by Lee Brainard
He continued. “We are allowed to play in the sandbox, but only if we comply with the rules. Most of the time non-compliance merely results in the loss of some of our sandbox privileges. There are times, however . . .” He paused, unsure how to make his point in a discreet manner. “Let me just say this, if you cross the agencies who have given us the rules for playing in the sandbox, it will get real ugly . . . uglier than you care to know.” He let the last phrase drop like a brick on her head.
Irina trembled as he uttered the last phrase. Very telling . . . there is a big difference between a warning of academic consequences and a warning of ominous consequences. He had divulged far more than he had intended. She was now certain that offending the astronomical community was the least of her worries. She needed to worry about offending Big Brother. This also cleared things up about the changes she had seen in Dr. Goldblum. Someone with a lot of clout had stepped on him.
Dr. Goldblum was a fighter. He would have stuck to his guns. He was so tenacious in controversy that his friends referred to him as the Iberian Tiger, alluding to his courage and Spanish lineage—his family had moved from Bavaria to Andalusia in the eighteenth century. But the tiger had been tamed. It had to be someone high up in the government, likely in one of the federal agencies. Someone who could crush him or buy him. As Pastor Vargas had once said in a sermon, “If the watchdog stops barking, someone threw him a bone.” She was wondering what kind of bone could have enticed him when she was startled by the sound of a chair being shoved backward. Embarrassed, she realized that she had wandered off deep in thought. She looked up and saw Dr. Goldblum standing up. Perhaps the storm is over, she hoped.
But the confrontation wasn’t over. The worst was yet to come. Dr. Goldblum stood up from his chair, came around to the front of his desk, sat on the edge, crossed his arms, and looked down on Irina. “We have some unfinished business to take care of. As I mentioned at the start of this conversation, your research project in Taurus has been shuttered. All research on the anomaly has been transferred to hand-picked teams at elite institutions. Consequently,” he paused for effect, “you have two hours to turn in all your research on the phenomenon in Taurus—everything in your possession whether paper files, electronic files, thumb drives, legal pads and notebooks, graphs and charts . . . everything.”
She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She turned and fled, fighting the sobs, and ran to her car. She needed a few minutes alone.
After she had composed herself, she walked back into the building to find a box to put her research in. She felt awful like she was going shopping for a coffin for her own funeral. Nobody in her department had a box. An associate suggested she contact the custodial staff, but the custodial room was locked and nobody was around. She fretted. She didn’t have time to drive to her apartment and back. She wasn’t going to walk to the university store and purchase a box for three dollars. What should she do? Think, girl . . . where am I most likely to find boxes? In her mind she could see a delivery truck unloading lots of boxes. Where was that? . . . I saw it last week while driving to work . . . the liquor store!
She hopped in her car and drove to the liquor store that she passed every day about ten blocks from the campus. She was a little tense when she entered as she had never been in a liquor store before. She asked the man at the counter for a box. He replied “What size?” She held up her hands about sixteen inches apart and said, “About this big.” He hustled into the back room and returned with several boxes for her to choose from. One stood out and made her chuckle—perfect in its size and its message. It was a Bad Daddy Tequila box with a macho logo that included the phrase, “Grow a set!” She eagerly took the box from his hands with a flamboyant “Thank you,” and hurried back to her car. In a moment the painful task had been given a measure of twisted pleasure.
A half hour later she marched into Dr. Goldblum’s office with a stiff upper lip, the box in her arms, and a growing sense of equilibrium in her new identification—a covert operator in a cloak-and-dagger operation . . . a voice in the wilderness . . . warning the world about the existential threat that the government was covering up . . . warning them before it was too late. But for now, she must exercise caution, patiently biding her time until the right opportunity presented itself.
She halted in front of his desk, made eye contact, and held it. She was not going to be intimidated.
“Is this everything?” he demanded.
“Yes.” You have everything that I have.
“Do you have copies of any of this material in your possession?”
“No . . . I do not.” Not saying I don’t have access to copies.
He nodded toward his desk, indicating that he wanted her to set the box down on its cluttered surface.
She placed the box on his desk, turned it so he could see the Bad Daddy logo—with its “Grow a Set” quip—swiftly turned around, and marched out of his office.
He did see it. His lip quivered in anger. He hated it with a passion when he was upstaged or outsmarted.
22
Ithaca, New York
Friday, December 15, 2017
Irina was not one who could easily let things rest when something bugged her, especially if it seemed wrong. The present situation was no exception. The letters from the MPC and Dr. Goldblum’s antics had convinced her that NASA was engaged in covering up the comet she had discovered in Taurus. And though she wasn’t absolutely certain, she was inclined to believe that this cover-up extended to the highest levels of government. She was hopping mad and wanted to do something about the situation. But what?
Her first inclination was to send her files ASAP to some organization like WikiLeaks. But she nixed the idea. She just wasn’t that convinced . . . yet. Maybe she should have been, but she wasn’t. She was still a little nervous about the fiasco it would turn into if there really wasn’t a Hollywood-worthy conspiracy in the making. What if she was reading more into the letters from the MPC than the facts warranted?
Maybe the cover-up was merely an ordinary cloak of secrecy as was often seen in such fields as technology and weapons development. But why would the heavyweights in technology or the military-industrial complex cover up the comet? Maybe it was a gold mine of helium-3 containing minerals or some other extremely valuable commodities. Nah! . . . not a viable mining opportunity . . . no matter how valuable the mineral or rich the concentration . . . bottom line . . . hard to imagine any plausible scenario for covering up a comet with a run-of-the-mill cloak of secrecy.
She choked on her next thought. Maybe it really was a black-hole jet, and she was just too married to her belief that it was a gargantuan comet to see the truth. At first glance, the black-hole theory did seem to fit better with the cloak of secrecy view. Maybe the government saw the potential for some amazing technological advance which they believed would give them a huge military or aerospace advantage.
But there were holes in this interpretation. For one thing, it seemed like a chapter from science fiction to capitalize on the potential of a black hole—right in there with worm holes and time travel. For another thing, if there really was some technological potential, it was light years away—impossibly distant. No . . . the black-hole theory was too far-fetched . . . it was a story without a story behind it . . . it was just a cover story . . . and she couldn’t hide from the fact that the evidence was the exact same evidence that had always been accepted as a comet.
Irina was back to where she started . . . a real comet . . . and a real conspiracy . . . but she hesitated . . . she flip-flopped . . . first leaning toward conspiracy . . . then leaning toward aerospace-military secrecy . . . then back again.
After a couple weeks of wrestling with the question, she decided to be proactive rather than simply waiting for the answer to materialize. She would test the waters . . . determine beyond all shadow of doubt . . . whether there really was a federal cover-up . . . or whether it was just another instance of commonplace aerospace-military secrecy . . . and if ther
e was a cover-up . . . determine how serious NASA was about their ban on communication . . . how much muscle was behind it. With this decision made, she felt much more relaxed about the situation. Her fears that a conspiracy was being fostered upon America would either be confirmed or allayed. If they were allayed, she would let the matter rest. If they were confirmed . . . well . . . that meant more danger and adventure than she cared to experience.
But what could she do to test the waters? The most obvious way would be to try and get her research published anonymously, then watch and see what happened. But what publisher? If the ban was as strict as they had implied it was, she likely wouldn’t get any scientific publication to bite. She needed to find a publication that wasn’t a big blip on the radar. The prepper and survivalist magazines? Maybe . . . but likely not. Judging by the intense scrutiny they were now facing—preppers and patriots were specifically mentioned in the Homeland Security Act—she suspected that they were already infiltrated by feds and informers and that she would have a hard time getting her story past the editor and into print. It was probably a non-starter.
She decided to try science fiction. After a quick internet search, using TOR to hide her trail, she found her candidate, Sci-Fi Today. They were a new entry in the field, only two years old, but enjoyed stellar reviews and a growing readership. Plus they were based in Texas—the state that was the most resistant to the Security Act’s uncomfortably broad treatment of homegrown security threats. While their flagship offering was science fiction, they also featured a column on cutting-edge technology that held out promise for space exploration and colonization, as well as occasional pieces on apocalyptic scenarios that involved heaven-sent phenomena like asteroids and EMPs. Perfect.
She logged into Buster, opened Open Office, and began writing—careful not to divulge any information that might enable investigators to determine her identity. The article opened with a startling statement. “What would you do if you were made privy to research which indicated that Earth faced a potential apocalyptic scenario, but were forbidden to divulge the information because the government had determined that covering up the truth was in America’s best interest? Would you abide by the ban or would you alert the public? Would you still choose to alert the American public if divulging the information meant that you might have to answer to the FBI?”
The introduction to the author followed. “No doubt you are wondering who the anonymous author is. I am an educated professional who was in the right place at the right time for this information to fall into my lap.”
Without further ado, the article launched into an outline of the salient facts. It gave a brief description of the process for finding TNOs and comets with stellar occultation when they are still a long way away from Earth—too far away to detect with optical and too cold to detect with infrared. For examples of the process, it used two recent discoveries of TNOs by graduate students at Caltech and Harvard—the material had recently been published in Astronomy. For each example, it included photos which exhibited the waxing and the waning of the occultation. Having laid the foundation for the science, it then produced the evidence for the comet—nine series of photos which exhibited the occultation of nine stars in Taurus over a period of four-and-a-half years. This was followed by an illustration which demonstrated that if you drew a line through the occulted stars and extended it, the line passed through a thick patch of the asteroid belt and directly intersected the path of Mars, coming within 25,000 miles of the Red Planet, sometime in 2024—a terrifying scenario.
This threat was approaching Earth like a ninja—stealthy and unobserved. Its albedo was so low that it would be deep in the solar system, possibly as far as the asteroid belt, before it became visible to Earth-based optical telescopes. The earliest Earth-based observations of the comet would likely occur in 2020 when it was somewhere between Neptune and Uranus and had warmed up enough that infrared in the 10- to 15-micrometer range would begin picking up its signature.
A brief outline of the cover-up followed, including the official explanation that the phenomenon was the refraction of starlight by the shock wave of a growing jet on a new black hole.
Finally, the article closed with a plea for honest men to investigate and weigh the facts What is the most probable explanation for the occultation of the stars? The new theory on the refraction of stellar light by the shock wave of a jet on a black hole? Or the commonplace occultation of stellar light when a body passes in front of it?
At 2:30 in the morning, after eight hours of intense labor, Irina finished polishing the closing paragraph of her article. Hallelujah! Though she really wanted to go to bed—her eyes ached—she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until the article had been sent. She opened Buster’s email program, GASmail (Guaranteed Anonymous Sender), composed a brief cover letter, attached her article, filled in the email address for the editor at Sci-Fi Today, and hit the send button. With a sigh of relief, she relaxed in her chair and cradled her coffee cup, though it was long cold and nearly empty. A jumble of emotions jostled for attention . . . relief because the article was done and sent . . . apprehension that she might be opening a can of worms . . . sadness that her career appeared to be on the shoals . . . pride because she had done right in the matter. Might have been a little easier on the emotions if I had pursued a career in music instead.
23
Ithaca, New York
Wednesday, January 17, 2018
Irina stared, dumbfounded and dazed, at the headline story in the evening CVN newsfeed. There was a picture of dozens of federal agents raiding the office of Sci-Fi Today crowned with the headline “Terrorist Front in Fort Worth Raided.”
She quickly read the story. The raid had occurred at 8:30 Central Time that morning, undertaken by a large force of FBI and Homeland Security agents, accompanied by SWAT officers in full combat gear and six armored cars. The CVN reporter estimated that there were about 150 agents and officers on the scene. A little overkill, ya think. Twenty-four people had been led away in handcuffs.
The last person to be led out of the building had been in the restroom when the federal agents barged in. He was able to send a few short texts on the development before he was apprehended. His last text was “They are battering the bathroom door down.” The FBI had confiscated every phone and computer in the building and loaded them into two vans. After the suspects had been taken away and the armored vehicles and SWAT crews had departed, a semi-truck pulled up. Federal agents then loaded the trailer with dozens of boxes taken from the building, six 55-gallon drums, and several pieces of equipment that looked like they could be the computerized control modules for the printing press.
She clicked on the accompanying video. It reviewed the material she had just read and concluded with a snippet of the local police chief’s appearance on television, reading a brief statement which declared that the operation had been a front for a terrorist organization and that all of the employees were now in custody, being held on unspecified Homeland Security violations. When asked where the suspects had been taken, he replied that they were currently being transferred to a classified location for questioning and holding.
Irina was racked with grief. Not only did the raid on the Sci-Fi Today office bring her publication plan to naught, but she feared that she might be responsible for their misfortune. She hoped she wasn’t. Perhaps this was just a coincidence. Perhaps they were already under suspicion or investigation. But perhaps didn’t do much to salve her conscience . . . it seemed like . . . wishful thinking.
She continued reading below the video. In an operation widely believed to be associated with the Sci-Fi Today raid, the WikiLeaks website and three similar websites had been shut down by the FBI and the NSA that morning. There had been no official statement from the government yet, but an insider, speaking on condition of anonymity, claimed that both the Sci-Fi Today raid and the WikiLeaks closure were tactical responses to a huge national security leak—perhaps the most damaging ever.
Asso
ciated with the website closures, at least six dozen persons affiliated with the websites had been arrested and charged with complicity in the leak. Two dozen others had been arrested and accused of being the hackers who, in association with Anonymous, had originally obtained and leaked the classified information. Human rights advocates, however, disputed the necessity of these arrests. They insisted that none of the reputed hackers had ever been associated with Anonymous. Some weren’t even legitimate hackers at all. A soundbite was circulating on the internet where a young man said, brushing away the tears from his eyes, “I know Cody like nobody knows Cody. We been gamin’ together almost every day since we wuz in junior high. He ain’t no big-time hacker. Fact is, my bro’ couldn’t even hack his way into his sister’s email.”
She searched for more news reports on the story. On the right-wing website Torchbearer, she stumbled upon a recent post which caught her attention, “Unusual Arrests in Fort Worth Incident.” A local SWAT officer who had been on the scene—and had asked to not be identified—had called the Torchbearer and informed them that none of the arrested had been recited their Miranda rights. The reporter who answered the call suspected that this denial of rights was related to the recently passed Homeland Security Act. He called the Forth Worth Police Department and asked for clarification on the arrest procedures at the Sci-Fi Today incident. They told him to contact the FBI. He asked them for a copy of the police report. Again he was told to contact the FBI. When he called the Dallas Field Office, he was informed that they had no information that could be released to the public. He turned to several contacts in prominent law firms and discovered that none of the arrested had been allowed to call an attorney or family members. Moreover, the firms themselves had struck out trying to obtain a copy of the police report and ascertain what charges had been filed against the detained.
