Blinding Fear

by Roland, Bruce

  Claire again felt anger rising up inside her. “So they’ve gained all this valuable time by murdering dozens of people! Just what have they done to protect us?!”

  Ranjit frowned and shook his head. “Quite honestly, not much. As you might expect, there’s been a lot of political posturing, bickering and in-fighting among the 53 industrialized nations who signed the treaty. Some want to nuke it, regardless of the shotgun effect. Some wanted to plant rocket motors on it and sort of nudge it away from us. Others wanted to use giant mirrors to heat its surface which would generate super-hot geysers that would eventually cause some tiny change in its trajectory. Along with these there are about seven or eight other technologies that scientists think might work—eventually. That in a nutshell is the problem with virtually all of them. You need a lot of time to literally get them off the ground and to the asteroid—years at least—and you still don’t know how long it might take for them to move the asteroid off its collision course with us. We’ve got a whole lot less time than that.”

  “It sounds like they’re not going to resolve anything, anytime soon,” Kay said bleakly.

  “You’re probably right.” Ranjit continued. “We’re on the cusp of the U.S. taking unilateral action. They’ve had a fallback plan all along. They’re going to launch a missile with two 1.2-megaton warheads—the largest we’ve got—to try to break up the asteroid into as many pieces as possible, maybe even pulverize it if they’re lucky. They want to do it as close to the Earth as possible. It’s much easier to hit that way. That means it’d be less than four days away when they launch. They’re assuming at least some of the pieces will miss the Earth. In a best-case scenario all of them will miss.”

  “Yeah,” DeAngelo grunted. “And we all know what ‘assume’ means! They’re making an ‘ass’ of ‘you’ and ‘me’!”

  “One of the big problems with their idea so far has been that none of our intercontinental ballistic missiles are designed for use away from the Earth,” Ranjit continued. “In essence, neither the Minuteman nor Peacekeeper—the two main ICBMs in our nuclear arsenal—have the range. They also don’t have the on-board guidance systems for intra-stellar flight, especially this one. The comet is coming so fast and it’s trajectory is so unusual that it makes intercepting it with a standard ICBM virtually impossible. So NASA and Air Force planners are being forced back to the future. They’re re-engineering and re-building an old Apollo booster—the one that took us to the moon in the late 60s. From what I heard before I got out, they have hundreds of engineers and technicians working flat out trying to get it done. But here’s the sinister part: 98% of those people don’t know what it’s really for. They’re being told it’s going to be used against a newly discovered comet that’s years away. The conspirators believe that many or most of the workers would simply walk off the job, go home and incite panic if they knew what was coming and when. What is really crazy about the overall plan is that they’re not even sure that two 1.2 -megaton bombs will do the job. Some scientists said it would take at least ten, maybe even twenty bombs. That idea didn’t get very far because of speculation the massive electro magnetic pulse generated by ten or more simultaneous, relatively close, nuclear explosions would instantly fry every computer on the planet. So even if you broke up the asteroid you’re back to the mid-nineteenth century technology-wise: no electricity, no lights, no computers, no internet, no cell phones. The list of stuff that would permanently stop working is frighteningly long. So they’re pushing ahead with the two-bomb plan.”

  “I don’t know,” Claire responded. “Maybe those workers would leave, then again, maybe some of them would double down on getting the job done if they knew. Maybe nobody would leave. I’m inclined to think humans will always rise to the challenge of a mutual crisis; that they’ll do the right thing for the good of all.”

  No one spoke for a few moments as they mulled over all the ramifications of Claire’s views.

  “The first question you must now answer, Claire,” Ranjit finally asked her, “is, after all you’ve heard this evening, do you want to move forward with your article, in spite of any interference or grief it may cause the government? The second is do you believe the article will cause widespread panic and chaos to the degree that you should back off?”

  “For one thing I don’t think the decision should be mine alone,” she said in response. “Yes, I’m inclined to write it. But we—not me—should make the final decision together.” She looked slowly around the group.

  “I say yes you should,” Herc said. “I think once the world knows what’s coming they’ll band together like never before and figure out how to defeat this thing.”

  “Yes, there may be some civil disruptions,” Kay added, “but in my opinion not to the degree that would override the public’s absolute right to face their common future.”

  Claire was silent for a few moments, searching for the right answer.

  “So what do you think, Claire?” DeAngelo asked. “We’ll continue to have your back no matter what comes down the pike. But do you write the piece or not?”

  “I’ve got to do it!” she finally said. “It’s too important not to! But first I think I’d better check my voicemail. Unless I’m mistaken, my boss may have met this morning with the Sentinel’s board of directors. Maybe they gave their tentative go-ahead to the article.”

  She got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen phone. She punched in her voicemail access number then sat down at the kitchen table to listen using the old-fashioned external speaker. She heard the automated voice say she had three messages.

  “I’ve got some messages, guys,” she yelled back toward the living room. “I’ll bet it’s the news we’ve been waiting for. Since we’re all on this Titanic together, why don’t you come and listen, too.”

  The rest of the group came in and expectantly sat down next to her.

  Claire pushed the number one on the keypad to listen to her messages.

  “Claire! It’s Tommy,” a sobbing and barely understandable voice said. “Anaya.......Anaya’s....dead!”

  Everyone around the table glanced at each other in confusion.

  Claire felt as if she’d been slugged. She closed her eyes and said, “She is....no, was my boss.”

  “She......she was run over by some......maniac driving a cab this morning!!” the message continued. “The asshole didn’t even stop! They cops haven’t caught him yet, either!” There was a pause as the man tried valiantly to compose himself enough to continue. “They took her to the nearest ER but.....but couldn’t do....anything. She had multiple internal injuries, skull fractures, and.....and.......oh, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go!” Abruptly, the message ended.

  Claire erased it and went to the second message. It’s time stamp said it’d been recorded an hour after the first.

  “Claire. It’s Tommy again. I’m so sorry......people have been coming into the office constantly for the past half-hour. It’s been crazy! But.......I wanted to let you know the board would like you to get back as soon as possible. Anaya called me literally minutes before she was killed.......she said you had an important news article idea that she needed to bring before them during their regular monthly meeting......anyway, I told them and they want you to make the presentation to them ASAP. Please.......call me.”

  She erased the second message and went on to the third. It had been recorded just thirty minutes prior.

  “One more time, Claire. It’s Tommy. Where are you?!! I’m sorry to keep bugging you like this, but I just talked to Jack. He came into the office to pick up some of Anaya’s personal stuff. Maybe I shouldn’t have......it’s kinda early, ya know....but I asked him if he’d made any arrangements for Anaya’s funeral. I’m glad I did. He said it’s tentatively set for the 8th at Trinity Church at 11:00 a.m.. She’ll be buried in their cemetery, too.....It’s quite an honor everybody says......Anyway, I thought you should know. Wherever you are, you’ve got less than three days to get back if you want to attend. Out
of respect to Anaya the board decided to meet with you the evening of the funeral. They’ve got you penciled in for 7:00 p.m.. Okay? I’ll be at the funeral, so I hope to see you there. Bye.”

  Claire entered the date and time details for the funeral and board meeting in her iPhone calendar, then erased the final voicemail.

  “That about seals the deal for me,” Claire said quietly, trying to quell her growing fury. “Any government that employs a sadistic psychopath like Gnash should be fought at every turn! They shouldn’t be trusted to decide when to change a burned out lightbulb much less on how to stop a runaway asteroid! What kind of sick, distorted animals are running this circus!” She slammed her fist down on the table.

  “We’re with you every inch of the way, Claire,” Herc declared.

  “If you want, I can have you back in New York before sunrise tomorrow,” Kay added.

  Claire pointed to Kay, Herc and Ranjit. “I need you guys with me when I meet with the board. They’re going to have a ton of questions and I’m going to need all the backup I can get—especially you Ranjit. You’re the authoritative, confidential source they always insist on. Although in this case they may not care whether you’re specifically named or not.”

  “I’d love to come with you, Claire,” Ranjit replied, “but I’ve got my wife and kids here. They can’t travel and there’s no way I’m going to leave them unprotected again!”

  “Maybe they can stay here until you get back,” Herc said. “I’d say it’s about as safe a place as you’re going to find for now.”

  “Yeah.....that might work,” Ranjit replied. “But......I don’t know.....”

  Kay thought for a moment then turned to DeAngelo. “I’ve got your next assignment. I want you to stay behind and keep his family safe.”

  “You’re the boss,” DeAngelo stated. “But are you all going to be okay without me? Seems like you keep needing help digging out of trouble.”

  “I’d say we’ve got no choice in the matter,” Kay pointed out. “Ranjit needs to be in New York with us in two days. His family needs to stay here and requires full-time, top-drawer protection. There’s one person in this room who fills that bill and that would be you.”

  Chapter 39

  From behind an elm tree on a small knoll, Quinten Gnash watched as the large crowd of mourners did as best they could to stay on the winding pathways and “unoccupied” grassy sections of historic Trinity Cemetery in upper Manhattan.

  It always amazed him how far people took the stupid traditions and customs of funerals. It was beyond comprehension, for example, why so many people in western cultures still thought wearing black was somehow showing respect for the “dear departed” and their families. Other cultures thought white was acceptable; still others red. Some thought any color was acceptable. What difference did it make!

  Then there was the memorial service: one person after another, standing at a pulpit, extolling the virtuous life of someone who may have been anything but.

  Finally there was the burial itself: Why would you want to spend five or ten thousand dollars on a silk-lined casket to put a dead body in that would then be dumped in a hole in the ground?!

  Gnash shook his head slightly trying to clear the distracting thoughts. As he did, the official, navy blue NYPD cap he was wearing shifted to the side, forcing him to straighten it. He took another moment to make sure the rest of the police uniform that had been given to the FBI’s “costume” department was squared away. He couldn’t afford to have some wandering NYPD Sargent come along and dress him down for having his epaulets unbuttoned or badge slightly askew.

  The NYPD had supplied an honor guard for the Williams-Jones funeral because of her lofty position on New York’s social ladder. He had, of course, anticipated this and very quietly slipped into the cemetery shortly after the funeral started, to take up a strategic position nearby to search for his targets.

  He was at the funeral of the woman that he had so satisfyingly dispatched because he was, quite simply, running out of time.

  He was exceedingly annoyed, however, to have been forced to take up this dangerous, goal-line defense in the first place. He’d hoped the latest surprise he’d arranged at the Wendover Airport for Claire McBeth and friends would end their vexing interference. He’d dispatched one of his human assets to the rocky hills west of the airport to wait in ambush. The man had acquired a handheld, U.S.-made, shoulder-fired “Stinger,” surface-to-air, anti-aircraft missile through a blackmarket source. Gnash had correctly assumed McBeth, Ramond and Seok would fly east to attend the funeral. When the Gulfstream G150 corporate jet they were in took off, all the man had to do was point the missile’s launch tube at the aircraft and pull the trigger. Unfortunately, the missile’s rocket motor failed to ignite. The three interlopers never knew how close they had come to a fiery death. As best could be determined now, the battery that controlled all parts of the complex launch sequence, had lost its charge as a result of poor maintenance over several years. The problem was a common one for the bad actors and rogue states that bought the normally deadly missile through less-than-reliable sources.

  So now, here he was, again trying to pick up the pieces left by incompetent help and handling the job personally on the fly. If the FBI Director knew......he didn’t want to think how that conversation would go.

  He watched and listened as the funeral wound down. Because of the size of the crowd, the funeral company had set up a public address system so those far to the rear could hear the proceedings. It was yet another source of extreme annoyance: Having to listen to the official Episcopal Church funeral liturgy. As a boy he’d been forced by his tyrannical mother to attend a Catholic church sometimes three or four times a week. He’d rebelled at sixteen and hadn’t darkened any church’s doorway since. Nonetheless, the memories of standing, sitting, kneeling, then repeating countless times as the priest chanted ridiculous mumbo-jumbo, were forever seared into his brain.

  Considering what the minister was solemnly intoning at the moment, Gnash guessed the service was mercifully coming to an end.

  “Almighty God, our father in heaven, before whom live all who die in the Lord: Receive our sister Anaya into the courts of your heavenly dwelling place. Let her heart and soul now ring out in joy to You, Oh Lord, the living God, and the God of those who live. This we ask in Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Gnash heard the assembled grievers’ “Amen” in response. Then, beneath the large awning, he saw the casket begin to slowly descend into the grave. From many places in the crowd he could hear loud sobbing. Finally, the mass of people began to stir and some at the fringes began to make their way toward the dozens of cars clogging the cemetery’s roads.

  He scanned the slowly swarming mob, trying to find any of his three targets. In his holster, instead of the NYPD’s usual Sig Sauer, Glock or Smith and Wesson 9-mm handgun, he had a Ruger Mark III, 22-caliber/Long Rifle target pistol. It was slim, relatively light, made little noise when used and was very deadly in the hands of an experienced gunman—namely his. It was the best choice for the task at hand, given the daunting circumstances. He estimated the distance to the crowd to be about 100 feet. For a certified expert marksman like him, it would be a routine shot that he could make nearly 100% of the time.

  He continued to watch.

  Finally, he saw them. They were clustered around the woman’s husband. What was odd, however, was a third man appeared to be with them. For a second or two he couldn’t make out the other man’s face. Then he turned into the sun and Gnash saw with stunned surprise that it was Ranjit Javad! How the traitor had joined McBeth and the others was a mystery he knew he’d probably never solve. But as he thought about it, he really didn’t care. What he did know was he had to take out both Javad and McBeth.

  Gnash eased the gun out of its holster but hid it between his chest and the trunk of the tree. Luckily, there was no one around or behind him. He knew he would have only a small window of opportunity. Once the group left the husband, they would ha
ve a short walk to their limo. He’d spotted it when he first got to the cemetery. There was no question it was armored like the one that had saved their lives in Colorado Springs. Once they got inside the limo, there was nothing more he could do. McBeth, and now Javad, would probably meet with the Sentinel’s board later in the day. The chances of him being able to plan and pull off another ambush somewhere else in the city were slim at best, so he had to kill them now.

  The four began to make their way across the grass toward their limo. He cocked the pistol and waited for the perfect time to shoot. It would be one shot per person, maybe two at the most, then he would make good his escape.

  Suddenly, three unknown women came up to McBeth and began talking to her. They blocked any shot he might have. Together, the extended group walked toward their cars. He watched in complete frustration as moments later McBeth, Javad, Ramond and Seok—screened by the other women—reached the limo and their driver opened the passenger door. McBeth hugged the strangers. Then all of his prey slipped into their safe haven. He swore under his breath, slid the gun back into the holster, then turned and walked out of the cemetery.

  Ten minutes later he sat in a borrowed NYPD cruiser in an alley, trying to assess what he should do next. After several more minutes he picked up his cell phone and pushed the one speed dial number he most hated to use.

  “Agent Gnash,” the FBI director said as she answered the call. “I trust you have good news for me.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  There was a substantial pause before she responded. “So you allowed them to escape again?!”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘I allowed them’ but I must say they have. The crowd at the funeral prevented me from.......”

  “Let me get this straight! In the last 72 hours you have failed, not just once but twice, to eliminate the person who may be the greatest threat to our country’s security in its history!”