Tyler did not know how to take this news. If the comet had been deflected, the world would not be coming to an end but his business and life would've been ruined. It was a horrible way to view the situation but Tyler was glad Peterson failed. But Tyler was still confused about the President's appearance on his seacraft.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Somehow you've found out about Comet Clement and yet you decided not to tell anyone about it," President Marshall said. "Most people who'd discover something like this would only think it proper to inform the world of the horrors to come. But you didn't and no words can mark my appreciation for your silence.

"In fact, you have taken the same step that James, Peter Mansfield and I have in dealing with this news. You didn't panic, you didn't start mass hysteria. You calmly and intelligently began to use resources available to you to figure out a way to preserve human life on this planet. And for that, I commend you."

The last thing Tyler expected to hear from the President of the United States was praise.

"Thank you, sir," Tyler said. "But your compliments don't explain why you've come here."

"I'm here today to make a deal with you. The space station was the solution that my 'Inner Circle' conceived as the best way of dealing with the comet's collision with Earth. But in all honesty, what we are attempting in space has never been done and not overly reliable. To put it bluntly, the space station could fail.

"What I'm about to tell you is also unknown to every American but three. You are to be the fourth and I expect your silence on this matter to be as absolute as your silence about the comet. I've told Russian President Metachenko about Clement and his country is currently in the process of coring out a major underground shelter deep in the Ural Mountains. Now that humankind will seek shelter in space and on land, the final area to cover is the oceans."

"Which is where I come in," Tyler said, finishing Marshall's thought.

"Since you've already made such a great deal of progress on your craft, it only makes sense," Marshall said. "And that is why I've come here today to ask you to join our efforts."

President Marshall extended his hand to the owner of Ainsworth Industries. Tyler did not budge from the edge of his bed.

"What if I'm not interested in your proposal? What if I don't feel that joining you is in my best interests?" he asked.

The President's extended arm lowered.

"Financially, you must be interested," Marshall said. "James, the briefcase."

James Armour crossed the room and dropped a briefcase on the bed next to Tyler. Tyler opened the case and took out a stack of papers that looked very familiar to him.

"We know exactly how much money you have and exactly how little time you have left before your project will have to be completely scrapped," Armour said.

Tyler could hardly believe his eyes. He held the exact paperwork of his company's finances that sat on his desk. He flipped through a few of the pages and shook his head angrily.

"Doesn't matter how many times you go through them, does it? There's just no more time to pray that a solution jumps out at you," President Marshall said. "Joining me is the only option you have left."

Tyler felt like a cornered animal, hopeless to escape capture, but still refusing to go down without a fight.

"I do have another option," Tyler said, finally standing up. "I could go public. I could go to the media and tell them everything I know about the comet, the 'Inner Circle' and my seacraft. I guarantee you I could get all the funding I'd ever need."

President Marshall also stood and began to chuckle yet Tyler knew the man did not find anything amusing.

"I'm sorry if you've misunderstood me in any way, Tyler," the President said. "I did not come here to bargain with you today. But if you're interested in a deal, here's the only one I have to offer: you can join me in the same cause or I'll be sure that you disappear from the face of the Earth and control of your seacraft will be given directly to the United States government."

President Marshall extended his hand to Tyler for the last time.

Two Secret Service agents led President Marshall and James Armour away from the construction site, where the rotors of the Presidential helicopter spun to life.

"Do you really think we can trust him?" Armour asked.

"At this point, trust is not an issue we can put a lot of stock in," Marshall answered. "Trustworthy or not, the most important thing now is that the seacraft gets completed on time."

"Should we look into Ainsworth's past more? Try to find out how he learned about the comet? I can put more of my men on that job," the Secretary of Defense said.

"That doesn't matter now," Marshall answered. "In fact, Tyler learning about this comet will turn into a true blessing if he finishes the craft. Make sure $250 million is transferred from the space station budget to Ainsworth Industries. If anyone asks for a reason, tell them it's research purposes."

"And you're going to keep Tyler in charge of the operation?"

"For the time, as long as he proves he can get the job done," Marshall said. "But once the craft is complete, we will inform him of our demands in exchange for our monetary support. Now let's go face the nation and explain the reason for the shuttle launches."

Marshall and Armour boarded the helicopter, which took off the moment they were seated.

Not nearly as large or luxurious as Tyler's room, Nigel Huffington still had better accommodations than anyone else on the seacraft would.

If only he would stop worrying and enjoy his surroundings, Tyler thought, even as Nigel's paranoia ran rampant.

"Let me get this straight," Nigel said. "They knew about the seacraft, they knew about your finances and they knew it was only a matter of time before you went broke. But they did not know about me?"

"For the hundredth time, no. They did not know about you."

"Are you sure?"

"There's apparently no convincing you no matter what I say," Tyler said. "They asked how I found out about the comet but I wouldn't tell them. They were more concerned about getting the seacraft completed."

Tyler heard footsteps approaching in the hallway. This time, it only sounded like one pair of feet and he was sure who they belonged to. Rather than send his assistant away, Tyler opened the door to Nigel's room upon Marc's arrival. For the first time in weeks, Tyler had a need for the annoyingly inquisitive man.

"What did the President-"

"I don't have time for explanations, Marc," he interrupted. "I need you to contact the construction workers and tell them to return to their jobs immediately."

"But sir, what about the..." Marc shot a quick glance at Nigel, wondering how much information he was privy to. "...the money situation."

"That's been taken care of. We now have new investors and $250 million to work with," Tyler said. "Now get on the phone and get this operation running again."

Marc scurried away. Nigel seemed to forget, at least momentarily, about himself.

"This government money will be enough to finish construction?" the small man asked.

"Assembly of the craft, yes. Actual construction of the craft will be covered, as will the research and development phases of the engines," Tyler said. "But we will still need to raise more money to build and install them."

"Why didn't you just ask Marshall and Armour for the rest of the money you'll need?"

"Because it's all about control," Tyler said. "$250 million was the number the President came up with, not me. If I'd begged for more, I would've taken the risk of losing control over my seacraft."

Nigel laughed, a high-pitched squeal that reminded Tyler more of the tortured throes of a pig than the joyous laughter of a man. Not accustomed to someone laughing at him, Tyler immediately became defensive.

"And what the hell is so funny?" he demanded.

"You're afraid you might lose some control to the government?" Nigel asked between fits of laughter. "You've already lost more control than you could possibly imagine."

CHAPTER TEN.

EARLY MORNING OF JULY 4, 2015.

5 YEARS, 1 MONTH, 18 DAYS BEFORE IMPACT...

Peter Mansfield awoke in his bed just after three in the morning. He was drenched in a cold sweat, even though it was the middle of one of the hottest summers on record.

Sleep was hard to come by since he first learned about Comet Clement nearly six years earlier. During most of that time though, he attributed his sleepless nights to an overactive mind; he was always thinking about the next step to properly deal with the comet. But recently, his sleeplessness was due to something else.

Nightmares, the exact details of which he could never seem to remember when he woke up, haunted Mansfield ever since President Marshall assigned him to create a passenger list for the space station. This was the hardest task Mansfield ever received, an assignment that grew more difficult with every passing day and every restless night. And the worst part was that Mansfield had barely made a dent in the list.

The White House Chief of Staff glanced at his wife, who never had trouble sleeping. Or maybe she had grown so used to Mansfield's tossing and turning that she was no longer affected by it. Although she had been like a stranger to Mansfield in the years George Marshall was in office, she had steadfastly remained by his side, rarely complained about his busy schedule and never allowed his foul moods to affect their marriage. As Mansfield wiped the sweat from his brow and brought his racing heart back to its normal rhythm, he lovingly watched her and thanked his lucky stars that he could add her on the list.

I need to get this damn list done before it drives me insane.

Now that he was awake, his chances of falling back to sleep were non-existent. Rather than lie in bed and worry about the list, he lightly kissed his wife's cheek, climbed out of bed and grabbed the laptop. The sooner he finished the list, the sooner he would stop losing so much sleep.

He quietly walked down the hallway of his large townhouse, looking in the rooms of his two sleeping children, thinking how their futures would be spent floating around a space station rather than running around a schoolyard.

They'll never know what it's like to play sports, or go to high school dances, he thought to himself, cursing the inability of the 'Inner Circle' to divert the comet from its path with Earth. But at least they'll have that chance to live. Unlike millions of other children who won't have that chance because I can't give it to them...

Once Mansfield reached his study, he allowed the fingerprint scan to log him onto the system. He double-clicked the only icon on the computer screen, a document file aptly named 'Master List.' This file contained the names of the people Mansfield had chosen thus far, as well as a link to the American Census Bureau, an FBI list of private citizens and a military database of all enlisted soldiers, active and inactive. These were the three main resources Mansfield had at his disposal to assemble the 'lucky' list of one thousand people.

At least 250 of those spots are already guaranteed to the Russians, Mansfield thought to himself numerous times, thankful that his job was at least a quarter of the way complete. The remaining 750 spots were his responsibility, however.

President Marshall and Mansfield had agreed on a rough breakdown of the 750 spots on board: 100 military, 100 scientists, 50 engineers, and 100 crew, which included doctors, cooks and maintenance workers. That left approximately 400 remaining spots for private citizens that would continue humankind. Part of that number included the members of the 'Inner Circle' and their families, as well as the other "Special" category that Marshall and Mansfield discussed. But that group barely numbered 50, leaving the Chief of Staff to find nearly 350 strong, young people who had few attachments on Earth. These would be single people, people who did not have close family, people who would not leave so much behind that they couldn't move on with their lives in a difficult environment.

These people would be the most difficult to choose and the last selections Mansfield would make.

For now, he concentrated solely on making the 100 military selections. During the six weeks since receiving this assignment, Mansfield spent countless hours attempting to complete this first category of passengers. He made 92 solid selections, leaving 8 remaining choices along with 10 alternates. With two and a half hours before he'd get ready for work, Mansfield hoped to finally finish this category and never give more thought to the continuation of the American military.

Finish? I'll be lucky to make five more choices, Mansfield thought to himself, clicking on the computer icon that opened up the military database. Before he even reviewed the first candidate, Mansfield placed the laptop on the small table and stood from his leather chair, crossing the room to where he kept a bottle of scotch. He poured himself a healthy amount of amber liquid and took a long drink before returning to his chair. He swapped the glass for the laptop on his table and pressed the FORWARD button to reveal the next candidate from the database.

The name at the top of the screen read Lewis Clayton, a 22-year-old, 6 foot 3 inch Marine from Texas. A head-shot photograph showed a blue-eyed, attractive young man with a standard Marine crewcut. A second picture showed Clayton to have an impressively strong-looking physique; his hardened Marine background undoubtedly gave him the necessary toughness to survive any environment. Mansfield continued to read about the commendations and praises superior officers had heaped upon this kid, who was listed in the top 5 percent of nearly every test the Marines gave.

Did I really get lucky on this first one? If I find ten more in a row like this, my job is going to be real easy today, Mansfield thought.

When Mansfield read further into Clayton's file, though, he realized he rushed to judgement. The file stated that Clayton had recently gotten married, and thus did not fulfill the requirement of being unattached. Mansfield could almost picture the young newlyweds, happy and deeply in love with one another. Because of this love, Lewis Clayton would die in five years. The Chief of Staff knew this selection session would be just as difficult as every other session.

A few hours later, the sun began to rise and two more tumblers of scotch were resting in Mansfield's belly. The final eight military candidates were added to the master list. He wanted to choose the ten alternates so he could move on but Mansfield realized those selections would have to wait. If he kept pushing himself, the last few morning hours would turn into many more long, strenuous hours at the White House. After saving the master list, Mansfield closed the military database. He was about to turn off the laptop when the word SPECIAL caught his eye.

A thought popped into Mansfield's mind that he hadn't had for the last six weeks. When President Marshall first gave the assignment, he mentioned that he added a few names to the SPECIAL list of candidates. Since Peter only worked on the military list since that time, he hadn't even thought to open that list and see who Marshall already came up with.

Until now. Mansfield still had about an hour to kill before he had to leave for the grueling, daily commute to the White House and his curiosity was peaked for once, more than likely due to the three drinks. He opened the SPECIAL list, instantly met by the file of a very pretty woman, a woman who immediately looked familiar to Mansfield.

SARAH ROSE was the name attached to the Census Bureau file. He thought back to the small diner where he'd once talked to Miss Rose. That meeting occurred about five years ago but it felt to Mansfield more like five lifetimes ago. Upon discovery of Comet Clement and its deadly path, the 'Inner Circle' carefully researched the people associated with the comet's discovery. Sarah Rose was the only link to the comet's two discoverers, the sister of one man and the girlfriend of the other. Those two men both died, and after Mansfield's trip to meet her, it was quite apparent she hadn't known anything about the present direction the comet had taken.

Mansfield reviewed Sarah's file further and found that she marked on her Census form that she had one child. Again, Mansfield remembered more of the girl's story. At the age of eighteen, she'd been pregnant at the time of her boyfriend and brother's death, and put the child up for adoption once born. President Marshall wanted the comet's discoverer to be one of the people given a spot aboard the space station but who better than the child of the deceased. The Chief of Staff planned on trying to locate the adopted child, especially since Sarah herself broke into the adoption agency to find out the child's location. But both had failed. Mansfield could not draw too much attention to himself by challenging the adoption agency in court to reveal the child's whereabouts. It had taken some major string pulling just to have the trespassing charges dropped against Sarah.

Mansfield remembered feeling bad for Sarah Rose, and now felt worse that he could not help her more.

But now I can help, he thought, draining the last of the scotch in his glass. Now I can reward her for what her boyfriend and brother did to help humanity.

Not having planned to do so, Peter Mansfield made the first selection of the SPECIAL category, adding Sarah Rose to the top of the list. It was not total vindication for having failed the girl-now in her thirties- but it was all Mansfield could do with the limited time he had.

After making the first selection for this new category and dealing with the emotional memories that came with it, Mansfield knew that making the military selections would be easy compared to the special selections.

Just close the list and forget about it for now, Mansfield pleaded with himself. You'll drive yourself crazy.

Curiosity overpowered sensibility, though, and Mansfield pushed the FORWARD button to see the next person the President suggested for the list.

The picture of an adorable, yet crestfallen, young girl filled the computer screen. This time, Mansfield did not recognize the girl in the picture. But just like with Sarah Rose, he was hit with a rush of emotion when he read the name on the file: EMILY PETERSON.

Before he had the opportunity to relive more sad memories, Mansfield saved the master list, closed the special category and shut off the laptop.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"Team One, this is Base. Frankie, do you read me? Over."

Frankie Barnes and the rest of Team One were moments from completing the most significant construction in six weeks of working. But when the boss called, the leader of Team One knew to answer right away.

"I read you, Base," Frankie said, the words echoing inside of his space helmet. "What's up, Maddox? Over."

"Just wondering about the progress on that utility arm. Do you think it'll get installed today? Over," Maddox asked.

Only if you shut up and let us do our jobs, Frankie thought.

Frankie got along well with the project leader-probably why Maddox named him leader of Team One- but his micro-management of the construction process sometimes proved a hindrance when intense concentration was needed.

As it was now.

"We're beginning final stages of attachment as we speak," Frankie said. "I'll get back to you when we finish before our shift ends. Over."