“Thank you,” Cam said. He sounded desperate. “And yet the other plume analysis shows no trace of any tritium or deuterium beyond ordinary background levels, no chemical traces of uranium or plutonium, and no unexpected radioactivity at all—the only radioactivity we’re getting is a very slight trace of americium, which is almost certainly from the on-board smoke detectors. Any further speculation in light of that? I confess I’m baffled, but I’m not a physicist or chemist.”
There was a long pause. “Browder, DoF. No uranium or plutonium means no fission trigger, as far as I know.”
“Oe, DoE, that’s correct.”
“Svejk, EPA. Any trace of lithium or beryllium? We might as well check all the commonly known fusible nuclei that we can.”
“A little bit, but the on-site assessor said that there’s enough in half a dozen modern laptops and the plane’s own computers to produce the quantity they are seeing.”
“Browder, DoF. All the fusible nuclei you can check? I assume that means you can’t check for helium?”
“Svejk, EPA. Not easily. But we can probably cross helium off the list because fusing helium-4 into carbon is so far beyond what can be done on Earth, and helium-3 is so scarce and hard to isolate.
“Caspar, DoE, concur. Also helium-3 is somewhat harder to work with than tritium or deuterium, to boot. If they were using helium-3, it would almost certainly be easier, cheaper, and more effective to use tritium.”
“Nonetheless,” Cam said, “I’m alerting the crews to watch out for a nuclear weapon in the wreckage. Anybody have anything they need to add before we end this call?”
On the screen, the burning sodium continued to light the site in eerie, dancing flames; network feed showed a swarm of talking heads, all trying to explain everything else to each other.
Heather messaged Browder: thx, good job, stay online, wl b long night.
He sent back: ^surest prediction DoF ever made.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. YUMA. ARIZONA. 6:23 P.M. PST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Ysabel took the Yuma city bus to the mall and picked up the pack she’d left at the door of Sam’s Club that morning. The developmentally disabled guy at the service desk seemed to remember her, but maybe nobody would believe him, if anyone even thought to ask him anything.
She walked across the parking lot to the little tour company where she’d bought a pass for a cheapie three-day package that went down to a little bed-and-breakfast in Puerto Penasco. They promised you the fun of waking up “in a foreign country” the next morning.
She planned to set her clock and slip out of the bed-and-breakfast about an hour before dawn, when the third-class buses in the zocalo would be picking up hotel workers from the graveyard shift. She’d just get on whichever one was going the farthest south on Highway 2; from there, she could be lost among the peasants until Daybreak eliminated pursuit.
“Would you mind if I sit with you?”
Ysabel looked up to see the only other person under fifty on the bus. The girl had an awfully big backpack for a three-day trip; she wore baggy shorts and sandals with socks, and the super-retro WrapLens glasses that made you look like a giant insect, the early smart-lens glasses from back in the ’teens. She mumbled as she introduced herself, and Ysabel didn’t really catch her name. Oh, well, at least I remembered my alias is “Jane.”
The Bug-Faced Girl was off on her first vacation entirely on her own. “I’ve never crossed any border before, I’ve never gone anywhere by myself, and I’ve only really been to Kansas, Oklahoma, a ski resort in Colorado, and Urbana, Illinois, because my grandma lives there. So here I was with a real job, nobody I had to see or plan with, and I just decided I’d see some places I hadn’t seen before. So I got a two-week pass on Greyhound, and went out to see the beach in San Diego, and now I’m doing this side trip so I can see another beach and sort of have been in another country. I must seem like the biggest dork in the world to you.”
“Well, having seen more of the world, I know there are way bigger dorks.”
Bug-Eyed Nerdchick took a second to get it, then laughed. “My mother is so freaked; but I left San Diego yesterday, and I was nowhere near where Air Force Two crashed.”
“Where—?” Ysabel asked. “Where what? ”
Miss High Adventure explained. Ysabel was flabbergasted—so that was why everyone had been piled around the TV set in the waiting area before they boarded the bus. Ysabel had figured it must be the stupid World Series; now she realized that she was fleeing across a border after shooting down a piece of military hardware, during a major terrorist attack.
It might be wise to be obviously buddies with someone conventional. And Nerdette herself was just saying she was “scared to death, even though I know this is about as safe as foreign travel gets.”
So they chattered about everything in the world, with Ysabel changing just enough of her bio not to be too recognizable in case they were looking for her. She’d thought it was a pretty good joke to call herself Jane Llano—“plain Jane”—on her false passport—but now her head was filled with, must remember, must remember, my name is Jane, Spanish major at UT-Austin, please don’t let anyone ask about anything there because I’ve never been there—
The border guard got on, and said, “Folks, they’re asking me to scan all the passports and record them, because of what’s happened, but it shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”
Ysabel thought she’d explode, but Nerd Chick actually put a hand on her back, and said, “Hey, relax, you’re the old hand here. You know it’s nothing to do with us.”
“Yeah. I guess I’m having flashbacks. You travel down south of Mexico at all, into Nicaragua or Honduras, and sometimes border checkpoints are scary.”
They scanned the fake passport without comment. The guard even smiled and said, “Have a good time, Jane.” It would have been even better if the guy had happened to use SuperAmericanGirl’s first name too.
As the bus rolled into Mexico, Miss Texas Nerdface of 2024 was telling an apparently endless story about some elaborate prank that her brother had played on her other brother, which involved hiding underwear. From there she progressed to talking about how exciting-but-scary the world was.
Honey, you’ve got no freakin’ idea, Ysabel thought, between trying to think of more synonyms for that’s interesting and oh really?
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. JUST WEST OF AVOCA. IOWA. 8:30 P.M. CST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Del Quintano was known as “Leprechaun” to his friends because, despite being solid Mexican as far back as the family knew, his bushy sideburns made him look more like the Notre Dame mascot than anyone had any right to. He’d made a virtue of it, growing his sideburns out and hanging the cab of his semi-tractor with little plastic leprechauns and decals, and he had to admit, his luck did seem to be pretty good.
He was listening to a talk station on IBIS radio, all the news about Air Force Two, shaking his head. Man, you never knew what was going to happen, except that when it did, every idiot in the world would call up every station in the world, and they’d all talk about it.
He had a mandatory sleep-layover coming up in Des Moines. A shower, a bed, and not being allowed to drive any farther until he’d had some sleep looked pretty nice to Del. Some of the old truckers complained about CELT, Continuous Electronic Load Tracking, because they couldn’t skate around the rest-rules and take more work, but as far as Del was concerned, it meant nobody else could cut in on you while you followed the rules and worked a reasonable pace.