by Lee Brainard
Andrius puzzled over her rapidly changing emotions. Females . . . amazing creatures . . . but it’s difficult to read them . . . much easier to read electrical engineering textbooks. He suspected that her tears were mostly a release of pent-up emotion now that she had a ray of hope in her difficult situation, but who could know for sure? Just like men are not always certain what they are angry about, so women don’t always know what they are crying about. At any rate, he thought it best to let her have some time alone in the heaving seas of her emotions. And she was glad to be left alone.
50
Glendale, California
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
During the morning coffee break, Andrius pulled his supervisor aside and gave him his two-week notice. When the old timer inquired about his plans, he answered a little evasively, “Somewhere out West, in or near the Rockies. Not really sure where. I’ll look around once I get there. Since I’m certified in MIG, TIG, aluminum, and stainless, I figure I won’t have any problem finding work in the oil fields.” His boss laughed, “Wish I could afford to pay you what you’ll be making in the oil fields.”
While Andrius was at work, Ariele explored his unkempt apartment and found herself feeling a little miffed with her new roomie. His fridge contained two twelve-packs of Coca-Cola, a half gallon of milk, two packages of hot dogs, a half bag of cheese curds, a small package of Kraft slices, catsup, and mustard. His freezer held a half-dozen frozen pizzas, a box of corn dogs, and ice cream. His cupboards held cold cereal, macaroni and cheese, sugar, salt, and pepper. On his countertop were a package of hot dog buns and two packages of cookies. For cooking, he had a George Foreman grill, a countertop broiler, and a microwave. Taking bachelorhood to all-time highs. There was no teapot or tea. No coffee pot or coffee. Not even have instant coffee. Gonna have to put my foot down . . . gonna be a few changes around here. In stark contrast to the sparsity in his kitchen, his living room was piled high with boxes of books and magazines—welding, computers, programming, networking, electronics, physics, mathematics, mathematics, prophecy, apologetics, and science fiction. The guy is a nerd on steroids. She rolled her eyes and groaned. This was going to be a long two weeks.
When he returned from work at 4:45 that afternoon, tired and in need of a shower, she met him at the door, presented him with a shopping list, and declared that she would make supper for the next two weeks if he would go shopping and pick up some necessary items. He was caught off guard but agreed to the deal. Seems more like a directive than a trade if you ask me . . . she’s like a little bulldozer . . . got a knack for getting her way without being offensive . . . glad this deal only lasts two weeks . . . a guy could burn up his entire savings on a cute chick who has already decided he is friends-only material . . . not much upside for the investment.
The overwhelmed male returned from his errand an hour and a half later with five bags of fresh supplies—three trips from his van—including a coffee pot, a bean grinder, two pounds of organic coffee beans, the ingredients for fajitas and guacamole, fresh fruit, shampoo and soap, new towels, new sheets, and some clothing that she desperately needed. He gave her a pained look as he handed her the last bag. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to shop for women’s clothes . . . especially dainties?” She laughed at him and chided him playfully, “No room for whining when you volunteer to be chivalrous.”
51
Glendale, California
Wednesday evening, June 5, 2019
That evening while Andrius relaxed in his threadbare recliner with a technical treatise on the physics of welding, Ariele removed a stack of old Omni magazines from the top of the coffee table, set up her laptop, and inserted the thumb drive that contained the emails she had pilfered from Sally’s computer. Anticipation tingled in her nerves. She expected to find a trove of useful information. Every email was classified TOP SECRET and labeled with the SCI code (Sensitive Compartmented Information code) MINOA. Most also bore the secondary SCI code RESEARCH TEAM. She was curious about the use of secondary SCI codes. Never read about that before in any spy thriller.
She emerged from her research two hours later, after examining the entire batch, with a significantly expanded understanding of the Minoa Project. Three other secondary codes fell under the code MINOA: an EXECUTIVE TEAM which included the President, the Vice President, the National Security Advisor, and the Joint Security Council, an ENFORCEMENT TEAM that included a handful of officials in the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and the Department of Homeland Security, and a PREPARATION TEAM which was headed by a distinct leadership team drawn from the Department of Homeland Security.
The tens of thousands of federal, state, and contracted employees working under the Preparation Team appeared to be operating in the dark, unaware of the real reason behind the readiness programs they were instructed to carry out. According to their instructions and in their minds, they were engaged in preparing for “the most probable” disasters, like a nuclear detonation at the hand of terrorists or rogue nations, a nuclear strike from Russia or China, World War III, an 8.0 earthquake, a massive EMP, or a small asteroid less than one kilometer in diameter.
She also uncovered some illuminating information on the Rogue itself, referred to in the emails almost exclusively by its official designation RN13.
Its albedo was phenomenally low—apparently far below 0.02—which is why it was yet invisible to the most powerful optical telescopes on Earth.
Its diameter was verified at 5560 kilometers according to the latest data obtained from NEOCam, WISE, and Spitzer. This was significantly larger than the figure that had been leaked by Anonymous six months prior. A quick calculation revealed that it was eighty-two percent of the diameter of Mars.
Its composition caught NASA by surprise. According to data obtained by the revitalized Spitzer, it was composed primarily of iron and nickel, with significant amounts of platinum-group metals and heavy-rare-earth minerals. This implied that the comet was so dense that its mass likely approached that of Mars despite its smaller diameter.
Its orbit, according to NASA’s latest calculations, would take it inside the asteroid belt in March 2024 and bring it within 18,000 miles of Mars in August 2024. This closely coincided with the findings of Dr. Youngblood and the Anonymous leaks which had been purloined from NASA servers.
She found it unnerving that the correspondence referred to the Rogue’s near pass with Mars as Zero Hour, a term that evoked images of war and cities reduced to rubble. It also implied that the Minoa leadership expected the Rogue to interfere with Mars and cause problems . . . sending one or both bodies careening on new orbits . . . potentially placing Earth in the path of the angry heavens.
Another interesting tidbit she discovered was the real story behind the ESA’s decision to delay the launch date of the ExoMars mission, moving it from the summer of 2018 to February 14, 2019. At the insistence of President Weston himself, at a special summit meeting in Brussels in February 2018, the Mars mission had been secretly switched to a Rogue mission. The code name of the new project was Cupid. Only a tiny handful of individuals were privy to this change: the heads of state of the nations involved and select cabinet members, a handful of ESA and NASA executives, and a skeleton team of ESA technicians, bolstered by a few technicians and engineers from NASA and JPL.
The new launch date, not surprisingly, had been panned by aerospace scientists around the world as ridiculous timing for a Mars mission. Several periodicals had savagely ripped the ESA and its directors. But the greatest frustrations were felt by the ESA technicians and engineers, who went about their work oblivious to the mission change, wondering why in the world the directors had changed from an optimal date to a mediocre one. After a season of griping, they resigned themselves to their fate, believing that their intelligence and hard work were being used to further yet another government led snafu.
Ariele startled Andrius with a whoop, “Hey Android.” She smiled to herself . . . that seemed like a fitting nickname for the brainiac ac
ross from her. “Here’s the summary of what I have discovered about the Rogue and the government cover-up.”
He smiled, closed his book, and listened politely while she animatedly filled him in on the details. As she wrapped up her report, she eyed him, looking for his response. He sat silently, his mouth tweaked to one side and his head slightly cocked as if he wasn’t sure what to say. She suspected that he was skeptical. “What’s the matter? Is it hard to believe it because you didn’t read it with your own eyes? Or maybe you don’t trust my reading comprehension skills? Or maybe I forged all one hundred forty-two emails?”
He grinned like an imp, unwilling to defend himself. He knew that he was a hard sell—perhaps too hard. She pulled up five letters that contained the meat of the conspiracy and another letter summarizing what NASA knew about the Rogue, then handed him her laptop. He felt guilty already, knowing that he was probably wrong to doubt her. But the whole story seemed so far-fetched—more like a screenplay for a Hollywood film than the world he was used to living in.
But the emails changed his perspective. By the time he finished reading them he was numb . . . banging his head on the iron wall of cognitive dissonance . . . yet unable to deny the facts. Up to this point, he had believed that Ariele was a little delusional and had exaggerated the danger they were facing. In his mind he had pictured an average-sized comet, less than five kilometers in diameter, which was going to come close to Earth. Now he had to swallow his pride—he had been dead wrong.
Staggered at the size, mass, and path of the comet, his brain almost over-heating with concern, he started to ramble, “This is insane . . . apocalyptic catastrophe headed this way . . . a planet-size behemoth . . . the situation is terrifying . . . the depth and breadth of the cover-up is astounding . . . this explains the flurry of construction that Homeland Security has been engaged in . . . a new generation of underground shelters and emergency government offices . . . several will rival Cheyenne Mountain Complex or the Raven Rock Mountain Complex when they are done . . . it also explains the rapid expansion of the FBI and Homeland Security over the past eighteen months.” He fell into silence, his mind struggling with the situation.
If I was wrong on the comet and the cover-up, maybe I’m wrong on the FBI stuff too. His chagrin was painful. He had been fairly certain that she wasn’t really in trouble with the law, just paranoid about an interview with federal agents who had been at Caltech for the quarterly security instruction that is required for every business and institution involved in the military, aerospace, and astronomy sectors. So what’s my next step? . . . I need to verify the rest of her story . . . find out if she really is on the lam from the feds. But how?
The light came on. He jumped up—Ariele staring at him wide-eyed—raced to his closet, pulled out his police scanner, raced back to the kitchen, set it on the counter, plugged it in, and tuned it to the CHP recent-reports channel. Ariele sidled up to him and sat on the counter next to the scanner, swinging her legs. After listening to thirty-odd reports, mostly arrest-warrant bulletins for robbery suspects and drug dealers, he heard what he hoped to hear, a federal bulletin from the FBI on Ariele Serrafe, an employee at Caltech who was wanted for security violations under the Homeland Security Act and was believed to have fled her apartment on a bicycle. Ariele looked at him coyly, twirling her hair with her fingers, “Do you believe me now Mr. Skeptic?” He nodded, trying to squash his embarrassed smile. They were both relieved. He was relieved to confirm that she was telling the truth. She was relieved that he finally—and entirely—believed her.
This changed his plans somewhat. Originally his decision to take Ariele to Montana hadn’t been so much a sacrifice as it had been a convenient occasion to pursue a dream. For months he had contemplated a change of pace—inclined to the lucrative opportunities in the oilfields. Now he was going to get more change of pace than he had anticipated. Now that he was privy to the comet and the conspiracy—which were classified secrets—and now that he was guilty of harboring a federal fugitive—a federal offense—he was in just as much danger as Ariele herself. Hope they got room at this hideout in Montana for an electronics whiz . . . if they’re looking for back-to-the-land types or macho guys like Bear Grylls with survival skills . . . I’m out of luck . . . I can barely start a fire with gas and matches . . . I’m scared to eat berries that weren’t purchased in a store . . . and I have never enjoyed gardening or farm animals.
He turned to Ariele, “We have a lot of planning and preparing to do. Make a list tomorrow of the things we’ll need for the trip: food, clothes, personal items. Make another list of the stuff we’ll need for an extended stay. We’ll buy what we need this week and load it in the van.”
Ariele smiled sweetly and saluted in a playful manner, “Yes sir. Ready and raring to go.”
“Tomorrow after work, I’ll sort through the bins in the van and make room for our gear. Wow . . . I got a ton of stuff to think about . . . but I’m drained . . . it’s been a long day . . . I’m going to take a hot shower and go to bed.”
He turned, walked into his bedroom, fetched his pajamas and clothes for the next day, and headed for the bathroom.
Ariele grabbed his arm and stopped him, “By the way, thank you for hearing me out and believing me.”
His face lit up, and he nodded, but he said nothing. Once in the shower, he hung his head . . . feeling guilty that he had regarded her as crazy . . . and her story as inflated if not pure fiction. But there was no way he could make a full disclosure to her . . . no way he could confess how deeply his doubts had run . . . probably not a good idea . . . not with that feisty chick.
She retreated to the bedroom, still feeling a little hurt at Andrius’ reticence to trust her story. Pretty slow to get on board . . . at least he’s all business once he did. But her chief emotion was relief. She felt relaxed for the first time in days. She sat on the edge of the bed and perkily kicked her shoes off. Things were going to be okay. She trusted Andrius entirely now—he really was going to get her to Montana. And she was starting to appreciate the nerdy-smart guy as a friend. His sweetness and considerateness were world-class. If he could just lose some of his bachelor ways . . . and tone down the tech-wonk stuff.
52
Glendale, California
Early June 2019
Andrius kept himself busy almost every waking moment outside of work getting ready for their adventure, but Ariele managed to engage him in snippets of conversation. He was . . . interesting . . . unique. His approach to science and religion intrigued her. It was refreshingly different from the dichotomy she had learned in college. According to him, she didn’t have to choose between science and religion . . . there was no controversy between unbiased science and the Bible. The God who wrote the Bible also wrote the book of nature. That made sense to her. She wanted to believe it.
He was also a strong believer in taking the Bible literally, including the early chapters of Genesis—the creation, the fall, the curse, the flood, the tower of Babel, and the table of nations. And based on his belief in the worldwide flood, he opined, to her skeptical amusement, that every impact crater evident on the face of Earth was less than 4500 years old, for the flood in Noah’s day had swept the entire surface of the planet clean. This view required one to believe that even the largest craters on Earth, like Chicxulub and Popigai, were formed in recent history. This was tough for her to swallow. She had been taught that craters that size were caused by extinction events millions of years ago and that it would have been impossible for humans or large animals to have survived those devastating blows. No place on Earth would have been safe.
The most interesting thing she learned about him, though, was his love for prophecy. He talked at length about the last days and God’s promises which he had made to the people and nation of Israel—the Jews. His belief in these promises touched her heart in a way that religious things had never done before. She was used to thinking of the Bible as ancient mythology, dusty traditions, and passé platitudes. He made i
t sound like the Bible was real history and God was a real person making and keeping real promises. She mused to herself, I could get used to that . . . I hope it’s true.
Despite the fact that she enjoyed their conversations, the two weeks of waiting before their departure for Montana seemed like eternity to her—she was antsy the entire time. The conditions imposed on her would have been difficult for anybody, but they were unbearable for the boisterous young lady. She wasn’t allowed to look out the windows, much less go outside. When home alone, she couldn’t listen to music, run the microwave, or make noise of any kind. Even when he was home, she was forbidden to talk loudly or listen to music except for his Christian music. Dancing and jazzercize were out of the question. There wasn’t much for her to do except read. She quickly tackled the lone Ayn Rand title on her Kindle that she hadn’t read yet. Then she ransacked Andrius’ disorganized library—a painfully boring task. Thankfully, she found several titles on Israel and Judaism that seemed fascinating enough to warrant reading, including one which claimed that Jesus was a Jewish rabbi.
53
Glendale, California
Tuesday evening, June 4, 2019
Woody lay awake contemplating the situation, worrying about Ariele. He hoped and prayed that she was safe. While exceptionally bright, she had no experience in evasion and escape. Dull pangs of guilt reproved him for sending her off on her escapade alone, but there was nothing else he could do on such short notice.
