Collision Course

24 Hours to Thunderbolt

David Mitchell slammed the brakes for the 500th time on E470. He was barely a mile from the Denver Airport cutoff, but the fine red dust drifting down from the sky had paralyzed traffic.
Drivers gawked through windshields instead of watching the road.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.

The red dust had arrived too soon. Seattle was already blanketed, and now it moved east—faster than any of the models said it would.

At least he’d reached Adam. Told him to get underground. Their shelter might be deep enough to survive the arc discharge.

Might.

So much for the peaceful, celebratory trip to D.C.
He’d finally made it—offered a seat on the board of the National Science Foundation. Ten years of work, and now? Gone. He could kiss it goodbye.

He thumped the steering wheel.
“Damn it, Mitchell, what have you done?”

He inched toward Peña Boulevard alongside thousands of other panicked drivers.

How could his predictions be this far off?
He’d discovered the object—2025 MZ12. He was the golden boy. The media had praised him.
Finally, they’d taken him seriously.
But the dust wasn’t supposed to arrive yet.

He should’ve questioned the agency. Should’ve rerun the models.
Instead, he took the prestige. The promises.
God help me, he thought. I sold out. I lied. Not once—dozens of times.

A low varoom broke his spiral.

David squinted through the dusted windshield.
“Oh dear Lord…”

A jet wobbled overhead, engines sputtering.
A strange blue glow shimmered across the nose and wings—St. Elmo’s fire.

The engines surged—then flamed out.
A sharp pop echoed seconds later.
The red haze thickened, turning the sky into a choking veil.

David jerked his old pickup to the side of the airport road and slammed it into park.
He grabbed his phone, jumped out, and started recording.

Another pop—the engines reignited.

The plane’s nose lifted. No time for a go-around.
It overshot the touchdown zone, barely scraping above the runway.

He kept recording. The glow had vanished.
The air reeked of static.
He yanked up a corner of his shirt to cover his mouth.
So much for that new shirt.

The jet slammed down near the far end.
It bounced.
Skidded.
Denver’s long runways were useless now.

It ran out of space, overshooting the tarmac.

With a final slam, the aircraft came to rest in the dirt.
Wings quivered but held. Wheels collapsed under the fuselage.

David paused the video.
Called 911, just in case.
Then jumped back in his truck and floored it toward the wreck.

Cars lined the roadside, their drivers frozen in disbelief.

David passed long-term parking, turned onto a narrow service road, and arrived first.

He screeched to a halt within yards of the mangled jet, now resting in a shallow ravine just short of Peña Boulevard.

The fuselage had carved a trench—ripping asphalt, slicing the service road.
No fire. No explosion.
Not yet.
The jet, for the moment, was strangely clean of red dust.

That wouldn’t last.

Emergency crews sped in from all directions.

With the crew’s help, passengers slid down the chutes.
Some cried. Some stood frozen.
Fear and salvation fought on every face.

A mother hushed her screaming child.
A man in a suit clung to a sobbing woman.
Raw human trauma. No fire—just mercy.

David killed the engine and stepped out, ready to descend the embankment—

Then stopped.

An old man was racing up from the ravine.
Crazed.
Determined.
Eyes locked on him like a hunter.

Oh no.
He knew that man.