“We are being told by the tower,” he continued, “that airplanes are landing in Albuquerque every three minutes, so we can expect some further delays and inconvenience before we get to the gate. But, we’ll do our best to look after your needs. I’ve been told that there will be a complete briefing for you in the terminal, along with an update on the situation on the West Coast.”

CARL FLIPPED TO THE BACK of the in-flight magazine and found maps and several paragraphs on the various airports in the region. The Albuquerque airport, he learned, was a joint-use military/civilian facility situated at 5,352 feet above sea level. It had four active runways, two of which were able to accommodate landings by any planes now flying. Runway 26/8, the east-west runway, was 13,755 feet long. Runway 35/17, the north/south runway, was 10,000 feet long. Obviously this is a very large facility for a relatively small town, he thought, realizing they had probably been rerouted to Albuquerque because the Albuquerque runways could handle all kinds of air traffic.

Looking out the window, he could see that the air traffic controllers were using both runways in an attempt to handle hundreds of big jets coming in for landings. Planes were parked at the civilian terminal, at ramps intended for corporate aircraft, as well as at the military facility.

Ground crews appeared to be exerting superhuman effort, pumping jet fuel into waiting aircraft. Carl assumed that they were going to reposition those planes to other areas, perhaps to the big Dallas/Fort Worth Airport, or even farther east before the anticipated navigational blackout. There were military personnel and air force buses everywhere. Obviously, emergency crews had been brought in to help unload passengers and baggage and to transport them to the terminal.

After deplaning several hundred yards from the main building, Lori and Carl got on one of the military buses and rode to the terminal. Once inside, they had to push their way through the crowds. About halfway down the concourse, the public address system in the terminal and the few television monitors in the waiting areas began broadcasting a message from the president of the United States.

Lori grabbed Carl’s arm. “Look at this, Carl,” she said, pointing to a TV they were just passing. They stopped to watch.

Sitting at his desk in the Oval Office, the president looked exhausted and very grave. He seems much older and grayer now, Lori thought. His forehead was creased by deep lines. “My fellow Americans,” he began, “it is my sad duty to inform you that in less than six hours our nation will experience the most devastating natural disaster in its history. At seven P.M. Pacific time, a meteor—a fireball weighing more than three hundred billion pounds—will impact the Pacific Ocean somewhere off the coast of California. I am told that it will strike the earth at a speed in excess of twenty-five thousand miles per hour.”

During the emotional pause that followed, the president wiped tears from his eyes. Carl could hear cries of surprise and alarm echoing throughout the airport.