How big? How much damage?

They picked up Transglobal coverage of the wave off the satellite. First reports were sporadic, but Bolling wondered whether the alarmists might not have been right after all. He snapped on the intercom and told his people what he knew. "We'll pass along whatever else we get as it comes in," he concluded.

They maintained a southeasterly course, beneath a now-quiet sky. Their depth reached one hundred twenty feet. The wind began to blow and the water started getting choppy.

At 1139 hours he was handed a general broadcast message from an oil tanker:

He hardly needed to look at a chart; more trouble for Rhode Island.

"Pass it to the station," he said.

"We've done that, Captain," said the messenger.

Bolling raked the horizon with his night glasses. It was flat as a pancake.

Another fireball raced silently out of the clouds to starboard. The sea turned red in its glow. It passed overhead, throwing off streamers, and plunged into the sea. A thunderclap broke over them. The sound had barely died to echoes before the last of the fragments had fallen a few points to port and the world was dark again.

"I've got the con, Dan," said Bolling. "Helmsman, come to port fifteen degrees. All ahead standard."

"Aye aye, Captain."

He scribbled a quick description of what they'd seen and handed it to the messenger. "Add our position and send it," he said.

The cutter dipped into a deep trough.

"Captain?" Ramsey, on radar. "Look at this."

They were getting a solid reading almost dead ahead. It looked as if a wall had been built across the ocean.

"It just appeared" he continued. "Range, six miles."

"Helmsman, make your course one-zero-zero. Right into it."

One of the forward lookouts shouted "Wave!" and pointed.

Bolling stared at it through his glasses. It looked big.

"Everybody tie down!" shouted the exec.

"Flank speed," said Bolling. "Let's put our lights on it."

Twin halogen lamps came on and their beams stabbed through the night.

The cutter leaped forward.

"Three miles," said Willoughby.

It was visible now, a vast rolling surge without a crest.

"My God," said Packard, "I thought you said we didn't need to worry about anything like this in open water."

"Complain when we get home," he said. "Hang on." They tied the wheel down to ensure they stayed on course, and then he directed all crewmen to lash themselves to their positions. He followed his own instruction and watched Packard do the same.

Then it was on them, a dark roiling mountain. Ditty rode up its face. Bolling lost his balance and fell against the bulkhead. The prow bit into the ocean, and water thundered across the deck and crashed through the bridge. He was thrown down hard and lost track of direction, and for a terrible moment thought they were going to capsize, maybe had capsized. The ocean boiled around him. Then they hovered on the crest of the wave and the boat's lights looked down into a bottomless trough and lost themselves in mist.

Dilly slipped into the trough. It seemed to Bolling that they were free-falling, and the fall went on and on. Water roared over his head, and then it was gone and he was trying to wipe his eyes clear and get the sea out of his throat.

"You okay, Captain?" shouted Packard.

Their lights played across a churning sea.

"I'm fine. Radar?"

"It's out, Captain," said Ramsey. "Blown."

The helmsman was dazed. Packard took the wheel. Bolling could see nothing immediately threatening. He keyed the intercom. "Radio room."

"Aye, Captain."

"Get a message to Breakwater. That wave was forty feet. It's moving west northwest, approximately two-zero-zero knots."

"Aye, sir."

Bolling knelt beside the helmsman, but looked up at his exec. "We need a head count, Dan," he said. "Let's make sure we've still got everybody."

"This is Mark Able in the mobile unit above Groton, Connecticut. The lights are out down there and we can't see much yet, but here's what we know: A giant wave went through here a few minutes ago. There's heavy flooding on the ground. We can see overturned rail cars. There's debris everywhere, as if a big tornado had hit the area. Downtown is just flattened. John, I've never seen anything like this. It's just awful. There's nothing moving on the Connecticut Turnpike at all. And as far as I can see, there aren't any cars on it anywhere. There are some overturned vehicles north of the highway. And yes, John, I think that's what happened: The wave just swept the road clear.

"We have no estimates yet as to casualties, but I can't believe anyone down there could have lived through this. A couple of army helicopters have just arrived and are using spotlights to look for survivors. We're going to try to find a place to land, and we'll be staying on top of this developing story.

"Back to you, John." Manhattan. 11:35 P.M.

The mood at Louise's rooftop party had been going severely downhill for about an hour. Party-goers gathered around the TV to watch pictures from the helicopter. As the images of ruined bridges and mud-covered streets and downed telephone poles continued, there was talk that maybe Manhattan itself wasn't safe.

Marilyn became uneasily aware of their proximity to the Atlantic.

"Maybe," somebody said, "we ought to head out."

"Head out where?" asked Marvin. "We're four stories up. Where could you go that would be safer than this?"

Where indeed? Marilyn looked down into the street, which was locked tight with trucks and taxis. They could hear the distant wail of a police cruiser. "Marvin's right," Louise said. "Anybody wants to stay the night is welcome."

Marilyn had spent much of the evening with Marv. It irritated her that her husband showed no sign of jealousy, nor even any indication that he noticed. It struck her as odd that the world seemed to come into clearer focus when she was moderately under the influence. She understood that night with cold clarity that she'd married the wrong person.

Maybe it didn't matter who she'd married. Her husband had been like Marv at one time. She could still remember the nights when they couldn't keep their hands off each other. The marriages of her friends, those that had survived, had all gone much the same way. Dull and listless seemed to be the best you could hope for.

Maybe she needed kids. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be until kids came along.

She was sure of one thing: The talk about tidal waves, and watching people try to get out of town, had all made her think about her own mortality. She wasn't really afraid of death itself. Death was too remote, something that happened to other people. But she knew that the clock was running, that none of the dreams that had brightened her teenage years had come true. Working on idiot manuscripts by other people was less than fulfilling. And she knew no one, not one person, who would be grief-stricken if she died. Her folks, maybe, but they didn't count. Larry would be sad, no doubt. He'd come to the funeral, sniffle at all the right moments, bounce back, and move on.