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Apophis

Mark Murphy

    Chief Detective Higgins offered a cigarette to Murlow, who nodded meekly and took it. When Higgins wasn’t looking, he put it in his jacket inner pocket. Murlow didn’t smoke.
    It was raining harder now. Murlow’s jacket and shoes were soaked through as he and Higgins trudged up the Parliament steps. That was one cliché Murlow learned always to be true. No matter the day or the season, it always rained in London.
    Higgins took a big drag from the limp cigarette. Blazing orange embers lit up the rain droplets and a stream of smoke danced up into the storm. In a flash, Higgins dropped the butt to the ground and stomped it out. Murlow watched the ash wash the pavement, bits of gray overtaking the blue puddles.
    “Who called it in?” Higgins grunted.
    Murlow sidled up to him. “The ambassador to Somalia. He was to see the Prime Minister today to discuss the increase in piracy off the Somalian coast, but when he arrived, he found him dead, slumped over his desk. He had a .38 next to his body. One round was missing from the chamber. CSU found it in the desk about an inch deep into the wood. Passed clean through his head.”
    Murlow grabbed at his stomach. Higgins nodded and lit another cigarette.
    Deputy Detective Charles Murlow was young, only twenty-eight. Interpol recruited him for international investigations out of the FBI in 2032 and he was now in his fourth year of service. Murlow had short black hair that he kept in a crew cut. In his FBI years, he kept it long. One day, he met an Interpol operative while working the investigation of the murder of three Secret Service agents outside the presidential compound. The operative had a crew cut, and he was able to find the murderer in a matter of hours. The next day, Murlow cut his hair. Two years later he was with Interpol.
    Higgins peered over his shoulder at the front gates. Rows of police cruisers lined the avenue as officers from Interpol, MI5 and the local London units scurried every which way. Higgins growled a series of inconceivable words into his holographic transponder. Like dogs responding to their master, the officers fell to their posts. A few low rank Interpol detectives hurried up the steps but stopped just short of where Higgins and Murlow stood. Only when Higgins turned his back to them did they dare look up.
    Special Agent in Charge of Field Operations at Interpol Jameson Higgins was not an easy man to get along with. He was gruff, surly, the result of over forty years of experience working field ops. He was a man who could have ranked much higher in the force if he wanted. Two decades earlier, he was promoted to head of North American Operations, but declined. He’d take a desk job when the field didn’t need him anymore.
    Four years ago he met a young FBI agent while on a job in Los Angeles. His name was Charles Murlow. Higgins instantly saw potential in him. Murlow had the attention and cold discipline of a Navy SEAL: swift, attentive, willing to take any order without question. Higgins finally found a young pair of legs who could carry out all of his orders via proxy. In a year’s time, Higgins would take the desk job, and Murlow would take his place as Head of Field Operations.
    A stocky guard rushed down the steps and flagged them down. “Good morning, Inspectors. Come right inside. The entire place is in chaos. Only a matter of moments before the press notices all the sirens and comes knocking.”
    “Did anyone touch the body?” Higgins asked. He and Murlow followed the guard into the enormous government building and down a hallway adorned with lavish paintings and beautiful furniture.
    “No sir,” the guard replied.
    “When did the ambassador find him?”
    “Around nine this morning, sir. Said he knocked but didn’t get an answer. The door was unlocked so he went in. That’s when he found the prime minister slumped at his desk.”
    “Why is he down here?” Murlow asked. “The prime minister’s office is one floor.”
    “Not sure sir. Prime Minister Madison told me he had to check on something. He said something important was coming. I didn’t know he had a bloody gun, honest.”
    Higgins and Murlow continued in silence behind the guard. After a minute they reached a door marked STUDY B. The guard turned and looked at the men, concern floating in his eyes.
    “Why are they all doing this?” he asked.
    Higgins coughed and reached into his pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. He flipped it open but, realizing they were all gone, put it back into his pocket.
    “Back to your post, boy,” he said.
    The guard began to speak but thought better of it. He gave a curt nod and hurried away down the hall. Higgins did not glance back at him as he turned the knob to the study.
    The door swung open and the scene slowly washed over Murlow. It was a small study. A couple of busts of former prime ministers stood out against an otherwise drab room. The wallpaper was faded red and a modest chandelier hung from the ceiling. The purple curtains were drawn but Murlow could still hear the rain batting at the windows. A narrow plush rug led from the doorway straight to a beautiful oak desk.
    It was there on the desk, slumped down, hand dangling off the front amidst a waterfall of dried blood that pooled in a black splotch on the rug, was the body of the prime minister of Great Britain. Two forensics experts were busy taking samples and making notes of the scene. They nodded at Higgins and Murlow before returning to their work.
    Higgins sighed. “How many does this make, Murlow?”
    Murlow gratefully took his eyes away from the body. “Ten in the past year. Three in the past week alone.”
    Higgins frowned and smacked his lips. He nodded and moved into the room to discuss the situation with the forensics experts.
    Murlow stood in silence. For the past year, the planet watched dumbfounded as world leaders began committing suicide. It all began with the president of Mexico who jumped off a cliff near the Gulf Coast. A month later, the prime minister of Japan was found dead in his office in the Diet building. He had committed seppuku, a ritual suicide once common in the samurai days. Then there were the leaders of the countries of Chad, Mongolia, Thailand, Australia, Sudan and Germany. The dictator of North Korea’s death was by far the strangest. He abruptly called an international press conference in which he declared that his country would switch to a democracy. He then pulled a revolver from his inner jacket pocket and shot himself in the head. That was two days ago, and now the British prime minister was dead along with them.
    Murlow inched towards the body. His expertise was in interviewing the witnesses and suspects after forensics had finished with the bodies. The FBI was more about the history of the crime. Interpol was more about the scene of the crime. This past year had put him around more bodies than he wanted to admit.
    “What’d they find, sir?” he asked Higgins.
    “Just as you reported. One slug entrenched in the wood of the desk. The bullet passed through the back of his head and out just above the right eye. Instant death.”
    “Why this room?”
    “Prime Minister Madison was a former member of the British Royal Navy, a man of honor. My guess is he did not want to tarnish the upper office where so many great men had served before him.”
    One of the forensics experts examining the desk called out to the two detectives. Higgins and Murlow rushed to the desk where they found the man pulling a small packet out of one of the side drawers with tongs. Higgins put on a pair of gloves handed to him by the other forensics expert and took the papers.
    “We believe he was reading this, placed it in the desk, then shot himself,” the forensics expert said.
    Higgins nodded and held the packet up to the light. Murlow saw a seal on the top right corner, the stamp of the UK Space Agency, the United Kingdom’s space research department. Another stamp, a red TOP SECRET, smudged the top left corner. In the center, Murlow read the title:
    FOR THE EYES OF PRIME MINISTER ALAN MADISON ONLY.
    THE RESULTS OF THE RESEARCH ON 99942 APOPHIS AND ITS CURRENT TRAJECTORY FOR APRIL 13th, 2036.
    Higgins glanced up from the document at Murlow. He had a blank look on his face.
    “April 13th? That’s two days from now,” Murlow muttered. “And what the hell is 99942 Apophis?”
    “An answer,” Higgins replied.

...

    Higgins demanded that CSU let him take the packet with him. They refused, declaring it now a part of evidence. It took a few threats to their wives for the experts to finally relent and allow Higgins and Murlow each to photocopy the packet, leaving the original in their care.
    “What could possibly drive world leaders to take their own lives?” Murlow asked.
    Higgins stared past him. “Something big.”
    Higgins called Interpol HQ and declared that he and Murlow would take the rest of the day to review the new evidence. They would check back in tomorrow with their reports. Before they parted, Murlow held out his hand. He always shook Higgins’ hand when he left for the day.
    Murlow tucked the packet into his jacket pocket and got a ride with one of the local squad cars. They rode in silence until they reached his hotel. He took the stairs to his ninth floor room and collapsed onto the bed. It was nearly sundown.
    Almost a year had passed since he started work on the world leader suicides. Higgins took him to every crime scene, showed him every bit of evidence, listened to every one of his theories. When Interpol held press conferences, Higgins always kept Murlow off to the side, away from the viewfinders and video cameras. Once, Murlow accidentally answered a question from an American reporter who called out from behind, thinking it was Higgins asking for clarification on one of the suicides. Higgins nearly booted him from the case.
    Murlow sat up and slipped out of his jacket, taking the folded packet out of the pocket. He read the title again and flipped to the first page of the UK Space Agency report. It was an index for the mere ten pages of information.
    1) Overview of 99942 Apophis
    2 – 8) April 2029 Trajectory Change and Mapping of Possible Collision Points
    9 – 10) Suggested Courses of Action
    On the ride to the hotel, Murlow considered what “Apophis” could be. It sounded like a terrorist organization, but he did not recall Interpol, or any agency for that matter, having any information about such a group. He flipped to the first page and read the report:
    Official Final Report on Near-Earth Asteroid 99942 Apophis
    —Overview of 99942 Apophis—
    In late 2004, astronomers at NASA discovered a fast-moving object, the orbit of which was projected to come dangerously close, some forty times closer than the current orbit of the moon, to Earth in December 2029. It was quickly determined that this was a near-Earth object, or NEO, an asteroid, dubbed 99942 Apophis. The Apophis asteroid is roughly three hundred miles across and caused slight panic when NASA announced it had a 1 in 200 chance of hitting the planet. As further calculations were conducted however, the orbit of Apophis was better determined, and the likelihood of a collision with Earth was lowered to 1 in about 334,000.
    Apophis did not hit Earth in 2029, though a new danger arose. Our planet’s atmosphere is pocketed with “gravitational keyholes,” areas of uneven gravity where the pull of Earth’ gravity can be stronger or weaker than the areas around it. The orbit of Apophis showed that the asteroid would pass very close to a large keyhole in its 2029 pass. Going through the keyhole would not cause the asteroid to strike the Earth at that time, but would instead alter its future trajectory such that when it returned on April 13th, 2036, it would strike the Earth with one hundred percent certainty. It is with the utmost concern and sorrow that we report to you, Prime Minister, that 99942 Apophis did indeed pass through the gravitational keyhole in 2029, and will strike our planet in 2036.
    Sir, Apophis is the single greatest threat to humanity in the history of our species. This object is large enough to decimate an area the size of the United States in an instant. A strike would be the equivalent of detonating every nuclear warhead on the planet simultaneously. Should it hit an ocean, tidal waves the likes of which have not occurred since the extinction of the dinosaurs would wash away entire continents. Survivors will be doomed to years of “Asteroid Winter” in which debris and dust kicked up by the impact will block out the sun, killing crops and drastically lowering temperatures across the entire planet. Starvation and disease will run rampant. Every government will collapse. Life as we know it, save for some subterranean species and microbial life, will cease to exist.
    Maps of projected collision sites, casualty estimates and possible dates of extinction follow.
    Murlow felt a burning sensation in his neck. The crescent overhead light above his bed shined so brightly it gave him a headache. He jumped to the window and pulled open the curtains. Up in the now dark sky, he saw the moon pale against a backdrop of pinprick stars. It was crazy. The idea that an asteroid that large would come to Earth in a fiery flash of destruction, and in two days no less, was absurd. Governments would warn the people. Preparations would be made. The United States would surely launch something to knock the asteroid away or change its orbit or blast it into nothingness. But he could think of nothing save for the bodies of the world leaders he found over the past year. He felt sick.
    After a few deep breaths Murlow returned to the bed. He flipped through the next section. There were pages of maps, graphs and data. He saw the projected collision area, a stretch that covered nearly half of the Earth in an “S” from Thailand across the Pacific and up through Baja California and into Arizona. There were casualty estimates: between one hundred and five hundred million dead instantly depending on land impact. Over a billion dead from tidal waves should it strike an ocean. One particularly nauseating factoid sat on the second to last page. Human Race Extinction Prediction: 2041. Five years. Humanity had five years.
    The last graph was a telescope photograph of the Apophis asteroid itself. The photocopy was grainy and Murlow couldn’t quite make out which dot among the hundreds of other dots on the page was the asteroid. In the top right corner, he spotted nearly invisible text, labeled “99942 APOPHIS.” Above it was the faintest speck of white. Murlow had to blink twice to make sure the dot was really there.
    He swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped the sweat off his brow and flipped to the final two pages.
    —Suggested Courses of Action—
    The passage of 99942 Apophis through the gravitational keyhole caused widespread alarm in the space divisions of many nation’s governments. A collaborative effort began in 2030 on possible courses of action to be taken to prevent Apophis from striking our planet.
    The heads of every country’s space agencies met at a conference in February 2030 in Jacksonville, Florida, United States of America, disguised as a conference for determining a new form of clean energy. The first action of the conference was to determine if any countries had developed technology that could destroy an asteroid or alter its orbit such that it would miss the planet. It was determined that while most agencies had research programs in place to create such technology, no breakthroughs had been made and no such technology existed.
    The programs then conferred to see what the best way to stop the asteroid would be. It was suggested that nuclear warheads be fired at Apophis in 2036 as it neared Earth. This was dismissed as the warheads would likely not make it to the asteroid, or fall off course. Warheads were also determined to not be powerful enough to destroy such a large object and any debris blown off of Apophis could strike the planet and endanger citizens or fly off and strike the planet some time later after orbiting around the solar system.
    A more likely course of action was to create a device that would use gravity to push Apophis as it neared Earth, thus altering its trajectory. Many nations had programs to develop such technology in place, but construction on such a device, while plausible,had not begun. The space agencies determined that with adequate funding, in the range of several trillion dollars, they could construct and launch a functioning device in forty years. The idea was scrapped.
    The conference concluded without a set course of action and each individual agency promising full disclosure to solve this crisis. It has since been six years and while all agencies have worked tirelessly to find a solution, we regret to admit that as of now, no solution exists.
    It is therefore the recommendation of we, the UK Space Agency, on behalf of all space agencies worldwide, that you, Prime Minister Madison, along with all other world leaders, announce to the people of your United Kingdom and all peoples the world over that the end is near. We strongly encourage you to inform everyone that the projected strike date of 99942 Apophis is Thursday, April 13th, 2036 at approximately 10:03 PM, GMT. People should make penance with themselves and prepare for the worst, as the worst is yet to come.
    We greatly regret putting this burden on your shoulders and the shoulders of all other world leaders. We ask that you have strength and courage, as our nation looks to you for guidance in these most trying of times. Any other information or assistance you require, we will provide at a moment’s call. Thank you Prime Minister, and we only wish that we could bring you better news.
    Respectfully,
    We, the Various Department Heads of the UK Space Agency
    A list of names and signatures followed. Murlow sat with his eyes fixed on the last page of the packet. The end of the world in ten pages.
    He was dizzy. Outside his door he heard a crying child and a mother trying to calm her down. He was hungry. He did not want to eat. The room was spinning now. He grabbed the headboard to steady himself. Above his head the light shined and his head throbbed. For a moment he thought the light was falling and he ducked to avoid getting hit. He tugged gently at the headboard. It snapped off in a shower of wood chips and dried paint.
    A subdued ringing filled the room. On his nightstand he saw his cell phone vibrating. He snatched it and put it to his ear. It continued to ring. He pressed it closer to his ear. It rang louder. He shook his head and pressed the answer key. A gruff voice began speaking on the other end.
    “Did you read it?” the voice said.
    Murlow was dazed. “Read what?”
    “The Apophis report.”
    Murlow suddenly realized it was Higgins. “I...yes. Yes I did.”
    “This is the answer. It explains everything. We have to talk to the president.”
    “The president...” Murlow muttered.
    “Of the United States. What’s wrong with you?” Higgins growled.
    “I, yeah. Nothing.”
    “I mentioned the word Apophis to his press secretary, who had no clue what I was talking about. But the president called back in minutes. We leave now. Get to Heathrow airport in an hour.”
    Higgins hung up. Murlow sat in silence with the phone still pressed to his ear. Then, as if in a dream, he gathered his jacket and suitcase and left the room for the airport.
    Outside, he couldn’t hear the child anymore.

...

    The following morning was damp and gray and Murlow wondered if it was raining the entire world over. They turned in their firearms at the security checkpoint and one of the White House staff led them down the ornate hallways to the Oval Office. She opened the door and Higgins and Murlow entered. The president was sitting on one of the sofas in front of the Resolute Desk sipping coffee.
    “Detectives Higgins and Murlow,” the staff said, pointing to each man.
    The president beckoned to the men to take a seat and Murlow heard the door shut behind him. A pitterpatter of rain began to strike the broad windows, droplets dancing down the panes before crashing on the sill below.
    “Take a seat detectives,” the president said. He was a short man, the toes of his loafers just barely scraping at the carpet. There was no hair on his head and his eyes burned into his pale skin. But he sat with his body high, his shoulders back until his chest nearly burst from his suit. He spoke softly so that the detectives had to lean in closer to hear him. Murlow had never met the president before, but he instantly liked him.
    “Coffee?” the president asked.
    Higgins waved him off. “No thanks.” He spoke with the same gruff manner he used with any other person. “Prime Minister Madison is dead.”
    The president nodded. “Yes, it’s a real tragedy. He was a good man.”
    An uncomfortable silence swallowed the room. Murlow looked at the president, then at Higgins. He waited for them to speak.
    “Let’s get right to it. You know why we’re here,” Higgins said. He reached into his coat pocket and took out the UK Space Agency packet, dumping it onto the table. The president did not move.
    “So you know?” the president asked, sipping his coffee.
    “Madison stuffed this in his desk just before he shot himself. This is why he killed himself. This is why they all killed themselves.”
    The president nodded.
    “I assume you have a report just like this from NASA?” Higgins asked.
    The president nodded again.
    “And you’re aware that Apophis is scheduled to strike tomorrow?”
    “NASA says it’s on schedule. They even updated the trajectory to me. Should strike the Pacific Ocean about five hundred miles northwest of Hawaii. Gonna be a hell of a fireworks show.”
    “Do they know?” Higgins asked, waving his arm towards the doorway.
    The president shook his head. “No, just I and the department heads of NASA. Not even my wife and son know.”
    Higgins glanced at Murlow then leaned towards the president. Murlow followed.
    “Are you going to tell them?” Higgins motioned with his eyes towards the window. The president let his gaze sift to the White House lawn outside. The rain was stronger now. He sipped his coffee and put the cup on the table.
    “No.”
    “Good.” Higgins put his hands on his knees and began to stand up.
    Murlow felt the burning return to his neck. Every hair on his body stood up. All the colors of the room started to melt and drip down to the floor. He raised his hand to pull at Detective Higgins but quickly realized he was pulling at nothing but air. Every instinct in his body told him to be quiet, told him to stand up and leave with Higgins. But the burning sensation in his neck would not let them. It was guiding him now, and he must speak.
    The words spilled from his mouth robotically: “You have to tell them.”
    Higgins froze and cocked his head at his young officer. Across the sofa, he saw the boy’s eyes, wide and black. It was clear he was awash with fear. He raised his hand to Murlow and did not know if he would pat him on the back or strike him.
    “Excuse me?” the president said, giving a searching glance at Murlow.
    “You have to tell them. Everyone. They deserve to know that today will be their last full day on Earth,” he said, nearly shouting.
    “And why is that?”
    Murlow stuttered. “Because...because, you’re the leader of the free world. You have the responsibility to tell everyone that their lives are in danger.”
    “Danger?” the president shouted. “Danger suggests a chance of peril. This is beyond danger, Detective. This is complete and utter annihilation, the very end of existence as we know it.”
    “Well you, you have to tell us that. Give us a chance to seek shelter, to get underground, to collect our families and prepare. At least give us a chance to make peace.”
    The president laughed. The hollow office resonated with the sting of his bellows. Murlow glanced at Higgins, aghast to find a slight smile on his face as well.
    “Son, are you thick? Are you deranged? Suppose I do tell them. Suppose I go up to that presidential podium and I tell every man, woman and child on this planet that in just about twenty-four hours all of them will be dust. I’ll tell them exactly what you said. I’ll tell them to dig a shelter, get their families together and prepare. I’ll tell the ones who don’t want to get underground to make peace. What do you think will happen next?”
    Murlow hesitated just long enough.
    “Every single man, woman and child will panic. Rioting will ensue, looting will be rampant. Old grudges between enemies will turn into bullets in brains, knives in backs and heads rolling down the streets. Orgies will break out in places you’d never even thought it possible to have sex. Hell, people will probably storm the White House and come after me. They’ll succeed too, because my staff and my bodyguards aren’t gonna stick around to protect me.”
    Murlow felt the burning in his neck grow hotter. “You can help. You...you can do something.”
    “Unless I can fly to outer space and smash this asteroid into little pieces or push it into the sun, I’m useless.”
    “You’re not useless. You’re a leader. People look up to you. People need you.”
    “What people need is to feel content with their lives. What people need is to exert control. And what a leader needs to do is ensure that people have just those things. I could tell them. I thought about telling them countless times. But a leader, Detective, is human. They’re fallible just as much as anyone else. If I tell them all is lost, I’m not a leader. I’m just the bearer of bad news.”
    The room was spinning now. Murlow felt his fingernails dig deep into the mesh sofa. Higgins was silent. He kept his eyes on his partner.
    Suddenly, the president leaned towards Murlow and put his hand on his knee. Murlow felt the burning in his neck subside.
    “I’ll tell you what. You can tell them. I can call a press conference. You can stand at the presidential podium and everything. I’ll let you say whatever you want. You can warn them, you can plead for calm, you can lead a prayer service for all I care. It’ll be just the same as if I did it. The end result will be the same.”
    Murlow grabbed the president’s hand and clenched it tightly. He wanted to snap his arm in half, rip it from his socket. He wanted to lunge and crush this man’s head. Yet the president did not flinch. His eyes were cold and firm. Murlow gazed into them but quickly looked away. He could not bring himself to look at him again. All the while Higgins watched in silence.
    Finally, Murlow let go of the hand. The president slowly leaned back on the sofa, chest once again protruding outward.
    Murlow could not take it anymore. He had to get out of there. With a jolt, he stood and moved to the door, his hand shaking as he grabbed the knob. He turned and looked at the president and his mentor. Tears began to run down his cheeks.
    “And I suppose you’re going to kill yourself, just like all the others,” Murlow whispered.
    The president laughed. “No, instead I’m taking the day off tomorrow. I’m going to take my family to the Nationals game. The Mets are in town.”
    Murlow watched the smile fade from the president’s face as he reached for his cup of coffee. The president then shrugged and said:
    “And then, I am simply going to cease to exist.”
    Detective Murlow stood and watched the leader of the free world sip coffee and gaze at the rain falling outside the window. When their eyes did not meet again, he fumbled with the doorknob and pulled the door open.
    He was about to step outside when he heard Higgins call out. “Charles, wait.”
    Murlow turned and saw his mentor standing and watching him. The normally gruff detective now looked much older, frail even. His words sounded much softer. Murlow felt the tears again well in his eyes as he turned away.
    “No.”

...

    Charles Murlow glanced at his watch as he walked through one of the fields in New York City’s Central Park. It was 3:55 PM April 13th, 2036.
    The air was warmer today and the sun had broken through that morning bathing the city in a healthy glow. All around him people were out and about. An elderly couple was walking their dog. A woman was pushing her child in a stroller. And in front of him, he saw a young boy, no more than ten years old, throwing a baseball at a pitchback. He was having some trouble as the ball was falling just short, striking the ground and kicking up dust.
    Murlow approached the boy. “Having some trouble?”
    The boy looked up at him from beneath a curved baseball cap. He nodded.
    “I can’t get the ball to hit it from here,” he said, nodding at the pitchback.
    “Show me your grip,” Murlow said.
    The boy took the ball from his glove and put it into his throwing hand. He held it up for Murlow to see. Murlow noticed that the boy had his entire palm wrapped around the ball.
    “Try holding it like this,” Murlow said, taking the ball from the boy’s hand. He held it with two fingers and a thumb across the seams. The boy watched carefully and took the ball back.
    The boy cocked his arm and thrust it forward. The ball flew and hit the ground just in front of the pitchback.
    “You didn’t use the grip I showed you,” Murlow said.
    He looked up at Murlow and smiled. “I like it better my way.”
    The boy took several steps forward to retrieve the ball when Murlow’s watch began beeping. It was now 4:03 PM.
    Just then in the sky, Murlow saw a bright flash and heard a boom like the loudest thunder he had ever heard. Shielding his eyes, he gazed up and saw a basketball-sized object floating west across the sky. Around him, curious pedestrians gawked and pointed.
    Murlow sat on the grass and waited.

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