I hadn't realized the doomsday clock was ticking away unnoticed, the impending sense of danger looming like a shadow I couldn't quite trace. My schedule was packed, working almost daily at the Security Agency. The days were long and exhaustive, filled with responsibilities that left little room for anything else. On the rare days off, I found solace in playing video games to decompress, losing myself in digital battles and strategies that didn’t have real-world consequences.
With what little free time was left, I put my skills to use in a different way than during my military days, now focused on fortifying the security of high-end homes and luxury yachts. It was during one of these projects that I noticed a surge in demand for intensive, top-level security measures. It seemed like everyone rich enough to worry was ramping up their defenses, prepping for an unknown threat that had the city’s elite on edge.
As the news of the incoming asteroid spread like wildfire, a sense of unease settled over the populace. Originally dismissed as a minuscule 1 in 200 million chance, the situation grew dire as the celestial body approached the sun. The asteroid's close encounter led to significant gas emissions, altering its trajectory towards Earth. What was initially deemed an impossibility now loomed as a harrowing one-in-a-million chance, his alarming shift prompted a surge of readiness among the public, with individuals frantically making preparations for the potential disaster on the horizon.
My folks, well, they were deep into this doomsday prepping craze. Momma used to keep Pops in check, but after she left us, Dad's wild notions just spiraled without her gentle hand to steady him. We'd stay connected, yapping about grand schemes for the old cabin up in the Montana wilds. Our chats, spiced up by Dad's passion for off-the-wall sci-fi, often drifted into bizarre realms—imagine discussing machine gun emplacements for fendin' off a horde of zombies or riggin' magnetic napalm traps like they were everyday backyard projects.
Dad was real struck on the idea of gold mining too. He’d started burrowing a tunnel right into the side of a mountain on our stretch of earth, using it to stash piles of nearly gone MREs—meals ready to eat. I managed to snag these for him through a buddy in the Montana National Guard. It was our little operation, kept on the down low. Then, outta the blue, Dad was gone. Just like that, leaving behind nothing but the cabin and a bit of money tucked away in his will. Wasn’t much, barely enough to keep up with the property taxes and maybe a little left over to patch up a leak or two.
After Dad passed, I got tied up with life, and the old cabin didn’t see much of me. Kinda fell into a bit of disrepair. But stepping back onto that land for the funeral, I saw it through new eyes. It wasn’t just some rundown shack—it was a fortress, secluded, locked tight, and shockingly self-sustaining. Standing there, in the quiet of those woods, I felt a peace I hadn’t known in years. It was clear as mountain air: this place was more than timber and nails; it was a sanctuary, ready to stand guard if the world outside ever went to hell.
Despite the city's chaotic pull, the tranquil mountains beckoned me relentlessly. The security gig in Los Angeles paid exceptionally well, my checks sometimes topping $10,000—a stark contrast to the modest stipends of my army days, which were more akin to a grocery store bagger’s wages. Each paycheck, larger than the last, was intoxicating, and I found myself trapped in a cycle of thinking, “Just one more, then I’ll leave.” This mindset became a loop, an addiction that perpetually delayed my departure.
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Still, my “shit hit the fan” plan was always polished and ready in the back of my mind. The cabin, nestled about a 21-hour drive away in the mountains, represented freedom. I had my bug-out bag always packed, and my trusty 2011 Jeep Rubicon—Ruby—was diligently maintained. I checked her weekly, ensuring everything from the brakes to the transmission was in top condition. To safeguard against any potential delays during the journey, I hoarded extra fuel in several 5-gallon military surplus containers, extending Ruby's range and ensuring I could make a swift escape if the moment ever called for it.
I had everything planned out to head for the mountains the moment it looked like that asteroid was really coming for Earth. Back then, the scientists pegged the odds at about 1 in 1000. Maybe it was all those tough spots I got through in my army days, but to me, those odds seemed more like a caution than a comfort. The experts didn’t have the asteroid's path down pat, so really, one place seemed as good as another.
The behavior of the asteroid threw NASA for a loop as it closed in on the sun. Usually, you’d expect an object to drift more as it got closer to the sun, potentially shifting it off a collision course with Earth. But this one? Its path stayed unnervingly steady.
Scientists chalked it up to uneven luminosity across its surface, much like a spinning football in mid-air. One side of the asteroid was dark, absorbing sunlight and nudging it toward us each time it faced the sun. The other side, shiny and reflective, acted like a little solar sail, veering it away when it caught the sun's rays. It was this unpredictable dance between shadow and light that kept everyone guessing whether it would swing one way or the full hit.
The asteroid’s erratic spin made it seem like it was almost deliberately aiming for Earth, leading scientists to agree that this precarious balance was bound to change. Sooner or later, one side of the asteroid might become fixed in place due to tidal locking, or the rotation could accelerate to such a degree that the stark imbalance between its light and dark sides would skew its path, ultimately causing it to miss Earth. Another possibility was that the centrifugal force, exacerbated by the increasing solar energy as it neared the sun, could rip the asteroid apart, injecting a whole new level of unpredictability into the equation.
Indeed, the asteroid resembled a driverless car trying to navigate from Los Angeles to Las Vegas without guidance. Regardless of its initial direction, the likelihood of it blindly reaching its intended destination was astronomically low—almost an impossibility. This inherent uncertainty meant that, more likely than not, the asteroid would veer off its current course towards Earth. Such a scenario underscored the unpredictability and sheer randomness of celestial mechanics, much like a journey without a pilot, where arriving at the precise intended endpoint by mere chance is virtually out of the question.
Despite the swirling doubts and potential doom, the consensus from the government, media, and scientific community was clear: the asteroid's chance of striking Earth was almost nil. They broadcasted calm, encouraging everyone to maintain their daily routines without panic. For me, life in LA was flourishing—it felt like a golden era of 'money for nothing and chick for free', an allure that made it easy to soak up the official reassurances and stay put.
Yet, beneath that facade of normalcy, I wasn’t completely sold. I had my backup plan polished and ready. My retreat in Montana stood waiting, a sanctuary if ever the need arose. So, I threw myself into my work with a mix of skepticism and pragmatism, aware that these prosperous times could quickly evaporate should the asteroid defy the odds. The blend of steady work and preparedness kept me grounded amidst the uncertainty, ready to pivot at a moment’s notice.
With the asteroid's trajectory still casting a shadow of uncertainty, NASA and SpaceX pivoted from their lunar focus to address this more pressing celestial challenge. They announced a joint mission aimed at intercepting the asteroid, a move that would allow for unprecedented close observation and data gathering. This endeavor was designed to refine predictions about the asteroid's path, aiming to provide irrefutable proof that it would bypass Earth.
