Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru

by Marshall Masters

  “Damn,” Johnston spat as he clenched his fists. “Damn, damn, damn!” Chadwick and De Bono watched him with silent curiosity as he thought through the situation, while grinding his jaws. “So, we just arrange for this TupouSat to have an untimely encounter with a small asteroid or something, if that's possible."

  De Bono finally spoke up, “It is, but then Lloyds of London, of which we own a considerable share, would have to foot the cost of a replacement, and no doubt Tonga would quickly find a replacement satellite. No, this time, we must admit checkmate and give ground. However, that doesn't mean the game is over. Melissa, do we know who is financing this?"

  “Officially, we do, and that was pretty easy to run down,” she replied. “It seems the transponder was leased in the name of The Ronald Reagan Presidential Foundation."

  “But leasing even one satellite transponder takes deep pockets,” Johnston added. “Deeper than that foundation has; I can tell you that."

  “Yes, I think you're right,” De Bono agreed. “Let me think about this for a moment.” The conference went still as the images of Chadwick and Johnston floated silently in front of De Bono's face. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I want you two to keep your hands off this Holocaust Survivors Film Project. Let them broadcast their programs. I'll personally handle the issue of finding out who exactly is funding this project."

  “And what about Chavez,” Johnston asked in a malevolent tone.

  “She has certainly become a thorn in our side, and frankly, my patience with her is all but worn out.” He paused as he lightly bit his lip. “It is time to deal with her once and for all. I'll give it to the School of Assassins."

  “No!” Johnston insisted in a dark voice. “Let me do it. She's haunted my every step for too long now, and I'm tired of the misery she's made for me. I want some payback."

  “So what do you propose to do?"

  “Do me a favor and tell the School of Assassins that I can get close to her—real close, and that I want the pleasure of watching her smile at me when I do her. I'm sure they'll come up with something that will be both simple and effective."

  “It's not wise to do your own wet work, Merl,” Chadwick softly cautioned.

  “Have you ever read Time Enough for Love by Robert Heinlein?"

  “No."

  “Well you should. There's a great line in that book and it has always resonated with me. ‘When the need arises—and it does—you must be able to shoot your own dog. Don't farm it out.’”

  De Bono rubbed his chin reflectively. After all, that first day in his scramjet, he had promised him this. He just didn't expect the man to remain so bitterly determined. Chadwick was right. Johnston was a valuable man to their effort and letting him do this was an unnecessary risk. Yet, a promise was a promise. “OK, Merl. Provided you do exactly as you're told by the School of Assassins, you have my permission."

  “Thank you, Secretary General,” Johnston replied thoughtfully.

  “You're welcome, but frankly, I agree with Melissa. You shouldn't be doing your own wet work. However, a promise is a promise. Not to change the subject, but what is the current status on Jarman and Jones?"

  “With any luck, Vigo Jones will not make it back from San Diego alive. He is presently en route to Los Gatos with a substantial load of confiscated heroine and marijuana used to treat the patients. We've taken the liberty of letting this fact be known amongst, shall we say, some rather unsavory types, along with his itinerary. As for Jarman, our operative inside the camp tells me he's eating, sleeping and drinking whiskey all night with one of his dome mates, a Jesuit Priest from England."

  “The priest could become a valuable source of information,” Chadwick noted.

  “I doubt it,” Johnston replied. “From what our source tells us, they're preoccupied with building a still and do nothing but talk about sports and movies. Look,” he explained. “These guys are stuck in the armpit of the world, and they're just trying to deal with it without going nuts, but you never know. Maybe the priest could stumble onto something, but getting it out of him could be another thing."

  “We have ways,” De Bono said with a smirk. His comment made them all laugh.

  They soon wrapped up their conference after covering a few more minor details. After turning off his HUD and breaking his connection, Johnston removed his VR gloves while hissing to himself. “Chavez, you fucking bitch, you cost me my seat in the Senate and now you're after me again.” Never in his life had he wanted to kill someone in cold blood, but now the rage within him demanded personal revenge.

  * * * *

  AS THE FORA SUV bounced along the frozen and pockmarked road leading to Igor Razumovsky's private country home on the outskirts of Obninsk City, Pavel Sergeevich Lebedev stared out the window, ignoring the driver's repeated attempts to make small conversation.

  The Fora was a gas-powered western knock-off made by Lada, and the front of the 4x4 looked like a Jeep Cherokee retro design. It lacked the stunning lines of the European and American designs on purpose. Like a reliable plow horse, the exceptionally stout Fora, was made to plow its way through primitive Russian roads with rugged reliability.

  Having failed in his attempts to start a conversation, the driver studied his passenger, then decided to tune in a Moscow talk radio station and drove on through the quiet countryside without saying another word. Eventually, Pavel caught his eye in the rear view mirror and winked, to let him know that he appreciated the gift of silence.

  The thirty-six year old project manager stared out the window with melancholy sadness in his dark brown eyes. Many of the beautiful trees that used to surround Obninsk City were dead now because of acid rain. While Obninsk was still Russia's premier technology center, it no longer had the good fortune to be located in one of the greenest parts of Russia.

  Before the Nibiru flyby, the Obninsk Scientific Center was comprised of 12 scientific research institutes, including three highly acclaimed State Scientific centers of the Russian Federation. By the end of that year, those numbers doubled.

  Obninsk, along with several other scientific centers, had just been given a special area of responsibility deemed more important than all other projects. It had received the plum assignment of finding a way to destroy Shiva before the 40-kilometer wide former satellite of Nibiru could impact Earth's moon in 2019.

  The current 68-year old Obninsk Centre Director, Igor Petrovich Razumovsky, was still a vibrant and driven man, but he knew from the outset that this daunting task would require the physical stamina of a young man if Shiva was to be destroyed before it could wreak havoc on the Earth's moon. His list of candidates had been long for political purposes. He had sorted through them quickly, building his own list with less than a handful of promising names. The most promising of those names was the dark-haired, soft-spoken Pavel Sergeevich Lebedev. Now, they would soon meet for what would prove to be a crucial turning point in Pavel's life.

  Unaware of what to expect, Pavel rubbed the passenger window of the SUV with the cuff of his jacket. In the far distance just a few kilometers down the road, he could make out the dull shape of Razumovsky's palatial dacha tucked back off the road. It reminded him of when the Earth had been beautiful, and as a boy, he recalled how he had helped his grandmother tend her garden and how good it felt to smell her wonderfully plump tomatoes as they ripened under the warm afternoon sun.

  Such a pity it was that he had lost his love of gardening after he started college. Now, the very soil about him was clinging to life, and the knowing of this tortured his soul. In his heart, he wanted leave his computers and meeting rooms for a simpler life, nourishing the forests back to health, yet events were now drawing him towards the most powerful man in Obninsk and a new, but still hazy destiny.

  Snow began to fall and Pavel reached across the seat and tapped on the driver's shoulder. “Pull over here, next to this meadow,” he instructed the driver. The man slowed the SUV and pulled over to the side of the road.

  “I like it when
the snow begins to fall,” Pavel explained. “It makes the air smell so good."

  He opened the door of the SUV and the driver said, “I cannot let you walk out there alone,” the driver answered. “But, I would be happy to join you.” Pavel opened his door, looked back at the driver and gave him a pleasant nod.

  Standing in fresh-fallen snow as snowflakes danced about him was a precious moment for Pavel. It was in times like these that he felt a deep, primal connection between his soul and that of his beloved Mother Russia.

  Alone in his thoughts, he ignored the snowflakes piling up upon the shoulders of his black leather jacket as he inhaled the sweet smelling air about him. It was then, a lingering pang of sadness rush through his consciousness. His son, Sasha, was not there to share it with him and it was it own fault that his wife had left him.

  Now, Sasha was being loved and well cared-for by his ex-wife's new husband—a good man with the wisdom to understand that families, like the wonderful tomatoes his Grandmother grew in her garden, flourish with continual loving care and attention. Sadly, he had put his career above his family and now he was seeing where it had gotten him—standing alongside a road alone, with a strange man looking over him.

  Pavel kneeled down to look across the top of the snow, then looked back at the driver and motioned him to kneel beside him. “Look at how white it is, even in this murky light,” he said sadly.

  “Yes, this is a moment of magic for me, too,” the driver replied with a thick Georgian accent. “Sir, Centre Director Razumovsky is expecting you.” Then, the Georgian looked into Pavel's eyes and seemed to understand his sadness. “We made good time. Perhaps we can stay a few minutes more, I suppose."

  Pavel smelled the air and patted him on the back. “Thanks. I've been rude to you back there in the car."

  “Don't worry about it,” the driver replied. “My wife tells me I gossip like an old woman some times. When I was a young man, I was very serious and seldom spoke. Now, I guess it is all those lonely kilometers over the years that now make me want to hear a human voice from time to time."

  “A year ago,” Pavel said thoughtfully, “I wouldn't have understood you, but now I do. Funny, here I am on my way to what could be one of the most important meetings of my career, and all I really want to do is to see my son laughing and playing in the snow.” He stood up and took one last deep breath. “Your wife is wrong, my friend. You're not a gossip."

  * * * *

  YELENA IGOROVNA VOLKAVA, a 33-year old widow and the youngest daughter of Centre Director Razumovsky, greeted Pavel at the door of her father's 8-bedroom dacha.

  He was almost as she remembered him from a year ago, except that now he was much thinner. Just over six feet tall with dark hair, a strong jaw line and piercing black eyes, he still exuded a presence of power, though his soft-spoken words and thoughtful gestures tempered his strength with an endearing quality.

  As he removed his coat and shoes in the foyer, he watched her with keen interest while she brought him a pair of house slippers. Standing shoulder height to him, she was a shapely and attractive blonde with a graceful face and large bright blue eyes. Her movements were measured and graceful, as though she was an oak leaf floated aloft by a gentle spring breeze.

  “My father is waiting for you in the banya. I'll have the driver take your things to your room.” She pointed towards a narrow hallway in the corner of the room. “Go through that hallway and enter the first room to your right. You can change there, and just go on in. I'll be by in a little while with some snacks."

  Pavel thanked her and made his way to the banya. Finding a large linen wrap in the changing room, he undressed and wrapped himself before joining Razumovsky in the banya.

  The first room of the banya was a setup as a bar, and the walls of the room were planked with red-stained hardwood. In the center of the room surrounding an open pit fire, were varnished benches and chairs placed around a marble top table. He first saw Razumovsky behind the bar opening a large bottle of vodka that had obviously been sitting in the freezer for a few days.

  “Come in, come in, Pavel Sergeevich,” Razumovsky greeted him in a familiar Russian manner of addressing a friend by his first and patryonic name in honor of his father. Pavel's father, Sergey hadn't lived to see his son's meteoric rise, much to Pavel's regret. “Come sit down,” Razumovsky boomed. “Let's drink!"

  “Thank you, Centre Director Razumovsky,” Lebedev answered politely. “I am deeply honored to be a guest in your house this weekend."

  “Oh please, let's not be so formal. You will call me Igor, I will call you Pavel and we will talk and drink, take banya together and begin to know each other a little better. Yes?"

  Pavel smiled with relief and the two men sat down at a table as Razumovsky poured the icy cold, translucent premium vodka into two shot glasses. As he poured, Razumovsky spoke cheerfully, “Two years ago, I was working on a big project for the Americans and the French and we had to meet for a presentation in Paris, where I first tasted this French Vodka they call Grey Goose. I liked it so much that I bragged that with case of this wonderful vodka I could build anything. So, they shipped me 100 bottles with a challenge to finish my project on time, and I did!” He laughed. “It was so simple actually, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? You know about this wonderful Grey Goose vodka?"

  “I hear is it better than our own Cristall, but I must admit that this is my first chance to enjoy it.” Pavel replied as he eyed the colorless, viscous contents of his shot glass. He held his shot glass high in one hand and a pickle in the other said, “Well then, may the Grey Goose fly!” and he tossed back his drink in one smooth movement, then sniffed his pickle and took a big bite. Razumovsky did the same and gingerly refilled their glasses. “I told you,” he gloated.

  “It is perfection,” Pavel with admiration. Razumovsky slapped his leg and laughed.

  As they consumed more of the five star vodka, they chatted idly about various projects at Obninsk, when Razumovsky's youngest daughter, Yelena, strolled into the banya holding a large tray piled high with thin slices of sausage and cheese, garnished with lots of pickled cucumbers, tomatoes and garlic. In difficult times, a simple tray of finger food such as this was a royal feast, and Pavel's eyes shined with delight. Intentionally whisking close to Pavel's side of the table, she gracefully placed the tray upon the table.

  “Look at this, will you,” Razumovsky exclaimed with great pride. “Only my beautiful Yelena can make magic like this!” He gestured for her to come close. “Maybe you have a kiss for your old father?"

  She blushed “Oh, Papa, you're drinking too much again."

  “You always say that,” he chuckled as she hugged him around the neck, planting a loving kiss on his weathered jowl. She then pinched his cheek and stood up saying to Pavel, “I'm not really a magician, Project Manager Lebedev. We have a large hothouse behind the dacha, and I use it to grow our own vegetables. I trust you will you enjoy the cuisine while you're here."

  Pavel reached over and picked up a small pickle. He took a quick bite and let his jaw grind in an exaggerated manner like a contented cow chewing a sweet mouthful of cud. “I'm sorry, but I must agree with your father. This is the most incredible pickle I've eaten since I was young boy."

  “Pavel Sergeevich,” Razumovsky blurted out, “Since we agree on this important fact, I am claiming the right of a proud father to tell you that my Yelena only uses half of the hothouse for our garden. She is using the other half to raise genetically modified pine seedlings for the replanting of our Motherland, and her seedlings have already been used to reclaim hundreds of hectares south of Moscow."

  Pavel turned to look at Yelena with wide eyes. “You know, you're really too modest. A woman of your talent should proudly step forward and let her accomplishments be known."

  A faint smile crossed her lips. “Now you're drinking too much vodka, my dear Pavel Sergeevich, so I will tell you this. If my father does not put you to work tomorrow, I will put you to work in the hothouse.
We must prepare a large number of seedlings for shipment to the planting zones further south, and an extra pair of hands will come in handy. As usual, the conservationists will be here tomorrow evening around suppertime, so you'll have to start early as well.” She looked sternly at her father, “That is if his liver is still functioning."

  “Oh, don't be such a pest,” Razumovsky chortled. He winked at Pavel. “You've been volunteered to work in the hothouse, my lad, but rest assured you will enjoy suppertime. We have begun a Friday night tradition in our home. After Yelena's seedlings are loaded, we have a little banya with the workers, and we feast on homemade soups and breads that are from heaven."

  “After dinner,” Yelena added, “these wonderful young people sing and dance for us. Last week, they carried my 12-year old son, Dimitri, all around the house, and he loved it."

  “It sounds wonderful,” Pavel replied sincerely. “And may I say, this home glows from the beautiful feeling of this family. I am truly fortunate to be here.” With that, he turned to face Yelena and gave her a snappy salute. “Junior Seedling Planter Assistant Second Class Lebedev reporting as ordered."

  Yelena smiled, “Junior Seedling Planter Assistant Second Class Lebedev. You certainly are the creative one. We'll see how creative you are after breakfast.” Pavel smiled appreciatively as she then sauntered out of the room with a playful smile.

  They had a few more drinks while devouring treats from Yelena's platter and finally decided to move into the banya.

  Built of fired bricks and rough-hewn pine, the banya smelled of the Earth and of the musky manliness of men. They entered to find one of Razumovsky's personal bodyguards tending the fire, occasionally sprinkling water on the hot stones. He had begun preparing the banya for them shortly after Pavel had arrived, and he had also placed two pairs of freshly thawed birch branches floating in a bucket of cool water next to the door.