by T. D. Kohler
With the biscotti gone, they sit and seem to get lost in their thoughts. The reporter lets out a quiet whistle and stands. “Thank you, it has been truly an honor.”
Offering his hands out, Nikolas stands, and they shake hands and the reporter gets a static shock.
“I guess I still have some residual energy,” Nikolas says. “It is I that should be thanking you. You were correct in that I simply needed to talk to someone. So, I will thank you and return to my work, thank you.”
Gathering his coat, Nikolas turns and walks away. The reporter looks around and adjusts his hat. “Well that was enlightening.” Walking away a thought enters his mind, what was that name of that Jules Verne novel?
2015
SLS Casino,
Las Vegas, NV
July 18, 1421 hours
A stout man paces as he watches a large monitor showing Earth’s magnetic field flexing, resembling a rubber band. Impatiently, he checks his watch. “I need to eat.”
He taps the shoulder of one of the operators of the computer station and gestures to the large monitor.
“The only thing I know that can affect Earth’s protective field like that is an immense solar flare. We have not had one large enough to come even close to doing that in almost a decade. When I get back from lunch I better have an answer waiting for me.”
The computer operator is determined and confused.
“Director Harris, the field was pulled down, as if it was reaching down to pull something up. The source is terrestrial—not extra-terrestrial.”
“Then find me the source.”
Turning to exit the room, the door opens and the hallway light floods the room. Two silhouettes of agents walk in; one is a young, former military gentleman, and the other is a young, attractive woman carrying an electronic pad. Radiance from the computer screens light the room as soon as the door closes behind them. The young woman approaches the director. “Director Harris, I was told you were in here.” She starts tapping her electronic pad, pulling up a map and acknowledging her counterpart.
Looking up at the director she says, “We completed the math, and although we do not know what caused the magnetic pull on Earth’s field, we have narrowed it to an area in Southwest Louisiana.”
Stretching his arms out, then resting his hands-on top of his head, the stout man looks directly at the woman.
“Well, we are making progress.” Motioning out the door he says, “Walk with me, and you can walk me through why you believe it to be in Louisiana.” He walks between the two without further acknowledgement, and the door closes behind him.
The two agents look at each other, and the male agent can see the enthusiasm in his younger counterpart’s eyes.
“I appreciate you including me in on this find, even though you have confused the shit out of me a hundred times already on this math of yours.” Looking up at him she smiles, and then her eyes widen in realization that the director has left them standing there.
They hurry to catch up to him. When they get to the elevator they realize the door to the stairway just closed. Agent Sanchez looks at the door in disbelief, “You’ve got to be kidding me, we’re six stories down.”
Abergathy shrugs and they bolt for the stairs.
Just as they catch up to the director, the female agent trips, sending the tablet across one of the landings and sliding past the director’s feet. He kneels down and picks up the electronic equipment and turns towards the agent. “You should never run on a stairwell. Are you okay?”
Standing back up and looking embarrassed, she says, “Yes, sir.”
Still holding the tablet, he begins to stroll through the information on it. “I consider myself an intelligent man, but I must admit this is way above my head. Now that you are vertical and have caught your breath, you can begin walking me through your findings.”
Taking a moment to smile, she accepts her tablet back. “Yes, sir.” Tapping on her electronic pad, she brings up a model of the earth’s core.
“The earth is believed to have a molten iron core, and because of this it gives it a magnetic field that surrounds the planet, protecting it from interstellar radiation that would, without it, make life impossible to survive.”
Raising his hand, he stops her. “First of all, what is your name?”
“I apologize. It’s Kristen Abergathy, sir.”
“Second, I mentioned that I am a reasonably intelligent man. Tell me something I do not know.”
They walk up the remaining flight of stairs while Agent Abergathy rambles nonstop regarding her findings. When they reach the top, they are winded. “Sir, Agent Miguel Sanchez here. If I can ask, why did we take the stairs and not the elevator?”
“Agent Sanchez, as agents, exercise does us all good, and besides I don’t trust elevators. Now I understand that being here in Las Vegas, this is as close of a location that you can get. Do you think you can pinpoint a location if you were to go to Louisiana? As it would appear, you are the only ones that have even been close to getting a location.”
“Yes, sir, absolutely!” Abergathy says, trying to hold back the excitement that is showing in her eyes as she smiles to the point of being giddy.
With a slight smile and a stern tone in his voice, the director turns to Sanchez.
“I expect a full report. And keep this one out of trouble, Agent Sanchez. You both can fly out tonight.”
Trying to keep her enthusiasm in check, Abergathy says, “Thank you, sir. You won’t be disappointed.”
Shaking his head, the director turns and opens the exterior door and the Las Vegas sun and heat hits them like a brick wall.
“I love this part. It lets you know that you are alive. Now I need to eat. My blood sugar is getting low.” Without looking back at the agents, “I expect complete status updates.”
Roy’s Catfish Hut,
Kinder, LA
July 18, 1838 hours
The admiral and the two doctors are sitting in a corner table. The admiral is moving his oysters around his plate, lost in thought. Stevens has his nose buried in his electronics, ignoring the salad in front of him, trying to figure out what they witnessed earlier. Garrett is devouring his crawfish half-and-half platter.
“Lincoln, have you been able to make heads or tails of what happened today?” the Admirals asks Stevens.
Garrett takes a break from eating.
“Did you guys see what he did to that turkey?”
“Harvey, for the umpteenth time, yes, we were there too, remember?” The admiral looks disgusted at Garrett. “How can you eat that?”
“I need protein,” Garrett says. “We have not eaten anything since breakfast, and according to the Osage Indians, we owe our existence to these mud crawlers. It is believed they retrieved mud from the bottom of the primordial ocean so that the earth could be created. I’m just honoring them.”
Tapping away on his tablet, Stevens is amazed.
“Admiral, the information that my equipment collected while we were there is incredible.” Separating his laptop and laying the tablet half on the table, he opens the screen and shows an aerial layout of the farm and streams of waves swirling into the barn.
The admiral looks over at the screen.
“What are we looking at?”
“Think of an atmospheric pressure front, only in this case it is radio and magnetic waves so dense that they’re generating a gravitational field. And it is funneling into whatever is in that barn,” Stevens explains.
With his plate cleared, Garrett sits back and starts back in on the bucket of peanuts and does his best Giorgio Tsoukalos impression.
“So, you are not saying it’s aliens, but it’s aliens.”
Smiling, Stevens looks at his friend. “Your mechanical ape suit should withstand the pressure that these waves are creating.”
“First of all, it is not a mechanical ape suit. It is a high-density, gravitational exoskeleton, and I have never tested it without being under the pressure of an intense gravity
environment.”
Gaining his appetite, the admiral starts eating his fried oysters. Looking at the muscular friend, the admiral pauses.
“Harvey, please walk me through your metal ape suit again.”
Forearming his friend, he says, “See what you started.” He turns to the admiral.
“I created a gravitational exoskeleton,” Garrett says. “All the Kepler planets that the Kepler satellite system have been able to locate are larger than our earth. It is one thing to know they are there. It is another to be able to walk on them. Some of these planets are one point five to ten times larger than us.” Cracking open some more peanuts, he says, “You may think that one point five times larger would not be that bad, however. . .”
Leaning back in the chair and tossing the peanut shells on the floor, Garrett gestures to the admiral.
“How much do you weigh?”
“Two hundred give or take?” the admiral says.
“On Kepler 186, which is slightly bigger than Earth, it would feel like you weighed three hundred thirty pounds. Not so bad, right?” Garrett says. “However, on planets like Gliese 581, which is estimated to be four times the size of Earth, it would feel like you weighed . . .”
Garrett reaches inside Stevens’s pocket, pulls out a calculator, and types in an equation, and then turns the calculator around and lays it on the table.
“This is how much you would feel like you weighed.”
Leaning and looking at the display, it reads 2,342,560,000. The admiral lets out a quiet whistle. “Are you serious?”
“Give or take a few thousand pounds. Either way, our physical design would be crushed under that kind of gravity pressure,” Garrett adds. “The gravitational exoskeleton is capable of withstanding that kind of pressure, allowing you to be able to move around. But it has only been tested under extreme gravity pressure. I don’t know what would happen under Earth’s gravitational pull.”
Stevens points out, “As you so eloquently keep reminding us of what that man did to the turkey, your suit is the only thing that can withstand that kind of pressure.”
Feeling both sets of eyes barreling down on him, Garrett shakes his head. “I need to use the restroom.” Wiping his mouth, he slides away from the table. He turns to his friends like he was going to say something but instead walks away mumbling.
Stevens leans in on the table and with a lowered voice says, “Admiral, why are we looking for this guy? Don’t get me wrong; I’m excited to finally find something like this anomaly. I mean we managed to keep our lives and our equipment. Life is good.”
“I understand your concerns. A few months ago, I was working for a NASA division, and I saw a series of reports on some strange happenings all over the place. A longtime friend and I began to dig deeper. There were reports of high-tech equipment being delivered, and then the same report showing it being delivered someplace else. Strange sighting reports were being sent to the local newspapers—only never going to print. He found me one night, scared out of his mind, telling me he might have gotten caught looking into some of these reports. And he believed he found something. He died in a car accident less than twenty-four hours later. I have lived in the world of special operations for most of my life. I have done things for this government I am not proud of. I have also done things I am very proud of, none of which I can talk about.”
Turning to look out the window the admiral continues, “I have seen things that cannot be explained by a rational mind and dealt with people whose sole purpose is to keep it quiet. Those same people will stop at nothing to accomplish their goals. When NASA opened space to the private companies in 2009, this company has done everything in its power to stop them from being successful. Companies have been ruined and people have disappeared.”
Taking a moment to take a drink, the admiral looks around to see if the conversation has caught anybody’s attention.
“It’s through those files my friend found that I was able to find you two. I don’t want anyone else to go missing in the name of space exploration.”
The two sit in silence as Garrett returns to the table.
“Why is everyone so solemn all of a sudden?”
“The admiral was just telling me of an agency that is preventing space exploration from privateers.” Stevens sits up, adjusting his silverware.
Getting excited, Garrett sits up to explains, “You’re talking about Project Cadmus. Some say it was formed in 1963, but others say it was formed in 1947 after the Roswell crash and that they’re the ones really responsible for the assassination of JFK. I mean seriously, how can a single-shot, six-point, 5mm Carcano carbine rifle fire all those shots that fast? And why was the motorcade rerouted at the last minute so that it would drive right past the book depository? Are these the same people who we are now on the run from? If that’s the case we are in some serious trouble. Some say, and I’m not saying I believe it completely, that they were the machine behind anyone associated with President Nixon getting out of office, even the president himself.”
The admiral looks at Garrett with confusion.
“Harvey, why do you call them Project Cadmus, and who are these people you’re talking about?”
“In the DC Universe, Project Cadmus is a private agency whose purpose is to control the Justice League.”
Trying not to laugh, Stevens forearms his friend but ends up pushing himself against the window.
“This is not your comic book universe, this is the real world.”
“Conspiracies have talked about them for years, whether you want to call them Project Cadmus or Men in Black, they’re the same. I already had a hunch that these people are the reason we had to get our stuff and get the hell out of Dodge.”
The admiral takes a deep breath. “Whatever we are going to call this organization they are dangerous people. Are you going to see if your exoskeleton will allow us to talk to this guy?” Looking to Stevens, he says, “And Lincoln, if you were able to find this anomaly, you know that they are not far behind us.”
Dr. Garrett grabs another handful of peanuts and leans back in his seat.
“Yeah, I’ll give it a go. Even though I will warn you that I am not so sure how it will handle.”
The admiral raises his glass. “Alright then, to a successful day tomorrow.”
Watching the admiral and Garrett drink up, Stevens gets worried.
“Admiral, we’ve been tracking this guy for a few weeks now. How do we know that he has not already drawn attention from others?”
“We don’t. All we can hope for is that we can convince him, and we can get out of here before . . .” gesturing to Garrett, “. . . Project Cadmus shows up.”
Garrett laughs and coughs up some of the peanuts, catching them in his hand. Leaning back in the booth, he lifts his glass.
“I’ll drink to that.”
Stevens, unfazed by his friend’s laughter, pokes at his salad. “All kidding aside, just how dangerous are these people?”
Garrett leans in and lowers his voice.
“If they had anything to do with JFK, or even with Nixon, then they are some really dangerous people.”
The admiral stares down at his plate, thinking about his friend getting killed the year before in the car accident. He looks up at his traveling companions. “Let’s just finish eating, and we can prepare for tomorrow.”
Houston International Airport,
Houston, TX
July 19, 0156 hours
A black Hawker Siddeley HS-125 jet taxi’s the runway. Inside the small jet, Agent Sanchez sleeps on the couch as Agent Abergathy analyzes information on her tablet. Just as the plane takes off, Agent Sanchez shifts position and cracks open an eye towards to his partner.
“You know, you should really get some sleep.”
“Oh, shit!” Abergathy flips her stylus onto the deck of the plane. “I thought you were sleeping,” she says as her hand lands on her chest as if to verify a heartbeat.
Smiling and closing his eyes, he puts
a forearm across his eyes and settles in.
“This is the first plane I have been on that didn’t have cargo nets,” Sanchez says. “This puddle jumper is beyond my imagination. How did you score us this ride?”
“I simply suggested to our so-called travel agency that when this year is over the FAA will prohibit this plane to fly.”
“Why’s that?” Sanchez asks with wide-eyed curiosity. “This plane is freakin’ awesome!”
Abergathy turns her attention back to her tablet.
“It does not have stage-three-noise-compliant engines.”
“Santo Cielo. You have got to be kidding me. You’re a genius,” Sanchez says as he reclines, resting his arm over his eyes. “This plane is as quiet as a happy kitten. The FAA should be listening to C-130s, then they will have something to complain about.”
Over the loud speaker the captain jokes, “Keep it down back there . . . The skies are clear, so the remaining leg to Alexandria will be smooth sailing, and we will be landing in an hour.”
Sanchez murmurs to his partner while settling further into the couch. “Wake me when we land, and seriously, you really should try and get a little shut eye.”
The jet shifts due to turbulence, sending Abergathy’s stylus rolling back onto the deck again.
“Smooth sailing, huh?” Looking back at her partner, she says, “Do we have a plan once we find whatever is causing the earth’s magnetic field to flux?”
“Our job is to see if we can find the source of the field anomaly with that fancy math of yours, observe it, and report on it. This is your first time in the field, so let’s not get overzealous. Now, try to get some rest. You heard the captain, wheels down in an hour,” Sanchez answers as he closes his eyes, taking his own advice.
Allen Acres Bed & Breakfast,
Pitkin, LA
July 19, 0232 hours
