Mars Journey: Call to Action: Book 1: A SciFi Thriller Series

by Bill Hargenrader

  Yuri climbed in the rear seat of the SUV and said, “Let me guess, you can’t tell me here what it is?”

  “That is correct.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with something Carlson may have suggested during his sightseeing tour?”

  The two suits exchanged glances, but didn’t say a word as they put the SUV into drive.

  “That’s what I thought. Good ol’ Carlson,” said Yuri with a knowing laugh. “Let’s go see what all the excitement is about.”

  Part 3 - The Journey Home

  Chapter 14 - Location: Silicon Valley, United States

  The ride in the black car from the San Jose airport went smoothly. Mike Johnson and Brent Carlson took it mostly in silence.

  On the flight back from Moscow, Brent had filled the time by re-reading the Unified Mars Path Papers that he, Shayla, and 11 of his colleagues had worked on 3 years earlier. One passage in particular had stood out for him:

  “Want to know what it will take to send humans on their first manned mission to Mars? There has to be a coordinated, multi-nation, multi-commercial organization, multi-NGO, and multi-nonprofit effort to get us there. No single nation or agency can make it happen. We need to be moving forward and looking ahead, while leveraging the existing technology to its utmost capacity. We need to practice excellent planning and execute flawless engineering at the same time. We need to be stoking the fires of public awareness and support for the trip. Only then can we make a human mission to Mars happen. There’s only one thing for certain: It won’t be easy. But that’s never been a good enough reason before to stop us from tackling our toughest challenges.” – Brent Carlson, United States Astronaut.

  Brent had a smile on his face as he felt the excitement from his adventure around the globe, and let himself hope, just maybe they could pull this off.

  Nearing the end of the trip, Brent cleared his throat and said, “I really appreciate you taking me on this trip, Johnson. After going around the world like that, and seeing how excited everyone is, I’m feeling reenergized. Especially after seeing the Journey spacecraft in Hangar 99, things are starting to look up. Ha, no pun intended there.”

  “Well, you know me, Brent,” Johnson replied, “I’m just glad you got to see the fruits of your labors.”

  “So, I’m assuming we still have one recruit left? The American astronaut.” Brent said with an air of expectancy.

  “Yes, we do. But I think it’s best if we do that one without you.”

  “Do it without me?” said Brent. “But I thought—”

  “You thought what?” Johnson interrupted. “That we were going to ask you to fill the final slot?”

  Brent sat back with a sigh.

  “You have a top of the charts genius-level IQ,” said Johnson. “You can solve some of the most complex multi-variant problems in your head, and yet still, after all these years, I am utterly amazed at how you continually seem to miss the small stuff.”

  “Wow.” Said Brent as he crossed his arms and looked out the window into the distance. “You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

  “Look, Brent,” Johnson said slowly. “Just between you and me, as friends, I can think of no one I would rather have command this mission. No one is better suited or more qualified. But now, as a director of an organization whose top priority is mission assurance, I have to frankly say that there is no way in hell we would ever let you command a mission. You wouldn’t be able to pass a psych eval with your alcoholism, your delusions of global conspiracy.”

  Brent raised an eyebrow at that last bit.

  “And you burned far too many bridges with Astronaut Corps and within Congress and further reaches in government. And while nothing you said wasn’t technically true, and while there are still those who would follow you to the ends of the Earth and beyond, you simply created far too many enemies to make it even possible at this time.”

  Brent just looked at Johnson, not saying a word.

  ”Should I go on?” Johnson asked.

  “No, I get it,” Brent admitted. “But then, why all this? Why bring me along on the recruiting trip? Besides us being ‘friends?’ And why not tell me that Ken Solum paid for my trip—and didn’t even spring for business class, that billionaire bastard.” He punctuated the last statement by mock shaking his fist.

  Johnson laughed, and said, “I figured you’d come to that conclusion sooner or later. Look, Brent, you still have a lot of fans out there. You’re practically a global icon. You’re just too busy trapping yourself in your house and in your bottle to even notice.”

  “But I haven’t had a drop the whole trip,” Brent pointed out.

  “Yes, but I know you’ve wanted to the whole trip,” Johnson replied. “Even now. I know the look. I’ve been there, Brent. But here’s the rub. You’re simply never going back up again as an American astronaut.”

  Brent let that sink in. He never thought he was going on the trip and he let his hopes rise up. He was right back where he started before the trip. “Can you even be certain we’re going to make the launch windows for the Journey?” Brent asked.

  “I’m not too certain of any of it,” Johnson admitted. “The moon landing took ten years of careful planning, and nothing was really ready until the last two years of it. With the timelines we are working with, the technology exists, but there are so many variables with different countries and different standards for interconnectivity, governmental instability, the list goes on and on.”

  “Basic project management principles show again and again that the shorter the time to the deadline, the faster the work will get done,” said Brent. “Conversely, the longer the time to the deadline, the more perceived effort to achieve the end results. It is just a bit of human nature built in.”

  “Exactly!” Johnson exclaimed. “Except I don’t know if it’s time that is the issue.”

  “And if it’s not time, and not technology, then what is it?” Brent asked.

  “People,” said Johnson. “Is the will of the people strong enough? Mars Journey Program public opinion polls are in the thirty percent range globally. Individual countries rank higher, but without the will of the people…”

  “The money runs out, and the technology isn’t shared,” Brent finished.

  “And we’re left with billions in expensive technology just floating around in space and sitting on launch pads.”

  “Level with me here,” Brent said. “What do you think our chances are of actually getting this off the ground and making the trip?”

  “Officially, we have fifty-fifty odds,” Johnson said. “My gut tells me we’ve got less than a one percent chance of pulling this off without something derailing it. But my optimistic side says there will never be a doubt. Besides, I’m way past retirement age, and I need one final gold star on my record.”

  “Right, ’cause you do this just for the gold stars,” Brent laughed.

  “More like the white stars,” said Johnson. “The ones on our flag, and the ones out there, too. Well, looks like this is finally our stop.”

  “Johnson, I really want to thank you,” Brent said. “This trip gave me some clarity on what the world looks like. I’m truly going to miss being a part of the mission. It will be hard to not be a part of this anymore. So, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Johnson said, looking concerned. “You and Shayla really helped to get this going. It’s the least I could do. You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah,” said Brent. “Just jet lag setting in, I guess. Either that, or just getting worn down by your company. Just kidding, of course!”

  “I know,” Johnson said.

  As Brent got out of the car, he turned back and added, as an afterthought.

  “Hey, Johnson, you never did tell me who they picked as American Commander.”

  “You sure you want to know?” asked Johnson.

  “I’ll find out sooner or later, anyways.”

  Johnson turned to another page in the binder, and flipped it
around so Brent could see it.

  Brent’s eyes went wide. Williams! “No. No way. You can’t be possibly picking… him!”

  “Yes way, Brent,” Johnson replied. “He’s known, after all, for always getting the mission done.”

  “At any cost,” Brent objected. “He’s going to be anathema to any esprit de corps that you are going to need on those cramped quarters for your fourteen-month mission.”

  “He really wasn’t selected for his sparkling personality, but for his perseverance. We got this one, Brent. You take care of yourself now. I mean it. My suggestion: clean yourself up. Grab that hidden or not-so-hidden fifth of whatever it is from your bottom desk drawer, or wherever you keep it, and throw it away. You may not be going up as an official astronaut, but I’m sure you have other ways to be a productive member of society… Not sure what they are.”

  Shaking his head, Brent said, “You got it. Take care, Johnson.”

  As the black car drove off, Brent turned to face his house. The trip was over. One last hurrah around the planet, so to speak.

  Brent went to the mailbox and gathered the usual deliveries. A second month-late notice. Foreclosure eminent notice. Bills and bills… and a large, blue envelope with a gold label. The label read, Mars Now Needs You.

  Brent shook his head and laughed as he walked into his house.

  No, he thought, you don’t need me. After tonight, no one will.

  Chapter 15

  That night, Brent got out the bottle of whiskey, sat down at the kitchen counter, poured a tall glass, and put the bottle down next to his wife’s photo in frame, resting on top of the pile of mail and bills.

  “Right back where we started,” Brent said to himself. “I don’t think Johnson is coming to interrupt this time around,” he finished with a sigh.

  Brent took the photo out of the frame, and started talking to Shayla as if she were there. “I keep feeling like I’m just away on one of my missions, and I’ll be coming back to see you soon, thought Brent. That’s how I’m wired. And I can’t seem to unwire it. In my heart, I keep expecting to see you again… but I never will. Well. Not on this plane of existence. Guess we’re about to find out if we will on the next.”

  He placed the photo down, reached into the table drawer, and wrapped his hand around the grip of his M9 Beretta pistol. It was a matching version of the one he’d worn as a sidearm as a member of the Stealth Scorpion Taskforce in the Army. It didn’t have the greatest stopping power or the highest accuracy, but it was efficient, effective, and once you found a weapon you liked, you tended to stick with it.

  He looked forlornly into the drawer, sighed aloud, and then looked behind him at the plastic tarp he had spread to cover the counter and the floor behind him. It wasn’t his best work, but it should do the trick. He picked up the photo.

  “Goodbye, my love,” he said. “I will see you soon.”

  He kissed the image of Shayla, and put the photo face down on the table. He raised the drink to his mouth with his free left hand. Rested the glass on his lips. Hating that smell. Hating himself. But needing the liquid courage to go through with his escape plan.

  He looked up at the mirror, inhaling before imbibing.

  What he saw in the mirror made his blood run cold and the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

  The mirror reflected the window above the kitchen sink.

  There was a pair of eyes peering in at him through the dark!

  Chapter 16

  Brent slowly lowered the drink to the table and squinted at the mirror. Quick as a flash, he drew the M9 and turned, pointing the weapon at the window. Nothing. His military training returning to him in an instant, he darted to the back door, flung it open, and jumped out sidelong, two hands on the gun as he shouted, “Stop! Identify yourself!”

  Nothing. Silence. Crickets and birds on a quarter-moon night.

  Glancing left and right across the yard, the only thing he saw was his tool shed that housed the ride-on mower and power tools for the household projects he never completed.

  His adrenaline spike was beginning to taper. The feeling of jitters started to form in his legs, and he lowered the gun.

  “Anyone out here?” he called out.

  HOO! HOO! Answered an owl.

  Brent laughed out loud and turned towards the woods and said, “Why thank you, Mr. Owl. Your mock is well received. Jesus, Carlson. The things you invent to keep yourself from killing yourself.”

  Grinning still, his eyes settled on the soft, almost imperceptible orange line emanating from under his shed doors. He froze. Had he turned that light on? How long had it been since he’d been in there?

  Should I call the cops? he thought. What would I say? There is a light in my shed, and I’m scared?

  The light flicked off.

  That’s not good. Either I’m imagining things, or someone is about to get a bullet in them.

  Grin gone, Brent proceeded towards the shed.

  He reached out with one hand for the latch, his other hand holding the gun. He flung the doors open.

  “Identify yourself, or I will shoot!”

  Nothing.

  The low light of the quarter moon barely helped Brent Carlson make out the shapes in the garage. Ride-on mower. Power tools. Two-by-fours. His eyes darting left and right. Suddenly, he became painfully aware that he didn’t have a flashlight. His hand shot into the shed and flicked on the light switch. Light filled the ten-by-ten space, but there was nothing. He ducked down, but saw no one under the bench.

  “Jesus, Carlson,” he said aloud, again. He lowered the gun. “What is wrong with you?”

  He turned to leave, his hand reaching out to turn off the light, but he froze in mid-motion when the little voice inside his head said: Look up.

  Shifting his gaze upward, to the ceiling of the A-frame shed, he found himself staring at a man dressed all in black with a black mask on, crouched in the rafters, only his eyes showing, looking down at Brent.

  Not wasting words, Brent raised the gun to shoot. The other man came diving down feet first, catching Brent on the hand. A shot firing off into the night with a crack, and the gun hurtled to the floor.

  The man in black punched straight and hard towards Brent’s face, causing Brent’s guard to come up instinctually. This left his mid-section open, a space which the assailant filled with a driving side kick, knocking the air out of Brent’s lungs and sending him flying back. His spine made contact with the cornered edge of the mower’s grill. Shocked and out of breath, he barely had time to bring his arms together to block a hard punch aimed at his solar plexus, leaving his neck exposed, and the man in black sunk in a guillotine grip.

  Amazing, how time slows down, Brent thought as the life was being squeezed out of him, and the thoughts you have when the blood and oxygen to your brain are cut off… He set me up for the choke with a mid-section strike. This guy is good. Real good. And I’m apparently really out of shape. And apparently, I am going out.

  He started to drift from consciousness when he had a piercing thought.

  This guy knows who killed Shayla. This guy might be the one who killed Shayla!

  Willpower trumped biological physiology, and suddenly, there was life again. And rage. Brent had been an all-American wrestler, a BJJ brown belt, and a skilled kickboxing practitioner. None of the mental know-how mattered now, as rage unconsciously selected the tools to be used.

  A driving knee to the groin. No loosening of the neck grip, but it created a little space between Brent and his assailant. Another driving knee aimed at the man’s solar plexus. This one lifted him in the air a bit and definitely loosened his grip. Now, Brent dropped down, pulling the man in black off balance. His center of gravity shifted over Brent, and Brent shot all his power straight up in the air. At full extension, Brent brought the man in black crashing backwards, face first into the engine cover of the mower, and the grip was broken.

  Face broken, too, hopefully, thought Brent as he rolled to his right, onto his knee
s, then back to his feet in time to see the man dart from the shed, holding his face.

  Not fast enough. You’re mine!

  Brent pursued like a cheetah in lithe, powerful sprint, leaping into the air, hands finding purchase in the clothing to both sides of the neck of his prey. Still in the air, Brent brought the insteps of his feet to the back of the man in black’s knees, driving his two hundred pounds of mass into them, forcing them to the ground. Brent heard the loud pop of ligaments tearing, and a scream let out from the man in black’s mouth.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Brent said, as he swung his arm under the assailant’s neck, putting him in a choke position from behind with full leverage. “First, I’m going to choke you out, and then, I’m going to wake you up with some very pointed questions…”

  A noise from the shed reversed Brent’s focus. He turned his head just in time to see another man, dressed all in black, swinging a two-by-four at his head.

  Two of them. Great!

  It was all he had a chance to think before his lights went out.

  Chapter 17

  Brent stood outside his shed, holding an ice pack to his head. Brent had been giving his account to the cops for some time now.

  They didn’t believe him.

  “You have a history of making crazy claims,” an officer said.

  “But the assault?” responded Brent. “The two-by-four?”

  “We found only your fingerprints on the two-by-four,” said the cop.

  “And the bruises?”

  “Sorry to say, but they are easily faked,” the cop maintained.

  “And the surveillance cameras?” Brent asked.

  “Turned off,” the cop stated. “Remotely. And only you have the password, correct?”

  “That could be easily hacked,” Brent replied.

  “Look, you shot a gun off randomly into the air,” the cop said angrily. “Thank God no one got hurt. You have what looks to be a suicide in progress in the kitchen, and we found this crazy, serial killer-like shrine to some guy named Herr Graden in your basement. The only reason we are not arresting you right now is because some people high up made some phone calls to my boss’ boss’ boss. Your neighbors are scared to death of you. We are confiscating your weapon. You are out of chances. If we have one more report of ninjas or boogey men or anything, I don’t care who you are, or who calls who, I will put you in the cell myself.”