by Bob Mayer
Her screams had descended to whimpers, the pounding of her hands now blood-smeared caresses as her mind snapped and gave up. Soon the noise stopped and all movement ceased. Even the labored rise and fall of her chest slowed and then came to a halt.
Atlanta
The Head looked at the image of the bloody body on the autopsy table dispassionately. The top of the skull had been cut off and rested next to the exposed brain like a once white dish stained red. She had also been cut open from the abdomen to the top of her chest, the ribs cracked and pulled back to expose the internal organs.
“What did she die of?” he asked the doctor over the satellite feed from Somalia.
“Severe internal hemorrhaging. It’s as if her brain practically exploded for some reason. Numerous aneurysms. More than I’ve ever seen.”
“And the other five?”
“I checked them all,” the doctor said. “They seem fine.” The doctor shifted his feet uncomfortably. “She was HIV positive. We found that the first day we brought her here.”
“Could that have caused this?”
“I don’t see how, but—” the doctor shrugged.
The Head knew what the doctor wasn’t saying. They were dealing with unknown technology and effects. But it worked. They knew it worked. The other five were rock solid in their repentance for the wicked lives they’d led and their newfound belief in the Lord.
“She was not worthy,” the Head proclaimed. “Even though the Word will go to everyone, we know that not everyone will be worthy or accept the Word and Will of God. Redemption is only for those who truly accept the Lord into their hearts and minds. It is obvious she did not accept the Lord into her mind.” He pointed at her image. “This will be the fate of all the unbelievers. I find if heartening that the success rate was so high.”
With that announcement, the Head turned off the link.
When the Head entered his office, a report was waiting for him. A troubling one. Someone had sent an un-sanctioned transmission from the South American team’s radio. A transmission to New York City.
The John F. Kennedy Space Center, Cape Canaveral, Florida
The military had taken over from NASA the minute the Air Force cargo plane carrying the nuclear warheads had landed. Emergency crews worked around the clock to place the nukes on board the Atlas 5 and Delta 4 boosters that were being prepared for launch. The first Atlas 5 was now on the launch pad at Space Launch Complex 41, and ready for launch.
Three more Atlas 5s were ready to roll out, so the countdown was an extremely abbreviated version of the normal sixteen-hour process. Literally ripping pages out of the manual and crossing out the things that weren’t absolutely necessary, they’d gotten the launch process down to two hours. Two more Atlas 5s were being readied for launch at Vandenberg Air Force Base on the west coast.
The Atlas 5 was the latest version of the original model fielded in the 1950s as an ICBM. The first Atlas used as a space launch vehicle went up in 1958 carrying the world’s first communication satellite, loaded with President Eisenhower’s pre-recorded Christmas message to be broadcast around the world. The first Atlas to be placed on alert as an ICBM was put in operational status in 1959. An Atlas booster also carried John Glenn into space for the United States’ first manned mission.
Over one hundred and fifty feet tall, the latest version of the venerable rocket waited on a stripped down launch pad. Instead of the normal NASA countdown, because of the special payload, a different launch team was in a portable Air Force Launch Control Facility (LCF) that had been flown in on board a C-5 cargo plane. Many rules were being broken in the rush to intercept the Intruder, but there was one thing the Air Force General in charge had insisted on maintaining, and that was proper command and control over the launch of a nuclear warhead.
She’d spent time in her younger days in missile silos in various places around the country, and the routine had not changed. She had the LCF cleared of everyone but herself and the Launch Verifying Officer (LVO).
"Verifying Emergency Action Message," the General tersely ordered as she reached over her shoulders and pulled down the straps for her seat and buckled them, pulling out the slack. A red light was flashing and a nerve-jarring tone was echoing throughout the launch control facility. She locked down the rollers on the bottom of the seat. Then she hit the keys on her computer.
"I have verification of an incoming Emergency Action Message," she announced.
The LVO was reading his terminal. "I have verification of an Emergency Action Message."
The screen cleared and new words formed. "Emergency action message received," the General said. She pulled a sealed red envelope out of the safe underneath her console and ripped it open. She checked it against what was on the screen. "EAM code is current and valid."
"Code current and valid," the LVO repeated, checking his own envelope.
The General’s fingers flew over the keys. The blinking message on her screen cleared and news words flashed:
EAM: LAUNCH Missiles One
“EAM execution is to launch missiles one,” the General announced. “Give me the launch status of missile one."
“Missile one on line. Missile systems show green,” the Launch Verification Officer confirmed.
The two had run through this drill for launching a nuclear warhead thousands of times over their careers, but for once, they were actually going to follow through. And for a reason neither of them had ever imagined, toward a target they had never considered.
“To launch consoles," the General ordered. Unlocking their seats, they both rolled along their respective tracks to the middle of the launch control facility. The launch consoles faced each other but were separated by ten feet and a bulletproof Plexiglas wall bisecting the room. They both locked down their seats in front of their respective consoles.
The General put her eyes against the scanner and the computer's voice echoed out of a speaker on the console.
“Launch officer verified. You may insert key.”
The General pulled her red key from under her shirt and inserted it into the appropriate slot.
The computer verified the LVO’s retina and instructed him to insert his key, which he did.
“On my three,” The General said, staring at the countdown on her computer display. “One. Two. Three.”
They both turned their keys at the same time.
The solid first stage of the Atlas 5 ignited. The rocket slowly began lifting on a tail of flame. There was no time to watch it, as the General was already on the radio ordering crews to start moving out the next Atlas 5 for launch.
New York
“Missile one is up,” Brunswick announced as he put down the secure phone. “The Russian’s first Proton will lift off within the hour. The Chinese are on schedule. There are some problems in India. They’re not going to make their first slot. We’re trying to schedule in a Vandenberg launch to take the place of their first missile.”
Thornton and Pierce absorbed this information without comment. There was an atmosphere in the room that had never been there before—one of pessimism and doom. All three knew the odds of the interception and deflection succeeding were slim at best. It was the optimum course of action, but their own computers and analysts constantly spit out pathetically low predictions for success. This was further complicated by the fact that the best telescopes couldn’t get a good look at the Intruder to determine its composition, which was surrounded by an impenetrable cloud of space debris that it must have attracted during its journey across the cosmos.
Scientists were still debating how it had appeared out of nowhere, the wormhole theory being challenged by other scientists. It all seemed a rather useless and futile debate given the reality of impending impact.
Pierce was looking at the intelligence folder. “As you’ll note, we’ve received a report from one of our agents that the Brotherhood has a team on the ground in South America. To go up the Xingu. Past the Devil’s Fork.”
“And?�
�� Thornton demanded.
“Both of you have always voted against me when I proposed we send someone to investigate what Burton wrote of. What difference does it make now? Why not find out if what Burton wrote in the Lost Manuscript true?”
“Would it even be important in the big picture of things?” Thornton asked. “We’re facing annihilation and you’re worried about chasing after a myth.”
“Because if that’s really Judas up that river,” Pierce said, “that changes the way we are looking at things.” He looked from one man to the other. “It would mean we’re wrong in some of our basic assumptions, and if that is so, then we may be wrong about a lot of things.”
“One of the true signs of wisdom is being willing to admit one may be wrong.” Brunswick glanced at Thornton. “I see no down-side to this. I side with Pierce. We send a team to the Amazon to check on the myth, and to see what the Brotherhood is up to.”
Thornton gave a sly smile. “I already did.”
“Did what exactly?” Pierce demanded.
“I sent in a team of men. They’re up-river from the Brotherhood’s so-called ‘Wrath’ team.”
“It’s pretty obvious from the name and from knowing the Brotherhood what their plan for Judas would be,” Pierce said. “Your team’s mission?”
“Prevent the Wrath from ever making it to their destination,” Thornton said.
Pierce shook his head. “That’s not what I meant when I said we need to see what the Brotherhood is up to. If Judas really is up in the wilds of the Amazon, he probably knows what the Intruder is.”
“How do you make that connection?” Thornton asked. “It’s a damn asteroid. A cosmic event. If Judas is there, which I doubt, how would he know about it?”
Brunswick raised a hand halting the two. “Enough. It’s done.”
Thornton nodded. “I’ll compromise. Once my men take care of the Wrath, they’ll check out this so-called Judas. That satisfy you?”
“It won’t be as easy as you think,” Pierce said. “Nothing is going to be as easy as anyone thinks.”
Plesetsk, Russia
The first Soviet ICBMs had been emplaced at Plesetsk in 1957. It was five hundred miles north of Moscow, set in the midst of a great taiga forest. Despite the facilities initial mission to launch nuclear tipped missiles at Mother Russia’s enemies, the town that was built to house the workers was named Mirny, which was Russian for ‘peaceful.’ If one could understand this apparent contradiction, one might have insight into the Russian mindset.
On the main launch pad, a 191-foot tall Proton Rocket was in the final minute of launch countdown. The payload was on top of six hydrazine-fueled engines, clustered around the main rocket. As the clock wound down, the engines fired, lifting the rocket clear of the pad. It roared upward, a long tail of fire marking its ascent. Before it was out of sight, workers were moving a second Proton toward the launch pad as fire trucks doused it to cool it off.
The first Russian nuclear warhead reached space in a few minutes.
Space. Earth Orbit
Forster saw the launch as he was traveling back from modifying the second GPS satellite. He paused, spinning with the MMU, watching the missile streak up into the darkness of space about two thousand miles east and north of his position relative to Earth’s orbit.
At first he feared he was watching the beginning of nuclear apocalypse, but there was only the one launch. And the missile didn’t reach apogee and start heading toward the planet. Instead, it kicked off a stage and the next stage ignited, punching it out into space and escaping Earth’s gravity.
That was when Forster realized what was happening.
He fired up the MMU and hastened back to the X-37.
He had six more seeds to sow, and time was running out.
The Xingu River, The Amazon
“Why are you here?” Gates asked the question without referring to either of his boat companions by name. His hand was on the outboard control, the throttle turned to a steady speed as they followed the first boat up-river.
Both Hyland and Lee turned to him, glanced at each other, but neither spoke, which is what Gates had expected. He got more specific. “You, Doctor. You don’t look like the type of medical support an expedition like this requires. We need an EMT, not a surgeon.”
“I’ve worked in emergency rooms,” Lee defended himself.
“This isn’t an emergency room,” Gates said. “You ever have to work on a sucking chest wound—”
“I have!” Lee exclaimed, but Gates ignored him and finished his question.
“—while lying in a foot of mud and getting shot at?”
“I assure you,” Lee said, “that I am more than competent to handle any medical emergency we might face.”
“I don’t think you’re here for medical emergencies,” Gates said.
“You can think whatever you want.” Lee turned away and peered up-river.
Gates shook his head. “We’re supposed to be a team, but nobody seems to want to tell anyone anything.”
“Why are you here?” Hyland challenged Gates.
With his free hand, he slapped the MP-5 sub-machinegun resting at his side. “I’m security.”
“Yes, but why you specifically?” Hyland asked.
“Because I was stupid enough to volunteer for this.”
Hyland shook her head. “That’s not good enough. But I do know why I’m here,” she added. “I am the world’s foremost expert on Judas Iscariot, the man we’re traveling to meet.”
“’To meet’?” Gates repeated. “I was under the impression we’re going to kill him. Which begs the question why do we need an expert on someone we’re just going to gun-down?”
“Do you think you can just gun-down someone who has lived for over two thousand years, and been personally cursed by Jesus?” Hyland asked.
“Interesting point.” Gates noted that Lee had returned his attention to the conversation. “How exactly has Judas survived for two thousand years?” Gates asked.
Hyland shrugged. “He was cursed by Jesus.”
“So it’s kind of a negative miracle?” Gates asked.
“It is the will of the Lord,” Hyland said.
“So is it the will of the Lord that we take him out?” Gates didn’t wait for an answer. “Aren’t we being a little presumptuous, here? Maybe Jesus cursed Judas for a reason.”
“He did,” Hyland said.
Gates raised his eyebrows. “How do you know that?”
Hyland glanced over her shoulder at the first boat, as if afraid DiSalvo might overhear them, even though the distance and the sound of the engines easily muffled any intelligible sound from one boat to the other unless someone shouted.
“Is there anything wrong with telling what you know?” Gates pressed. “A little more information would be useful for this mission.”
“Have you ever heard of the Fifth Gospel?” Hyland asked.
Lee jumped in. “You should not speak of that! It is blasphemy!”
“It’s a big reason why we are here,” Hyland said. She turned to Gates. “In the Vatican, secured in their secret archives, is a document that is believed to be the Fifth Gospel, written by Judas Iscariot.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Gates said.
“The Roman Catholic Church has kept a tight lid on it over the millennia,” Hyland said. “Some say it’s a forgery. An elaborate ploy. There are those, though, who say it is real.”
“And? Do you think it’s real?”
“I believe it’s real,” Hyland said, “but I think that doesn’t negate the fact that it has lies written in it. After all, Judas was the Great Betrayer of Our Lord. Why should we believe anything he has written?”
Gates was confused. “So if you think it’s real but full of lies, why does it have us here?”
Hyland sighed. “We’re here for two reasons. First, in his gospel, Judas writes that he was indeed cursed by Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. The curse was that Judas would wander the planet u
ntil the Second Coming.”
“How do you know he wandered here?” Gates asked.
“That’s the second reason,” Hyland said. “There’s another document. One written by a non-believer, a member of the Illuminati. The Lost Manuscript of Sir Richard Francis Burton, which some say is another version of the Fifth Gospel.”
“You mentioned Burton before,” Gates said. “You said he was the last one to go past Devil’s Fork and come back alive.”
Hyland nodded. “Yes. And he wrote about what he encountered up-river. Do you know that when Burton died, his wife Isabella, burned a manuscript over his body?”
“No,” Gates said.
“Not many people do, but it’s true. However, it was a ploy, a misdirection, to make people think the manuscript that detailed some of his journeys was destroyed. But she was burning a copy. The original was hidden away. Somehow, and how I was not told, the Brotherhood got hold of a copy. What they discovered written there echoed what Judas had written about his curse in the Fifth Gospel, because Burton claims to have met Judas. Here in the Amazon, up above the Devil’s Fork.”
Gates processed that as he eased back on the throttle as the first boat slowed slightly. “So we’re here based on a Gospel written by someone the Brotherhood thinks is a liar, and a manuscript written by a member of the Illuminati, who are our enemy?”
“Judas exists,” Hyland said.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s mentioned in enough places throughout history. Not by his name. But it’s him. I’ve spent my life studying this. I have no doubt he exists.”
“And you have no doubt he’s here?”
Hyland nodded. “He has always tried to hide, knowing that if his true identity was ever revealed, he would be doomed. He came here a long time ago to hide in the jungle.”
