injured or dead in Atlanta and New York. Similar accidents at Heathrow and Gatwick in the United Kingdom, and major airports in Germany, Russia, South Africa, Australia, and Brazil, to name a few, indicates how widespread it is."

Lloyd feels the blood draining from his face, and a cold dread is rippling through his body. "Do the aviation authorities know why?"

"They're being cautious with their analysis pending further investigation, but they suspect that the in-flight navigational data being received from the satellites is corrupt, placing the aircraft in one location when it's actually in another, albeit fifty yards or so."

Lloyd is perplexed. "Could it be an attack by cyber terrorists?"

"We don't know, yet," Terry replies. "Aircrews have been instructed to land manually, but there's a greater risk for air traffic controllers because it's affecting their systems too. They're doing their best to prevent midair collisions, but I'm told they are getting overwhelmed."

General Morgan has a quizzical look in his eyes. "I assume they've tried to recalibrate their equipment?"

"I know some airports have, but it hasn't made a scrap of difference. The problem extends beyond landing; the GPS is guiding the aircraft off course during flight too. This isn't just _our_ dilemma... it's a worldwide problem."

General Morgan's emotions are hidden behind a stone-faced expression. "I think the GPS satellites are under the influence of the same phenomenon that's brought the Infinity and TV networks down."

Lloyd's mood is darkening, and he scowls. "Why wasn't I informed before the airlines were grounded?"

The general praises the action taken by the airline authorities. "On the contrary, the FAA and ICAO are justified in taking these extraordinary measures, and I'm impressed because the coordination and execution of a near to impossible task of this size in such a short period of time is remarkable."

Anxiety is welling up in Lloyd's chest. "Yeah, well this is something we _can't_ hide it from the public, and the media are going to be all over it like flies around a bucket of shit."

"They already are," Terry says. "The pressroom is filled to capacity."

Lloyd tries to keep his frustration in check, but it's getting harder not to vent at something or someone. "What the hell do I tell them when _I_ don't even know what's going on?"

The vice president is unrelenting and keeps the pressure turned up. "I'm not sure, but they're waiting for you to go out there and say something."

"I need to speak to Dr. Bailey first."

"You can't wait that long," Terry replies, his voice taking on a new earnestness. "A hundred and sixty plus airliners have crashed and thousands are still playing dodgems in the sky. They're going to make their own assertions and start a panic with wild conjectures and half-truths if you don't make an official statement to quell their fears in a timely manner."

General Morgan strokes the tip of his nose between his index finger and thumb for a moment before he replies. "I concur with Mr. Schofield. You need to stall them and quench their thirst for a scoop without revealing the truth until we've interviewed the professor. The presence of an astrophysicist at the White House—especially one with Dr. Bailey's credentials—will only elevate their curiosity and result in rhetorical debates on cable news based on half-truths and theories."

President Sinclair thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets, saunters over to the window, and stares out into the rose garden.

Robert is in a conversation with Brian on the opposite side of the Oval Office when the iPhone in his pocket begins to vibrate. He excuses himself and steps away to receive an incoming call from the head of the special operations division for Homeland Security.

"One of the technicians—a Danny Walker—survived the blast at Infinity this morning

Robert glances around to make sure no one is in earshot. Brian is walking towards General Morgan and Terry, and he lowers his voice. "Are you sure?"

"Three cars were in the parking lot, and we've checked the VIN with DMV records. They're registered to James Beattie and William Chester, who were two of the targets, and the third one belongs to a security guard, who was collateral damage."

He bites his lip nervously. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know. They were told to be there at six, so it's my speculation that he was late for work or he slipped out to get breakfast for everyone. When I realized his car was missing, I tried his number using his boss's telephone, which he answered, but he terminated the conversation and turned the phone off when he realized I wasn't Mr. Bentley. The call was triangulated to a McDonald's restaurant, but he was gone by the time we got there."

Robert sneers. "Of _course_ he was. He clearly suspects something is up, so he won't be using his phone again anytime soon."

"We got two hits on his credit card a short while ago—at a gas station and a diner just off Route 152 east at Gustine. I have an agent on the way to interview the staff."

"I want him isolated from the media and the public at all costs." Robert is annoyed, and he takes a few moments to deliberate. "Release a terrorist alert including a picture of his driver license, car details, last known location, and any other shit you can dredge up."

"Do you want to place a bounty on his head?"

"How much is in the remuneration fund?"

"Um... something like a half million."

"Then use a quarter of a mil."

_"Jeez_ , you want him _that_ bad?"

"Just do your job, Mr. Marlowe... and keep me in the fucking loop." Robert hesitates. "What's the scoop on Jaeger's secretary?"

"Case closed."

Robert terminates the call and strolls across the room to join Terry, Brian, and General Morgan.

President Sinclair doesn't have time to script a media report, and he formulates a story in his head while he stares across the rose garden with a distant look in his eyes. He still needs to find a temporary yet realistic scapegoat, though, and he turns away from the window. Brian and Robert have joined the vice president and General Morgan, and he hears the tail end of what the DHS secretary is saying as he walks up to the group.

"... and I've just issued a terror alert for one of the Infinity techs."

The general scowls at Robert. "Why tag him a terrorist when he isn't?"

"Because he knows about the tumble and needs to be deterred from running to the papers or a TV channel with what he knows until we've conferred with Dr. Bailey. Hopefully, we can get him to lie low for fear of getting turned in."

General Morgan shakes his head slowly. "He can still get the message out to the public on any number of social media platforms if he wants to, and it'll be far more effective."

Lloyd realizes he's just found his patsy, and he perks up. "What's his name?"

"Danny Walker."

He pulls a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and scribbles the name on the palm of his left hand. "All right, let's get this press conference underway."

Terry raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Do you know what you're going to say?"

"Yes... at least mostly." The confidence in his voice is surely, but he doesn't expatiate and before the vice president can ask any further questions, the chief of staff, Gordon Reece, walks in and makes a beeline for Lloyd.

"Dr. Jack Bailey and his family are here, sir."

"Good. I'm on my way to make a public statement to the press, but bring the professor in here and I'll see him afterward. You can take his wife and kids over to the east wing. Diane is expecting them."

Gordon walks off, and Lloyd subconsciously adjusts his tie and straightens his jacket as he heads for the exit with Terry close behind. Alan Price, the bespectacled thirty-four-year-old press secretary is waiting just outside the door, and Lloyd gives him a dark look. "Ah, _there_ you are. I see you've honed your skills down to a fine art."

Alan looks at him quizzically. "What skills would that be?"

"The way you seem to be avoiding me until you've got no choice."

He chuckles softly, and his reply is candid. "Sometimes it's prudent to keep a low profile."

Lloyd walks through the corridor at a brisk pace, and he glances at Alan who is keeping in step by his side. "Are there any updates I need to know before I go in front of the cameras?"

"I haven't heard from the FAA yet, but the ICAO has revised the number of commercial airline crashes to three hundred and nine worldwide."

"Is that the final tally?"

"I don't think so. The death toll, so far, has topped seventy-two thousand and counting."

Lloyd comes to an abrupt stop and stares at Alan in disbelief. "Are you _serious?_ " The press secretary nods, and Lloyd takes a moment to recover his equanimity before he begins to walk again at a slower pace. "Do we know why the GPS failed?"

"Be careful how you phrase it, sir. The carriers are a little sensitive about the use of the word 'failure' because the satellites are still working. It's the data that's corrupt."

Lloyd gives a short, cynical laugh and shakes his head. "Fuck semantics. It's still a failure as far as I'm concerned."

Alan ignores the retort and answers the original question. "The cause still hasn't been established, but multiple international agencies are involved in the investigation."

They reach the entrance to the pressroom, and Lloyd glances at Alan. "Is that it?"

"It's all I have for now."

The steady drone of muted chatter quickly dies out as Lloyd walks into the room and steps onto the dais. He's an excellent orator, and his speeches have a tendency to be more fluent when he doesn't have a script or an autocue. He stands behind the lectern and makes a slight adjustment to the position of the microphone before speaking in a crisp voice. "My fellow Americans, our nation is facing the biggest threat ever posed by organized terrorism. A fatal cyber attack on our technical infrastructure began last Monday when Infinity's weather satellites were infected with a malicious virus known as the Chameleon. We are working to contain it, but this morning it spread to other networks, and an attack on the GPS systems earlier today has culminated in an unthinkable tragedy. More than three hundred airliners around the world crashed on landing due to corrupt data that was fed to navigational equipment on the surface and in the air, and because of a significant risk of midair collisions, global aviation authorities have been forced to ground all aircraft. The skies are silent for the first time in more than a century, but it is only temporary."

He glances down at the palm of his left hand. "Danny Walker, a technician employed by Infinity Meteorological Database Systems, has been identified as the perpetrator. He is wanted in connection with the cyber attack, the assassination of the company CEO, and for setting a huge bomb that ripped through the Infinity headquarters this morning. An investigation into Walker's background revealed an association to a terror organization with a much larger agenda. He is armed, he is dangerous, he is desperate, and Homeland Security is offering a substantial reward for information leading to his capture. The White House press secretary will provide you with more details on the fugitive right after this briefing."

Lloyd's mouth is dry, and he opens a plastic water bottle and takes a sip before he resumes with more vehemence in his tone. "The financial damage is only a by-product and not the real motive behind these atrocious acts of aggression. Our intelligence agencies have exposed a horrendous plot to carry out a series of chemical attacks and detonate at least one thermonuclear device on mainland USA. The severing of the satellite networks is an attempt to stifle our ability to track the radioactive signatures emitted by these devices as they're moved around the country. We do not know what, or where, the intended targets are yet, but you have my unequivocal guarantee that these monsters will _not_ succeed."

A buzz of excitement sweeps through the room but quickly fades as Lloyd continues with his address. "Over the coming days, people may observe a military presence where none would normally be seen. This is not a cause for panic. Exercises and emergency drills between armed forces and first responders will be ubiquitous, but be assured; I will _not_ hesitate to recall troops from war zones abroad to protect Americans at home if I have to. I appeal to _all_ citizens to be extra vigilant and report anything suspicious regardless of how trivial it may seem. America is as dependent on your awareness in the same way as you rely on our servicemen and women to protect your liberty. God bless America."

His conclusion is abrupt and unexpected, and the pressroom erupts into a clamor with journalists shouting questions as he steps down from the podium and walks briskly toward the exit. Terry is waiting in the corridor, and the frown on his forehead is an indication that he's not happy with Lloyd's speech. "Don't you have _any_ conscience?"

Lloyd shrugs apathetically in response. "Would you prefer I tell them that we don't know what's going on?"

"I'm not in concordance of absolute denial under the circumstances, but you've got _no_ evidence to purport Walker's association to terrorism, whether he's responsible for Jaeger's assassination _or_ the explosion at Infinity. You're persecuting an innocent man."

"I'll retract the allegations and explain it away as mistaken identity later on, but I need a temporary fall guy until we've spoken with Dr. Bailey and know exactly what's going on," Lloyd replies nonchalantly. "Walker just happened to be in the wrong place at a convenient time."

"It's still unwise to sow false speculations," Terry says. "And what about the other crap you prattled on about? Nuclear devices; chemical weapons; increased military presence, and a troop recall. _Christ_ , Lloyd, this will backfire and go awry in an instant."

Terry's continued heckling is starting to irritate Lloyd. "So _what?_ It might be unorthodox, but it's a distraction and give us a little time to play with. We'll have it all straightened out in a couple of hours."

They reach the Oval Office and the president walks in before Terry can counter. A portly man about five feet ten inches tall is standing close to the Resolute Desk with his hands stuffed into his pockets, and it's clear from the expression on his face that he is agitated. Except for a line of trimmed gray hair over his ears and around the back of his head, he is bald; but a thick, well-groomed beard makes up for the locks missing from his crown. A briefcase sits on the floor between the feet of the fifty-three-year-old astrophysicist, and Lloyd walks over and extends his hand out in greeting. "Dr. Jack Bailey?"

The academic makes no move to accept the proffered handshake, and he stares into his eyes with a cold, hard glare. "I've never heard so much _bull_ shit in my entire life."

The professor's reaction isn't what he was expecting, and he recoils in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

Dr. Bailey begins speaking down to Lloyd in a denigrating tone, almost as if he's admonishing one of his students for some great misdeed. "Oh, come _on_ Mr. Sinclair. Do you believe it's appropriate for your office to deliberately deceive American citizens and deny them the truth? You _know_ that a virus and an organized terror plot is merely a mendacious fabrication conceived by yourself. But I do have to ask myself for what purpose? How can your conscience allow so many blatant falsehoods slip through your lips?"

Lloyd bristles at the professor's rebuke, but he keeps his anger in check. "Dr. Bailey, there's a time and place for criticism, and it isn't here or now. I didn't bring you in for you to air your discontentment, views, and opinions on me or how I do my job; you're here to help me understand so I _can_ do my job." He can feel the doctor's enmity arcing between them like an electric charge, and Lloyd inclines his head sideways. "You don't like me too much, do you, professor?"

Jack emits a loud, derisive snort. " _Too_ much is an understatement. I don't like you at _all_ , Mr. Sinclair. I never have, and I doubt I ever will."

The doctor's hostility is concerning to the president. "Do I need to be worried about your cooperation?"

The professor is clearly offended by the question, which doesn't help to ease the growing tension. "Mr. Sinclair, I've been imprisoned in my laboratory and deprived of contact with anyone, including my wife, for more than twenty-four hours; you've forced my family and me to come here against our will, and I've been denied my egalitarian rights as an American citizen. I believe this is defined as 'kidnapping,' which is a federal crime and seems to be a strange way to expect me to liaise with you."

"You don't mince words, do you, Dr. Bailey?" Lloyd says. "I'm sorry for the way things transpired, but I have to make sure this tumble thing doesn't inadvertently get into the news until I know exactly what's going on."

Jack's voice is cold. "Mr. Sinclair, apart from the fact that I do not accept your apology to be sincere, you should know I take pride in my profession. I conduct business without prejudice in spite of any personal feelings. A surgeon might have an intense dislike for a patient, but when his skills are required to save his or her life, he'll do so without discrimination but continue to despise them with equal passion afterward. And _that_ , Mr. Sinclair, pretty much sums up the direction our relationship will take."

The president glances down at his feet with a tiny smile on his lips. The next hour is going to be awkward, if not a little weird, and he gestures towards the two white-leather couches on each side of a long, low glass-topped table. "Please, Dr. Bailey, take a seat," and he glances at a digital recording device sitting on the tabletop. "Do you mind if I record this meeting?"

Jack's response is casual. "I have no objections, and in fact, it'll probably be advantageous for both of us."

Lloyd presses the record button before sinking into the plush upholstery, and Terry and General Morgan sit down on each side of him. The academic removes an overstuffed manila folder from his briefcase, and when he's done, he makes himself comfortable between Robert and Brian on the opposite couch.

President Sinclair opens the meeting. "I should introduce you to everyone before we start."

Dr. Bailey lowers his head slightly and gazes out over the rim of his reading glasses. "There's no need, Mr. Sinclair. They introduced themselves when I arrived—except for Mr. Schofield... and I'm not so dumb as to not know who he is." Lloyd is still smarting from his previous riposte, and he bites his tongue while Jack opens the folder to reveal a thick bundle of documents. A bunch of loose-leaf papers with haphazardly scribbled notes and calculations slide out, and the doctor looks back up and addresses the small group. "What I'm about to tell you won't be easy to absorb, but I will make it as intelligible as possible. Don't be afraid to stop me if you need clarification on something you don't understand. Just because _I_ know what I'm talking about doesn't mean everyone else does." He chortles gently, almost in self-amusement. "You only need to ask my students."

Dr. Bailey picks up a document from the top of the stack and refers to it before he speaks again. "I'll start by reconfirming that the planet's obliquity to the ecliptic is still shifting, and it won't be stopping anytime soon. Someone described it as a tumble, which is pretty much what the earth because of a sudden internal shift in mass. A good analogy is to visualize a freighter in heavy seas when the cargo breaks loose and moves to one side of the hold. The weight imbalance causes the vessel to list, and the heavier it is, the more pronounced the roll would be. Using this as a parallel, imagine our planet as the freighter, the mantle as the cargo, and the gravitational, magnetic, kinetic, and other influential forces in the cosmos as the ocean."

"How often does something like this occur?" Brian asks.

Jack shakes his head. "It's never happened before. Only a major destructive force could create an insurmountable disparity like this, and the only catastrophic event in the planet's recent history is the Andaman Event. It's also reasonable to assume that this mass, wherever it came from, has ended up somewhere beneath the Bay of Bengal."

General Morgan appears perplexed. "But that was six months ago. Why did it wait until now?"

"Physics," Dr. Bailey replies with a slight shrug. "The displacement caused the planet to become precariously balanced, but it was kept in equilibrium by the surrounding gravitational influences... until earlier this week. The earth's orbital position in relation to the sun changed when it passed through the northern summer solstice, and the cosmic inductions that kept the planet stable by pulling on the mass in one direction, are now conspiring to pull it in the opposite path. With no counteractive dynamics in play, the earth is compelled to submit."

Lloyd is beginning to feel nervous. "When will it stop tumbling?"

"In another three hundred eleven days... sometime on May 3, 2021." Jack takes a deep breath before he elucidates. "It's a preliminary estimation based on the assumption that the displacement is the result of the Andaman Event; therefore, the tumble will stop when the obliquity to the ecliptic reaches ninety point two degrees. But I stress, it's only a fundamental approximation susceptible to updates _if_ we get enough time to learn more."

The president doesn't miss the pessimism, but neither does Terry, who is quick to respond. "You've just made an antipathetic innuendo, Dr. Bailey. Is that intentional, or simply a figure of speech?"

"You're an astute listener, Mr. Schofield, and I assure you, if I speak in negative axioms, I do so deliberately." Jack rifles through the folder, pulls a loose sheet of paper from the stack, and studies it for a moment. "Three main elements have been in play since Theia collided with the earth and set it turning four point five billion years ago: rotation, precession, and nutation. However, I've discovered the manifestation of a new directional constituent, which is the key influence of the tumble." He pauses for a moment. "The first movement is basic stuff you should all be familiar with—where the earth spins like a top on an imaginary pivotal line known as the axis. I conducted a brief examination on the revolution velocity and didn't detect any changes, which means it's still the dominating force keeping the biosphere intact."

"I take it that's a good thing?" Robert asks warily.

Dr. Bailey glances at the DHS secretary, but doesn't answer and continues the dialogue. "The second movement is axial precession. This is a slow gravity-induced shift in orientation concentrated around the rotational axis, which is best described as a wobble. While rotation takes twenty-four hours to complete one revolution, the precession takes twenty-six thousand years to move through a full cycle. It may have sped up, slowed down, or become less or more pronounced, but it'll take longer than a day to ascertain what effect the Andaman Event had on it."

"Wouldn't it produce colder winters and hotter summers if the wobble became more prominent?" Terry asks.

It's clear that the professor understands the underlying principle behind the question. "Over a long period of time, yes, but it will be negligible in the average lifespan of an individual. I know what you're thinking, and it's not the reason for the record-breaking weather this year."

"How can you be sure?"

"The precession would be critically conflicted with the rotation if it had increased to a degree where we could perceive it on a daily basis, and it would've generated forces so tremendous and violent, it would've torn the planet asunder by now."

Lloyd is growing impatient at what he deems to be an earth science class, but he has already clashed once with the professor, so he refrains from saying anything to upset him again.

Jack continues after a brief pause. "The third movement is axial nutation, a rocking motion that changes the angle of the axis. The adjustments are diminutive—a matter of meters—but it's enough to move the location of the primary circles of latitude annually. The earth would appear to be nodding if it were sped up."

President Sinclair decides to interrupt in the hope he can propel the proceedings forward a little faster. "Those are natural attributes, though, and I don't see how they're associated with the tumble?"

"The density of the displaced mass is such that it's created a new center of gravity, and the external forces that _should_ pass through the core, now slice across the axis at an angle of thirty degrees and traverse the planet at two hundred forty-three point two degrees. The earth is twisting daily by point nine eight nine degrees to correct its alignment with the cosmos, and the resultant torque is causing the obliquity to the ecliptic to slide along the fortieth meridian at a steady point two one oh six degrees every twenty-four hours. It appears to have harmonized itself to the planet's orbital velocity around the sun, which is probably good for the earth in general because the rate at which it's tumbling is being curbed by the speed of the axial rotation."

President Sinclair is confused. "I'm sorry, but you've lost me."

The professor is silent for several seconds. "I didn't want to say it like this, but..." and he shrugs. "The Northern Hemisphere is turning into the face of the sun, and the extermination of eight point seven million species of plant, animal, insect, and marine life is already in progress, and..." He hesitates, perhaps to make the impact of his words sound more dramatic, "seven point four billion humans are not immune."

Dr. Bailey has just opened Pandora's Box, and unprepared for the guileless statement, Lloyd goes into a brain crash. He gawps at Jack in stupefaction. "Isn't that the world population?"

"Indeed, it is."

The president is uncertain whether to believe the professor's asseveration. He's too calm in Lloyd's opinion, which would mean he has an innate ability to control his emotions, or he's inflating its seriousness, perhaps with ill intent to make him look foolish.

The professor continues with the narrative. "The planet is heading for its most propitious mass extinction ever, which will surpass the Great Dying two hundred fifty-two million years ago. Eighty-three percent of all genera were eradicated in that one, and so much biodiversity was lost that vertebrates and life in general, took thirty million years to recover." He pauses. "It's the only known mass extinction of insects, and this will be the second."

"The Great Dying... isn't that when the dinosaurs were killed off?" Robert asks.

"No, that was the fifth extinction sixty-five million years ago."

Brian's voice is filled with skepticism. "Let's say you're right, what percentage of life do you think will be lost this time?"

Jack's reply is blunt. "I anticipate that ninety-eight to ninety-nine percent of every living thing in existence will disappear. Recovery will take hundreds of millions of years, and it's even possible that insects may eventually become the dominant species of the future."

Robert gapes at Jack. "Are you serious?"

The professor shrugs. "Reptiles. Humans. Why not insects next time around?"

While Lloyd is cynical of Dr. Bailey's prophecy, his sobriety gives him cause to be hesitant. "Please forgive me, but I'm having difficulty in grasping the concept that the human race is teetering on the precipice of extinction."

Jack looks weary. "I can relate, Mr. Sinclair, but you'd better get used to the idea. It's gone well beyond the point of teetering. It's real, it's happening, and it can't be stopped. The record-breaking weather in the Northern and Southern Hemispheres are attestations to the fact."

"What'll be our death knell, doctor? Famine? Disease?" Lloyd tries to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but the underlying derision is discernible, and he quickly backs away with an apology. "I'm sorry, Dr. Bailey. That didn't come out the way I intended."

The professor studies his face for several moments before giving an almost imperceptible nod and continues with the briefing. "The axial shift is extending the daytime in the Northern Hemisphere in daily increments... close to the equator, it's between one and two minutes, but farther north—Alaska, for example—the augmentation is five to six minutes. The increase is almost the same as when the seasons are moving from winter to summer, which is why no one has noticed the days are still getting longer, yet, but they soon will. And it's not going to stop now until everywhere on this side of the equator is basking in twenty-four-hour sunlight."

"Longer summers, shorter winters. How bad can _that_ be?" Robert says brightly. "

Dr. Bailey casts a mordant glance at the DHS secretary. "We've seen our last winter, and the longest, hottest summer in the planet's history has already begun. Nor should you forget that the climatic changes will influence the balance of the planet's fragile bionetwork, and even minor modifications to the ecosystems will be an impingement on the parameters of evolutionary development and the habitats of all life forms that coexist within them."

President Sinclair listens to Dr. Bailey's summarization with emancipated astonishment. "Are you saying that the tumble isn't going to stop?"

"I've already told you; it'll stop when the obliquity to the ecliptic reaches ninety point two degrees and the internal displacement attains equilibrium with the external forces in the cosmos. Once the North Pole has turned towards the sun, its radiation will begin to get trapped beneath the upper atmosphere and the hottest place on earth will be inside the Arctic Circle."

"When you say 'trapped'..." Terry begins, and Lloyd can see the muscles in his larynx move upwards as he swallows nervously. However, Dr. Bailey seems to anticipate the question.

"There won't be anything to deflect the heat back into space after the icecap is gone, and without a period of darkness to give the biosphere a chance to cool down, the temperature in the Northern Hemisphere will rise exponentially; well beyond the endurance threshold of any living organism on the planet. The sun will sit permanently in the center of the sky above the North Pole, and here in DC, it'll be somewhere over here"—the professor stretches his right arm out at an approximate angle of thirty-eight degrees and draws a circle above his head with the index finger—"and move around in an eternal loop. Close to the equator, it'll be just above the horizon and travel counterclockwise without setting. Ever."

The doctor extracts a sheet of paper from his folder and offers it to Lloyd. "This is a crude chart I created to calculate the average temperature expected at any given latitude north of the equator. You can keep it for reference."

Lloyd holds it in a position where General Morgan and Terry can look at it too, and his mouth opens in bewilderment at the first entry. "The North Pole: five to six hundred degrees Fahrenheit."

"That relates to anywhere within the Arctic Circle," Dr. Bailey answers calmly.

The president reads aloud for the benefit of Robert and Brian. "New York: three hundred forty-eight point eight degrees. Washington, DC: three hundred fourteen point two degrees, and Los Angeles, two hundred forty-five degrees." He looks up at Jack. "This can't be accurate."

"The margin of error is three percent."

"But we'll bake to death at those temperatures!"

"What have I been trying to tell you?"

Lloyd stares at Jack with incredulity. "Is there anywhere that life can still exist?"

Dr. Bailey seems hesitant to answer. "I haven't confirmed it yet, but I think a narrow band circling the globe between the fourteenth and twenty-seventh parallels north, will offer a life-sustainable environment across Africa, Asia, and Central America. I've called it the twilight zone because it's the region where the sun will sit on the horizon, _yet_..." and he rifles through the papers in the folder as he speaks, "... it's only ten percent of the planet's surface. Seventy-two percent of that ten is ocean, which leaves two point eight percent of the earth's remaining habitable area for humans if there are any left." The professor smiles acerbically. "Ultimately, seven point four billion people will try to get into an area just large enough to support twenty-seven million in the biggest exodus to ever happen on the planet, and Mankind's final demise could well be a horrifying bloodbath at his own hand."

Lloyd feels that Jack is surpassing any credibility he had a little earlier, and he gives a scornful snicker. "Why should I believe the tumble is going to happen in the way you say it will, Dr. Bailey? Isn't everything you're telling me based on speculative theories and wild guesses to fill in the blanks?"

The professor leans back on the couch and crosses his legs at the ankles. "I'm not asking for you to believe me, Mr. Sinclair, because that's _your_ prerogative, but let me remind you; you're the one who solicited an overview from me."

"Yes, but I wasn't expecting to hear a premise for the next Steven Spielberg movie."

Jack's eyes narrow, but he retains a professional demeanor. "You can ridicule me all you want, Mr. Sinclair, but Mother Nature will mock your skepticism in more ways than I ever can." Although he speaks calmly, his words are measured and his voice is ice cold. "I've been compiling this information at your behest for more than twenty-four hours without a break, and I'm very tired, so if you're not interested in what I have to say, perhaps you'd be kind enough to let me go back home with my family."

Terry is quick to intervene, and his ire is directed at Lloyd. "Dr. Bailey's explanation may be beyond our comprehension, but there's no reason to think he's lying. If you're looking for a solid connection to something that suggests he's telling the truth, consider the fact that the earth has been through five mass extinctions already, so a sixth is not inconceivable."

General Morgan cuts in, clearly with the intention of pacifying the professor and reengaging him in a substantive exchange. "Mr. Bailey, is it reasonable to assume that there'll be another twilight zone on the other side of the equator too?"

Jack shakes his head. "No. The Southern Hemisphere will never see another sunrise once the earth stops tumbling. It'll turn into a vast frozen tundra, and the temperature from the equatorial line to the South Pole will drop to minus four hundred fifty-four Fahrenheit; cold enough for natural lakes of liquid nitrogen to form." He looks down at the notes in his hand. "You should also know that the tumble is applying undue geological stresses throughout the planet, and seismic upheavals equal to, or on a grander scale than the Andaman Event, should be anticipated without warning."

In spite of his cynicism, Jack's words are disquieting and Lloyd fidgets uncomfortably. "But isn't that only an assumption, Dr. Bailey?"

"No, Mr. Sinclair, and even a first-year geology student will confirm what I've just told you." He falls silent for a few moments before he looks at Terry. "The extremely hot weather we're getting right now is attributed solely to the crumbling eco-infrastructure."

General Morgan sits forward. "So the freak tornado that hit a suburb of Sydney in Australia a few days ago, and the massive sandstorm that swept across North Africa yesterday, is a direct product of the tumble?"

Lloyd glances sharply at Brian. "I'm not aware of any sandstorm."

Jack is quick to interject. "Nor am I—but there again, I've been improperly isolated from the outside world since yesterday morning."

The president ignores the professor's grievance and continues to talk to Brian. "Why have I not been briefed about this?"

"A report from the National Hurricane Center landed on my desk this afternoon, but then the satellite thing happened and I haven't had a chance to discuss it with you yet. The storm originated in the south of Egypt and northern Sudan and cut a five-hundred-mile swath across eight countries, destroying everything in its path. The sand was carried high into the atmosphere and rained down on the Canary Islands after the depression moved across the Western Sahara and Moroccan coastlines into the Atlantic, but instead of dying out, it's mutated into a hurricane which is predicted to develop into a category-five superstorm over the next twenty-four hours."

"Nice," Lloyd mutters with a high level of irony in his voice.

"They've already named it Hurricane Grumpy," Brian says. "The NHC says its chances of coming ashore on mainland USA is only ten percent, though. The computer models predict it will come close to the Floridian coast, but it'll turn north to feed off the unusually warm waters of the Gulf Stream, and eventually move back into the North Atlantic, possibly with Bermuda in its crosshairs."

Lloyd is only half-listening to Brian because his mind is preoccupied as he tries to assess Dr. Bailey's integrity and motivations. By his own admission, the professor holds him in low esteem, and so it's near to impossible to trust everything he's saying is true. He begins to wonder if this could be a sick hoax to make him look foolish. Jack doesn't appear to be someone who would panic easily, but his demeanor is too calm for someone who is the sole discoverer of humanity's supposed extinction.

He snaps out of his reverie at the sound of General Morgan's voice as he questions the doctor. "Can we figure out the original location of the displaced mass?"

"That may be known already," Jack replies. "I confer regularly with Dr. Robert Andrews and a Russian astrophysicist, Dr. Boris Medvedev, who are both deeply involved with the Andaman Event, but I've been prevented from communicating with anyone since yesterday."

Lloyd interjects in a firm voice. "The restrictions are for reasons of security, Mr. Bailey."

"I don't see why you feel the need for so much secrecy. It won't be long before scientists all over the world will figure out what's going on."

"I agree, but the longer I can keep the tumble suppressed, the more time I'll get to decide how to manage the problem."

Jack snorts, and there's a contemptuous tenor in his voice when he replies. "I'm not sure what you intend to manage, Mr. Sinclair. Global panic and worldwide anarchy are predictable manifestations, and of course, American citizens will be vying for a place in the twilight zone along with seven point three billion contenders. I doubt whether you could exert authority over any of this."

He continues to express uncertainty over the professor's prescience. "I accept that something extraordinary is happening, but I'm not sure whether to believe your postulations about mass extinction and a planet that'll be desiccated at one end and deep-frozen at the other."

The doctor gives an insouciant shrug. "I've been sincere, Mr. Sinclair, and as I've already said, what you do with the information is your privilege."

Lloyd weighs the scenario described by the academic before turning to Terry. "I need to look at a map and see where the boundaries are for the twilight zone." He then looks across the table at Dr. Bailey. "How many years do we have before this thing kicks in?"

Jack shakes his head in disbelief. " _Years?_ Have you not listened to anything I've said?" It's clear that his composure is beginning to fritter from exasperation rather than anger. "Capitulation isn't programmed into our genes, but our fate as a species has been determined by a greater power, and it's non-negotiable. We don't have _years_ , Mr. Sinclair. Mankind will cease to exist within _weeks_ , and there isn't anything you or I can do to stop it from happening."

General Morgan looks across the table at the professor. "Dr. Bailey, if your associates _do_ know where this mass was dislodged from, would it be possible to blast it back into its original position with the strategic placement of thermonuclear or other explosive devices?"

Jack sighs. "I've seen that movie too, General, but it's misleading in every aspect. The use of nukes to neutralize or reverse a geological event is a vexatious misconception conceived by zealous authors and screenwriters who have no idea of the powerful forces that govern this universe and can't be bothered to do the research."

"Then how do you know it won't work if it's never been tried?"

"Because the effective depth at which the devices need to be detonated is unattainable... and even if it _were_ possible to conquer the extreme pressure and high temperatures we'd encounter a thousand miles or more beneath our feet, the simultaneous discharge of every nuclear device on the planet would generate less than one percent of the energy required. You'd have to duplicate the exact mechanics of the Andaman Event for any chance of success, and unfortunately, it's something we don't know enough about at this time."

A gloomy silence descends over the group. Lloyd is at a bifurcation and realizes he needs to either embrace Dr. Bailey's presumptions or reject them in totality.

"The earth is delousing," Jack remarks in a casual voice. "Humans are probably the most perverse parasites of all the species on the planet, and certainly the most disrespectful to the milieu. It'll take millions of years to heal the wounds we've inflicted, so you should ask yourself why Mother Nature would _want_ to keep us around."

Lloyd sits forward on the couch and studies Jack with a solemn expression on his face. "Dr. Bailey, whatever your perception of me might be, I'm not a quitter."

Jack folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head to one side. "What's your ultimate goal, Mr. Sinclair?"

"I intend to ensure Mankind survives the apocalypse... that is, if there is one."

The academic gazes pensively into his eyes. "And I presume the panjandrums will be handpicked by you?"

"But of _course_. We'll need people who _know_ how to lead."

Dr. Bailey starts laughing, and several seconds pass before his mirth subsides. "Your arrogance becomes you, Mr. Sinclair, and so does your ignorance, but if your purpose isn't mendacious, then why don't you prove it by relocating some of the wild tribes from the jungles and rainforests of New Guinea and Amazonia into the twilight zone? They won't need to acculturate to the new world, nor will they be traumatized from the catastrophic psychological shock when technology disappears overnight."

Lloyd's response is vociferous. "I _will_ save mankind, and I'll do so with intelligent Americans, not some uneducated Third World cultures."

Jack's eyebrows move closer together and his forehead wrinkles into a dark scowl. "These 'uneducated' ethnicities will have superiority over your group of intellects when the earth is plunged backward by a million years or so, trust me."

President Sinclair feels that the professor's opinion is a belligerent attempt to draw him into a provocative discourse, and his reply is blunt. "Thanks for the input, Dr. Bailey, but while I'm the commander in chief, it'll be done _my_ way."

"I wish you luck, Mr. Sinclair. You'll certainly deserve a place in the history books if you succeed." The sarcasm in his voice is distinct, and he chuckles softly. "Why, I might even get to like you a little."

It has been a long day, everyone is getting tired, and tempers are beginning to flare, so Lloyd decides to conclude before more insults are hurled. He has more than enough to chew on, but he needs to make sure the astrophysicist is readily accessible in case he needs to know more about the tumble over the coming days. "Mr. Bailey, you will stay here at the White House tonight. I want you to draw up a list of equipment you'll need to continue the research and give it to Mr. Klaus. He'll make sure you get whatever you want."

"And on the morrow?"

"You'll be flown to the Nora Hartley Center, which is a classified research-and-development facility in Nevada, where you'll be given your own laboratory and a spacious family unit."

"Who's Nora Hartley? It's not a name I'm familiar with."

"She was a five-year-old local girl who disappeared in 1931. A shallow grave was uncovered on the first day of construction in 1989, and they named the place in memory of the missing child after DNA tests on the bones matched samples from living relatives."

_"Hmm_... built in '89, you say? How have you kept it a secret for so long?"

The president grins. "Sequestrations and executions."

"Why am I not surprised?" the professor replies in a disinterested voice, and he yawns.

"I've paired you with Mr. Bentley of Infinity. I'm hoping you'll find the data collected by his weather satellites to be of use, and I think you'll find him likable. I've heard his sentiments and views of me are somewhat equal to yours." Lloyd studies the professor for a few moments before he asks the question that's been eating at him since they sat down to talk. "You've given us a horrific account of how we're all going to die in the coming weeks, and you've done so with unusual poise and self-control. Are you not afraid of death, Dr. Bailey?"

"I'm probably more terrified than any of you, but I think I'm jaded by fatigue." He stifles a yawn. "It's been thirty-four hours since I've slept."

Lloyd isn't satisfied with the answer and his mistrust of the academic continues to simmer. However, he'll pursue it later, and he gets to his feet. "Diane is preparing dinner, so I'll show you where the guest rooms are if you wish to freshen up before joining us in the dining room."

He turns the recording device off while Dr. Bailey closes the bulky folder and slides it into his briefcase, and when he is finished, Lloyd leads the five men out of the Oval Office.
40

Arland Avenue

South San Gabriel, California

Coordinates: 34° 02' 51.0" N, 118° 05' 38.2" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 1647h

The Oakland Raiders are playing a special charity challenge match against the San Diego Chargers, and Harvey Worrell went to great expense to secure his freedom for the afternoon. His wife had made plans to squander the day at a shopping mall, and she was vexed when he suggested she should go with her mother instead—until he sweetened the deal with $1,000 to spend on herself.

The outside temperature was in the triple digits once again, and while he set the thermostat at seventy degrees, it still felt much warmer. Wearing only a pair of shorts, the athletic twenty-nine-year-old stretched his six-foot frame out on the couch at one-thirty to watch the pregame show, but ten minutes in, it is interrupted with breaking news of a double plane crash at Los Angeles International. The impingement would normally be irksome, but he had watched his former place of employment burn to the ground on the news earlier in the day, and it's ironic that his current workplace is suddenly the scene of another major catastrophe.

He had made several calls to Danny's iPhone when it was announced that two technicians were known to have died in the explosion at Infinity, but it went straight to voicemail each time and he began to fear the worst. While he was stunned when President Sinclair accused his longtime pal of terrorism during a live press conference, he is getting increasingly annoyed when news bulletins denouncing Danny as a dangerous fugitive, along with a description of his car, and his last known whereabouts are broadcast at the commencement of every commercial break. He's convinced that someone has made a mistake and simply refuses to believe the allegations made against his former colleague. Anyone who knows his Danny as well as he does would know he's a pacifist who abhors any type of violence.

The doorbell chimes echo through the house and Harvey's eyes widen in astonishment when he opens the front door. " _Danny! What_ the...?" He leans his head forward and casts a furtive glance up and down the road before pointing to a blue Toyota parked in the street. "Is that your ride?"

"Yes."

Harvey picks up a set of keys lying on top of a console table just inside the house and presses two buttons on a small remote hanging on the key ring. The garage doors and a wrought-iron gate at the end of a short driveway begin to open simultaneously. "Park it in the garage after I move my car out."

"Why?"

"Just do it. I'll explain once we're in the house."

Moments later, a black BMW reverses onto the street. Danny gets back into his Corolla and drives it into the garage as requested, and by the time he turns the ignition off and climbs out, the German-made car is already parked on the driveway. The doors begin to close with a brief, teeth-grinding metallic screech, and Harvey ducks in beneath it as it rolls down. Danny is bewildered and a little frightened by his friend's bizarre behavior, but he tries to make light of it. "Hey, that's rather a histrionic greeting, bud."

Danny is startled when Harvey seizes his biceps in a fierce grip and stares at him with a fervent look in his eyes. "Do you have a gun?"

"N-no... of _course_ not—you _know_ I don't carry weapons."

A look of relief sweeps over Harvey's face, and he releases the hold on his upper arms. "Come into the house."

"I think it's time you told me why you're acting so strange."

Harvey goes to a door in the back wall that leads into the kitchen, and Danny follows him through to the living room. "I take it you weren't listening to the car radio?"

"No."

Harvey turns to face him. "You're public enemy number one. The feds are after you— _big_ time. Your mug is being plastered on every TV channel at ten minute intervals all afternoon."

Danny's chest tightens, and he can tell by Harvey's grim expression that he's not about to hear anything good. He swallows hard. "Why are they after me?"

"Terrorism, murder, industrial espionage—you name it, you're accused of it. You've been declared armed and dangerous and not to be approached." Danny feels his legs weakening and his head begins to spin. Harvey is confirming the suspicion that's been nagging him all day, but he wasn't expecting to hear anything this explosive. He slumps into an armchair and stares ahead in a stupor as Harvey continues. "President Sinclair gave a press conference and identified you by name on national television as the person who authored and introduced the Chameleon virus into the satellite networks."

"He's a fucking _liar_ ," Danny replies vehemently. "He _knows_ why the satellites are going offline, and it doesn't have anything to do with a virus."

"I hope you're able to prove it, because he also accused you of Steve's assassination, the bombing of Infinity headquarters, and seventy-two thousand plus counts of homicide." Danny's eyes open wide in bewilderment as Harvey's words bounce around inside of his head. "The Chameleon spread to the GPS constellation causing hundreds of airliners to crash, and they're holding you responsible for the deaths of the passengers and crews."

Danny tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling with despair and desolation seeping through his veins, yet there's something wrong with the picture. He sits forward, and the earnestness in his voice is salient. "It's _impossible_. Even if there _was_ a virus, it _can't_ infect other satellite networks. They're totally isolated from each other."

Harvey frowns. "Why don't you turn yourself in? I mean, the burden of proof is on them, and if you're not guilty..."

Danny cuts him off. "Absolutely _not_. They don't want to detain me; they intend to _kill_ me." Tears well up in his eyes, and he almost chokes on his words. "They've already murdered Steve, Bill, Jim, and Nancy, Brad has disappeared, and apart from President Sinclair, I'm the only person left alive who knows why the satellites are failing."

Harvey recoils with a look of horror in his eyes. "Nancy... Steve's secretary?"

He nods his head glumly. "When our satellites began going offline earlier this week, we discovered it was being caused by a... a, um, an unusual phenomenon. Brad compiled a report supported with lots of data, which Steve gave to the president in person late on Thursday night. Less than twenty-four hours later, Brad was taken away by the secret service, Steve was assassinated, and Nancy was killed in a horrific accident on the way home from work. The cops said the brake lines on her car had been deliberately cut. And then this morning..." and he breaks off into a sob. "The only reason I wasn't in the building when the bomb went off was that for the first time in my life, I overslept." Danny contemplates for a moment, and it dawns on him that his presence could threaten Harvey's safety too. "Sinclair is trying to cover something up, and if I'd been listening to the radio, I would never have put you in danger by coming here."

"Well, you're here now, so let's figure this thing out together."

Danny shakes his head. "No, I should go before they come knocking on your door, man."

Harvey scoffs and his voice hardens. "How're they going to do that? They don't know you and I are friends, do they?"

"I-I guess not."

"Then stop being paranoid. I want to help you, but I can only do that if you level with me."

Danny weighs his chances, because if he tells Harvey everything he knows, maybe he can go into work and 'rediscover' the cause of the weather satellite and GPS failures. The airport authorities would likely follow up on any intimation that might identify the cause of the satellite crisis in general, and then it shouldn't take long to get into the news after that. "BB implied that we... um, that is humans, are in danger of extinction." Harvey's eyes open wide in astonishment as Danny begins to give a blow-by-blow account of the past week at Infinity.

Harvey's fascination is growing as he listens to his friend's story, but he is filled with skepticism when Danny recounts Brad's conception that the world is heading for an epic ecological disaster. However, he waits until his friend is finished before he speaks. "If what you're telling me is true, then it's pretty fucking wild, but I have to admit it's rather hard to swallow, man. On the other hand, let's assume for one moment that Brad _is_ right. As crazy as it sounds, it makes sense. I think the president gave Brad's file to someone—perhaps a scientist—who did his homework and found something they don't want to share."

The bitterness in Danny's voice is stark. "Yeah—well I've already worked that one out, Sherlock."

Harvey cogitates for almost half a minute. "I think you could get him to repudiate the accusations if you went straight to the media because once it's out there, killing you will serve no purpose whatsoever."

"Like _that's_ going to work," Danny says impetuously. "I have nothing to substantiate my story, and the explosion at Infinity wasn't intended to just kill three people; it was meant to destroy every piece of evidence on the tumble too." He pauses. "When are you working next?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Then you could 'accidentally'..." and he makes a quotation sign with his fingers, "... stumble on what's happening with the weather satellite and report it to your supervisor."

Harvey toys with the idea for a few seconds. "I'll have to come up with a credible story that's convincing, but we can figure something out over dinner. As far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to stay here until we find a way to get news of the tumble out to the world. The feds already suspect you're coming to Los Angeles, which means every mother and her bitch is looking for you to get a cut of the bounty."

Danny stares at him in astonishment. "Bounty?"

"They've put two hundred fifty grand on your head..." and he flashes a broad grin, "... so you'd better think yourself lucky I'm not broke."

The skin on Danny's face turns pallid. "B-but how do they know where I was going?"

"I'm not sure, but someone must've seen you and tipped off the cops. The last news bulletin said you were at some place called Gustine on route 152, and they think you got on the I-5 after you left."

"I stopped there for gas and something to eat, but I dumped my iPhone back in Palo Alto so they couldn't triangulate my... _d_ _amn!_ I forgot about the waitress at the diner."

Harvey is curious. "How did you pay for the gas and food?"

"I used my credit card..." He trails off and scowls. "They're tracking my fucking transactions." He gets to his feet. "Hey, man, I appreciate your offer, but I can't stay here. You and Anita could be in danger while I'm in the house, and I'm not going to let that happen."

"Shut up and sit down," Harvey snaps. "You're not going anywhere."

"But—"

"You're _not_ leaving—end of argument. Neither of us needs a crystal ball to know you won't get far. We've got to get our hands on the evidence so we can expose the president for the asshole he is, because if humans are on the endangered species list, everyone has the right to know."

Danny is too tired and confused to put up an argument, and he sinks back into the armchair. "Where's Anita?"

"She's at the shopping mall with her mother." He glances up at the clock. "She should be back at any time."

"I don't think she'll be happy to see me."

He dismisses Danny's fear with a wave of his hand. "Oh, she won't be a problem; I assure you. She's known you long enough, and she'll believe you over Sinclair _any_ day." He bites on his lower lip and ponders for a few seconds before adding an afterthought. "Her mother might be a different matter, though. The dollar signs will spin in her eyes if she finds out you're here."

"Then I think I should leave."

"You'll do no such thing. Right now, you look like you could welcome a nice shower, and you can hide upstairs when she gets here. I'll make sure she doesn't stay too long." He smiles at Danny. "You'll get to meet Grace, too."

"Grace?"

Harvey's eyes are gleaming with patriarchal pride. "She's our five-month-old daughter."

"Oh, maaan _!_ Congratulations! I had _no_ idea."

"Anita was going to write you a letter tonight, but now you're here..." and he pauses in midsentence. "We'd be honored if you'll be Grace's godfather."
41

The President's Private Study

The White House, Washington, DC

Coordinates: 38° 53' 50.6" N, 77° 02' 15.1" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 1812h

President Sinclair feels he is sitting on a fine line that separates a wise man from a fool, and he stares across his desk at Terry. In spite of his skepticism, he's disturbed by what the professor has told them. "Do you think Bailey's augury is accurate?"

The vice president is silent for several moments before answering. "I want to believe him, but yet I'm rather cautious—cynical, even. The trouble is that neither of us is qualified to dispute his analysis or impugn his skill, knowledge, or proficiency."

"Do you think it could be a sophisticated hoax intended to undermine my credibility?"

Terry looks at Lloyd with leeriness in his eyes. "Now you're getting paranoid." He purses his lips and deliberates for a few seconds. "Dr. Bailey is a revered scholar, and I was watching him carefully throughout the afternoon. At no time did his demeanor suggest he was mocking your intelligence or being purposefully disingenuous, which would imply his belief in what he said is bona fide."

Terry has an uncanny ability to anatomize a person's psyche with considerable accuracy, so Lloyd is unhappy with his appraisal of the doctor's character and he inhales deeply before emitting a long, weary sigh. "I'd sell my soul for a glimpse into the future. I'm bothered by the timeline because it feels like I'm being rushed into making decisions without an opportunity to validate its authenticity." Lloyd gets up, saunters around to the front of the desk, and begins to pace back and forth. "We can't prevaricate for too long."

Terry folds his arms across his chest and stares down at the floor with a distant look in his eyes. "We should seek a second opinion."

Ambivalence is not one of Lloyd's flaws, so his indecisiveness and sudden inability to make a tangible commitment are vexing. "This is _too_ absurd," he mutters, and he perches himself on the front of his desk. "Do we have an update from the airline companies?"

"The last report came in from the FAA and ICOA thirty minutes ago. Their techs have established that the GPS is moving out of alignment in a southwesterly direction at a steady rate of one hundred sixty-eight feet per minute. That's one point nine miles an hour."

"Do you think it's consistent to what Dr. Bailey told us about the tumble?"

"I'll need to look at my notes, but I don't see why it wouldn't be." Terry raises his eyes to look at Lloyd. "Why _did_ you give all that phony information to the press earlier?"

"I told you, I needed to buy some time."

_"Humph_... so it's maybe bought you a day or two, but for what purpose? You've proclaimed that a nuclear attack on the US mainland is imminent, and you've denounced an innocent man by name as a terrorist. What are you thinking? What do you think it'll do to your integrity when the intelligence agencies reveal they never counseled you on a threat—simply because one never existed? I can guarantee your allegations are under investigation by the DOJ as we talk."

Lloyd is pensive. He agrees that his statements to the media were rather presumptive and somewhat extemporaneous, but they were made prior to the conference with Dr. Bailey, which went in a direction he didn't expect. However, he is obdurate and still stands by what he said. "I think this is a good time to mobilize the troops."

Terry gawps at him in astonishment. "Are you fucking nuts? The army can't encroach on the jurisdiction of Homeland Security, State Guards, and the relevant law enforcement agencies."

"But there's nothing to stop them from doing crisis training exercises with the first responders, though," Lloyd fires back.

The vice president is studying his face quizzically. "What the hell are you up to?"

"Strategizing," Lloyd replies. He wanders around the desk and sits in his chair without expounding, picks up a pencil, and begins to doodle absentmindedly on a notepad. Terry is clearly annoyed, and he casts his eyes to the floor and twiddles his thumbs furiously with his fingers locked across his stomach.

The two men are silent for more than a minute before the vice president speaks to Lloyd in a sullen voice without looking up. "When are you going to confer with our allies?"

"I'm not. They'll find out by themselves soon enough."

Terry raises his head with an angry gleam in his eyes. "Good _Lord_ , have you lost all honorability?"

Lloyd isn't surprised at Terry's reaction, because he is well acquainted with Terry's sensitivity when it comes to ethics. "I know it's the correct thing to do morally, but my first duty is to American citizens and national security."

He can see from the tortured expression on Terry's face that he's in conflict with his principles. "So, you're prepared to sacrifice our obligations to our friends and—"

The president scoffs and shakes his head. "You _heard_ what Dr. Bailey said about the twilight zone. There's enough room for one-third of one percent of the world's population, so even our allies will conspire against us once they know the facts... and it would be imprudent to think otherwise. Do you imagine the Brits are going to say, 'Okey-doke, mate, you go on ahead and we'll squeeze in behind you if there's any room left'?" He snorts derisively. "Of _course_ not! It'll be 'Bloody tallyho, lads, let's dive in.'"

Terry's eyes narrow quizzically. "Exactly how do you propose to protect the twilight zone? You don't even know where it is, do you?"

He waves an arm towards the north wall. "I want you to pin a world map up here and draw a line along the northern and southern boundaries so we can all see where it is. My strategy is to put our troops into a position whereby they can protect the twilight zone at a moment's notice. The maneuver will be discreet, and under the guise of a military exercise." He smiles. "That way we will be ready if Dr. Bailey's prophecy comes to pass, and we can quietly pull back without losing face if nothing happens."

"I'll call across to the Eisenhower office and ask someone to bring a map over."

Lloyd gazes at the vice president, and there is a contemplative tone in his voice. "In fact, contrary to what you think, I do know where the twilight zone is. I looked it up on the Internet, and based on the latitudes provided by Dr. Bailey, it runs between Central Mexico and the southern border of Guatemala. Belize is the only other country within the parallels."

"Well, I guess that leaves _us_ out in the cold then, doesn't it?" Terry says dismissively.

The discussion is interrupted by a sharp rap on the door and General Morgan strolls into the study. He hesitates in midstep when he sees the vice president. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize you had company. I'll come back later."

"No... please stay. We're in the middle of a debate, and your input will be apposite."

The general closes the door before he walks over to the reading table and pulls out a chair. "I probed Dr. Bailey before he went to bed. He gave me a more detailed account of the tumble and the effect it'll have, but he never deviated from his original précis."

President Sinclair is curious about Barry's confidence in the professor's extrapolation. "Do you trust his story?"

General Morgan's answer is slow and deliberate. "I think we can all agree that the collapse of the Infinity network, failure of satellite TV, and the subsequent corruption of GPS data are due to the change in the earth's axis." He wavers, but only for a moment. "I also believe it'll result in an ecological disaster, but what'll happen and how bad it'll be..." He shrugs. "The professor is adamant that the planet is edging into its biggest mass extinction ever, but I don't have the credentials to refute the accuracy of his claim."

The president drums his fingers nervously on the desktop. "I've been skeptical since Jaeger first came to me, and I need something more solid than a few failing satellites to convince me the earth is tumbling to its demise. Dr. Bailey's dislike for me has only compounded the problem because I don't know whether I can trust what he's saying."

The general's voice is soft, almost soothing. "Well, if it's any comfort, he gave me an assurance that he isn't trying to manipulate you into making an erroneous decision. He's more concerned for his family than he is for your political aspirations. He genuinely believes nothing can stop the tumble, and Mankind's only savior will be chance, luck, and God."

"Time is running out and we shouldn't squander a single nanosecond," Terry mutters

President Sinclair turns his eyes on the vice president and throws his hands up in surrender. "In that case, let's take a time-out while we call Brian and Robert back in." He gets to his feet. "We'll reconvene at twenty-one hundred... oh, and I think it's time to bring Andrew Johnson into the fold too."

"Does that mean we should prepare for a long night?"

"Hell, no... but there again, it depends on whether you've brought Andrew up to speed by then. Tomorrow is going to be a pivotal day, and I want to present some thoughts for everyone to sleep on." He begins to walk towards the door. "Come on; let's get some dessert and coffee before it's all gone."
42

Arland Avenue

South San Gabriel, California

Coordinates: 34° 02' 51.0" N, 118° 05' 38.2" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 1903h

Anita walks in through the front door with Grace in her arms and Harvey leaps up from the couch to relieve her of the infant. A moment later, he contorts his face and turns it to one side with a gasp. " _Jeee_ -zus!"

His wife bursts out laughing. "She's brought you her first gift from the mall. We had to open the car windows on the way home."

Anita is an only child, and her mother, Rosalyn Lambert, comes into the house with a load of shopping bags and sets them on the floor. She's been divorced for twenty years, all of which she devoted solely to her daughter, but she's been looking for a man to share her twilight years since Anita fled the nest. She smiles at Harvey. "How's my favorite son?"

"I'm fine, Mom. What about you?"

"I'm just peachy. We bought new clothes for Gracie, and I even splurged out on a sexy evening gown for myself."

"She's got a hot date tonight," Anita explains.

"Yes, and I think I've found the right man at last."

Harvey is keeping his face turned to one side, but the awful smell rising up from Grace is clinging around his head like a thick cloud. "Is he taking you somewhere special?"

"We're going out for dinner and ballroom dancing." She looks at Anita. "Let me go get the baby stroller from the trunk."

"Thanks, Mom. I need to take Gracie upstairs and clean her stinky ass."

A wave of panic surges through Harvey because Danny is in the shower and he doesn't want her to walk in on him when she has no idea he's in the house. "It's okay, honey, I'll change her."

Anita looks at him in astonishment. "You _will?_ "

He tries to hide his reluctance behind a weak smile. The thought of exposing the contents of the diaper is far from appealing, but he nods and tries not to inhale too deeply as he walks toward the staircase.

"Oh, did you hear the _news?_ "

He stops with one foot on the first step. "The plane crash at LAX?"

"Danny's a _terrorist_ ," she says excitedly.

"He didn't do any of the things they're saying he did."

Anita gazes at him in surprise. "How do _you_ know? Have you been talking to him?"

"I'll tell you later," Harvey replies in a low voice.

She places her hands on her hips and glowers at him with fierce defiance burning in her eyes. "No, you won't. You'll tell me now."

Harvey is hesitant because he wants to wait until Rosalyn has left before saying anything, but he finally accedes. "He's upstairs in the shower."

Her expression changes to one of disbelief. "Are you fucking _insane?_ "

He's astounded by her reaction because he thought she knew Danny well enough to be more receptive. "Hey, give him a chance to tell his side of the story before making an unfair judgment."

"If he's innocent, then he needs to turn himself in and explain it to the cops," she replies emphatically.

"Honey, it's more complicated than that. There are people in high places who want him gone—as in..." He slices the edge of an open palm across his throat. "He's desperate for our help."

"I don't want any guns around Grace."

"He doesn't have a firearm. All that crap that he's armed and dangerous is a lie."

While there is still a lingering concern in Anita's eyes, she appears sufficiently mollified to relent. "Okay, I'll listen to what he has to say, but if I don't believe him, I _will_ call the police."

Harvey is relieved. "Thank you, honey, but just don't tell mother."

A bustle at the door interrupts the discussion, and Rosalyn reenters the house dragging the folded baby stroller in one hand. She props it against the wall before she turns to look at him. "Did you hear the news about your best man?"

"Yes, Mom."

"I can't believe he's done all those awful things. He seemed to be such a pleasant young man when I met him at your wedding. Oh well." She gives her daughter a hug. "I'll call you tomorrow and let you know how my date went. Bye for now, my dears."

Anita walks over to her husband as the front door closes behind Roslyn. " _Now_ I know why you wanted to change Grace. Give her to me; she needs to be bathed."

"It's all right, I'll do it. I want you to sit down and listen to Danny, but please, you've got to keep an open mind."

Anita is a good listener. He seems to be the same Danny she's always known and she doesn't perceive any change in his character—except it's clear that he is scared half to death. She listens for forty minutes without interrupting, and while it isn't an easy story to believe, intuition tells her he's been innocently caught up in something beyond his control. Because she's known him for a long time, she gives him the benefit of the doubt—at least for now.

Harvey comes downstairs. "I've put Grace in her cradle and she fell straight asleep."

"Can you show Danny where the spare room is, and give him some fresh sheets and blankets from the linen cupboard, hon?"

Her husband's eyes light up. "You believe him then?"

"It's hard to wrap my head around this mass extinction stuff, but I don't think he's a terrorist or carried out any of the alleged crimes."

"I knew you'd understand," Harvey says. "Come on, bud, I'll show you to your quarters."

The kettle begins to whistle, and Anita lifts it away from the heat with one hand while she turns the gas off with the other. Danny appears in the kitchen doorway, and she smiles at him. "I'm making a pot of tea, but I can brew some coffee if you prefer."

"Tea will be fine," he says, and he clears his throat. "I feel guilty for putting you guys in such an awkward position, but I'm thankful you believe me."

Anita is candid. "I didn't say I believed everything you said. I just know you're not as dangerous as they are saying." She walks over to the windows and closes the Venetian blinds. "There's a house at the back, and I don't want anyone looking in when they walk past. There's a chance you'll be recognized if they've been watching TV."

"Where's Harvey?"

"He's gone out to pick up something to eat. There's a wonderful little Italian pizzeria just around the corner." She invites him to sit down and begins to pour the tea into a mug when she hears the front door open and close. Moments later, Harvey walks into the kitchen and sets two large pizza boxes on the table.

"One bell pepper, onion, and Italian sausage, and a Hawaiian with mushrooms... both deep pan."

"Would you like a beer?" Anita asks.

Danny shakes his head. "No, thanks, tea is fine for me. I think it's best to stay alcohol-free until I figure out what I'm going to do next."

Harvey sits down at the table and takes a slice of Hawaiian. "What information should I look for in the satellite that'll help you?"

Danny chews slowly while he contemplates. "Your access to the data I need is limited, and it may not even be useful, but if you can get into the temporary files where the sunrise and sunset data are stored... _crap_ , that won't work. If the satellite's still operational, it means the differentiation is less than forty-five seconds and it's not going to be of any use." He pauses. "I might be able to access more data with my password if I could use a communicator."

"You could give it to me—but you'll need to tell me what to look for," Harvey says.

Anita dries her hands on a towel, sits down at the table, and begins eating as she listens to the conversation. An idea comes into her head, and she looks at her husband. "Why don't you set up a video link between your tablet and the home PC? I'm sure it would help if Danny could look at it too."

Harvey glances at his friend and smiles. "Now you know why I married her."

The chime of the doorbell echoes through the house, and Harvey pauses with a half-eaten slice of pizza poised in front of his mouth. "Who the hell can _that_ be?"

Anita shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm not expecting anybody, so it must be one of your friends."

He places the food back on the plate, walks out of the kitchen, and answers the front door to two well-dressed men.

"Are you Mr. Worrell... Mr. Harvey Worrell?" one of them asks. The second man raises himself on his toes and stretches his neck as he tries to look past Harvey into the room beyond.

"Yes, I am."

The man holds up an identity badge with FBI stamped across the top in blue print. "My name is Bobby King, and this is my partner, David Emery. May we come in?"

An uncomfortable jitter bubbles up in his stomach. "I'm in the middle of dinner. Can you come back later?"

"We only have a couple of quick questions; then we'll be on our way."

Harvey knows it's his right to refuse entry, but then they might think he has something to hide and come back with a search warrant. "Uh... sure, come in then." He warns Danny by calling out to Anita as he steps aside to let them in. "It's the FBI, babe. They want to ask a few questions."

Anita appears in the kitchen door just as the agents walk into the center of the room. Her bearing is calm, and she greets them with a polite smile. "Would you like a cup of tea, coffee, or a soda?" Both men decline with a shake of their heads. "Then give me a moment to slip our dinner into the oven to keep warm."

Harvey invites the agents to sit down, but both men decline. David is craning his neck in an obvious attempt to get a surreptitious peek into the kitchen, which is all they can do because Harvey knows they don't have the right to walk through the house without a warrant. He hears the oven door open and close, and Anita comes back into the living room a moment later. He is in awe and wonders how she can appear so relaxed and confident when he's almost sweating bullets.

"I apologize for the bad timing," Bobby says. "I expect you've seen the news about your friend, Danny Walker, on the TV?"

"He was my colleague when I worked at Infinity, but I quit in 2017 and moved down here when I got married."

"But you still keep in touch with him, don't you?"

"I speak to him from time to time, yes."

"When was the last time you saw him?

"Eighteen months ago."

"What was the reason for the reunion?"

"He was best man at our wedding."

"What about phone calls, e-mails, and such?

Harvey is being careful not to volunteer information, and he can sense it's beginning to irritate the agent. "The last time I heard from him was six months ago when he called us on Christmas Day."

"Mr. Walker was seen on the I-5 earlier this afternoon, and because of your friendship, we thought he might be coming here."

Harvey's response is snippy. "You thought wrong then, didn't you?"

Bobby's voice sharpens significantly. "Regardless of what you _think_ you know about him, Walker is a dangerous man, and if you've heard from him or know of his whereabouts, you need to tell us."

"I've already told you, the last time we spoke was at Christmas."

"Phone records show he made a nine-minute call to your telephone earlier today."

Harvey's eye's open in genuine surprise. " _Wow!_ What time?"

"Oh, come on, don't fuck with me. You already know."

"Then show me the phone records, because I haven't spoken to him today, unless..." and he vacillates. "I guess he could've been talking to Casper?"

"Who's Casper?"

"Our resident ghost," Harvey retorts. "He's pretty friendly, you know."

An angry blush appears on Bobby's cheeks. "I didn't come here to listen to a smart mouth, Mr. Worrell, but if you'd rather go down to the station..." and he gestures with his open hands and shrugs.

"The last time I spoke to him was on Christmas day," Harvey says in exasperation. " _You_ know it, _I_ know it, and we _both_ know he didn't call here today, so cut the crap."

Bobby pauses and studies his face for several seconds. "You'd help a good friend in trouble, though, wouldn't you? After all, that's what friends do."

"Let's be quite clear, Mr. King. I have a five-month-old daughter, and I will _not_ put her in danger for anyone—not even a good friend."

"I'm not convinced you'd break your camaraderie so easily. I mean, if I was to do anything perverted..." and he swings an arm towards his partner, "... he wouldn't see anything."

Harvey is livid. "I'm black, so I understand you loathe believing me."

"Hmm... that's a pretty good rationalization," the agent replies, and he takes a deep breath. "Then if he didn't come here, where do you think he might have gone?"

"San Diego sounds like a good place to me."

"Why would he go to San Diego?"

He stares at the agent in surprise. "While you're trying to profile me, he's probably heading across the border into Mexico. Isn't that where fugitives head for?"

"Sometimes," Bobby replies, and he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a business card. "You can reach me at this number if you hear from him." The agent glances at his partner. "Come on, David; we'll let these people get back to their meal."

Harvey follows them to the door, and Anita comes up behind him and peers around his body. David steps outside and comes to a stop with his eyes on the BMW. "These are nice cars, but they're pretty expensive."

"Nice things always come with a price tag," Harvey says.

The agent nods. "Which is why I'm wondering why it's parked in the driveway when you have a garage."

Although it's more of a remark than a question, it still catches Harvey off guard and he falters, but Anita is fast and covers him with an immediate response. "Since when did it become a crime to park in our own driveway?"

The agent's response is icy. "I was talking to your husband, Mrs. Worrell."

_"My_ car is in there," she snaps.

David inclines his head. "Oh... _you_ have a car, Mrs. Worrell?"

She hesitates, and a sheepish look appears on her face. "Actually, no, it belongs to my mother. She's loaned it to me in case there's an emergency with the baby while Harvey's at work."

"What does your mother do when _she_ needs a car?"

"Her fiancé drives her around most of the time."

Bobby intervenes by nudging his partner with an elbow. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Worrell. Goodnight."

Harvey closes the door with a sigh of relief as the agents retreat down the garden path to the front gate, but Anita has a worried look in her eyes.

"They're not FBI agents."

He walks toward the kitchen. "They showed me their badges, babe."

"Were they real or fake?"

"Well... um..."

"You couldn't tell, could you?"

"Then who are they?"

"I don't know, but they're not FBI."

Harvey walks into the kitchen and stops. "Where's Danny?"

Anita pushes past and opens the oven to take out the pizza. "He's in the broom closet."
43

The President's Private Study

The White House, Washington DC

Coordinates: 38° 53' 50.6" N, 77° 02' 15.1" W

Saturday, June 27, 2020, 2101h

President Sinclair waits in silence while the five staffers shuffle into the private study and sit at the reading table. The newcomer is Andrew Johnson. Lloyd wants a clear verdict on Dr. Bailey's averment and hopes that an input from the Secretary of Health and Human Services will help him come to some crucial decisions.

"Mr. Johnson, have you been brought up to speed with what's going on and why you're here?"

Andrew is soft-spoken who, like many on the cabinet, isn't afraid to speak his mind to the president without fear of retribution. "Terry briefed me on the fundamentals, but it's pretty hard to ingest all in one go. However, I'm a little bemused because what he told me contradicts everything you said at the press conference."

"That was before the meeting with Dr. Bailey, and it was an intentional distraction to buy some time until I could get things into context."

"And have you? Gotten it into context, I mean."

Lloyd scoffs and shakes his head. "Not yet. What he told us was unexpected and, well, a bit of a shocker if it's true."

"The only question you need to ask yourself is whether the axis is shifting or not and there should be no doubt that Dr. Bailey's assessment lacks verisimilitude if the answer is no."

General Morgan joins the discussion. "The satellite failures suggest that a shift is occurring, but we only have the doctor's word on _how_ it's moving and the effects it will have based on a number of suppositions."

"If the axis _is_ changing, then it gives credence to the doctor's evaluation," Andrew reiterates. "The repercussions will be ca _lam_ itous, even if the temperature doesn't reach the extremes he forecasts."

Terry leans toward the HHS secretary. "I know you're a strong exponent of greenhouse emissions, but this isn't a man-made catastrophe and we have to disassociate ourselves from the global warming phenomenon, per se."

Andrew shrugs. "I guess the _real_ question is, 'what are we going to do about it?'"

"If everything comes to pass as Dr. Bailey has set forth, the earth will be transformed into a near lifeless orb with the exception of a narrow band just north of the planet's girth. I want to formulate a plan we can swiftly implement if necessary, and I brought you in so we can figure out how many people can safely inhabit our portion of the twilight zone, and to advise on any health issues we're likely to encounter."

Brian cuts in before Andrew is able to respond. "What do you mean by 'our portion'?"

Lloyd gets to his feet and walks across the study to stand in front of a world map that Terry had pinned to the wall thirty minutes before the commencement of the meeting. Two parallel lines drawn with a red marking pen signifies the boundaries of the twilight zone. "If Dr. Bailey is correct, then humans will be able to survive between Central Mexico and Guatemala's southern border. _This_ is the 'our portion' I'm talking about, Mr. Harding." He glowers at the secretary of state with a challenging gleam in his amber eyes, almost daring him to object.

Brian gesticulates with one hand. "I don't want to be presumptuous, so I'll hear you out before I say anything."

"What about Panama?" Robert asks.

"According to Dr. Bailey, it's too far south and it'll soon be the new Siberia," General Morgan says.

Andrew raises a hand. "I don't know if it has any bearing but reports of a massive snowstorm across Southern Argentina and Chile are dominating the headlines out of South America. They say that the two countries are being ravaged by sustained winds in excess of two hundred miles an hour and temperatures below minus forty degrees, and it's expected to rage on for at least another seven days."

"That's some friggin storm," Terry mutters.

"Well, there's nothing we can do for them, so let's focus on _our_ problem," Lloyd snaps. He picks up a long wooden pointer and begins to indicate key elements on the map. "Other countries that will get a share of the twilight zone are parts of North Africa, Saudi Arabia, and the southern Asian continent, including portions of Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Bangladesh, Myanmar, and about fifteen percent of South China." He drags the pointer along to the southeastern corner of the USA. "In contrast, our meager portion is in southern Florida."

General Morgan shakes his head. "The polar ice cap is thawing, and the subsequent rise in sea level will submerge the peninsula. Countries like Myanmar and Bangladesh that don't have enough elevation will also disappear, which will be a significant reduction in valuable land space within the twilight zone."

Lloyd cogitates as he walks back to rejoin the group at the table. "General, let's assume for one minute that Dr. Bailey _is_ right. How long would it take for a military operation to secure the twilight zone?"

Brian lurches forward and signals a time-out with his hands. "Hold on! Hold on! That's dangerous ideation to be even contemplating. Mexico is a sovereign country, and what you're suggesting will contravene every act and treaty we have in place."

Lloyd responds with a scornful tone in his voice. "Treaties will be worthless scraps of paper once the tumble goes live."

Terry leaps to his feet and speaks up in support of the secretary of state. "Come _on_ , Mr. President. Do you honestly believe we can plan and execute an invasion of Central America _and_ be victorious in less than... what... two or three weeks?"

Lloyd's eyes are blazing with anger. "My question was directed specifically to General Morgan, and I'd appreciate if you'd have the courtesy to let him answer."

The cacophony dissipates into silence, and five pairs of eyes turn to Barry. "We need to approach this with commonsensical rationality. A military incursion into, and a successful occupation of the twilight zone is not achievable in the remaining timeframe, and it's ridiculous to think otherwise."

The president scowls. "We have the greatest military power in the world."

"That may be so, but it doesn't do any good when eighty percent of our servicemen and women are spread out across the Korean peninsula and the Middle East. The Mexican, Belizean, and Guatemalan governments will form a coalition, and it'll be impossible to dislodge them from an incumbent position in the short time we have to plan, secure, and open a safe channel for our citizens to get into the region. It'll result in an unholy bloodbath all for nothing because those who don't die in battle will perish from the heat. You'd do better to explore a strategic diplomatic solution."

Lloyd strokes his chin while he ruminates. Although he doesn't see an immediate avenue where diplomacy could be a way forward, the general has restored some acuity to the discussion. "I'll give it some consideration."

Andrew looks at him with an inquiring glint in his eyes. "I take it your intention is to relocate three hundred forty million citizens into the twilight zone?"

"Yes."

"Then I should warn you that a proportionate balance with adequate acreage per habitant needs to be maintained—not only for agronomical produce but for livestock too. You can't overpopulate the region if you want to keep it viable, because there will be no foreign commerce in the short or long term, and self-sufficiency will be the main ingredient to our survival. The daily luxuries we take for granted will disappear overnight."

"Christ, who invited _him_ on the team?" Robert mutters.

Andrew is applying the insight gained from Dr. Bailey's assessment to good use, and Lloyd is taking an interest in what he is saying. "You have my attention, Mr. Johnson. Please, continue."

"My observations hinge on the notes Terry gave me, but the combined area of the twilight zone in Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala is approximately twenty-seven hundredths of a percent of the earth's topography. It'll be essential to our survivability to reserve enough land for growing crops and farming in general per capita. I'm not an agriculturist, so it might be a good idea to seek the advice of Bernard Lehman in this area, but much of the terrain within the temperate zone is an infertile desert, and toil and patience will be required to work the earth into malleable farmland. There will be no room for a sybaritic lifestyle, and everyone will need to roll up their sleeves and donate their skills for the good of Mankind." He hesitates and glances around at everybody before he looks back at Lloyd. "By my estimation, the maximum population in the twilight zone can't exceed two hundred four point four million."

The vice president frowns. "Are you _sure_ about that number?"

"It's a pretty close approximation. Is that less than you anticipated?"

Terry flicks through a couple of pages in his notebook. "Yes, but here's the real problem; these three countries already have one hundred forty million inhabitants between them who have every right to be there. I was hoping we could move at _least_ one hundred twenty million citizens into the twilight zone if it becomes necessary to migrate, but your calculation cuts that down to sixty-four point four million."

Lloyd is devastated by the new figures, and he groans. "I won't accept less than a hundred twenty million, period."

Andrew's expression remains placid. "Fair enough, we can make that our target, but we're still responsible for another two hundred twenty million Americans who won't be included in the exodus."

A heavy silence descends over the group and the five men exchange uncomfortable glances with each other before all eyes turn to Lloyd. Dr. Bailey had made a similar intimation at the afternoon meeting, but it was at the point when everyone was still cynical of his asseverations, so it came across as insignificant.

Lloyd swallows, and his voice grows cold and emotionless. "Unless we can come up with an alternative plan, we may have to sacrifice two-thirds of our nation to ensure the survivability of the other third... and Mankind."

Everyone gasps in unison except for General Morgan, who remains ascetic. Andrew is the first to speak, and the tone in his voice conveys his revulsion. "You _can't_ abandon our citizens to suffer an ugly and grotesque fate."

The muscles along the president's jawline and lower cheeks ripple as he clenches his teeth before replying in a resolute voice. "I never said I _would_ desert them, but it's a realism we _might_ have to face if we can't come up with an adequate plan."

General Morgan gets up, walks over to the map, and studies it for several minutes. "We could put them onto ships and aircraft and send them across the Atlantic to Western Sahara or Mauritania. I know it's mostly desert, but these are underpopulated regions and they will be in the twilight zone."

"Isn't it likely the Europeans will migrate to those countries too?" Lloyd asks.

The general saunters back to the table. "Perhaps, but I don't think North Africa will be a popular destination. It's uninviting at best, and most will make the mistake of heading for India and other places across Asia."

"Why would that be a mistake?" Robert asks.

"Because there can be no doubt, they _will_ close their borders to prevent an alien invasion."

Lloyd is getting overwhelmed with lassitude, which is adding to his growing frustration. "What's the latest update on the GPS situation?"

"I just got off the phone with the FAA, and they've verified that they're systems are still in a critical failure mode," Robert replies.

He looks over at Barry and gazes at him thoughtfully for several seconds before he speaks. "General, we _must_ get our aircraft back into the skies. Is it possible we can revert back to radio beacons like before?"

"The last one was phased out after the law requiring all aircraft to be equipped with GPS navigational systems as standard became effective. The few that are still operational were kept for strategic military functions and there aren't enough left to be practical for commercial airlines."

"Can't they be reintroduced?" Terry asks.

"They can, but it's going to take longer than the tumble is willing to give us."

Lloyd folds his arms across his chest. "You know what? I'm exhausted and need to rest. Perhaps I'll have an epiphany overnight and God will visit me with some sound advice, but just in case that doesn't happen..." and he finishes the sentence with a heavy sigh.

Terry rests his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands while he takes a few seconds to contemplate. "I'm in favor of a second opinion."

"I have a close friend at NASA whose qualifications are equal to Dr. Bailey's," General Morgan says.

Lloyd shakes his head. "No, that'll open up a new issue because containment will be impossible once we draw NASA's attention to the tumble."

"It's all right; I'll be discreet."

He ponders for a few seconds. "How long will it take to get an answer?"

"I'll have one by tomorrow morning."

"If you can do it without raising red flags, then go ahead," Lloyd says, and he glances around the table. "I want everyone back here at oh eight hundred tomorrow morning. I intend to make a decision one way or another."

"You have a rally in Ohio tomorrow," Terry reminds him.

"Postpone it."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'm in accordance, but unfortunately, it's the only one I have," Lloyd replies brusquely.

The five staffers file out of the study and Lloyd slumps back in the chair wearily after the door closes behind the last person, and shuts his eyes. Whatever decision he makes in the morning needs to be the right one, because there will be no second chance.

Continued in book two: _Tumble: The Golden Capricorn_

Acknowledgements

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Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge the following people and entities for their input, advice, or services:

_Zoom Earth_ , whose free application at <https://zoom.earth/> enabled me to synergize the eBook versions. Readers can click on the coordinates at the top of each chapter and bring up an interactive map so they can "see" where the episode is taking place.

_Sarah Disbrow_ for the candid evaluation and invaluable advice she gave to me.

My editor, _Sandra LeBlanc_ , to whom I should apologize because it is certain I tested her patience on more than one occasion, but she always comes through for me.

_Ivy_ , _Jane_ , and the rest of the design team at Westwood Book Publishing for enduring my punctiliousness when it came to the cover graphics and interior layout. Your tolerance was amazing, although there must have been times when some of you were screaming and ripping your hair out in despair!

I want to give a special mention to _Don_ and _Karen_ _Gabel_ , whom I have never met but who took the time and effort to send me handwritten letters—the first true fan mail I have ever received. Thank you for your kind words.

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