Dead Hand

Chapter 8

Looking up at the pale blue sky, whatever doubts Tim Vandergraff had been harboring over entering the asteroid's footprint to cover this story were quickly forgotten. The "footprint," as the journalist of his tiny TV news team explained to the audience back home, was the zone in which the particles that had once been asteroid Nerius 1991 HWC were expected to enter Earth's atmosphere and impact. Though continuous observation and an analysis of data gathered from it had shrunk the footprint to an area of only several hundred square kilometers, no one was willing to pinpoint where the asteroid would actually impact, if indeed it did. Laborious and often heated debate between the experts, both on camera and in hundreds of closed meetings, as to what would happen at 05:34 Greenwich mean time tended to create more doubts than answers.

It was as a result of this climate of uncertainty that Tim Vandergraff decided to risk crossing over the imaginary line to cover the biggest story of his career. "You know how those government and civil-defense types are," he explained to journalist Anna Roberts when she voiced her concerns. "When faced with a situation like this, they go overboard. They evacuate twice as many people as is necessary and build a margin of safety into their projections that borders on the ridiculous. I'm sure that if he had his way. General Likhatchev would empty all of Russia east of the Urals just to be sure." Though still concerned. Anna Roberts and Antonio Halbas, cameraman and sound tech, went along. Only their official guide, a Russian from the State Information Bureau, had no doubts that what they were doing was tantamount to suicide. It had taken a bribe four times that normally budgeted for use in "persuading" Russian officials to convince the guide to abandon common sense and cooperate.

Using the projections that NASA had generated, Vandergraff took his intrepid little team of Americans to a spot that was just off the anticipated glide path of the asteroid. Located on the north slope of a heavily wooded ridge overlooking a river, Vandergraff hoped to catch sight of the incoming projectile as it first hit Earth's atmosphere southwest of where they now stood. If their luck held and the folks at NASA were even close to being right, Halbas would be able to track Nereus 1991 HWC as it sliced through the increasingly dense air that it encountered. The heat created by the friction generated as air passed over the irregular surface of the asteroid would reach several thousand degrees Fahrenheit within seconds. The entire asteroid would become a fireball as the silicate rock and iron that it was made of melted. Vandergraff was told that this phenomena would create a spectacle that would stand out against the bright, early spring sky. And though he expected to lose sight of the asteroid as it disappeared over the southeastern horizon, the TV camera would be able to pick up the flash and resulting mushroom cloud as the alien intruder finally made contact with Earth's surface some one hundred kilometers away. "I'm not guaranteeing you the Pulitzer prize," he told his fellow journalists as he made his pitch to ignore the published minimally safe distance, "but what we record tomorrow will rank right up there with the film clip of the Hindenberg and man's first step on the moon."

Neither Roberts nor Hables were fools. Both were veteran correspondents who had covered more than their fair share of natural and man-made disasters around the world. Anna Roberts had earned her spurs reporting in the Balkans and covering the Second Gulf War. Hables had honed his skills in the camps of Colombian guerrillas and covering the Mexican drug wars. Individually, each entertained doubts about the wisdom of crossing over into the footprint of the asteroid in the off chance that they would find the perfect spot, one that was both safe and ideal for viewing its descent. Yet such was the challenge of the chase, not to mention their pride as journalists willing to hang it all out in pursuit of a story, that they kept their concerns to themselves.

Once committed, all thoughts of any dangers associated with their decision were pushed aside as they prepared themselves and their equipment for an event they would have only one opportunity to capture. Besides technical matters, such as establishing a good satellite uplink and a location in the Siberian wilderness that would provide them an unobstructed, panoramic view of the southern sky, there were more aesthetic concerns that needed to be addressed. Though the primary focus would be on the asteroid itself, a suitable spot where Anna Roberts would stand and deliver her commentary was necessary. Tim Vandergraff was an absolute genius when it came to that sort of thing, which was why he was there.

In short order, he had found a site that was ideal. From a ledge on a ridge that was slightly higher than where Anna stood, Hablas would be able to capture, as background, the river below them, the southern ridge of the valley across the way, and the horizon while Anna was addressing the audience. When the time came for the asteroid to make its appearance, all Hablas need do was to tilt his camera up a bit and angle it slightly to his right. With luck, he informed Vandergraff, he would even be able to catch Anna as he tracked the course of the asteroid across the southern sky by zooming out at the right moment. "For a few seconds," he warned the female journalist, "you will be in the same frame as the fireball. So make sure you're wearing a suitable expression." Just what sort of expression would be appropriate for such an occasion was beyond Anna. But, trusting her instincts, she had no doubt that she would be able to make a good show of it when her moment came.

Following the practices normally adhered to when covering this sort of event, Vandergraff's team beamed a continuous feedback to their network's studio. There, a production manager synchronized reports and feeds being sent to him by a number of other teams located around the world. From his darkened control room in New York City, this production manager coordinated his teams, prompting them when he would be cutting to them and what he wanted each to address during their next on-air segment. In turn, the on camera member of each team was privy to both image and audio that were being put out over the air. This permitted them to chat with each other as if they were in the same room, or to pick up a train of thought that had been initiated by someone else on the other side of the globe.

Besides Vandergraff's team in Siberia and the program anchor in New York, there were a noted astronomer, a professor of geology, and a Nobel-winning physicist in the New York studio with the network's own science-and-technology correspondent. From her office in Pasadena, an astronomer who worked for NASA provided an official view of the event. Elsewhere, various reporters with assigned beats such as the Pentagon, the White House, the UN, and other seats of authority stood ready to chime in should any statements of note at their location be released. And, of course, no coverage of a major event would be complete without the ubiquitous "man-on-the-street" interviews. In the case of this network, there were correspondents on the streets in New York City, Los Angeles, London, Moscow, and Tokyo, as well as in an auditorium at a local university and a high-school science class.

Vandergraff followed all of this from the monitor that was part of his electronics gear. Though he understood that his team was but one of many, he also appreciated the fact that if the Fates were kind to him, they would be the undisputed center of attention not only during the event, but later as fellow media types in search of people to fill airtime scrambled to interview him and his intrepid little crew. Not only were they part of the handful of trained observers who had "been there," but they were fellow media types in a nation where news anchors had become cult heroes and celebrities.

From the small earpiece that fed him audio, Vandergraff heard the production manager's cue: "Cutting to Siberia in five."

Quickly turning, the producer pointed to Roberts, then held five fingers up, dropping one almost instantly as he began his countdown. "In four, three—" The last two counts were silent hand signals.

When the image of Anna Roberts flashed on the screen of the television sitting on the bar of the Red Devil's Pub, she was a picture of composure. "Do you suppose she'd look as calm as she does," an American Navy SEAL asked his buddies, "if she knew we'd be descending upon the spot she's standing on in a few hours?"

A ripple of laughter went through the room that had been, for the most part, quiet. Few of the Special Ops types who had been assembled in Scotland for Tempest found they were unable to stay away from the television or radio now that the moment was at hand. Even those who could were unable to remain in their sleeping bags during the appointed hour, opting instead to work off their nervous energy by running laps around the quiet runway despite the cold, predawn drizzle that swept the RAF base.

By way of response, a Dutch marine belonging to the Amfibisch Verkennings Peloton snickered. "If you were getting what she's paid to be there, you'd be smiling, too."

With a Scottish accent that almost defied comprehension, a Royal Marine of the SBS, sitting next to his Dutch counterpart, called for silence. "I've been listening to you lads for days now. I'd like a chance to hear what the lass has to say. We might learn something."

Unable to let this go by without comment, an SAS sergeant took a parting shot at the red-haired Scotsman. "The only thing you're interested in learning from her, James, is her phone number."

Though this last was followed by a few chuckles, most of the men assembled in the Red Devil's Pub were concentrating on what Anna Roberts was saying: "As you can see," she stated loudly in order to be heard over the cold Siberian wind that whipped past her open mike and caused the ends of her scarf to flutter about, "there's not a cloud in the sky. I'm told that even if the asteroid does not follow the exact course that NASA has projected, we'll be able to see it."

Cutting back to the studio, the image of an immaculately dressed and well-polished man, seated behind the anchor's desk, flashed across the screen. "I can clearly see that you're being buffeted by the wind where you are. Just how cold is it there?"

Though she understood that the anchor was simply marking time until the asteroid began its final approach, his insipid question bothered Roberts. She was there to cover the story of the century, she told herself as she hesitated, not the local weather. Still, she did her best to hide her annoyance, to muster up the best smile she could, and to deliver an appropriate answer. "I was told, as we set off this morning to reach this site, that the thermometer was well below freezing, with little prospect of rising much beyond that throughout the course of the day. That means that a great deal of this past winter's snow is still on the ground, giving Russian officials here a great deal of concern."

"How so?" the warm, comfortable anchor in New York asked, trying to make it sound as if he really cared.

"In advance of the shock wave that the impact of the asteroid will generate," Anna stated matter-of-factly, "a heat wave will sweep over an extensive area at the speed of light. I am told that this phenomena will be capable of igniting trees as far away as twenty miles or more from ground zero. This could result in flash floods throughout this region, not unlike those that the residents of the State of Washington experienced after the eruption of Mount Saint Helena." Pausing, Anna Roberts motioned toward the river below. "As turbulent as that river is now," she stated, "by this afternoon, it will be many times as wide, and choked with debris and shattered trees."

Cutting back to the New York City studio, the production manager caught the anchor making an expression that showed concern. "I hope," the well-polished anchor stated with as much sincerity as he could muster, "that you will be safe where you are."

Anna gave the camera a brave smile as she turned to face it. "I can assure you, Jerry, we will be out of harm's way long before there may be any danger."

The New York anchor was about to launch into a new series of burning questions when he was cued that the time had arrived. "Anna," he announced in a deep voice, "I've just been told that the asteroid is about to come into contact with the upper atmosphere. Can you see anything yet from where you are?"

By the time the production manager switched the views being sent out to the TV network's audience, Antonio Hablas had already pivoted about and trained his camera on the point in the sky where Tim Vandergraff had been told the asteroid would first become visible. The moment of truth, for so many people in so many different ways, was at hand.

Turning toward the southwest, Antonio Hables zoomed his camera out so he would have the widest possible field of vision while he searched for the asteroid through the panoramic lens. For her part, Anna Roberts turned to her left and watched, ever mindful that at any moment she would be part of an image beamed around the world to countless millions of television viewers. Tim Vandergraff, who had selected the site and had done so much to convince his superiors that his team was going to be the one for viewers to follow, stood next to their vehicle, nervously waiting. For the first time in hours, the headphones he wore over one ear were silent as journalists, editors, anchors, experts, and everyone who was on the World News Network loop held their breath.

From the studio in New York, one of the astronomers looked up at the clock across from him and cleared his throat. "If our calculations are correct," he stated in a guarded tone, "the asteroid should already be cutting into the upper layers of the atmosphere."

This statement caught the production manager off guard. Scanning the row of monitors before him, he saw nothing. "Vandergraff," he snapped. "Do you have anything yet?"

Anxiously, Vandergraff looked over at his cameraman. Having heard the same question in his earphone, Hablas glanced over his shoulder at Vandergraff. With a shake of his head, Hablas indicated that he was seeing nothing. Despite the cold, Tim Vandergraff now began to feel sweat running down his forehead. Had he erred. He began to wonder.

Like all projections and estimates, the incoming track of Nereus 1991 HWC was little more than an educated guess. It was a well studied and frequently revised prediction, but it was still a guess, using calculations based upon measurements that were in themselves only guesses.

As so often happens when man attempts to define something as random and chaotic as nature, Nereus 1991 HWC did not cooperate with the earthbound experts. Like a stone hitting a smooth millpond, a major chunk of the shattered asteroid ricocheted off the upper layer of the atmosphere. It wasn't a very big hop. Rather, it was more of a burble. But it was enough of an interruption on the otherwise smooth and steady flight to alter the asteroid's angle of arrival and its speed. The new track, occurring as the asteroid traveled at a rate of twenty kilometers per second, took every astronomer who was watching by surprise. And though they endeavored to record, analyze, and input this new data into revised predictions, the speed of events outpaced their abilities.

While he had seen the computer-generated images of what the asteroid would look like as it bore down on planet Earth, Hablas was still unsure of what, exactly, to look for. Vandergraff wasn't much help here, having been born and raised in a city where flickering streetlights and not twinkling stars decorated the night sky. From her spot, Anna Roberts joined in scanning the southeastern sky. But her assistance in this search was limited since she needed to keep one eye on the camera at all times, just in case it turned on her. Not even their Russian guide, a native of the region, was of much help at the moment, though his problem was more a result of the vodka he was all but inhaling rather than his lack of visual-acuity skills.

Back in the control room in New York City, where it was just after midnight local time, the production manager was feeling the effects of stress and uncounted cups of coffee. "What in hell is going on out there?" he snapped. Though he didn't preface this question with the name of a site as he usually did, no one had any doubt that he was directing the inquiry to Vandergraff. When his team leader in Siberia said nothing and he saw no indication of anything even remotely looking like an asteroid on the screen labeled "Siberia," the production manager pivoted about and began to pace in the close confines of his small domain. "Does anyone have anything?" he pleaded over his open mike.

Had he been paying attention to his monitors, the harried coordinator of the live news show would have noticed that the chair in which the NASA expert in Pasadena had been seated was shoved to one side and empty. An even closer examination would have revealed a flurry of activities in the background, where a number of NASA astronomers were scrambling to sort out the alarming new data that was flowing in.

In Siberia, Anna Roberts felt a sudden chill, the kind of chill brought on by an inexplicable feeling of insecurity stemming from a danger that is perceived but not yet visible. Though ever conscious that she was standing in front of a live camera, she slowly turned her head this way, then that, in an effort to see if she could find the source of her vague uneasiness. While Vandergraff and Hablas scanned the distant southwestern sky, Roberts searched the area around them.

With the exception of the Russian guide, who was far too drunk to pose anything resembling a threat, Anna saw nothing amiss. This immediately caused her fertile imagination to conjure up all sorts of threats, ranging from Russian internal-security forces creeping up on them, to predatory animals in search of their next meal. It was only when her body's natural responses overrode her sophisticated logic that the source of this inexplicable discomfort became obvious.

Craning her head back ever so slightly so as not to look silly on the camera should she be in its field of view, the veteran TV journalist stared out along the crest of the ridge they were on and off to the west. It took her only a moment to realize that the glowing orange ball hanging in the sky above the ridge was, in fact, the very asteroid they had been sent to watch. It took another second or two for her to realize that the aspect of the asteroid, as she had been prepared for, was all wrong. For one thing, there was no tail, no long streak of burning gases and molten material trailing the intruder. Only bits and pieces peeled away from its surface as it through the ever denser atmosphere. And the object didn't seem to have any apparent motion, not at first. It simply appeared to be hanging there, like the gigantic glowing ball that hangs over Times Square on New Year's Eve. It was all very odd to the journalist, as well as disconcerting. Still, she managed to find enough of her voice to warn her cameraman. "Pan right, Antonio," she whispered. "To your right and—"

At that moment, as the cameraman was in the act of complying with her order, Anna Roberts knew why things weren't making sense. What she was watching was not an asteroid harmlessly streaking through the sky in the distance. Rather, the ever-expanding ball of fire before her eyes was the very object they had been sent to capture on live TV, now bearing down on them with all the relentlessness of a locomotive.

Back in New York, a vigilant member of the production staff saw the camera held by Antonio Hablas in faraway Siberia suddenly swing about to the right, then fix upon a tiny red dot in the sky. Even before the cameraman was able to zoom in on the object, the staffer switched the feed going out to the audience to the one he himself was watching. "That's it!" someone yelled, catching the pacing production manager off guard.

"What?" he shouted as he turned to see what everyone about him was jumping up and down about. "Who told you to send that out?" he demanded before he took the time to consider what his staff was looking at.

"Vandergraff's team!" an excited assistant editor answered. "They've got it! They're tracking the asteroid!"

Relieved and thinking clearly now, the production manager swung into action. "Okay, boys and girls, we're in business. Is everyone seeing this?" he asked, fighting the excitement that gripped everyone around him. "Anna!" he all but shouted into his mike, "say something. Start talking."

On the other monitors, anyone who cared to look would have seen the New York anchor, the experts in the studio, and countless others scattered about the globe who had a World News Network camera on them, turn away from the camera before them and cast their eyes upon the nearest TV monitor. In silence, they watched as the asteroid grew larger, more distinct, and ominously closer with each passing second. Only in the control room of the production manager did anyone speak. "Harry," the manager snapped, "check the audio. Make sure we're getting a good feed from Siberia."

With a quick scan, the audio tech in New York saw that all was in order at his end and in Siberia. "All systems are go and live, boss," he replied as he fought the urge to turn away from his own battery of instruments and join in watching the descent of the asteroid.

Again the production manager barked into his mike. "Anna. Vandergraff. Someone say something. Anything!"

For the longest time, the production manager heard nothing over the earphone of his headset that fed him audio from the various journalists, experts, and people chosen to be interviewed. There was not even the crackle of static. Just an unnerving silence as everyone held their breath and watched.

From one of the live feeds, the words, "Dear God in heaven," finally broke the silence. No one knew who had spoken those words, but the sentiment expressed by that one person reached several of the experts almost simultaneously.

Not yet attuned to what those experts were seeing, the production manager turned to an assistant. "What? What's going on?" he called out, first to those around him, then to people scattered about in various locations. "What's going on? Anna? Tim? Anyone? What's going on out there?"

Though the team in Siberia heard the frenzied words of the production manager, none of them replied. Anna, now totally unconcerned with what Antonio was doing with the camera, reached up and pulled her earphone out without taking her eyes from the growing fireball that was growing nearer. The cameraman, who had always asked himself the question of what he would do in a no-win situation, struggled to maintain his composure as he tracked the progress of the asteroid now bearing down on him. For his part, Tim Vandergraff stood transfixed. The thoughts that passed through his mind before he died would never be known, but winning a Pulitzer was probably not one of them. Only their Russian guide, far too inebriated to appreciate what was going on, met death with anything resembling serenity.

In the Red Devil's Pub, the sudden loss of picture announcing that a large chunk of the asteroid had impacted was met with a stony silence. As at the news network itself, several seconds passed before anyone in the room managed to speak. "Well," a solemn Navy SEAL quipped, "looks like the media pool just got a little less crowded."

Though every man gathered in Red Devil's had seen people die, and reveled in the graveyard humor they all used to soften that brutal experience, no one laughed, no one offered a retort. Instead, one by one, each of the highly trained killers stood up, turned his back on the blank screen and walked away, wondering if he would be the next to be called upon to face death.