“Madame Secretary,” Al Augustus interrupted, looking at his watch, “excuse me for stopping you at this point, but we need to turn our attention to the monitor. I’ve just been informed that there will be a satellite feed piped in here momentarily to give the members of the cabinet a firsthand view of what’s unfolding at this moment on the West Coast.”

The large screen in the Cabinet Room had the capacity to receive civilian satellite pictures, as well as a range of real-time pictures from various government satellite sources. The information was sent in millions of digital bits, which allowed computer processing and editing of information to suit the tastes of the viewers.

The room also had remote control equipment that permitted an operator in an adjoining room to adjust the cameras on-board a satellite, either to scan a large portion of territory or to zoom in for detailed closeups. Since there had long ceased to be coverage on the ground, nongovernmental news agencies were now dependent on government sources, plus the commentaries of scientific advisers hastily assembled for the purpose.

The first pictures that came up on the monitor caused an intense reaction in the room. There were moans, cries, and even sobs as the cabinet looked at an earth-based view of the fireball hurtling toward impact. The picture then switched to satellite coverage of the southern California coastline, followed by a fast zoom shot giving a closeup view of the impact—and then an equally fast zoom-out to show the magnitude of the hellish scene.

They watched in horror and shock as picture after picture flashed before them, each more terrible than the preceding one. The secretary of state seemed transfixed. He kept repeating over and over again, “Oh, my God! This is the end! Oh, my God! This is the end!”

As they watched, billows of roaring, fiery waves engulfed the Los Angeles Basin. One closeup shot brought tears to many eyes as walls of water engulfed the tall buildings in West Los Angeles like a deadly, malevolent force, smashing them to pieces in mere seconds, then roaring on by as fast as the eye could follow, to claim more and more victims.

THE FIRST INDICATION Manuel Quintana and his family had of the approaching horror was a steadily increasing roar in the distance. At precisely 7:00 P.M. they heard what sounded like a loud ripping sound as the meteor plunged through the atmosphere. They huddled silently, shivering in fear at the rush of the wind that preceded the three hundred billion pounds of fiery rock hurtling through space toward the surface of the ocean.

By 7:01, Pacific Coast time, the entire sky overhead was lit up like the light from a hundred suns. The roof on the transmitter building burst into flames, and then the gas tanks in both their automobiles exploded. Manuel could hear the three boys gasping and crying softly in their trenches, but he was relieved that they were staying down in the water.