Ambassador to Australia Barbara Becker stretches as she awakens. She checks her watch as the jet begins its descent over Australia. Los Angeles to Sydney in under seven and a half hours, not bad. She stands, then moves across the aisle to her right to join the two scientists from the Institute for Energy and Environmental Research.

Steven Taber, a large man who reminds Barbara of Senator Jesse Ventura, is leaning against the window, snoring, while his colleague, Dr. Marty Martinez, types furiously on a laptop computer.

“Excuse me, Doctor, but we’re going to be landing soon, and there’s still a few more questions I wanted to ask you.”

“Just a moment, please.” Martinez continues typing.

Becker sits down next to him. “Maybe we should wake your friend—”

“I’m up.” Taber lets out a bear-size yawn.

Martinez turns off the computer. “Ask your questions, Madam Ambassador.”

“As you know, the Australian government is in an absolute uproar. They’re claiming more than sixty-seven thousand square miles of geography was vaporized in the explosion. That’s an ungodly amount of terrain simply to vanish into thin air. Based on your preliminary assessment of satellite photos, would you say this accident was caused by a natural phenomenon, like Mount St. Helens, or are we looking at a man-made explosion?”

Martinez shrugs. “I’d rather not say, at least not until we complete our tests.”

“I understand. But—”

“Ambassador, Mr.Taber and I are here on behalf of the United Nations Security Council, not the United States. I understand that you’re in the middle of a political maelstrom, but I’d rather not speculate—”

“Lighten up, Marty.” Taber leans forward. “I’ll answer your question, Madam Ambassador. First, you can forget about anything like a natural disaster. This was no earthquake or volcano. In my opinion, we’re looking at a test explosion of new type of thermonuclear device, the likes of which, if you’ll excuse the expression, frighten the absolute shit out of me.”

Martinez shakes his head. “Steven, you cannot say this for certain—”

“Come on, Marty, let’s cut the crap. You and I both suspect the same thing. It’s all gonna come out in the wash anyway.”

“What’s going to come out? Speak to me, gentlemen. What is it you suspect?”

Martinez slams the top of his computer shut. “Nothing that project scientists at IEER haven’t been protesting for the last decade, Ambassador. Fusion weapons, pure-fusion weapons.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not a scientist. What do you mean by pure fusion?”