In the stillness of the room, the soft echo of Professor Oh's footsteps created a rhythm, almost soothing, as he came to a stop before the pristine whiteboard. His face was set in a stern expression, the look of a general orchestrating a critical battle strategy. He fixed his sharp gaze on Dong-Joo and Sang-Jin, who sat across from him, their postures tense with anticipation.
"The truth is," Professor Oh began, his voice firm yet measured,
"What I said in yesterday's debate was an extremely sanitized version. You're aware of this, aren't you? The internet is now tightly controlled. Accessing foreign websites is nearly impossible."
Dong-Joo and Sang-Jin exchanged a glance before nodding in unison. "Yes, we're aware."
Professor Oh's head tilted slightly in acknowledgment, his expression unwavering. "The media isn't any different. Long since taken over by the military. Investigative journalism? Gone. Vanished into thin air. What remains are sugary, hope-filled stories painting an impossibly rosy picture of the future."
Sang-Jin let out a faint, sardonic smile, unable to ignore the irony. He vividly recalled how Professor Oh had parroted Dong-Joo's words from the night before, nearly verbatim, as though they were his own ideas.
"The simulation you just saw," Professor Oh continued,
"was obtained through painstaking efforts from a colleague of mine, a professor at New York University. I received it via satellite communication; rather than the internet."
He turned to the board and began sketching a diagram, the path of an asteroid rendered with precise, unbroken lines. A bold arrow indicated the trajectory of Apophis, hurtling straight toward Earth.
"Asteroid Apophis," he said, his tone weighty,
"is currently traveling at a velocity of 100,000 kilometers per hour. For context, that's nearly equivalent to Earth's orbital speed. One day before impact, it will be just 2.4 million kilometers away. Two days prior, 4.8 million kilometers. By comparison, the Moon is only 380,000 kilometers from Earth. Can you grasp how close, how fast, this is?"
Dong-Joo, typically reserved, couldn't help but whisper under his breath, "Wow…"
Professor Oh paused his drawing, pivoting to face them with a penetrating stare. "Now, tell me at what distance the asteroid should be destroyed to ensure Earth's safety."
Dong-Joo hesitated, his brows furrowing as he considered the question. Finally, he answered with quiet conviction, "The farther, the better, Professor. Even a small change in its trajectory could make it miss Earth entirely."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across Professor Oh's face. "Precisely. Ideally, a spacecraft should be launched as soon as possible to intercept and destroy Apophis before it gets too close. But here's the crux of the issue: we're not prepared. According to government statements, the earliest possible launch would be in a week. And that's assuming everything goes smoothly. Normally, it takes at least a month just to prepare for a launch."
"Hah…" Sang-Jin let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the situation beginning to settle on his shoulders.
"This is an emergency, though," Professor Oh pressed on, his voice steady but intense.
"All resources will be directed toward this. If we're optimistic, the launch could happen within a week—around April 8th, five days before the collision. The question then becomes, When will the spacecraft reach Apophis?"
Sang-Jin, who had been silent until now, spoke up confidently, "That depends on how fast the spacecraft can travel, doesn't it?"
"Exactly," Professor Oh replied with a slight nod.
"But the craft will carry a heavy nuclear warhead, along with fuel for the return trip. Its maximum speed will likely be around 40,000 kilometers per hour. There are techniques like a gravitational slingshot to increase speed, but the trajectory this time doesn't allow for it."
The room grew even quieter, the gravity of the discussion thickening the air. Even the sound of their breathing seemed amplified. Professor Oh resumed writing on the board, his calculations swift and deliberate.
"At that speed, the spacecraft would cover approximately 960,000 kilometers per day. In three days, it could reach 2.88 million kilometers. But by then, Apophis would already be dangerously close—just 30 hours from impact."
He stopped, turning to face them with a look so intense it made them feel like schoolchildren under scrutiny. "This means the spacecraft would only reach Apophis about 30 hours before the collision. That's far too close to destroy it effectively. Even if it succeeded, the fragments would still rain down on Earth."
"Hah…" Sang-Jin sighed again, this time more deeply, as though the enormity of the crisis had physically pressed down on him.
The three of them sat in silence, each lost in their own spiraling thoughts, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the problem laid before them. The world suddenly seemed unbearably small, a fragile speck hurtling through space, dwarfed by the unstoppable force bearing down on it.
Sang-Jin let out a long, measured sigh, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, as though contemplating something far too complex to be easily expressed.
"What I've explained so far is the best-case scenario," he said carefully, his tone reminiscent of a teacher intent on ensuring every word was understood.
"That is if and only if, our spaceship performs exactly as it should. You've heard of names like Enterprise or Atlantis, haven't you?"
"Yes," Dong-Joo replied quickly, though his furrowed brow betrayed some confusion about where this conversation was headed.
"Then you probably also know why NASA stopped using shuttles like those after 2011?"
Dong-Joo paused, wracking his brain. After a moment, he said with a flicker of confidence, drawing from an old science article he'd read years ago, "Because around that time, the Columbia disaster happened, didn't it? It exploded mid-air?"
Sang-Jin nodded slowly, a thin, meaningful smile playing on his lips. "That's correct. It was one of the reasons. But there is a more fundamental reason."
Dong-Joo leaned forwards slightly, his interest piqued.
"Those space shuttles were massive, Dong-Joo. So large, in fact, that their launch costs were astronomical. They were built to assemble space stations or transport commercial satellites. That's why their size was necessary. But did you know? In certain scenarios, shuttles like that could even carry nuclear missiles."
Dong-Joo froze, his eyes widening a fraction. "So... that was a possibility?"
"Of course," Sang-Jin replied matter-of-factly. "But that's precisely why NASA moved away from them. Technology has evolved. The spacecraft we use now like the Starliner or Blue Dragon are far smaller. They're designed for very different purposes: space tourism for the ultra-wealthy. They only require enough space for a few passengers, not large payloads for weapons or grand missions."
"Interesting," Dong-Joo murmured, more to himself than to Sang-Jin.
"But here's the real problem," Sang-Jin continued, his tone taking on a sharper edge.
"Those smaller ships were never designed for missions as complex as targeting a planet. There's simply no room for something like a nuclear missile. And even if we somehow managed to fit one onboard, we still wouldn't be sure if its launch systems would work in space—or if its targeting systems could function at all."
Dong-Joo nodded slowly. For the first time during their conversation, he felt as if he had seen the tip of an iceberg—something vast, intricate, and deeply disturbing lurking just beneath the surface.